And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed In patient silence.
SUCH was Zonoras; and as daylight finds One amaranth glittering on the path of frost, When autumn nights have nipt all weaker kinds,
Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tost, Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost,
The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild.
And sweet and subtle talk now evermore, The pupil and the master shared; until, Sharing that undiminishable store,
The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran His teacher, and did teach with native skill
Strange truths and new to that experienced man. Still they were friends, as few have ever been Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span.
So in the caverns of the forest green, Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen
By summer woodmen; and when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war, The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,
Hanging upon the peaked wave afar,
Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam,
Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star
Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,
Whilst all the constellations of the sky
Seemed reeling through the storm; they did but seem
For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,
And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves, immoveably
Belted Orion hangs-warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm.-- "O summer eve! with power divine, bestowing
"On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm
"Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness, Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale! And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness,
"And the far sighings of yon piny dale
Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here.—
I bear alone what nothing may avail
"To lighten a strange load !"-No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere
Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran, Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, Glassy and dark.-And that divine old man
Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest- And with a calm and measured voice he spake,
And, with a soft and equal pressure, prest That cold lean hand :-"Dost thou remember yet When the curved moon then lingering in the west
"Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year-sure thou dost not forget-
"Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, For we had just then read-thy memory
"Is faithful now-the story of the feast;
And Agathon and Diotima seemed
From death and dark forgetfulness released."
"TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
Stands up before its mother bright and mild, Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems-- So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green-and flowers burst forth like starry beams;-
The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene :- How many a one, though none be near to love,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror-or the spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green;—
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, And his own steps-and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms-the wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past.
"Twas at this season that Prince Athanase
Pass'd the white Alps-those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow ;-beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless-for their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, Or by the curdling winds-like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow- Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung And filled with frozen light the chasm below.
THоU art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,
Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew; Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls
Investest it; and when the heavens are blue Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair, The shadow of thy moving wings imbue
Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some bright robe;-thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air
In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest
That which from thee they should implore:-the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts
The strong have broken-yet where shall any seek
A garment whom thou clothest not?
A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, And said, A boon, a boon, I pray !
I know the secrets of the air;
And things are lost in the glare of day, Which I can make the sleeping see, If they will put their trust in me.
And thou shalt know of things unknown, If thou wilt let me rest between The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown Over thine eyes so dark and sheen: And half in hope, and half in fright, The Lady closed her eyes so bright.
At first all deadly shapes were driven Tumultuously across her sleep, And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep; And the Lady ever looked to spy If the gold sun shone forth on high.
And as towards the east she turned, She saw aloft in the morning air, Which now with hues of sunrise burned, A great black Anchor rising there; And wherever the Lady turned her eyes It hung before her in the skies.
The sky was blue as the summer sea, The depths were cloudless over-head.
The air was calm as it could be,
There was no sight nor sound of dread,
But that black Anchor floating still Over the piny eastern hill.
The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear, To see that Anchor ever hanging, And veiled her eyes; she then did hear The sound as of a dim low clanging, And looked abroad if she might know Was it aught else, or but the flow
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro.
There was a mist in the sunless air,
Which shook as it were with an earthquake shock, But the very weeds that blossomed there
Were moveless, and each mighty rock
Stood on its basis steadfastly;
The Anchor was seen no more on high.
But piled around with summits hid In lines of cloud at intervals, Stood many a mountain pyramid Among whose everlasting walls Two mighty cities shone, and ever Through the red mists their domes did quiver.
On two dread mountains, from whose crest, Might seem, the eagle for her brood Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest
Those tower-encircled cities stood. A vision strange such towers to see, Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, Where human art could never be.
And columns framed of marble white, And giant fanes, dome over dome Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright
With workmanship, which could not come From touch of mortal instrument,
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent From its own shapes magnificent.
But still the Lady heard that clang Filling the wide air far away; And still the mist whose light did hang Among the mountains shook alway, So that the Lady's heart beat fast, As half in joy and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast.
« AnteriorContinuar » |