Seen in a vision by the holy man
Before me rose a pinnacle of rock,
Lifted above the wood that hemm'd it in,
And now already glowing. There the beams
Came from the far horizon, and they wrapp'd it
In light and glory. Round its vapoury cone
A crown of far-diverging rays shot out,
And gave to it the semblance of an altar
Lit for the worship of the undying flame,
That center'd in the circle of the sun,
Now coming from the ocean's fathomless caves,
Anon would stand in solitary pomp
Above the loftiest peaks, and cover them
With splendour as a garment. Thitherward
I bent my eager steps; and through the grove,
Now dark as deepest night, and thickets hung
With a rich harvest of unnumber'd gems,
Waiting a clearer dawn to catch the hues
Shed from the starry fringes of its veil
On cloud, and mist, and dew, and backward thrown
In infinite reflections, on I went,
Mounting with hasty foot, and thence emerging,
I scaled that rocky steep, and there awaited
Silent the full appearing of the sun.
Below there lay a far-extended sea,
Rolling in feathery waves. The wind blew o'er it,
And toss'd it round the high-ascending rocks,
And swept it through the half-hidden forest tops,
Till, like an ocean waking into storm,
It heaved and welter'd. Gloriously the light
Crested its billows, and those craggy islands
Shone on it like to palaces of spar
Built on a sea of pearl. Far overhead,
Thy sky, without a vapour or a stain,
Intensely blue, even deepen'd into purple,
When nearer the horizon it received
A tincture from the mist that there dissolved
Into the viewless air,-the sky bent round,
The awful dome of a most mighty temple,
Built by omnipotent hands for nothing less
Than infinite worship. There I stood in silence-
I had no words to tell the mingled thoughts
Of wonder and of joy that then came o'er me,
Even with a whirlwind's rush. So beautiful,
So bright, so glorious! Such a majesty
In yon pure vault! So many dazzling tints
In yonder waste of waves,-so like the ocean
With its unnumber'd islands there encircled
By foaming surges, that the mounting eagle,
Lifting his fearless pinion through the clouds
To bathe in purest sunbeams, seem'd an ospray
Hovering above his prey, and yon tall pines,
Their tops half-mantled in a snowy veil,
A frigate with full canvass, bearing on
To conquest and to glory. But even these
Had round them something of the lofty air
In which they moved; not like to things of earth,
But heighten'd, and made glorious, as became
Such pomp and splendour.
Who can tell the brightness,
That every moment caught a newer glow,
That circle, with its centre like the heart
Of elemental fire, and spreading out
In floods of liquid gold on the blue sky
And on the ophaline waves, crown'd with a rainbow
Bright as the arch that bent above the throne
In Patmos! who can tell how it ascended,
And flow'd more widely o'er that lifted ocean,
Till instantly the unobstructed sun
Roll'd up his sphere of fire, floating away-
Away in a pure ether, far from earth,
And all its clouds,-and pouring forth unbounded
His arrowy brightness! From that burning centre
At once there ran along the level line
Of that imagined sea, a stream of gold-
Liquid and flowing gold, that seem'd to tremble
Even with a furnace heat, on to the point
Whereon I stood. At once that sea of vapour
Parted away, and melting into air,
Rose round me, and I stood involved in light,
As if a flame had kindled up, and wrapp'd me
In its innocuous blaze. Away it roll'd,
Wave after wave. They climb'd the highest rocks,
Pour'd over them in surges, and then rush'd
Down glens and valleys, like a wintry torrent
Dash'd instant to the plain. It seem'd a moment,
And they were gone, as if the touch of fire
At once dissolved them. Then I found myself
Midway in air; ridge after ridge below,
Descended with their opulence of woods
Even to the dim-seen level, where a lake
Flash'd in the sun, and from it wound a line,
Now silvery bright, even to the farthest verge
Of the encircling hills. A waste of rocks
Was round me-but below how beautiful,
How rich the plain! a wilderness of groves
And ripening harvests; while the sky of June-
The soft, blue sky of June, and the cool air,
That makes it then a luxury to live,
Only to breathe it, and the busy echo
Of cascades, and the voice of mountain brooks,
Stole with such gentle meanings to my heart,
That where I stood seem'd heaven.
