Textarchiv - James Gates Percival

Farewell, sad flowers, that on a desert blow

mrbot — Mon, 04 Feb 2019 21:10:10 +0000

Farewell, sad flowers, that on a desert blow,
Farewell! I plucked you from the Muses' bower,
And wove you in a garland, which an hour
Might on my aching eye enchantment throw—
Your leaves are pale and withered, and your flow
Of perfume wasted, your alluring power
Has vanished like the fleeting April shower;
Too lovely flowers to spread your leaves below—
Sweet flowers! though withered, all the joy I know,
Is, when I breathe your balm, your wreathe intwine;
And earth can only this delight bestow,
That sometimes all your loveliness is mine;
And then my frozen heart awhile will glow,
And life have moments, in its path, divine!

James Gates Percival

1823

Anacreontics

mrbot — Fri, 01 Feb 2019 21:10:03 +0000

Earth is a thirsty drinker,
The trees drink from its bosom,
The ocean drinks the wet winds,
The fiery sun the ocean,
The moon drinks in the sun's light.
Then why, my friends, be angry,
Because I love to drink too.

II.

FULL bosomed maids of Chio—
Around your auburn tresses
The woven roses twining,
Now sport in circling dances.
The moon is on the ocean,
The light, loose clouds around her
Their fleecy heaps are piling,
And gird her with a halo:
No longer from the billow
The fresh sea-wind is stealing;
His pinions wet with night-dew,
And bathed in liquid odours,
He slumbers on the flower bed,
And lies till morning wake him.
Then come ye maids of Chio—
And while your dark eyes sparkle,
Full eyes of living brightness,
Weave in your mazy dances
The flowery chain of Ero,
And round our yielding bosoms
Its rings of roses linking,
Give us those glowing kisses,
That drop the tempting treasures
Of Aphrodite's nectar

III.

DEAR girl of Mytilene—
Thy dark locks loosely flowing,
Thy full, round, jet eye sparkling
With soul-subduing glances,
Thy brown cheek flushed and glowing,
Thy lips, like opening rose buds
Their earliest balm exhaling,
Thy slender hands of coral,
Whose light and fairy fingers,
The cittern sweetly tuning,
Awake the song of Sappho,
And echo "lovely Phaon!
Adored, but cruel Phaon!"
Dear girl of Mytilene—
Beneath the bending vine-bower,
That hangs its loaded clusters
Full-swoln with purple nectar,
And o'er the vaulted trellice
Its tendrils, wildly ramping,
With broad, green leaves inwoven,
Shut out the star and moonlight—
Dear girl of Mytilene—
As in that secret bower
Thy love-lorn song is flowing,
The shepherd, on the moss bank,
All silvered o'er with moonlight,
Beside a dimpling fountain,
Shall play upon his tabret,
Responsive to thy echoes,
The dying song of Sappho
To loved, but cruel Phaon.

James Gates Percival

1823

Fragments of a Poem on the Incas

mrbot — Fri, 18 Jan 2019 21:10:05 +0000

Man is born to die,
And so are nations. Thus I mused,
As on the Inca's pyramid
I sat and gazed around.
Here, methought, a royal race,
To whom a nation bowed,
As if they were the sons of Heaven,
Came and paid their adoration
To the all o'er-seeing Sun.
And where is now that royal race?
Gone, and mingled with the ages,
That have passed away.
Here a countless multitude
Of self-made slaves, through weary years
Toiled and built this stately pile.
Years on years have rolled away,
Since they, who built it, lived.
Still it rears its massy front,
And stands unmoved, in proud defiance,
'Gainst the scythe of time
And ruin's crumbling hand;
While the same winds bleach the bones
Of the poor slave, that toiled,
And the great king, who bade.

'T WAS midnight—and the full round moon
Was riding in the midway Heaven,
And poured her faint, but spotless light,
Around the pillow, where he lay.
On the tender grass, and half-shut flowers,
That closed their leaves against the nightly air,
The dews, that hung in falling drops,
Sparkled with a feeble ray.
Sleep poured her poppy dews,
And spread her gauzy mantle o'er him;
Like an infant in its cradle,
There in innocence he lay,
Unconscious of impending harm.
Sudden, from the ground he starts,
And feels it rock beneath his feet,
And like the ocean roll.
From the north, a growling sound
Rushes on his ear.
Louder—louder, on it comes,
Like the never-ending din
Of some wide waterfall,
That in the desert pours its ceaseless flood;
Or like the roar of ocean
When the tempest rages,
And on a reef of broken rocks
The billows chafing, bursting foam;
Or like the rush of myriad horsemen,
When to conflict fierce they ride,
And 'neath the thundering tramp
Quivers the embattled plain.
Never ending, still increasing,
On it comes, and now beneath him
Bellows like the groans of hell:
Instant to the ground he falls,
And long entranced is lost.

