Poems (Denver)/The Poet-lover

by Mary Caroline Denver

THE POET-LOVER.

The wild bird shook her joyous wing,
Where close beside the clear, cool spring,
The poet-lover paused to sing,
 The pride of old, heroic days.
But from his lyre no sound arose,
Of deathless deeds, and daring foes,
For lyre, like master, sought repose,
 In love's serener, softer rays.
Scarcely was heard a single sound,
In all that wide, extended ground,
Yet stern old trees were scattered round,
 Lifting their gloomy heads on high;
And on their cold and earthen beds,
The meek-eyed violets drooped their heads,
Stealing through broad-leaved palisades,
 Shy glances at the sky.
The poet marked their azure hue,
And thought upon one eye of blue,
And to his bosom gently drew,
 One little flower of constancy.
"O token of true love," he cried,
"Thou treasurest in thy heart no pride,
Yet evil may thy life betide,
 If left upon the earth to lie."
The poet saw the wild rose bring
Her leafy offering to the spring—
"O passion-leaves," he cried," why fling
 Your fragrance on the feeble wave?
Why yield to them, who will not seek,
Why answer them, who will not speak?"
He thought upon a young rose-cheek,
 And snatched them from a certain grave.

He heard the wild wave's melody
Float on mysterious pinions by,
As if an angel hovered nigh,
 And caught the music from the stream,
Half sad, half solemn, half sublime,
Stealing upon the steps of time;
Sounding at every step a chime,
 Like strange, wild music of a dream.

"O, haunted spring," he cried, "how long
Shall I sit listening to thy song,
And mark the spirit-shadows throng,
 All dim and indistinct within?
I've heard on this enchanted ground,
A thousand changeful voices round;
Yet cannot recollect one sound,
 Of all my thirsty soul drank in.

"I've striven long—still strive in vain—
To catch one single music-strain;
They rise and float within my brain,
 Like strangers on a foreign strand;
A glance half- treasured, and no more,
A longing for a journey o'er—
A backward look along the shore,
 And then the joys of fatherland!

"I've caught the rose's changeful dye,
I've found where meek-eyed violets lie,
Remembrances of cheek and eye,
 Nought else resembles, love of mine!
Yet, Blanche! the wild wave's voice tome,
Is a remembrancer of thee,
Full of the heart's own minstrelsy,
 It speaks in music, only thine.

I cannot sing as I have sung,
Of life's gay cavaliers among,
Where banner waved and bugle rung.
 When gallant Hotspur took the field—
Breathed life into the cause he framed,
The hand of valiant Douglas claimed,
Invoked one 'Esperance,' and named
 His own brave heart his only shield.

"Ah, me! the venerated lays,
That tell of old, heroic days,
When Wallace bound the mingled bays,
 Of death and glory round his brow!
I did not think another strain,
Could ever cause them call in vain;
Or drive from this enchanted brain,
 The sounds that haunted it till now!

"The shouts of wild exciting war,
The blaze of crimson glory's star,
And of the proud, triumphal car,
 Borne in the front of victory—
The midnight watch—the wild alarms,
The clang of conflicts and of arms,
War's many and exulting charms,
 I turn from them—to sing of thee!

"'I am alone, yet thou art here,
Listening with an attentive ear,
A spiritual presence near,
 Which, ever felt, I cannot see.
Thou meetest me in woody dell,
Thou meetest me by flood and fell,
Even in the lonely prison-cell,
 Thy soft, blue eyes are turned on me.

"'My sweet Egeria, in thine eyes
I see a thousand fancies rise,
Too pure to dwell beneath the skies,
 Where mind is like an ocean-shell,
That thrown upon the barren earth,
Sendeth a moaning music forth,
Yet ever of mysterious birth,
 For none the ocean-strains can tell.

"'The gathered sounds shall all be thine,
Poured out in numbers on the shrine,
That I have consecrated mine,
 Thou, Blanche, alone canst tell how long!
For thou hast changed my spirit's tone,
And caused my simple lyre alone,
To breathe thy name, and made thine own,
 The very music of my song.'"