WHY should I sing? The scenes which roused The bards of old, arouse no more;
The reign of poesy hath pass'd,
And all her glowing dreams are o'er! Why should I sing? A thousand harps Have touch'd the self-same chords before, Of love, and hate, and lofty pride, And fields of battle bathed in gore! Why should I seek the burning fount From whence their glowing fancies sprung? My feeble muse can only sing
What other, nobler bards have sung. Thus did I breathe my sad complaint, As, bending o'er my silent lyre, I sigh'd for some romantic theme
Its slumbering music to inspire. Scarce had I spoke, when o'er my soul A low reproving whisper came; My heart instinctive shrank with awe, And conscience tinged my cheek with shame. "Down with thy vain, repining thoughts, Nor dare to breathe those thoughts again, Or endless sleep shall bind thy lyre, And scorn repel thy bursting strain! "What though a thousand bards have sung The charms of earth, of air, or sky! A thousand minstrels, old and young, Pour'd forth their varied melody! "What though, inspired, they stoop'd to drink At Fancy's fountain o'er and o'er! Say, feeble warbler, dost thou think The glowing streamlet flows no more? "Because a nobler hand has cull'd The loveliest of our earthly flowers, Dost thou believe that all of bloom Hath fled those bright, poetic bowers. "Know then, that long as earth shall roll, Revolving 'neath yon azure sky, Music shall charm each purer soul, And Fancy's fount shall never dry!
"Long as the rolling seasons change, And nature holds her empire here; Long as the human eye can range O'er yon pure heaven's expanded sphere;
"Long as the ocean's broad expanse Lies spread beneath yon broader sky; Long as the playful moonbeams dance, Like fairy forms, on billows high;
"So long, unbound by mortal chain, Shall genius spread her soaring wing; So long the pure poetic fount,
Uncheck'd, unfetter'd, on shall spring. "Thou say'st the days of song have past, The glowing days of wild romance, When war pour'd out his clarion blast, And valour bow'd at beauty's glance!
"When every hour that onward sped, Was fraught with some bewildering tale; When superstition's shadowy hand O'er trembling nations cast her veil! "Thou say'st that life's unvaried stream In peaceful ripples wears away; And years produce no fitting theme To rouse the poet's slumbering lay. "Not so, while yet the hand of God Each year adorns his teeming earth; While dew-drops deck the verdant sod, And birds, and bees, and flowers have birth; "While every day unfolds anew Some charm to meet the searching eye; While buds of every varying hue Are bursting 'neath a summer sky. """Tis true that war's unsparing hand Hath ceased to bathe our fields in gore; That hate hath quench'd his burning brand, And tyrant princes reign no more.
"But dost thou think that scenes like these Form all the poetry of life? Would thy untutor'd muse delight In scenes of rapine, blood, and strife? "No-there are boundless fields of thought, Where roving spirits never soar'd; Which wildest fancy never sought, Or boldest intellect explored! "Then bow not silent o'er thy lyre, But tune its chords to nature's praise; At every turn thine eye shall meet Fit themes to form a poet's lays.
"Go forth, prepared her sweetest smiles In all her loveliest scenes to view; Nor deem, though others there have knelt, Thou may'st not weave thy garland too!" It paused-I felt how true the words, How sweet the comfort they convey'd; I chased my mourning thoughts away- I heard-I trusted-I obey'd.
TO THE SPIRIT OF MY SISTER LUCRETΙΑ.
OH thou, so early lost, so long deplored! Pure spirit of my sister, be thou near! And while I touch this hallow'd harp of thine, Bend from the skies, sweet sister, bend and hear!
For thee I pour this unaffected lay,
To thee these simple numbers all belong; For though thine earthly form hath pass'd away, Thy memory still inspires my childish song. Then take this feeble tribute! 'tis thine own- Thy fingers sweep my trembling heartstrings o'er, Arouse to harmony each buried tone,
And bid its waken'd music sleep no more! Long hath thy voice been silent, and thy lyre Hung o'er thy grave in death's unbroken rest But when its last sweet tones were borne away, One answering echo linger'd in my breast. Oh thou pure spirit! if thou hoverest near, Accept these lines, unworthy though they be, Faint echoes from thy fount of song divine, By thee inspired, and dedicate to thee!