He comes not-I have watched the moon go
down,
But yet he comes not.-Once it was not so.
He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow,
The while he holds his riot in that town.
Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep;
And he will wake my infant from its sleep,
To blend its feeble wailing with my tears.
O! how I love a mother's watch to keep,
Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers
My heart, though sunk in sorrow, fix'd and deep.
I had a husband once, who loved me-now
He ever wears a frown upon his brow,
And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip,
As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip;
But yet I cannot hate-O! there were hours,
When I could hang forever on his eye,
And time, who stole with silent swiftness by,
Strew'd, as he hurried on, his path with flowers.
I loved him then-he loved me too. My heart
Still finds its fondness kindle if he smile;
The memory of our loves will ne'er depart;
And though he often sting me with a dart,
Venom'd and barb'd, and waste upon the vile
Caresses, which his babe and mine should share;
Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear
His madness, and should sickness come and lay
Its paralyzing hand upon him, then
I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay,
Until the penitent should weep, and say,
How injured, and how faithful I had been!
DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, Where the purple mullet and gold-fish rove; Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, That never are wet with falling dew, But in bright and changeful beauty shine, Far down in the green and glassy brine. The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, And the pearl-shells spangle the flinty snow; From coral rocks the sea-plants lift
Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow;
The water is calm and still below,
For the winds and waves are absent there,
And the sands are bright as the stars that glow
In the motionless fields of upper air:
There, with its waving blade of green,
The sea-flag streams through the silent water,
And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen
To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter:
There, with a light and easy motion,
The fan-coral sweeps through the clear, deep sea;
And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean
Are bending like corn on the upland lea:
And life, in rare and beautiful forms,
Is sporting amid those bowers of stone,
And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms
Has made the top of the wave his own:
And when the ship from his fury flies,
Where the myriad voices of ocean roar,
When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies,
And demons are waiting the wreck on shore;
Then, far below, in the peaceful sea,
The purple mullet and gold-fish rove,
Where the waters murmur tranquilly,
Through the bending twigs of the coral grove.
HE sleeps, forgetful of his once bright fame;
He has no feeling of the glory gone;
He has no eye to catch the mounting flame,
That once in transport drew his spirit on; He lies in dull, oblivious dreams, nor cares Who the wreathed laurel bears.
And yet, not all forgotten, sleeps he there; There are who still remember how he bore Upward his daring pinions, till the air
Seem'd living with the crown of light he wore;
There are who, now his early sun has set,
Nor can, nor will forget.
He sleeps, and yet, around the sightless eye
And the press'd lip, a darken'd glory plays;
Though the high powers in dull oblivion lie,
There hovers still the light of other days;
Deep in that soul a spirit, not of earth,
Still struggles for its birth.
He will not sleep forever, but will rise
Fresh to more daring labours; now, even now, As the close shrouding mist of morning flies,
The gather'd slumber leaves his lifted brow;
From his half-open'd eye, in fuller beams,
His waken'd spirit streams.
Yes, he will break his sleep; the spell is gone;
The deadly charm departed; see him fling
Proudly his fetters by, and hurry on,
Keen as the famish'd eagle darts her wing;
The goal is still before him, and the prize
Still woos his eager eyes.
He rushes forth to conquer: shall they take-
They, who, with feebler pace, still kept their way,
When he forgot the contest-shall they take,
Now he renews the race, the victor's bay! Still let them strive-when he collects his might, He will assert his right.
The spirit cannot always sleep in dust,
Whose essence is ethereal; they may try To darken and degrade it; it may rust Dimly a while, but cannot wholly die; And, when it wakens, it will send its fire Intenser forth and higher.