Hark! the volcan's thunder
Boiling o'er the hills.
As at midnight, when the storm
Rears its front in Heaven,
And sheds a thicker darkness o'er the gloom,
Bursts the thunder-bolt,
And shakes the solid ground:
So the volcan's thunder rolls.
See the lighning's flash
Quivering in the sky—
Long red streams of flaring light
Rise and lick the stars.
From the crater's mouth
Rolls the fiery flood:
Down the rocks it sweeps its way,
And the ice of ages
In an instant melts,
And bursts a torrent to the plains below.
Slower rolls the fiery flood—
From cliff to cliff it tumbles,
And like the mingled roar of thousand cataracts,
Deeper—deeper strikes the ear.

Hast thou seen Niobe's statue,
Stand in speechless agony,
With eye upraised—and clasped hand,
As if to curse the bolt of Heaven?
So Atalpa stood.

THE night draws on,
And closer o'er the wave
Her sombre curtain spreads.
The dark-blue Heaven swells o'er the sea
And rests its pillars on the tossing deep.
The star of evening,
Has lit its lamp,
And hanging o'er the western wave,
Sparkles upon the foam below.
How calmly steal the winds along the main,
And heave the water round the cleaving prow.
The sail swells lightly overhead,
And the streamer scarcely flutters; all is still,
But the petrel as he circles round,
And skims the wave with snowy wing.

'T is midnight—and the moon
Has lit her lamp in Heaven.
Around her silver throne
The twinkling stars grow pale,
So bright she pours her beams.
Below her, o'er the sea,
Spread like a floor of glass
Unruffled by the winds,
Her image travels on.
As the mariner looks at the wake of the ship,
He sees a long track of light behind,
And the sparkling foam a world of gems.
I hear the voice of mirth,
The song of love, and the flute's soft note
Floating o'er the wave.
A white sail steers its course against the moon,
And seems a sheet of snow.
Beneath its shade the music breathes—
'T is the ship of joy that sails.
Streamers of silk wave on the topmast
Shining with purple and gold.
So light the west wind blows—
The sails flap and the cordage creaks;
While moving to the sound of flutes
The long white oars in order strike
And cut the marble main.

The morn is young in Heaven,
And the light is spread over the mountains;
The sky is blue above,
And the earth is green below;
The mist rolls over the rocks,
And curls its light folds in the valley;
The grass is wet with dew,
A gem is on every twinkling blade;
The song of the birds has awaked the sleeper,
And he starts on his journey anew.

Finis.

James Gates Percival

1823

An Ode to Music

mrbot — Thu, 03 Jan 2019 21:10:07 +0000

Desend, and with thy breath inspire my soul;
Descend, and o'er my lyre
Diffuse thy living fire;
Oh! bid its chords a strain of grandeur roll:
Touched by thy hand their trembling accents ring;
Borne on thy sounding pinions through the sky,
To Heaven the notes in burning ardour spring,
And as the tones in softened whispers die,
Love seems to flutter round on his Aurora-wing.

II.

Oh! Muse, who erst in Tempe's flowery vale
Wert wont to tune thy harp and breathe thy soul,
And o'er Peneus pour thy dying wail;
Who, when loud roaring thunders rocked the pole,
Burst from the dell and 'mid the growling storm
Involved in lurid gloom thy shining form;
And while the tempest o'er Olympus frowned,
And lightnings glittered round the throne of Jove,
Thy lyre, with hurried notes and awful sound,
Seemed like the voice that rung through dark Dodona's grove.

III.

Reclined amid the woods that waved around
Castalia's crystal fount and murmuring stream,
While ever blooming flowerets decked the ground,
And brightened in the summer's softened beam,
Thy virgins nine, with lyres of burnished gold,
Around thy Sylvan throne their descant rolled,
And through the mountain glen—the pensive shade,
A mellow echo would the strain prolong,
And as around the hollow cliffs it played,
A thousand heavenly harps seemed answering to the song.

IV.

Urania, o'er her star-bespangled lyre,
With touch of majesty diffused her soul;
A thousand tones, that in the breast inspire,
Exalted feelings, o er the wires 'gan roll—
She sang of night that clothed the infant world,
In strains as solemn as its dark profound—
How at the call of Jove the mist unfurled,
And o'er the swelling vault—the glowing sky,
The new-born stars hung out their lamps on high,
And rolled their mighty orbs to music's sweetest sound.