'Twas nightfall on the Rhine! the day In pensive glory stole away, Flinging his last and brightest glow Full on the restless waves below, As if an angel's hand had dyed With hues from heaven the sparkling tide! The fleeting ray an instant beam'd,- O'er hill and vale and rock it stream'd, Till the dark, time-defying cliff, Seem'd glowing, melting into life- Then swiftly fading, glided o'er, And left it lonelier than before. The distant hills of sombre blue, Tinged with that rich and varying hue, Now darker and more mingled grew; The Rhine, enrobed in shadows gray,
Roll'd on its giant path. Lashing the rocks which barr'd its way, Now curling graceful, as in play, Now roaring as in wrath! While trembling in the tinted west, The fair moon rear'd her silver crest, And fleecy clouds, as snow-wreaths pale, Twined on her brow their graceful veil; And one by one, with tiny flame, Night's heavenly tapers softly came, And toward their mistress trembling stole, Like pleasing memories o'er the soul. And shade by shade her brilliance grew, As past away the sunset hue, Till o'er the heaving Rhine she stood, Bathing in light its sleeping flood; Pouring her full and melting ray Where rock and hill and forest lay, And where, in clust'ring trees embower'd, An ancient castle proudly tower'd: O'er the gray walls her glances play'd, O'er drawbridge, moat, and tower they stray'd, As striving with that holy light To pierce the works of earthly might, And cast one heavenly beam within The abode of human toil and sin.
Can sin and sorrow and despair Be frowning 'neath a sky so fair? Can nature sleep while tempests roll Impetuous o'er the tortured soul? Mark yonder taper, dimly beaming, From the lone turret faintly streaming Casting athwart the brow of night Its wavering and uncertain light! Beside that torch sit guilt and care And dark remorse, and coward fear; And fever'd thought is borrowing there The haggard visage of despair! There, with his aged fingers prest In clasp convulsive to his breast, Bows, as with secret guilt and pain, The master of this broad domain. His ample robes around him stray, His locks are deeply tinged with gray, And his dark, low'ring brow is fraught With marks of avarice and thought. At every sound which meets his ear, He starts instinctive as with fear, And his keen eye roams here and there, With anxious and expectant air. His seem'd a mind of timid mould, Sway'd by some spirit, fierce and bold,
Which lean'd to virtue, but could yield When vice to avarice appeal'd- Which gazed on crime with shrinking eye, But was too cowardly to fly. He started-heard, with troubled air
A tread upon the turret stair; Wiped from his brow the gathering dew, And closer still his mantle drew, When wide the massive portal flew! As wondering at this entrance rude, The aged host in silence stood; While with a stern unchanging look, The stranger doff'd his ample cloak, Unloosed his bonnet's clasping band, And toward the baron stretch'd his hand. His host the friendly gesture saw, But shrank in hatred or in awe- Then starting, as with eager haste, The proffer'd hand he warmly prest, And smiled a welcome to his guest. The latter mark'd, with flashing glance, That shrinking fear, this mean pretence And then resumed the smile of scorn His curling lip had lately worn. Uninjured by the frosts of time, He seem'd advanced in manhood's prime; His form was tall, his mien erect, His locks, though matted by neglect, Curl'd closely round his swarthy brow While his dark orbits flashed below. Nature, with fingers firm and bold, Had made a form of finest mould, And painted on his childish face The outline of each manly grace; But pride and art, those imps of sin, Had crept the empty shrine within; Had taught his heart each serpent wile, And lent his lip its fiendish smile. His brow was knit with thought and care, And dark design was scowling there; His glance inspired both hate and fear- Now withering with its biting sneer, Now flashing like the mid-day sun, Which scorches all it looks upon. Boldness and artifice combined To form the dark, perverted mind, Within that goodly frame enshrined; And he, whose steps in early youth Some kindly hand had led to truth, With active brain, and heart that burn'd, From that unpointed pathway turn'd, Unwarn'd, unguided, plunged within The blackening gulf of shame and sin.
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