The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems Part 1

The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems.

by Washington Allston.

Prefatory Note to The Sylphs of the Seasons.

As it may be objected to the following Poem, that some of the images there introduced are not wholly peculiar to the Season described, the Author begs leave to state, that, both in their selection and disposition, he was guided by that, which, in his limited experience, was found to be the Season of their greatest impression: and, though he has not always felt the necessity of pointing out the collateral causes by which the effect was increased, he yet flatters himself that, in general, they are sufficiently implied either by what follows or precedes them. Thus, for instance, the _running brook_, though by no means peculiar, is appropriated to Spring; as affording by its motion and _seeming_ exultation one of the most lively images of that spirit of renovation which animates the earth after its temporary suspension during the Winter.

By the same rule, is a.s.signed to Summer the _placid lake_, &c. not because that image is never seen, or enjoyed, at any other season; but on account of its affecting us more in Summer, than either in the Spring, or in Autumn; the indolence and languor generally then experienced disposing us to dwell with particular delight on such an object of repose, not to mention the grateful idea of coolness derived from a knowledge of its temperature. Thus also the _evening cloud_, exhibiting a fleeting representation of successive objects, is, perhaps, justly appropriated to Autumn, as in that Season the general decay of inanimate nature leads the mind to turn upon itself, and without effort to apply almost every image of sense or vision of the imagination,* to its own transitory state.

If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be not, it would be useless.

The Sylphs of the Seasons.

Long has it been my fate to hear The slave of Mammon, with a sneer, My indolence reprove.

Ah, little knows he of the care, The toil, the hardship that I bear, While lolling in my elbow-chair, And seeming scarce to move:

For, mounted on the Poet's steed, I _there_ my ceaseless journey speed O'er mountain, wood, and stream: And oft within a little day 'Mid comets fierce 'tis mine to stray, And wander o'er the Milky-way To catch a Poet's dream.

But would the Man of Lucre know What riches from my labours flow?-- A DREAM is my reply.

And who for wealth has ever pin'd, That had a World within his mind, Where every treasure he may find, And joys that never die!

One night, my task diurnal done, (For I had travell'd with the Sun O'er burning sands, o'er snows) Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest; My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd; But scarce had I my pillow press'd When thus a vision rose.

Methought within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, I suddenly awoke.

It seem'd of sable Night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke.

There motionless I stood alone, Like some strange monument of stone Upon a barren wild; Or like, (so solid and profound The darkness seem'd that wall'd me round) A man that's buried under ground, Where pyramids are pil'd.

Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past, And now I heard, as from a blast, A voice p.r.o.nounce my name: Nor long upon my ear it dwelt, When round me 'gan the air to melt.

And motion once again I felt Quick circling o'er my frame.

Again it call'd; and then a ray, That seem'd a gushing fount of day, Across the cavern stream'd.

Half struck with terror and delight, I hail'd the little blessed light, And follow'd 'till my aching sight An orb of darkness seem'd.

Nor long I felt the blinding pain; For soon upon a mountain plain I gaz'd with wonder new.

There high a castle rear'd its head; And far below a region spread, Where every Season seem'd to shed Its own peculiar hue.

Now at the castle's ma.s.sy gate, Like one that's blindly urged by fate, A bugle-horn I blew.

The mountain-plain it shook around, The vales return'd a hollow sound, And, moving with a sigh profound.

The portals open flew.

Then ent'ring, from a glittering hall I heard a voice seraphic call, That bade me "ever reign, All hail!" it said in accent wild, "For thou art Nature's chosen child, Whom wealth nor blood has e'er defil'd, Hail, Lord of this Domain!"

And now I paced a bright saloon, That seem'd illumin'd by the moon, So mellow was the light.

The walls with jetty darkness teem'd, While down them chrystal columns streamed, And each a mountain torrent seem'd.

High-flashing through the night.

Rear'd in the midst, a double throne.

Like burnish'd cloud of evening shone; While, group'd the base around, Four Damsels stood of Faery race; Who, turning each with heavenly grace Upon me her immortal face, Transfix'd me to the ground.