DECLINE OF THE IMAGINATION.
WHY have ye linger'd on your way so long,
Bright visions, who were wont to hear my call,
And with the harmony of dance and song
Keep round my dreaming couch a festival?
Where are ye gone, with all your eyes of light,
And where the flowery voice I loved to hear,
When, through the silent watches of the night,
Ye whisper'd like an angel in my ear?
O! fly not with the rapid wing of time,
But with your ancient votary kindly stay;
And while the loftier dreams, that rose sublime
In years of higher hope, have flown away:
O! with the colours of a softer clime,
Give your last touches to the dying day.
SLUMBER'S heavy chain hath bound theeWhere is now thy fire?
Feebler wings are gathering round thee-
Shall they hover higher?
Can no power, no spell, recall thee
From inglorious dreams!
O, could glory so appal thee,
With his burning beams!
Thine was once the highest pinion
In the midway air;
With a proud and sure dominion,
Thou didst upward bear,
Like the herald, wing'd with lightning,
From the Olympian throne,
Ever mounting, ever brightening, Thou wert there alone.
Where the pillar'd props of heaven
Glitter with eternal snows,
Where no darkling clouds are driven,
Where no fountain flows-
Far above the rolling thunder,
When the surging storm
Rent its sulphury folds asunder,
We beheld thy form.
O, what rare and heavenly brightness
Flow'd around thy plumes,
As a cascade's foamy whiteness
Lights a cavern's glooms!
Wheeling through the shadowy ocean,
Like a shape of light,
With serene and placid motion,
Thou wert dazzling bright.
From that cloudless region stooping,
Downward thou didst rush,
Not with pinion faint and drooping
But the tempest's gush.
Up again undaunted soaring,
Thou didst pierce the cloud,
When the warring winds were roaring
Fearfully and loud.
Where is now that restless longing
After higher things?
Come they not, like visions, thronging
On their airy wings?
Why should not their glow enchant thee
Upward to their bliss?
Surely danger cannot daunt thee
From a heaven like this?
But thou slumberest; faint and quivering Hangs thy ruffled wing;
Like a dove in winter shivering,
Or a feebler thing.
Where is now thy might and motion,
Thy imperial flight?
Where is now thy heart's devotion?
Where thy spirit's light?
Hark! his rustling plumage gathers
Closer to his side;
Close, as when the storm-bird weathers
Ocean's hurrying tide.
Now his nodding beak is steady
Wide his burning eye
Now his open wings are ready,
And his aim-how high!
Now he curves his neck, and proudly
Now is stretch'd for flight-
Hark! his wings-they thunder loudly,
And their flash-how bright!
Onward-onward over mountains,
Through the rock and storm,
Now, like sunset over fountains,
Flits his glancing form.
Glorious bird, thy dream has left thee-
Thou hast reach'd thy heaven-
Lingering slumber hath not reft thee
Of the glory given.
With a bold, a fearless pinion,
On thy starry road,
None, to fame's supreme dominion, Mightier ever trode.
HAIL to the land whereon we tread,
Our fondest boast;
The sepulchre of mighty dead,
The truest hearts that ever bled,
Who sleep on Glory's brightest bed,
A fearless host:
No slave is here; our unchain'd feet
Walk freely as the waves that beat
Our coast.
Our fathers cross'd the ocean's wave
To seek this shore;
They left behind the coward slave
To welter in his living grave;
With hearts unbent, and spirits brave,
Such toils as meaner souls had quell'd; But souls like these, such toils impell'd To soar.
Hail to the morn, when first they stood On Bunker's height,
And, fearless, stemm'd the invading flood,
And wrote our dearest rights in blood,
And mow'd in ranks the hireling brood,
In desperate fight!
O, 't was a proud, exulting day,
For even our fallen fortunes lay
In light.
There is no other land like thee,
No dearer shore;
Thou art the shelter of the free;
The home, the port of Liberty,
Thou hast been, and shalt ever be,
Till time is o'er.
