The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 19

WRITTEN ON THE BANKS OF WASt.w.a.tER, DURING A CALM.

Is this the Lake, the cradle of the storms, Where silence never tames the mountain-roar, Where poets fear their self-created forms, Or, sunk in trance severe, their G.o.d adore?

Is this the Lake, for ever dark and loud With wave and tempest, cataract and cloud?

Wondrous, O Nature! is thy sovereign power, That gives to horror hours of peaceful mirth: For here might beauty build her summer-bower!

Lo! where you rainbow spans the smiling earth, And, clothed in glory, through a silent shower The mighty Sun comes forth, a G.o.dlike birth; While, 'neath his loving eye, the gentle Lake Lies like a sleeping child too blest to wake!

SONNET III.

WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT, ON HELM-CRAG.

Go up among the mountains, when the storm Of midnight howls, but go in that wild mood, When the soul loves tumultuous solitude, And through the haunted air, each giant form Of swinging pine, black rock, or ghostly cloud, That veils some fearful cataract tumbling loud, Seems to thy breathless heart with life embued.

'Mid those gaunt, shapeless things thou art alone!

The mind exists, thinks, trembles through the ear, The memory of the human world is gone, And time and s.p.a.ce seem living only _here_.

Oh! worship thou the visions then made known, While sable glooms round Nature's temple roll, And her dread anthem peals into thy soul.

SONNET IV.

THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAINS.

List! while I tell what forms the mountain's voice!

--The storms are up; and from you sable cloud Down rush the rains; while 'mid the thunder loud The viewless eagles in wild screams rejoice.

The echoes answer to the unearthly noise Of hurling rocks, that, plunged into the Lake, Send up a sullen groan: from clefts and caves, As of half-murder'd wretch, hark! yells awake, Or red-eyed phrensy as in chains he raves.

These form the mountain's voice; these, heard at night, Distant from human being's known abode, To earth some spirits bow in cold affright, But some they lift to glory and to G.o.d.

SONNET V.

THE EVENING-CLOUD.

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow: Long had I watched the glory moving on O'er the still radiance of the Lake below.

Tranquil its spirit seem'd, and floated slow!

Even in its very motion, there was rest: While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.

Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; And by the breath of mercy made to roll Right onwards to the golden gates of Heaven, Where, to the eye of Faith, it peaceful lies, And tells to man his glorious destinies.

SONNET VI.

WRITTEN ON THE SABBATH-DAY.

When by G.o.d's inward light, a happy child, I walk'd in joy, as in the open air, It seem'd to my young thought the Sabbath smiled With glory and with love. So still, so fair, The Heavens look'd ever on that hallow'd morn, That, without aid of memory, something there Had surely told me of its glad return.

How did my little heart at evening burn, When, fondly seated on my father's knee, Taught by the lip of love, I breathed the prayer, Warm from the fount of infant piety!

Much is my spirit changed; for years have brought Intenser feeling and expanded thought; --Yet, must I envy every child I see!

SONNET VII.

WRITTEN ON SKIDDAW, DURING A TEMPEST.

It was a dreadful day, when late I pa.s.s'd O'er thy dim vastness, SKIDDAW!--Mist and cloud Each subject Fell obscured, and rushing blast To thee made darling music, wild and loud, Thou Mountain-Monarch! Rain in torrents play'd, As when at sea a wave is borne to Heaven, A watery spire, then on the crew dismay'd Of reeling ship with downward wrath is driven.

I could have thought that every living form Had fled, or perished in that savage storm, So desolate the day. To me were given Peace, calmness, joy: then, to myself I said, Can grief, time, chance, or elements controul Man's charter'd pride, the Liberty of Soul?

SONNET VIII.

I wander'd lonely, like a pilgrim sad, O'er mountains known but to the eagle's gaze; Yet, my hush'd heart, with Nature's beauty glad, Slept in the shade, or gloried in the blaze.

Romantic vales stole winding to my eye In gradual loveliness, like rising dreams; Fair, nameless tarns, that seem to blend with sky Rocks of wild majesty, and elfin streams.

How strange, methought, I should have lived so near, Nor ever worshipp'd Nature's altar here!

Strange! say not so--hid from the world and thee, Though in the midst of life their spirits move, Thousands enjoy in holy liberty The silent Eden of unenvied Love!

SONNET IX.

WRITTEN ON THE EVENING I HEARD OF THE DEATH OF MY FRIEND, WILLIAM DUNLOP.

A golden cloud came floating o'er my head, With kindred glories round the sun to blend!

Though fair the scene, my dreams were of the dead; --Since dawn of morning I had lost a friend.

I felt as if my sorrow ne'er could end: A cold, pale phantom on a breathless bed, The beauty of the crimson west subdued, And sighs that seem'd my very life to rend, The silent happiness of eve renew'd.

Grief, fear, regret, a self-tormenting brood Dwelt on my spirit, like a ceaseless noise; But, oh! what tranquil holiness ensued, When, from that cloud, exclaimed a well-known voice, --G.o.d sent me here, to bid my friend rejoice!