Majestic Clio touched her silver wire,
And through time's lengthened vista moved a train,
In dignity sublime;—the patriot's fire
Kindled its torch in heaven's resplendent ray,
And 'mid contention rose to Heaven again.
In brightness glowing like the orb of day,
The warrior drove his chariot o'er the slain,
And dyed its wheels in gore;—the battle's yell,
The dying groan, the shout of victory—
Now like the tempest-gust in horror swell,
Now like the sighing breeze in silence melt away.

VI.

But when Erato brushed her flowery lute,
What strains of sweetness whispered in the wind!
Soft as at evening when the shepherd's flute
To tones of melting love alone resigned,
Breathes through the windings of the silent vale;
Complaining accents tremble on the gale,
Or notes of ecstacy serenely roll.
So when the smiling muse of Cupid sung,
Her melody sighed out the sorrowing soul,
Or o'er her silken chords sweet notes of gladness rung.

VII.

But oh Melpomene! thy lyre of wo—
To what a mournful pitch its keys were strung,
And when thou badest its tones of sorrow flow,
Each weeping Muse, enamoured, o'er thee hung:
How sweet—how heavenly sweet, when faintly rose
The song of grief, and at its dying close
The soul seemed melting in the trembling breast;
The eye in dews of pity flowed away,
And every heart, by sorrow's load opprest,
To infant softness sunk, as breathed thy mournful lay.

VIII.

But when, Calliope, thy loud harp rang—
In Epic grandeur rose the lofty strain;
The clash of arms, the trumpet's awful clang
Mixed with the roar of conflict on the plain;
The ardent warrior bade his coursers wheel,
Trampling in dust the feeble and the brave,
Destruction flashed upon his glittering steel,
While round his brow encrimsoned laurels waved,
And o'er him shrilly shrieked the demon of the grave.

IX.

Euterpe glanced her fingers o'er her lute,
And lightly waked it to a cheerful strain,
Then laid it by, and took the mellow flute,
Whose softly flowing warble filled the plain:
It was a lay that roused the drooping soul,
And bade the tear of sorrow cease to flow;
From shady woods the Nymphs enchanted stole,
While laughing Cupids bent the silver bow,
Fluttering like fays that flit in Luna's softened glow.

The rage of Pindar filled the sounding air,
As Polyhymnia tried her skill divine;
The shaggy lion roused him from his lair,
And bade his blood-stained eyes in fury shine;
The famished eagle poised his waving wings,
Whetting his thirsty beak—while murder rose,
With hand that grasps a dirk, with eye that glows
In gloomy madness o'er the throne of kings,
And, as she bade her tones of horror swell,
The demon shook his steel with wild exulting yell.

XI.

How light the strain when, decked in vernal bloom,
Thalia tuned her lyre of melody,
And when Terpsichore, with iris-plume,
Bade o'er her lute her rosy fingers fly;
'T was pleasure all—the fawns in mingled choirs,
Glanced on the willing nymphs their wanton fires,
Joy shook his glittering pinions as he flew;
The shout of rapture and the song of bliss,
The sportive titter and the melting kiss,
All blended with the smile, that shone like early dew.

XII.

Their music ceased—and rising from thy throne,
Thou took'st thy harp that on the laurel hung,
And bending o'er its chords to try their tone,
A faintly trembling murmur o'er them rung:
At each sweet sound that broke upon the ear,
Started the listening throng, and gazed and smiled;
The satyr leaning on his ivy spear,
Peeped forth delighted from the flowery wild,
And, while thou tunedst the keys, the raptured soul
Hung o'er the flying tones that on the zephyrs stole.

XIII.

This prelude o'er, a solemn strain arose,
As strayed thy fingers slowly o'er the wire;
How grand the diapason—and its close,
As when to Heaven the organ notes aspire,
And through the gloomy aisle, the lofty nave,
Swell out the anthem pealing o'er the grave—
Low muttering thunders seemed to roar around,
And rising whirlwinds whispered in the ear;
The warrior started at the solemn sound,
Half drew his sword and slowly shook his spear;
The tiger couched and gazed with burning eye,
In horror growled, and lashed his waving tail;
The serpent rustled like the dying gale,
And bade his tongue in purple ardour fly,
Quivering like lurid flames beneath the midnight sky.

XIV.

The fury of the storm is howling by,
The whirlwinds rush, the bursting thunders roll,
Grim horror settles o'er the lowering sky,
And ruin flashes on the shuddering soul:
So burst with sudden swell thy awful strain,
And every blast of war was on the gale;
The maddening warriors mingled on the plain,
Loud rose the yell, and rang the clanging mail;
The victor's dripping chariot crushed the slain;
The raging tiger with terrific roar
Sprang on his prey, and dyed his claws in gore;
Rising on spires that shone with varied hue—
Bright crimson, burnished gold, and livid blue,
The serpent hissing in his burning ire,
Glanced on his flying foe, and fixed his tooth of fire.

XV.

Struck by thy bounding quill, a mellow lay
Rang o'er the harp and softly died away:
As poured the descant in the warrior's ear,
The roar of conflict ceased along the plain,
The foes exulting trampled on the slain,
And shook in mingled dance the glimmering spear;
In listless ease reclined, the tiger lay,
And fondly sported with his bleeding prey;
At times the serpent waved his quivering tail,
Then coiled his folds and all to peace resigned,
Listened the strain that sported in the wind,
And hissed his pleasure, shrill as sounds the infant's wail.

XVI.

At last a murmur trembled on the lyre,
Soft as the dirge that echoes o'er the bier:
Robbed of his spirit bold, his daring fire—
The vanquished warrior dropped a tender tear,
Leant on his bloody sword and breathed a sigh;
And as the tiger spread his claws of gold,
Fawned round thy form and purred his ecstacy—
His emerald eyes in languid softness rolled;
The serpent falling gently from his spire,
Glided with easy sweep along the plain,
In graceful windings wantoned round thy lyre,
And kissed the trembling chord that breathed the soothing strain.

James Gates Percival

1823

I had found out a sweet green spot

mrbot — Wed, 02 Jan 2019 21:10:05 +0000

I had found out a sweet green spot,
Where a lily was blooming fair;
The din of the city disturbed it not,
But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot
With its wings of love, was there.

I found that lily's bloom,
When the day was dark and chill;
It smiled, like a star, in the misty gloom,
And it sent abroad a soft perfume,
Which is floating around me still.

I sat by the lily's bell,
And I watched it many a day;
The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell,
Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell,
And the flower had flown away.

I looked where the leaves were laid,
In withering paleness, by;
And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said,
There is many a sweet and blooming maid,
Who will soon as dimly die.

James Gates Percival

1823

How beautiful is Night

mrbot — Tue, 25 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

"How beautiful is Night!"
A smile is on her brow;
Her eyes of dewy light
Look out, serenely bright,
Upon the wave below:
The waters, in their flow,
Just murmur, and the air
Hath scarce a breath to show
A spirit moving there:
The world is purely fair;
The winds are hushed and still;
The moonlight on the hill
Is sleeping, and her ray
Along the falling rill,
In lightly dancing play,
Soft-winding steals away:
A cool and silent breath,
From water-falls and streams,
Comes o'er my ear, like dreams,
Which, in the pictured death
Of slumber, on the soul
Delicious whispers roll;
And lead, in mazy light,
Before the spirit's eye,
Sweet visions of delight,
In trains of beauty, by.—
How fair and calm is Night!
Amid the dewy bowers
She guides the silent hours,
With fairy steps, along,
And round the floating throng
A cloudy vesture throws;
And loosely on the air
She spreads their raven hair
To every wind that blows:
They seem to hover by
Between me and the sky,
Each with a golden zone,
A waving robe of snow,
A veil, whose folds are thrown
In undulating flow,
Like clouds, when breezes blow;
So to my fancy's view
The sylphid people play
Around the vaulted blue,
And then they melt away,
And leave the sky all bright,
With lamps of living light;
And as I fondly gaze,
Where countless cressets blaze,
I look to Heaven and say—
"How beautiful is Night!"

James Gates Percival

1823

Here the air is sweet

mrbot — Tue, 25 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

Here the air is sweet,
Fresh from the roses newly blowing;
Here the waters meet,
Down the grassy valley flowing;
Here the bands of ivy twine,
Here the bells in yellow shine
On the flowering gelsemine,
Round the woven trellice growing.

Here the flitting breeze
Wafts afar the musky treasure,
And the wanton bees
Sip the honied fount of pleasure;
Here the loving spirits dwell,
Here they sit, and weave their spell,
And within the blossom's bell
Tune their soul-dissolving measure.

Here the wind is balm,
Laden with the breath of roses;
Here the air is calm,
And the sleeping noon-flower closes;
Now the sun is setting bright,
And his arch of purple light
Heralding the summer night,
Earth in dreams of bliss reposes.

Here's a magic bower—
O'er it budding vines are creeping,
And a dewy shower,
By a bank of turf is steeping;
Though the fallen winds are mute,
Faintly from the sweet-blown flute,
Tones, that with the stillness suit,
Harmonies of love are keeping.

