Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to
many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with the stars
And the quick Spirit of the Universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open'd wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal'd
A marvel and a secret - Be it so.
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
June 12, 1814.
"THE HARP THE MONARCH MINSTREL SWEPT'
THE harp the monarch minstrel swept, The King of men, the loved of Heaven, Which Music hallow'd while she wept
O'er tones her heart of hearts had given, Redoubled be her tears, its chords are riven !
It soften'd men of iron mould,
It gave them virtues not their own; No ear so dull, no soul so cold, That felt not, fired not to the tone, Till David's lyre grew mightier than his throne !
It told the triumphs of our King,
It wafted glory to our God;
It made our gladden'd valleys ring,
The cedars bow, the mountains nod;
Its sound aspired to Heaven and there
abode!
Since then, though heard on earth no more,
Devotion and her daughter Love
Still bid the bursting spirit soar
To sounds that seem as from above,
In dreams that day's broad light can not
If that high world, which lies beyond
Our own, surviving Love endears;
If there the cherish'd heart be fond,
The eye the same, except in tears
How welcome those untrodden spheres !
How sweet this very hour to die!
To soar from earth, and find all fears
Lost in thy light- Eternity!
It must be so: 't is not for self
That we so tremble on the brink; And, striving to o'erleap the gulf, Yet cling to Being's severing link. Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares; With them the immortal waters drink, And soul in soul grow deathless theirs!
THE wild gazelle on Judah's hills
Exulting yet may bound,
And drink from all the living rills
That gush on holy ground;
Its airy step and glorious eye
May glance in tameless transport by.
A step as fleet, an eye more bright,
Hath Judah witness'd there;
And o'er her scenes of lost delight
Inhabitants more fair.
The cedars wave on Lebanon,
But Judah's statelier maids are gone!
More blest each palm that shades those plains
Than Israel's scatter'd race;
For, taking root, it there remains
In solitary grace:
From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,
Like cavern'd winds, the hollow accents
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke
Why is my sleep disquieted?
Who is he that calls the dead?
Is it thou, O King? Behold,
Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:
Such are mine; and such shall be
Thine to-morrow, when with me:
Ere the coming day is done,
Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
Fare thee well, but for a day,
Then we mix our mouldering clay.
Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,
Pierced by shafts of many a bow;
And the falchion by thy side
To thy heart thy hand shall guide: Crownless, breathless, headless fall, Son and sire, the house of Saul!' SEAHAM, February, 1815.
'ALL IS VANITY, SAITH THE PREACHER'
FAME, wisdom, love, and power were mine,
And health and youth possess'd me;
My goblets blush'd from every vine,
And lovely forms caress'd me;
I sunn'd my heart in beauty's eyes,
And felt my soul grow tender;
All earth can give, or mortal prize,
Was mine of regal splendour.
I strive to number o'er what days
Remembrance can discover,
Which all that life or earth displays
Would lure me to live over.
There rose no day, there roll'd no hour
Of pleasure unembitter'd;
And not a trapping deck'd my power
That gall'd not while it glitter'd.
The serpent of the field, by art
And spells, is won from harming; But that which coils around the heart, Oh! who hath power of charming? It will not list to wisdom's lore,
Nor music's voice can lure it; But there it stings for evermore The soul that must endure it. SEAHAM, 1815.
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