Читать книгу Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet' - Christopher Stokes W. - Страница 32

STANZAS, ADDRESSED TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Forests, and lakes, the majesty of mountains,

The dazzling glaciers, and the musical sound

Of waves and winds, or softer gush of fountains:

In sights and sounds like these thy soul has found

Sublime delight; but can the visible bound 5

Of this small globe be the sole nurse and mother

Of knowledge and of feeling? Look around!

Mark how one being differs from another;

Yet the world’s book is spread before each human brother.

Was this world, then, the parent and the nurse 10

Of him whose mental eye outliv’d the sight

Of all its beauties?—Him who sang the curse

Of that forbidden fruit, which did invite

Our first progenitors, whom that foul sprite,

In serpent-form, seduc’d from innocence, 15

By specious promises, that wrong and right,

Evil and good, when they had gather’d thence,

Should be distinctly seen, as by diviner sense?

They pluck’d, and paid the awful penalty

Of disobedience: yet man will not learn 20

To be content with knowledge that is free

To all. There are, whose soaring spirits spurn

At humble lore, and, still insatiate, turn

From living fountains to forbidden springs;

Whence having proudly quaff’d, their bosoms burn 25

With visions of unutterable things,

Which restless fancy’s spell in shadowy glory brings.

Delicious the delirious bliss, while new;

Unreal phantoms of wise, good, and fair,

Hover around, in every vivid hue 30

Of glowing beauty; these dissolve in air,

And leave the barren spirit bleak and bare

As alpine summits: it remains to try

The hopeless task (of which themselves despair)

Of bringing back those feelings, now gone by, 35

By making their own dreams the code of all society.

“All fear, none aid them, and few comprehend;”

And then comes disappointment, and the blight

Of hopes, that might have bless’d mankind, but end

In stoic apathy, or starless night: 40

And thus hath many a spirit, pure and bright,

Lost that effulgent and ethereal ray,

Which, had religion nourish’d it, still might

Have shone on, peerless, to that perfect day,

When death’s veil shall be rent, and darkness dash’d away. 45

Ere it shall prove too late, thy steps retrace:

The heights thy muse has scal’d, can never be

Her loveliest, or her safest dwelling-place.

In the deep valley of humility,

The river of immortal life flows free 50

For thee—for all. Oh! taste its limpid wave,

As it rolls murmuring by, and thou shalt see

Nothing in death the Christian dares not brave,

Whom faith in God has given a world beyond the grave!