LITMIR.BIZ

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Till thro' my being, as thro' columned aisles

       When incense from the altar upward wreaths,

       There float the fragrance of thy breath divine.

       Circle my soul in its far wanderings

       Thro' spirit lands and empyrean heights,

       Where though it sink in wide bewilderment,

       Thou wilt enfold it in thy dewy arms,

       And pillow it to strength and fearlessness!

       Be to me like a heaven beyond all Time,

       Dreamt of, and worshipped in this pilgrimage—

       The habitation of all pure desire,

       Solace of sorrow, and the home of rest,

       Where I may lay me from life's troublous way,

       And feel Eternity rise in my soul!

       No, World! the cords that bound me unto thee

       Are snapt in sunder ne'er to join again,

       Thy voice is waning fainter on mine ear,

       And thine allurements powerless and vain.

       There springeth up within me a new want,

       A perfect yearning for the spiritual,

       That shaketh from its pinions all the cares

       And interests of earth, like cleaving dust

       That clogs its upward winging to the skies.

       Wend onward, as thou wilt in weal or woe,

       Swell the rude triumph of thy battle march,

       Spread thy gay banners broadly to the wind,

       And let thy clarions ring among the spheres;

       Laurel thy heroes and thy favourites,

       And pluck the crowns again from off their brows;

       Worship thy follies, and thine empty gains,

       And barter life for mammon—gold for dross.

       Here let me lie upon the rear of Time,

       Unheeded, unremembered, and alone,

       Like a quick seed dropt by a flying dove,

       That groweth unto blossom and to fruit!

      Scene. Night. Man.

      How still are all things now in earth and heaven!

       From the green-tided woods no rippling stir

       Breaks on the shore of silence; the sweet birds

       That sing, like naiads from the crystal deeps,

       Amid the murmurous coverts, now are mute

       As dreams of faded happiness, and life

       Seems calmly slumb'ring in the arms of death.

       The far waves alone are rocking in unrest,

       With moonlight flashing o'er them, but their sound

       Dies in their own wild bosom, like a song

       Murmuring in the spirit of a man.

       Thus is a poet's soul!—around it hangs

       The darkness of this world's reality,

       Its cares and struggles and necessities;

       But in its firmament for ever shines

       The starlight of divine imaginings,

       Shedding upon the waves of restless feeling,

       And aspirations for the undefined,

       The glory of a cloudless hemisphere.

      O Stars! that gaze upon me from on high,

       Like angels from the gates of Paradise,

       That weave your myriads in a golden chain

       To bind creation with the Beautiful,

       As locks are interrun with precious gems

       To deck a queen out for her royalty:

       Hear me, ye bright ones, for a poet's love,

       And let light fall upon my swelling soul,

       To crest each rising thought with purity!

       There was a time—in youth, ere yet the sands

       Of life clogged 'neath satiety, but ran

       Lighter than blithe rills down a mountain's side;

       There was a time, when in my soul a voice

       Rang faintly like a huntsman's horn afar,

       Sounding along a forest; and I arose,

       And listed, as the bounding Antelope

       Starts at the echo of a falling bough.

       Louder it grew, and clearer—"Search for it!"

       What?—It melted from me, but the voice still came.

       Then up I gat, and to the pressing world

       Sped on the wings of passion, striving on

       Thro' pleasure and thro' pain, alike unchecked.

       Then, what were lets to me? Amongst the strong

       I wrestled for ambition's upper seats—

       Clung to the slippery shrouds of policy—

       And in my fury prayed for eagle's wings

       To poize me in the shadow of the sun.

       At wealth I grasped as a poor crippled wretch

       Grasps at the crutch that steadies him along;

       Yet not for it but for the power it brought,

       For, Timon-like, within my heart of hearts

       I cursed the yellow dust I trampled on.

       But by the wayside I sat down and wept

       As a child weeps above some shattered toy.

       Oh Misery! to climb the steep of life

       Led by a phantom without form or truth—

       To find reality still rising up

       To crush hope's fabrics with relentless force.

       All was a fiction, but the voice said "Search!"

       And glory flashed before me like a wisp,

       Dazzling me on to bloodshed, and to strife.

      Upon the field I stood with Victory,

       And Death in all its ghastliness—Around

       The dim watchfires stood like a burning wall

       Betwixt the dead and living. On that night

       Ye saw me, ye pure ministers of heaven,—

       Shone on my anguish and my bitter tears.

       Then, when the mangled forms of fellow-men,

       With hideous passion stiff upon their lips,

       Blanch'd 'neath the twilight of your glimmering!

       Oh! there lay one beside me—a mere youth—

       Whose dying hands had pressed unto his lips

       A long fair tress, through which his dying sigh

       Crept, as in happier days perchance did love's.

       Witness, ye stars, of my abasement then,

       Judged and condemned by that poor lover's pledge,

       Lying there like a messenger of heaven,

       Breathing of peace and love, mid deadly hate.

       Glory! thou mirage on this desert life,

       Charming the weary on to water springs

       That shrivel up to barrenness ere reach'd!

       Thou shadow

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