Читать книгу The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems - John Wilson - Страница 4

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It is the midnight hour:—the beauteous Sea,

Calm as the cloudless heaven, the heaven discloses,

While many a sparkling star, in quiet glee,

Far down within the watery sky reposes.

As if the Ocean's heart were stirr'd

With inward life, a sound is heard,

Like that of dreamer murmuring in his sleep;

'Tis partly the billow, and partly the air,

That lies like a garment floating fair

Above the happy Deep.

The sea, I ween, cannot be fann'd

By evening freshness from the land,

For the land it is far away;

But God hath will'd that the sky-born breeze

In the centre of the loneliest seas

Should ever sport and play.

The mighty Moon she sits above,

Encircled with a zone of love,

A zone of dim and tender light

That makes her wakeful eye more bright:

She seems to shine with a sunny ray,

And the night looks like a mellow'd day!

The gracious Mistress of the Main

Hath now an undisturbed reign,

And from her silent throne looks down,

As upon children of her own,

On the waves that lend their gentle breast

In gladness for her couch of rest!

My spirit sleeps amid the calm

The sleep of a new delight;

And hopes that she ne'er may awake again,

But for ever hang o'er the lovely main,

And adore the lovely night.

Scarce conscious of an earthly frame,

She glides away like a lambent flame,

And in her bliss she sings;

Now touching softly the Ocean's breast,

Now mid the stars she lies at rest,

As if she sail'd on wings!

Now bold as the brightest star that glows

More brightly since at first it rose,

Looks down on the far-off flood,

And there all breathless and alone,

As the sky where she soars were a world of her own,

She mocketh the gentle Mighty One

As he lies in his quiet mood.

"Art thou," she breathes, "the Tyrant grim

That scoffs at human prayers,

Answering with prouder roaring the while,

As it rises from some lonely isle,

Through groans raised wild, the hopeless hymn

Of shipwreck'd mariners?

Oh! Thou art harmless as a child

Weary with joy, and reconciled

For sleep to change its play;

And now that night hath stay'd thy race,

Smiles wander o'er thy placid face

As if thy dreams were gay."—

And can it be that for me alone

The Main and Heavens are spread?

Oh! whither, in this holy hour,

Have those fair creatures fled,

To whom the ocean-plains are given

As clouds possess their native heaven?

The tiniest boat, that ever sail'd

Upon an inland lake,

Might through this sea without a fear

Her silent journey take,

Though the helmsman slept as if on land,

And the oar had dropp'd from the rower's hand.

How like a monarch would she glide,

While the husht billow kiss'd her side

With low and lulling tone,

Some stately Ship, that from afar

Shone sudden, like a rising star,

With all her bravery on!

List! how in murmurs of delight

The blessed airs of Heaven invite

The joyous bark to pass one night

Within their still domain!

O grief! that yonder gentle Moon,

Whose smiles for ever fade so soon,

Should waste such smiles in vain.

Haste! haste! before the moonshine dies,

Dissolved amid the morning skies,

While yet the silvery glory lies

Above the sparkling foam;

Bright mid surrounding brightness, Thou,

Scattering fresh beauty from thy prow,

In pomp and splendour come!

And lo! upon the murmuring waves

A glorious Shape appearing!

A broad-wing'd Vessel, through the shower

Of glimmering lustre steering!

As if the beauteous ship enjoy'd

The beauty of the sea,

She lifteth up her stately head

And saileth joyfully.

A lovely path before her lies,

A lovely path behind;

She sails amid the loveliness

Like a thing with heart and mind.

Fit pilgrim through a scene so fair,

Slowly she beareth on;

A glorious phantom of the deep,

Risen up to meet the Moon.

The Moon bids her tenderest radiance fall

On her wavy streamer and snow-white wings,

And the quiet voice of the rocking sea

To cheer the gliding vision sings.

Oh! ne'er did sky and water blend

In such a holy sleep,

Or bathe in brighter quietude

A roamer of the deep.

So far the peaceful soul of Heaven

Hath settled on the sea,

It seems as if this weight of calm

Were from eternity.

