Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright; And when their hymns were ended, Oh! ne'er in such intense delight Had their rapt souls been blended. Some natural tears they surely owed To those who wept for them, and fast they flow'd,
And oft will flow amid their happiest hours; But not less fair the summer-day, Though glittering through the sunny ray Are seen descending showers.
But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain, The glory of that morn sustain? Alone amid the Wilderness More touching seem'd the holiness Of that mysterious day of soul-felt rest: They are the first that e'er adored On this wild spot their Heavenly Lord, Or gentle Jesus bless'd.
O Son of God!-How sweetly came Into their souls that blessed name! Even like health's hope-reviving breath To one upon the bed of death. Our Saviour!-What angelic grace Stole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face, While through the solitude profound With love and awe she breathed that holy sound !
Yes! He will save! a still small voice To Mary's fervent prayer replied; Beneath his tender care rejoice, On earth who for his children died. Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd, Communion with her God was given Unto her sinless spirit:-nought he said; But gazing on her with a fearful love, Such as saints feel for sister-souls above, Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid, And dreamt with her of Heaven.
Pure were their souls, as infant's breath, Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death. No place for human frailty this, Despondency or fears;
Too beautiful the wild appears Almost for human bliss.
Was love like theirs then given in vain? And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight?
Or shall that God, who on the main Hath bound them with a billowy chain, Approve the holy rite,
That, by their pious souls alone Perform❜d before his silent throne In innocence and joy,
Here, and in realms beyond the grave, Unites those whom the cruel wave Could not for grief destroy? No fears felt they of guilt or sin, For sure they heard a voice within That set their hearts at rest; They pass'd the day in peaceful prayer, And when beneath the evening-air, They sought again their arbour fair, A smiling angel met them there, And bade their couch be blest. Nor veil'd the Moon her virgin-light, But, clear and cloudless all the night, Hung o'er the flowers where love and beauty lay;
| And, loath to leave that holy bower, With lingering pace obey'd the power Of bright-returning day.
And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms,
To make it happy as those Isles of rest (When eve the sky becalms Like a subsiding sea)
That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous
All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,
The setting sun's last lingering pageantry! Hath Fancy ever dreamt of Seraph-Powers Walking in beauty through these cloudframed bowers,
Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?
And hath she ever paused to hear, By moonlight brought unto her ear, Their hymnings wild and sweet? Lo! human creatures meet her view As happy, and as beauteous too, As those aerial phantoms!-in their mien, Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seen All foreign to this utter solitude,
Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide, As erst in Grecian Isle had beautified The guardian Deities of Grove and Flood. Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive, And mortal, like the flowers that round them smile?
Or if into the Ocean sank their Isle A thousand fathoms deep would they survive,- Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings,
And while, to cheer their airy voyage, sings With joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,
That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd long On earth, might glide, then re-assume their
Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem, Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,
Their beauty, mellowing in the chequer'd light,
Than, years ago, on that resplendent night, When yielded up to an unearthly dream, In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas. Ay! years ago!-for in this temperate clime, Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of time Float through the fragrance of the sunny air; One little month seems scarcely gone, Since in a vessel of their own At eve they landed there.
Their bower is now a stately bower, For, on its roof, the loftiest flower To bloom so lowly grieves, And up like an ambitious thing That feareth nought behold it spring Till it meet the high Palm-leaves! The porch is opening seen no more, But folded up with blossoms hoar, And leaves green as the sea,
And, when the wind hath found them out, The merry waves that dancing rout May not surpass in glee.
About their home so little art,
They seem to live in Nature's heart, A sylvan court to hold
In a palace framed of lustre green, More rare than to the bright Flower-Queen Was ever built of old.
Where are they in the hours of day? —The birds are happy on the spray, The dolphins on the deep, Whether they wanton full of life, Or, wearied with their playful strife, Amid the sunshine sleep.
And are these things by Nature blest In sport, in labour, and in rest,— And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprest With languor or with pain?
No! with light glide, and cheerful song, Through flowers and fruit they dance along, And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throng Through their romantic reign.
