The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems Part 6

"Ah, what avail those eyes replete With charms without a name!

Alas, no kindred rays they meet, To kindle by collision sweet Of mutual love the flame!

"Oh, 'tis the worst of cruel things, This solitary state!

Yon bird that trims his purple wings, As on the bending bow he swings.

Prepares to join his mate.

"The little glow-worm sheds her light, Nor sheds her light in vain-- That still her tiny lover's sight Amid the darkness of the night May trace her o'er the plain.

"All living nature seems to move By sympathy divine-- The sea, the earth, the air above; As if one universal love Did all their hearts entwine!

"My heart alone of all my kind No love can ever warm: That only can resemblance find With waste Arabia, where the wind Ne'er breathes on human form;

"A blank, embodied s.p.a.ce, that knows No changes in its reign, Save when the fierce tornado throws Its barren sands, like drifted snows, In ridges o'er the plain."

Thus plain'd the maid; and now her eyes Slow-lifting from the tide, Their liquid orbs with sweet surprise A youth beheld in extacies, Mute standing by her side.

"Forbear, oh, lovely maid, forbear,"

The youth enamour'd cried, "Nor with Arabia's waste compare The heart of one so young and fair, To every charm allied.

"Or, if Arabia--rather say, Where some delicious spring Remurmurs to the leaves that play Mid palm and date and flow'ret gay, On zephyr's frolick wing.

"And now, methinks, I cannot deem The picture else but true; For I a wand'ring trav'ller seem O'er life's drear waste, without a gleam Of hope--if not in _you_."

Thus spake the youth; and then his tongue Such converse sweet distill'd, It seem'd, as on his words she hung, As though a heavenly spirit sung, And all her soul he fill'd.

He told her of his cruel fate, Condemn'd along to rove, From infancy to man's estate, Though courted by the fair and great, Yet never once to love.

And then from many a poet's page The blest reverse he proved: How sweet to pa.s.s life's pilgrimage, From purple youth to sere old age, Aye loving and beloved!

Here ceased the youth; but still his words Did o'er her fancy play; They seem'd the matin song of birds, Or like the distant low of herds That welcomes in the day.

The sympathetick chord she feels Soft thrilling in her soul; And, as the sweet vibration steals Through every vein, in tender peals She seems to hear it roll.

Her alter'd heart, of late so drear, Then seem'd a faery land, Where nymphs and rosy loves appear On margin green of fountain clear, And frolick hand in hand.

But who shall paint her crimson blush, Nor think his hand of stone, As now the secret with a flush Did o'er her aching senses rush-- _Her heart was not her own!_

The happy Lindor, with a look That every hope confessed, Her glowing hand exulting took, And press'd it, as she fearful shook, In silence to his breast.

Myrtilla felt the spreading flame, Yet knew not how to chide; So sweet it mantled o'er her frame, That, with a smile of pride and shame, She own'd herself his bride.

No longer then, ye fair, complain, And call the fates unkind; The high, the low, the meek, the vain, Shall each a sympathetick swain, Another _self_ shall find.

To a Lady Who Spoke Slightingly of Poets.

Oh, censure not the Poet's art, Nor think it chills the feeling heart To love the gentle Muses.

Can that which in a stone or flower, As if by transmigrating power, His gen'rous soul infuses;

Can that for social joys impair The heart that like the lib'ral air All Nature's self embraces; That in the cold Norwegian main, Or mid the tropic hurricane Her varied beauty traces;

That in her meanest work can find A fitness and a grace combin'd In blest harmonious union, That even with the cricket holds, As if by sympathy of souls, Mysterious communion;

Can that with sordid selfishness His wide-expanded heart impress, Whose consciousness is loving; Who, giving life to all he spies, His joyous being multiplies, In youthfulness improving?

Oh, Lady, then, fair queen of Earth, Thou loveliest of mortal birth, Spurn not thy truest lover; Nor censure _him_ whose keener sense Can feel thy magic influence Where nought the world discover;

Whose eye on that bewitching face Can every source unnumber'd trace Of germinating blisses; See Sylphids o'er thy forehead weave The lily-fibred film, and leave It fix'd with honied kisses;

While some within thy liquid eyes, Like minnows of a thousand dies Through lucid waters glancing, In busy motion to and fro, The gems of diamond-beetles sow, Their l.u.s.tre thus enhancing;

Here some, their little vases fill'd With blushes for thy cheek distill'd From roses newly blowing, Each tiny thirsting pore supply; And some in quick succession by The down of peaches strewing;

There others who from hanging bell Of cowslip caught the dew that fell While yet the day was breaking, And o'er thy pouting lips diffuse The tincture--still its glowing hues Of purple morn partaking:

Here some, that in the petals prest Of humid honeysuckles, rest From nightly fog defended, Flutter their fragrant wings between, Like humming-birds that scarce are seen, They seem with air so blended!

While some, in equal cl.u.s.ters knit.

On either side in circles flit, Like bees in April swarming, Their tiny weight each other lend, And force the yielding cheek to bend, Thy laughing dimples forming.

Nor, Lady, think the Poet's eye Can only outward charms espy, Thy form alone adoring-- Ah, Lady, no: though fair they be.

Yet he a fairer sight may see, Thy lovely _soul_ exploring:

And while from part to part it flies The gentle Spirit he descries, Through every line pursuing; And feels upon his nature shower That pure, that humanizing power, Which raises by subduing.

Sonnet

_On a Falling Group in the Last Judgement of MICHAEL ANGELO, in the Cappella Sistina._

How vast, how dread, overwhelming is the thought Of s.p.a.ce interminable! to the soul A circling weight that crushes into nought Her mighty faculties! a wond'rous whole, Without or parts, beginning, or an end!

How fearful then on desp'rate wings to send The fancy e'en amid the waste profound!

Yet, born as if all daring to astound, Thy giant hand, oh Angelo, hath hurl'd E'en human forms, with all their mortal weight, Down the dread void--fall endless as their fate!

Already now they seem from world to world For ages thrown; yet doom'd, another past, Another still to reach, nor e'er to reach the last!

Sonnet