O World of Waters! the stedfast earth

Ne er lay entranced like Thee!

Is she a vision wild and bright,

That sails amid the still moon-light

At the dreaming soul's command?

A vessel borne by magic gales,

All rigg'd with gossamery sails,

And bound for Fairy-land?

Ah! no!—an earthly freight she bears,

Of joys and sorrows, hopes and fears;

And lonely as she seems to be,

Thus left by herself on the moonlight sea

In loneliness that rolls,

She hath a constant company,

In sleep, or waking revelry,

Five hundred human souls!

Since first she sail'd from fair England,

Three moons her path have cheer'd;

And another stands right over her masts

Since the Cape hath disappear'd.

For an Indian Isle she shapes her way

With constant mind both night and day:

She seems to hold her home in view,

And sails, as if the path she knew;

So calm and stately is her motion

Across th' unfathom'd trackless ocean.

And well, glad Vessel! mayst thou stem

The tide with lofty breast,

And lift thy queen-like diadem

O'er these thy realms of rest:

For a thousand beings, now far away,

Behold thee in their sleep,

And hush their beating hearts to pray

That a calm may clothe the deep.

When dimly descending behind the sea

From the Mountain Isle of Liberty,

Oh! many a sigh pursued thy vanish'd sail;

And oft an eager crowd will stand

With straining gaze on the Indian strand,

Thy wonted gleam to hail.

For thou art laden with Beauty and Youth,

With Honour bold, and spotless Truth,

With fathers, who have left in a home of rest

Their infants smiling at the breast,

With children, who have bade their parents farewell,

Or who go to the land where their parents dwell.

God speed thy course, thou gleam of delight!

From rock and tempest clear;

Till signal gun from friendly height

Proclaim, with thundering cheer,

To joyful groupes on the harbour bright,

That the good ship Hope is near!

Is no one on the silent deck

Save the helmsman who sings for a breeze,

And the sailors who pace their midnight watch,

Still as the slumbering seas?

Yes! side by side, and hand in hand,

Close to the prow two figures stand,

Their shadows never stir,

And fondly as the Moon doth rest

Upon the Ocean's gentle breast,

So fond they look on her.

They gaze and gaze till the beauteous orb

Seems made for them alone:

They feel as if their home were Heaven,

And the earth a dream that hath flown.

Softly they lean on each other's breast,

In holy bliss reposing,

Like two fair clouds to the vernal air

In folds of beauty closing.

The tear down their glad faces rolls,

And a silent prayer is in their souls,

While the voice of awaken'd memory,

Like a low and plaintive melody,

Sings in their hearts—a mystic voice,

That bids them tremble and rejoice.

And Faith, who oft had lost her power

In the darkness of the midnight hour

When the planets had roll'd afar,

Now stirs in their soul with a joyful strife,

Embued with a genial spirit of life

By the Moon and the Morning-Star.

A lovelier vision in the moonlight stands,

Than Bard e'er woo'd in fairy lands,

Or Faith with tranced eye adored,

Floating around our dying Lord.

Her silent face is saintly-pale,

And sadness shades it like a veil:

A consecrated nun she seems,

Whose waking thoughts are deep as dreams,

And in her hush'd and dim abode

For ever dwell upon her God,

Though the still fount of tears and sighs

And human sensibilities!

Well may the Moon delight to shed

Her softest radiance round that head,

And mellow the cool ocean-air

That lifts by fits her sable hair.

These mild and melancholy eyes

Are dear unto the starry skies,

As the dim effusion of their rays

Blends with the glimmering light that plays

O'er the blue heavens, and snowy clouds,

The cloud-like sails, and radiant shrouds.

Fair creature! Thou dost seem to be

Some wandering spirit of the sea,

That dearly loves the gleam of sails,

And o'er them breathes propitious gales.

Hither thou comest, for one wild hour,

With him thy sinless paramour,

To gaze, while the wearied sailors sleep,

On this beautiful phantom of the deep,

That seem'd to rise with the rising Moon.