The wild-deer bounds along the rock, But let him not yon hunter mock, Though strong, and fierce, and fleet; For he will trace his mountain-path, Or else his antlers' threatening wrath In some dark winding meet. Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume Though on yon leafy tree it bloom Like a flower both rich and fair: Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow, To save from his unerring bow; The arrow finds thee there.
Dark are the caverns of the wave, Yet those, that sport there, cannot save, Though hidden from the day, With silvery sides bedropt with gold, Struggling they on the beach are roll'd O'er shells as bright as they.
Their pastimes these, and labours too, From day to day unwearied they renew, In garments floating with a woodland-grace: Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites, They glide along through new delights, Like Health and Beauty vying in the race. Yet hours of soberer bliss they know, Their spirits in more solemn flow At day-fall oft will run
When from his throne, with kingly motion, Into the loving arms of Ocean Descends the setting Sun.
Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales, Land of my birth, forsaken Wales! Towering from continent or sea, Where is the Mountain like to thee?- The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,- Thou! on whose ever-varying side The shadows and the sun-beams glide In still or stormy weather,
Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name? And thine too, of gigantic frame, Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame, Oh! proud ye stand together!
And thou, sweet Lake!-but from its wave She turn'd her inward eye,
For near these banks, within her grave, Her Mother sure must lie:
Weak were her limbs, long, long ago, And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.
Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voice From these sad dreams recall His weeping wife; and deeply chear'd She soon forgets them all.
Or, haply, through delighted tears, Her mother's smiling shade appears, And, her most duteous child caressing, Bestows on her a parent's blessing, And tells that o'er these holy groves Oft hangs the parent whom she loves. How beauteous both in hours like these! Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees, They think of things for which no words are found;
They need not speak: their looks express More life-pervading tenderness Than music's sweetest sound. He thinks upon the dove-like rest That broods within her pious breast; The holy calm, the hush divine, Where pensive, night-like glories shine; Even as the mighty Ocean deep, Yet clear and waveless as the sleep Of some lone heaven-reflecting lake, When evening-airs its gleam forsake. She thinks upon his love for her, His wild, empassion'd character, To whom a look, a kiss, a smile, Rewards for danger and for toil! His power of spirit unsubdued, His fearlessness, his fortitude,— The radiance of his gifted soul, Where never mists or darkness roll:
A poet's soul that flows for ever, Right onwards like a noble river, Refulgent still, or by its native woods Shaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes.
In love and mercy, sure on him had God The sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd;
Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain; With brightening smiles the Vision hung O'er the rapt poet while he sung, More beauteous from the strain. The songs he pour'd were sad and wild, And while they would have sooth'd a child, Who soon bestows his tears,
A deeper pathos in them lay
Than would have moved a hermit gray, Bow'd down with holy years. One song he had about a Ship That perish'd on the Main,
So woeful, that his Mary pray'd,
At one most touching pause he made. To cease the hearse-like strain: And yet, in spite of all her pain, Implored him, soon as he obey'd, To sing it once again.
With faltering voice then would he sing Of many a well-known far-off thing, Towers, castles, lakes, and rills; Their names he gave not-could not But happy ye, he thought, who live Among the Cambrian hills.
For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see, Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously,
And with a silver-voice most wildly sweet, Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet.
Are they in truth her parents?-Was her birth Not drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breast
Of some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'd
With purest flames, enamour'd of a God, And gave this child to light in realms of rest;
Then sent her to adorn these island-bowers, To sport and play with the delighted hours, Till call'd again to dwell among the blest? Sweet are such fancies:-but that kindling smile
Dissolves them all!-Her native isle This sure must be: If she in Heaven were born,
What breath'd into her face That winning human grace, Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn?
For, like the timid light of infant-day, That oft, when dawning, seems to die away, give-The gleam of rapture from her visage flies, Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes. Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again! And let thy parents live upon the sound; No other music wish they till they die. For never yet disease, or grief, or pain, Within thy breast the living lyre hath found, Whose chords send forth that touching melody.
Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms, Full many a lovely lay
He sung;-and of two happy sprites Who live and revel in delights
For ever, night and day.
And who, even of immortal birth,
Or that for Heaven have left this earth, Were e'er more blest than they!
But shall that bliss endure for ever? And shall these consecrated groves Behold and cherish their immortal loves? Or must it come, the hour that is to sever Those whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare?
