And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms, To make it happy as those Isles of rest
(When eve the sky becalms
Like a subsiding sea)
That hang resplendent, mid the gorgeous west,
All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,
The setting sun's last lingering pageantry?
Hath Fancy ever dreamt of seraph-Powers
Walking in beauty through these cloud-framed bowers,
Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?
And hath she ever paused to hear,
By moonlight brought unto her ear,
Their hymnings wild and sweet?
Lo! human creatures meet her view
As happy, and as beauteous too,
As those aerial phantoms:-in their mien,
Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seen
All foreign to this utter solitude,
Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide,
As erst in Grecian Isle had beautified
The guardian Deities of Grove and Flood.
Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive,
And mortal, like the flowers that round them smile?
Or if into the Ocean sank their Isle
A thousand fathoms deep-would they survive?—
Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings;
And while, to cheer their airy voyage, sings
With joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,
That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd long
On earth, might glide, then re-assume their sway,
And from the gratulating throng
Of kindred spirits, drink the inexpressive song?
Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem,
Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,
Their beauty mellowing in the chequer'd light,
Than, years ago, on that resplendent night,
When yielded up to an unearthly dream,
In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas.
Ay! years ago!-for in this temperate clime,
Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of time
Float through the fragrance of the sunny air;
One little month seems scarcely gone
Since, in a vessel of their own,
At eve they landed there.
Their bower is now a stately bower,
For, on its roof the loftiest flower
To bloom so lowly grieves,
And up like an ambitious thing
That feareth nought, behold it spring
Till it meet the high Palm-leaves!
The porch is opening seen no more,
But folded up with blossoms hoar,
And leaves green as the sea;
And, when the wind hath found them out,
The merry waves that dancing rout
May not surpass in glee.
About their home so little art,
They seem to live in Nature's heart,
A sylvan court to hold
In a palace framed of lustre green,
More rare than to the bright Flower Queen
Was ever built of old.
INVITATION OF FAIRIES TO A SHEPHERDESS.
Oh! come ye from heaven, ye blessed Things, So silent with your silvery wings
Folded in moonlight glimmerings?
-They have dropt like two soft gleams of light, Those gracious Forms, on the verdant height
Where Edith in her slumber lies,
With calm face meeting the calm skies,
Like one whose earthly course is o'er,
And sleepeth to awake no more!
Gazing upon the Child they stand,
Till one with small soft silent hand
Lifts from that brow the golden hair—
"Was ever mortal face so fair?
God gives to us the sleeping maid!”
And scarcely are the kind words said,
Than Edith's lovely neck is wreathed
With arms as soft as zephyrs breathed
O'er sleeping lilies,-and slowly raised
The still form of the child, amazed
To see those visages divine,
And eyes so fill'd with pity, shine
On her, a simple Shepherdess,
An orphan in the wilderness!
"O, happy child! who livest in mirth
And joy of thine own on this sinful Earth,
Whose heart, like a lonely stream, keeps singing,
Or, like a holy bell, is ringing
So sweetly in the silent wild
Wilt thou come with us, thou happy child,
And live in a land where woe and pain
Are heard but as a far-off strain
Of mournful music,-where the breath
Of Life is murmuring not of Death:
And Happiness alone doth weep,
And nought but Bliss doth break our sleep;
Wilt thou come with us to the land of Dreams?"
-A kiss as soft as moonlight seems
To fall on Edith's brow and cheek
As that voice no more is heard to speak;
And bright before her half-closed eyes
Stand up these Shapes from Paradise,
Breathing sweet fear into her heart!
-She trembleth lest their beauty part,
Cloudlike, ere she be full awake,
And leave her weeping for their sake,
An orphan Shepherdess again,
Left all by herself in that lonely glen!
THE EVENING CLOUD: A SONNET.
A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun,
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow:
Long had I watch'd 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.
O gentle Sleep! wilt thou lay thy head
For one little hour on thy lover's bed,
And none but the silent stars of night
Shall witness be to our delight?
Alas! 'tis said that the couch must be
Of the eider-down that is spread for thee,
So, I in my sorrow must lie alone,
For mine, sweet Sleep! is a couch of stone.
Music to thee I know is dear;
Then, the saddest of music is ever here,
For Grief sits with me in my cell,
And she is a syren who singeth well.
But thou, glad Sleep! lovest gladsome airs,
And wilt only come to thy lover's prayers
When the bells of merriment are ringing,
And bliss with liquid voice is singing.
Fair Sleep! so long in thy beauty woo'd,
No rival hast thou in my solitude:
Be mine, my love! and we two will lie
Embraced for ever-or awake to die!
Dear Sleep! farewell!-hour, hour, hour, hour,
Will slowly bring on the gleam of morrow,
But thou art Joy's faithful paramour,
And lie wilt thou not in the arms of Sorrow.
GENIUS CONSECRATED TO RELIGION.
How beautiful is genius when combined
With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet
The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd
By the soft hand of Piety, and hung
Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating
With solemn music in the ear of God!
And must the bard from sacred themes refrain?
Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days,
That, kneeling in the silence of his tent,
Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd
Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive,
Erst chanted to the lyre of Israel,
More touching far than ever poet breathed
Amid the Grecian isles, or later times
Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.
Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know
The trance of adoration, and behold
Upon your bended knees the throne of Heaven,
And Him who sits thereon?
That poetry, in purer days the nurse,
Yea, parent oft of blissful piety,
Should silent keep from service of her God,
Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned,
Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep,
Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread
On regions where the sky for ever lies
Bright as the sun himself, and trembling all
With ravishing music, or where darkness broods
O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.
From Lines Sacred to the Memory of the Rev. James Grahame,
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