—But the Queen of Night will be sinking soon,

Then will you, like two breaking waves,

Sink softly to your coral caves,

Or, noiseless as the falling dew,

Melt into Heaven's delicious blue.

Nay! wrong her not, that Virgin bright!

Her face is bathed in lovelier light

Than ever flow'd from eyes

Of Ocean Nymph, or Sylph of Air!

The tearful gleam, that trembles there,

From human dreams must rise.

Let the Mermaid rest in her sparry cell,

Her sea-green ringlets braiding!

The Sylph in viewless ether dwell,

In clouds her beauty shading!

My soul devotes her music wild

To one who is an earthly child,

But who, wandering through the midnight hour,

Far from the shade of earthly bower,

Bestows a tenderer loveliness,

A deeper, holier quietness,

On the moonlight Heaven, and Ocean hoar,

So quiet and so fair before.

Yet why does a helpless maiden roam,

Mid stranger souls, and far from home,

Across the faithless deep?

Oh! fitter far that her gentle mind

In some sweet inland vale should find

An undisturbed sleep!

So was it once. Her childish years

Like clouds pass'd o'er her head,

When life is all one rosy smile, or tears

Of natural grief, forgotten soon as shed.

O'er her own mountains, like a bird

Glad wandering from its nest,

When the glossy hues of the sunny spring

Are dancing on its breast,

With a winged glide this maiden would rove,

An innocent phantom of beauty and love.

Far from the haunts of men she grew

By the side of a lonesome tower,

Like some solitary mountain-flower,

Whose veil of wiry dew

Is only touch'd by the gales that breathe

O'er the blossoms of the fragrant heath,

And in its silence melts away

With those sweet things too pure for earthly day.

Blest was the lore that Nature taught

The infant's happy mind,

Even when each light and happy thought

Pass'd onwards like the wind,

Nor longer seem'd to linger there

Than the whispering sound in her raven-hair.

Well was she known to each mountain-stream,

As its own voice, or the fond moon-beam

That o'er its music play'd:

The loneliest caves her footsteps heard,

In lake and tarn oft nightly stirr'd

The Maiden's ghost-like shade.

But she hath bidden a last farewell

To lake and mountain, stream and dell,

And fresh have blown the gales

For many a mournful night and day,

Wafting the tall Ship far away

From her dear native Wales.

And must these eyes—so soft and mild,

As angel's bright, as fairy's wild,

Swimming in lustrous dew,

Now sparkling lively, gay, and glad,

And now their spirit melting sad

In smiles of gentlest blue—

Oh! must these eyes be steep'd in tears,

Bedimm'd with dreams of future years,

Of what may yet betide

An Orphan-Maid!—for in the night

She oft hath started with affright,

To find herself a bride;

A bride oppress'd with fear and shame,

And bearing not Fitz-Owen's name.

This fearful dream oft haunts her bed.

For she hath heard of maidens sold,

In the innocence of thoughtless youth,

To Guilt and Age for gold;

Of English maids who pined away

Beyond the Eastern Main,

Who smiled, when first they trod that shore,

But never smiled again.

In dreams is she the wretched Maid,

An Orphan—helpless—sold—betray'd—

And, when the dream hath fled,

In waking thought she still retains

The memory of these wildering pains,

In strange mysterious dread.

Yet oft will happier dreams arise

Before her charmed view,

And the powerful beauty of the skies

Makes her believe them true.

For who, when nought is heard around,

But the great Ocean's solemn sound,

Feels not as if the Eternal God

Were speaking in that dread abode?

An answering voice seems kindly given

From the multitude of stars in Heaven:

And oft a smile of moonlight fair,

To perfect peace hath changed despair.

Low as we are, we blend our fate

With things so beautifully great,

And though opprest with heaviest grief,

From Nature's bliss we draw relief,

Assured that God's most gracious eye

Beholds us in our misery,

And sends mild sound and lovely sight,

To change that misery to delight.—

Such is thy faith, O sainted Maid!

