EPIPSYCHIDION. VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY, EMILIA V , NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF L'anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nel My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, ADVERTISEMENT. THE WRITER of the following Lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was sinular; less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history of the circumstances to which it relates; and to a certain other class it must ever remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a common organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento. The present poem appears to have been intended by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza on the opposite page is almost a literal translation from Dante's famous Canzone Voi, ch' intendendo, il terzo ciel movete, &c. The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. S. . EPIPSYCHIDION SWEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, 16 Till those bright plumes of thought, in which arrayed Lie shattered; and thy panting, wounded breast I weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be, Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Of light, and love, and immortality! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew Then smile on it, so that it may not die. I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin name Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame. 35 Would we two had been twins of the same mother: e Or, that the name my heart lent to another Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, Yet were one lawful and the other true, These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me! I am not thine: I am a part of thee. 15 Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings; Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own grey style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless ? A well of sealed and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music are, A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A Lute, which those whom love has taught to play And lull fond grief asleep? a buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure? She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, 56 60 65 70 75 And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day, And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full 80 85 90 Stains the dead, blank, coli air with a warm shade By Love, of light and motion: one intense Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing See where she stands! a mortal shape indued And motion which may change but cannot die ; A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendour Under whose motions life's dull billows move; Ah, woe is me! What have I dared? where am I lifted? how 35 100 105 410 125 120 135 |