I am here alone—
Far has fled my flowery dreaming,
All its beauty flown
Like a bow by moonlight gleaming,
Fancy's day of love is o'er,
All its rich and golden store
Ne'er can charm my spirit more
With its false, but fairy seeming.

James Gates Percival

1823

Consumption

mrbot — Mon, 24 Dec 2018 21:10:08 +0000

There is a sweetness in woman's decay,
When the light of beauty is fading away,
When the bright enchantment of youth is gone,
And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone,
And darted around its glance of power,
And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower,
That ever in Pæstum'sBiferique rosaria Pæsti.—Virg. garden blew,
Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew,
When all that was bright and fair, is fled,
But the loveliness lingering round the dead.

O! there is a sweetness in beauty's close,
Like the perfume scenting the withered rose;
For a nameless charm around her plays,
And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays,
And a veil of spotless purity
Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye,
Like a cloud whereon the queen of night
Has poured her softest tint of light;
And there is a blending of white and blue,
Where the purple blood is melting through
The snow of her pale and tender cheek;
And there are tones, that sweetly speak
Of a spirit, who longs for a purer day,
And is ready to wing her flight away.

In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling,
When life, like a sunny stream, is stealing
Its silent steps through a flowery path,
And all the endearments, that pleasure hath,
Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn,
When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn,
In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song
The maiden may trip in the dance along,
And think of the passing moment, that lies,
Like a fairy dream, in her dazzled eyes,
And yield to the present, that charms around
With all that is lovely in sight and sound,
Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit,
With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit,
And the music that steals to the bosom's core,
And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er
With a few big drops, that are soon repressed,
For short is the stay of grief in her breast:
In this enlivened and gladsome hour
The spirit may burn with a brighter power;
But dearer the calm and quiet day,
When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away.

And when her sun is low declining,
And life wears out with no repining,
And the whisper, that tells of early death,
Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath,
When it comes at the hour of still repose,
To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose;
And the lip, that swelled with a living glow,
Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow;
And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair,
But the hectic spot that flushes there,
When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling,
In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling,
And giving a tinge to her icy lips,
Like the crimson rose's brightest tips,
As richly red, and as transient too,
As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue,
That seem like a host of glory met
To honour the sun at his golden set:
O! then, when the spirit is taking wing,
How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
As if she would blend her soul with his
In a deep and long imprinted kiss;
So fondly the panting camel flies,
Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes,
And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest,
And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast.
And though her dying voice be mute,
Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute,
And though the glow from her cheek be fled,
And her pale lips cold as the marble dead,
Her eye still beams unwonted fires
With a woman's love and a saint's desires,
And her last fond, lingering look is given
To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven,
As if she would bear that love away
To a purer world and a brighter day.

James Gates Percival

1823

Here's to her

mrbot — Fri, 21 Dec 2018 21:10:09 +0000

Here's to her, who wore
The myrtle wreath, that bound me;
Here's to her, who bore
The twine of bay, that crowned me—
O! had not her light
So brightly shone upon me,
Still the cloud of night
Had darkly brooded on me;
There was in her eye
A spirit, that inspired me;
Still to do or die,
The electric sparkle fired me;
And though the ice of death
Should chill the heart within me,
The music of her breath
Back to life again would win me;
So here's to her, who wore
The myrtle wreath, that bound me;
The girl, who kindly bore
The twine of bay, that crowned me.

No more the iron chain
Of doubt and fear enthrals me;
I lift my wing again,
For 't is her voice that calls me:
Still higher, higher still,
In search of glory soaring,
I feel my bosom thrill
To the song her voice is pouring;
And though I stretch my flight,
Where Heaven alone is o'er me,
I see her form of light
Still floating on before me:
O! when foes the direst move
In columns to assail us,
Let us hear the voice of love,
And our courage cannot fail us:
So here's to her, &c.

And when my drowsy soul
A heedless moment slumbers,
Away the vapours roll
At the magic of her numbers;
Back to life again I start,
At her thrilling summons waking,
Every link, that bound my heart
Down to earth, indignant breaking;
Then I follow, where she flies,
Like a shooting star, before me,
And her fascinating eyes
Shed their fire in flashes o'er me:
O! cold the heart, could sleep,
When her silver trumpet called it,
And the soul, that would not leap,
When her flowery chain enthralled it:
So here's to her who wore
The myrtle wreath that bound me;
The girl, who kindly bore
The twine of bay that crowned me.

James Gates Percival

1823

Heaven

mrbot — Fri, 21 Dec 2018 21:10:02 +0000

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.

James Gates Percival

1823