And _thus_ the foremost of the tram: Be thine the throne, and thine to reign O'er all the varying year!

But ere thou rulest the Fates command; That of our chosen rival band A Sylph shall win thy heart and hand, Thy sovereignty to share.

For we, the sisters of a birth, Do rule by turns the subject earth To serve ungrateful man; But since our varied toils impart No joy to his capricious heart, 'Tis now ordain'd that human art Shall rectify the plan.

Then spake the Sylph of Spring serene, 'Tis _I_ thy joyous heart I ween, With sympathy shall move: For I with living melody Of birds in choral symphony, First wak'd thy soul to poesy, To piety and love.

When thou, at call of vernal breeze, And beck'ning bough of budding trees, Hast left thy sullen fire; And stretch'd thee in some mossy dell.

And heard the browsing wether's bell, Blythe echoes rousing from their cell To swell the tinkling quire:

Or heard from branch of flow'ring thorn The song of friendly cuckoo warn The tardy-moving swain; Hast bid the purple swallow hail; And seen him now through ether sail, Now sweeping downward o'er the vale.

And skimming now the plain;

Then, catching with a sudden glance The bright and silver-clear expanse Of some broad river's stream.

Beheld the boats adown it glide, And motion wind again the tide, Where, chain'd in ice by Winter's pride, Late roll'd the heavy team:

Or, lur'd by some fresh-scented gale, That woo'd the moored fisher's sail To tempt the mighty main, Hast watch'd the dim receding sh.o.r.e, Now faintly seen the ocean o'er, Like hanging cloud, and now no more To bound the sapphire plain;

Then, wrapt in night the scudding bark, (That seem'd, self-pois'd amid the dark, Through upper air to leap,) Beheld, from thy most fearful height, Beneath the dolphin's azure light Cleave, like a living meteor bright, The darkness of the deep:

'Twas mine the warm, awak'ning hand That made thy grateful heart expand, And feel the high control Of Him, the mighty Power, that moves Amid the waters and the groves, And through his vast creation proves His omnipresent soul.

Or, brooding o'er some forest rill, Fring'd with the early daffodil, And quiv'ring maiden-hair, When thou hast mark'd the dusky bed, With leaves and water-rust o'erspread, That seem'd an amber light to shed On all was shadow'd there;

And thence, as by its murmur call'd, The current traced to where it brawl'd Beneath the noontide ray; And there beheld the checquer'd shade Of waves, in many a sinuous braid, That o'er the sunny channel play'd, With motion ever gay:

'Twas I to these the magick gave, That made thy heart, a willing slave, To gentle Nature bend; And taught thee how with tree and flower, And whispering gale, and dropping shower, In converse sweet to pa.s.s the hour, As with an early friend:

That mid the noontide sunny haze Did in thy languid bosom raise The raptures of the boy; When, wak'd as if to second birth, Thy soul through every pore look'd forth, And gaz'd upon the beauteous Earth With myriad eyes of joy:

That made thy heart, like HIS above, To flow with universal love For every living thing.

And, oh! if I, with ray divine, Thus tempering, did thy soul refine, Then let thy gentle heart be mine, And bless the Sylph of Spring.

And next the Sylph of Summer fair; The while her crisped, golden hair Half veil'd her sunny eyes: Nor less may _I_ thy homage claim, At touch of whose exhaling flame The fog of Spring that chill'd thy frame In genial vapour flies.

Oft by the heat of noon opprest, With flowing hair and open vest, Thy footsteps have I won To mossy couch of welling grot, Where thou hast bless'd thy happy lot.

That thou in that delicious spot May'st see, not feel, the sun:

Thence tracing from the body's change, In curious philosophic range, The motion of the mind; And how from thought to thought it flew, Still hoping in each vision new The faery land of bliss to view, But ne'er that land to find.

And then, as grew thy languid mood, To some embow'ring silent wood I led thy careless way; Where high from tree to tree in air Thou saw'st the spider swing her snare.

So bright!--as if, entangled there, The sun had left a ray: