Heaven

I had been sitting at a feast of souls,
A banquet of pure spirits, where the thought
Spoke on the eloquent tongue, and in the eye's
Gay sparkle, and the ever-changing play
Of feature, like the twinkling glance of waves
Beneath the summer moonlight. I walked forth;
It was a night in autumn, and the moon
Was visible through clouds of opal, laced
With gold and carmine—such a silent night
As fairies love to dance and revel in,
When winds are hushed, and leaves are still, and waves
Are sleeping on the waters, and the hum
And stir of life reposing. There was spread
Before my sight a smooth and glossy bay,
Mirrored in silver brightness, and the chime
Of rippling waters on its pebbles, broke
Alone the quietude that filled the air:
But when the tremulous heaving of the deep,
Far off, along its sandy barriers, rose
And faintly echoed, as the fitful gust
Ruffled the placid surface glassed below;
Or, at the call of night-birds, where they flew
And sported in the sedges, low and sweet,
Like swallows twittering, or the cooing voice
Of ring-doves, when they brood their callow young.
I looked abroad on sea and mountain, wild
And cultured field, and garden, and they lay,
Amid the stillness of the elements,
Silent, and motionless, and beautiful,
For mist and moonlight softened down their forms,
And covered them with dim transparency,
Like beauty melting through her Coan veil;
A wind rose from the ocean, as it rolled
Blue in the boundless distance, and it swept
The curtained clouds athwart the moon, and gave
The undimmed azure of the sky to light
And full expansion. There my eyes were turned,
And there they found the magic influence,
Which bound them, like enchantment, in a trance
Of most exalted feeling, and the soul
Was lifted from the body, and became
A portion of the purity and light
And loveliness of that cerulean dome:
And it imagined on the mountain top,
Now silvered with the milder beam of night,
On the blue arch, and on the rolling moon,
Careering through the host of stars, who seemed
To worship at her coming, and put out
The brightness of their twinkling, when she moved
Serenely and majestically by—
On these, and on the snowy clouds, that hung
Their curtains round the border of the sky,
Like folds of silken tapestry, it laid
A world of tenderness and purity,
The quiet habitation of the heart,
The resting-place of those impassioned souls,
Who draw their inspiration at the founts
Of nature, flowing from that theatre,
Whose scene is ever shifting with the play
Of seasons, as the year steals swiftly on,
And bears us, with its silent foot, away
To dissolution; ardent souls, who love
The rude rock and the frowning precipice,
The winding valley, where it lies in green
Along the bubbling riv'let, and the plain,
Parted in field and meadow, redolent
Of roses in the flowery days of spring;
And in the nights of autumn, of the breath
Of frosted clusters, hung along the vines
In blue and gushing festoons, in whose rind
The drink of souls, the nectar of the gods,
Ripens beneath the warm unclouded sky.

I looked upon this loveliness, until
A dream came o'er me, and the firmament
Was animate, and spirits filled the air,
Floating on snowy wings, and rustled by,
Fanning the wind to coolness; and they came
On messages of kindness, and they sought
The pillow of o'er-wearied toil, and shook
The dews of Lethe from their dripping plumes
Around his temples, till his mind forgot
Its sad realities, and happy dreams
Rose fair and sweet around him, and restored
Awhile the spotless hours of infancy,
When life is one enchantment! Then I seemed
Rapt in a trance of ecstasy, and forms
Stood thronging round supremely beautiful,
Whose looks were full of tenderness, whose words
Were glances, and whose melodies were smiles;
Who uttered forth the feelings of the soul
In that expressive dialect, whose tones
No tongue can syllable, the unseen chain,
Which links those hearts that beat in unison.
It was that perfect meeting, whither tend
Our spirits in their better hours, and find
The balm of wounded bosoms, where they dream
The eye of mercy ever smiles, and peace
For ever broods—they call the vision Heaven.

And thus hath man imagined he can find
The region of his angels, and his gods,
And blessed spirits, somewhere in the sky;
Or in the moon, to which the Indian turns,
And dreams it is a cool and quiet land,
Where insect cannot sting, nor tiger prowl;
Or on the cone of mountains, where the snow,
Purest of all material things, is laid
Upon a cloudy pillow, wreathed around
The midway height, and parting from this world
Olympus and the Swerga's holy bowers.