Awful that thought, and, like unto despair, Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill; Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will,
But the same fate together let them share; For how could either hope to die resign'd, If God should say: One must remain behind! Yet wisely doth the spirit shrink From thought, when it is death to think: Or haply, a kind being turns
To brighter hopes the soul that mourns In killing woe; else many an eye, Now glad, would weep its destiny. Even so it fares with them: they wish to live Long on this island, lonely though it be. Old age itself to them would pleasure give,
Sing on! sing on! it is a lovely air. Well could thy mother sing it when a maid: Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade, To list a tune that breathes of nothing there, A tune that by his mountain-springs, Beside his slumbering lambkins fair, The Cambrian shepherd sings.
The air on her sweet lips hath died, And as a harper, when his tune is play'd, Pathetic though it be, with smiling brow Haply doth careless fling his harp aside, Even so regardlessly upstarteth now, With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid As if, with a capricious gladness, She strove to mock the soul of sadness, Then mourning through the glade. Light as a falling leaf that springs Away before the zephyr's wings, Amid the verdure seems to lie Of motion reft, then suddenly, With bird-like fluttering, mounts on high, Up yon steep hill's unbroken side, Behold the little Fairy glide.
Though free her breath, untired her limb.
For through the air she seems to swim, Yet oft she stops to look behind On them below ;-till with the wind She flies again, and on the hill-top far Shines like the spirit of the evening star. Nor lingers long as if a sight Half-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight, In rapid motion, winding still To break the steepness of the hill, With leaps, and springs, and out-stretch'd
More graceful in her vain alarms, The child outstrips the ocean-gale, In haste to tell her wondrous tale. Her parents' joyful hearts admire, Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire, All bright with tiny suns,
And the gleamings of the feathery gold, That play along each wavy fold Of her mantle as she runs.
What ails my child? her mother cries, Seeing the wildness in her eyes, The wonder on her cheek; But fearfully she beckons still, Up to her watch-tower on the hill, Ere one word can she speak. My Father! Mother! quickly fly Up to the green-hill-top with me, And tell me what you there descry; For a cloud hath fallen from the sky, And is sailing on the sea.
They wait not to hear that word again: The steep seems level as the plain, And up they glide with ease: They stand one moment on the height In agony, then bless the sight, And drop upon their knees.
A Ship!-no more can Mary say, A blessed Ship! and faints away.- Not so the happy sight subdues Fitz-Owen's heart;-he calmly views The gallant vessel toss
Her prow superbly up and down, As if she wore the Ocean-Crown; And now, exulting in the breeze, With new-woke English pride he sees St. George's blessed Cross.
Behold them now, the happy three, Hang up a signal o'er the sea, And shout with echoing sound, While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss, The child prints many a playful kiss Upon their hands, or, mad with glee, Is dancing round and round.
Scarce doth the thoughtless infant know Why thus their tears like rain should flow, Yet she must also weep;
Such tears as innocence doth shed Upon its undisturbed bed,
When dreaming in its sleep. And oft, and oft, her father presses
Her breast to his, and bathes her tresses,
Her sweet eyes, and fair brow. How beautiful upon the wave The vessel sails, who comes to save! Fitting it was that first she shone Before the wondering eyes of one, So beautiful as thou.
See how before the wind she goes, Scattering the waves like melting snows! Her course with glory fills
The sea for many a league!-Descending, She stoopeth now into the vale, Now, as more freshly blows the gale, She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills. Oh! whither is she tending?
She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay ; As for her crew, how blest are they! See! how she veers around!
Back whirl the waves with louder sound; And now her prow points to the land: For the Ship, at her glad lord's command, Doth well her helm obey.
They cast their eyes around the isle: But what a change is there! For ever fled that lonely smile That lay on earth and air,
That made its haunts so still and holy, Almost for bliss too melancholy, For life too wildly fair.
Gone-gone is all its loneliness, And with it much of loveliness. Into each deep glen's dark recess, The day-shine pours like rain, So strong and sudden is the light Reflected from that wonder bright, Now tilting o'er the Main.
Soon as the thundering cannon spoke, The voice of the evening-gun
The spell of the enchantment broke, Like dew beneath the sun.
Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheers Of these delighted mariners,
And the loud sound of the oar, As bending back away they pull, With measured pause, most beautiful, Approaching to the shore.
For her yards are bare of man and sail, Nor moves the giant to the gale; But, on the Ocean's breast, With storm-proof cables, stretching far, There lies the stately Ship of War r; And glad is she of rest.
Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away, And leave your bower to flourish and decay, Without one parting tear?
Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd, And with your smiling infant play'd For many a blessed year!
No! not in vain that bower hath shed Its blossoms o'er your marriage-bed,
Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain,
Forgetful of her heavenly reign,
On them whose pure and holy bliss
Even beautified that wilderness.
To every rock, and glade, and dell, You now breathe forth a sad farewell. Say! wilt thou ever murmur on With that same voice when we are gone, Beloved stream!-Ye birds of light! And in your joy as musical as bright, Still will you pour that thrilling strain, Unheard by us who sail the distant main? We leave our nuptial bower to you! There still your harmless loves renew, And there, as they who left it, blest, The loveliest ever build your nest. Farewell once more-for now and ever! - Yet, though unhoped-for mercy sever Our lives from thee, where grief might come at last;
Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms, Or driven before the blast, Most surely shall our spirits never Forget the Isle of Palms.-
What means the Ship? Fitz-Owen cries, And scarce can trust his startled eyes,- While safely she at anchor swings, Why doth she thus expand her wings? She will not surely leave the bay, Where sweetly smiles the closing day, As if it tempted her to stay? O cruel Ship! 'tis even so:
No sooner come than in haste to go; Angel of bliss! and fiend of woe!— -Oh! let that God who brought her here, My husband's wounded spirit cheer! Mayhap the ship for months and years Hath been among the storms, and fears Yon lowering cloud, that on the wave Flings down the shadow of a grave; For well thou knowst the bold can be By shadows daunted, when they sail the sea. Think,in our own lost Ship, when o'er our head Walk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light, How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dread
On her, the glory of the innocent night, As if in those still hours of heavenly joy, They saw a spirit smiling to destroy. Trust that, when morning brings her light, The sun will shew a glorious sight, This very Ship in joy returning
With outspread sails and ensigns burning, To quench in bliss our causeless mourning. -O Father! look with kinder eyes
On me, the Fairy-infant cries.
O blessed child! cach artless tone Of that sweet voice, thus plaintively Breathing of comfort to thyself unknown, Who feelest not how beautiful thou art, Sinks like an anthem's pious melody Into thy father's agitated heart, And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own. A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face, And thou, rejoicing once again to hear The voice of love so pleasant to thine ear, Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn, Bounding along like a sportive fawn, With laugh and song renewst thy devious
Or round them, like a guardian sprite, Dancing with more than mortal grace, Steepest their gazing souls in still delight. For how could they, thy parents, see Thy innocent and fearless glee, And not forget, but one short hour ago, When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was their woe?
-Most like a dream it doth appear, When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here- A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone, Was surely passing-sweet :-now it is gone, Not worth one single tear.
A SUMMER-NIGHT descends in balm On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm, Of that romantic steep,
Where, silent as the silent hour, 'Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower, Three happy spirits sleep.
And we will leave them to themselves, To the moon and the stars, these happy elves, To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's wing,
That dreams of gentlest joyance bring To bathe their slumbering eyes; And on the moving clouds of night, High o'er the main will take our flight, Where beauteous Albion lies. Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween, The sounds, the forms, the hues have been Of these delightful groves;
And mournful as the melting sky, Or a faint-remember'd melody,
Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad, The story of their loves.
At times when I was gay and glad, These are not like thy other sighs. But that I saw my Father grieve, Most happy when yon thing did leave Our shores, was I:-'Mid waves and wind, Where, Father! could we ever find So sweet an island as our own? And so we all would think, I well believe, Lamenting, when we look'd behind, That the Isle of Palms was gone.-
Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild, That told of the Fay-like sylvan child, And of them who live in lonely bliss, Like bright flowers of the wilderness, Happy and beauteous as the sky That views them with a loving eye, Another tale I have to sing, Whose low and plaintive murmuring May well thy heart beguile,
And when thou weepst along with me,
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