Ere I forget to think upon
My land, shall mother curse the son
She bore.
Thou art the firm, unshaken rock,
On which we rest;
And, rising from thy hardy stock,
Thy sons the tyrant's frown shall mock,
And slavery's galling chains unlock,
And free the oppress'd:
All, who the wreath of Freedom twine
Beneath the shadow of their vine,
We love thy rude and rocky shore,
And here we stand-
Let foreign navies hasten o'er,
And on our heads their fury pour,
And peal their cannon's loudest roar,
And storm our land;
They still shall find our lives are given
To die for home;-and leant on Heaven
Our hand.
Now the mist is on the mountains,
Reddening in the rising sun;
Now the flowers around the fountains
Perish one by one:-
Not a spire of grass is growing,
But the leaves that late were glowing,
Now its blighted green are strowing
With a mantle dun.
Now the torrent brook is stealing
Faintly down the furrow'd gladeNot as when in winter pealing,
Such a din is made,
That the sound of cataracts falling
Gave no echo so appalling,
As its hoarse and heavy brawling
In the pine's black shade.
Darkly blue the mist is hovering
Round the clifted rock's bare heightAll the bordering mountains covering With a dim, uncertain light :Now, a fresher wind prevailing, Wide its heavy burden sailing, Deepens as the day is failing, Fast the gloom of night. Slow the blood-stain'd moon is riding Through the still and hazy air, Like a sheeted spectre gliding
In a torch's glare:
Few the hours, her light is given-
Mingling clouds of tempest driven
O'er the mourning face of heaven,
All is blackness there.
FAINTLY flow, thou falling river,
Like a dream that dies away;
Down to ocean gliding ever,
Keep thy calm unruffled way:
Time with such a silent motion,
Floats along, on wings of air,
To eternity's dark ocean,
Burying all its treasures there.
Roses bloom, and then they wither;
Cheeks are bright, then fade and die
Shapes of light are wafted hither-
Then, like visions hurry by : Quick as clouds at evening driven
O'er the many-colour'd west, Years are bearing us to heaven,
Home of happiness and rest.
Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perish'd:
HEBE awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherish'd;
Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river; Not to the isles of the bless'd, over the blue, rolling sea;
But on Olympian heights, shall dwell the devoted forever;
I feel it-though the flesh is weak, I feel
The spirit has its energies untamed
By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal
The wounds which it has suffer'd; folly claim'd
Too large a portion of its youth; ashamed
Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly,
And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed Elijah, when the chariot, rushing by, Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. We are as barks afloat upon the sea,
Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled, The spirit, whose strong influence can free The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call,
And, kindling in the blaze around him shed, Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, And gives to GoD his strength, his heart, his mind, his all.
Our home is not on earth; although we sleep,
And sink in seeming death a while, yet, then,
The awakening voice speaks loudly, and we leap
To life, and energy, and light, again;
We cannot slumber always in the den
Of sense and selfishness; the day will break,
Ere we forever leave the haunts of men;
Even at the parting hour the soul will wake,
Nor, like a senseless brute, its unknown journey
take.
How awful is that hour, when conscience stings
The hoary wretch, who, on his death-bed hears, Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, In one dark, damning moment, crimes of years And, screaming like a vulture in his ears,
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, Tells, one by one, his thoughts and deeds of shame, valiant, and free.
How wild the fury of his soul careers! His swart eye flashes with intensest flame, And like the torture's rack the wrestling of his frame.
Mr place is in the quiet vale,
The chosen haunt of simple thought;
I seek not Fortune's flattering gale,
I better love the peaceful lot.
I leave the world of noise and show,
To wander by my native brook;
I ask, in life's unruffled flow,
No treasure but my friend and book.
These better suit the tranquil home,
Where the clear water murmurs by;
And if I wish a while to roam,
I have an ocean in the sky.
Fancy can charm and feeling bless
With sweeter hours than fashion knows;
There is no calmer quietness
Than home around the bosom throws.
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