Pensive and pale, but not afraid

Of Ocean or of Sky,

Though thou ne'er mayst see the land again,

And though awful be the lonely Main,

No fears hast thou to die.

Whate'er betide of weal or wo,

When the waves are asleep, or the tempests blow,

Thou wilt bear with calm devotion;

For duly every night and morn,

Sweeter than Mermaid's strains are borne

Thy hymns along the Ocean.

And who is He, that fondly presses

Close to his heart the silken tresses

That hide her soften'd eyes,

Whose heart her heaving bosom meets,

And through the midnight silence beats

To feel her rising sighs?

Worthy the Youth, I ween, to rest

On the fair swellings of her breast,

Worthy to hush her inmost fears,

And kiss away her struggling tears:

For never grovelling spirit stole

A woman's unpolluted soul!

To her the vestal fire is given;

And only fire drawn pure from Heaven

Can on Love's holy shrine descend,

And there in clouds of fragrance blend.

Well do I know that stately Youth!

The broad day-light of cloudless truth

Like a sun-beam bathes his face;

Though silent, still a gracious smile,

That rests upon his eyes the while,

Bestows a speaking grace.

That smile hath might of magic art,

To sway at will the stoniest heart,

As a ship obeys the gale;

And when his silver voice is heard;

The coldest blood is warmly stirr'd,

As at some glorious tale.

The loftiest spirit never saw

This Youth without a sudden awe;

But vain the transient feeling strove

Against the stealing power of love.

Soon as they felt the tremor cease,

He seem'd the very heart of peace.

Majestic to the bold and high,

Yet calm and beauteous to a woman's eye!

To him, a mountain Youth, was known

The wailing tempest's dreariest tone.

He knew the shriek of wizard caves,

And the trampling fierce of howling waves.

The mystic voice of the lonely night,

He had often drunk with a strange delight,

And look'd on the clouds as they roll'd on high,

Till with them he sail'd on the sailing sky.

And thus hath he learn'd to wake the lyre,

With something of a bardlike fire;

Can tell in high empassion'd song,

Of worlds that to the Bard belong,

And, till they feel his kindling breath,

To others still and dark as death.

Yet oft, I ween, in gentler mood

A human kindness hush'd his blood,

And sweetly blended earth-born sighs

With the Bard's romantic extacies.

The living world was dear to him,

And in his waking hours more bright it seem'd,

More touching far, than when his fancy dream'd

Of heavenly bowers, th' abode of Seraphim:

And gladly from her wild sojourn

Mid haunts dim-shadow'd in the realms of mind,

Even like a wearied dove that flies for rest

Back o'er long fields of air unto her nest,

His longing spirit homewards would return

To meet once more the smile of human kind.

And when at last a human soul he found,

Pure as the thought of purity—more mild

Than in its slumber seems a dreaming child;

When on his spirit stole the mystic sound,

The voice, whose music sad no mortal ear

But his can rightly understand and hear,

When a subduing smile like moonlight shone

On him for ever, and for him alone,

Why should he seek this lower world to leave!

For, whether now he love to joy or grieve,

A friend he hath for sorrow or delight,

Who lends fresh beauty to the morning light,

The tender stars in tenderer dimness shrouds,

And glorifies the Moon among her clouds.

How would he gaze with reverent eye

Upon that meek and pensive maid,

Then fix his looks upon the sky

With moving lips as if he pray'd!

Unto his sight bedimm'd with tears,

How beautiful the saint appears—

Oh! all unlike a creature form'd of clay,

The blessed angels with delight

Might hail her "Sister!" She is bright

And innocent as they.

Scarce dared he then that form to love!

A solemn impulse from above

All earthly hopes forbade,

And with a pure and holy flame,

As if in truth from Heaven she came,

He gazed upon the maid.

His beating heart, thus fill'd with awe,

In her the guardian spirit saw

Of all his future years;

And, when he listened to her breath

So spiritual, nor pain nor death

Seem'd longer worth his fears.

She loved him! She, the Child of Heaven!

And God would surely make

The soul to whom that love was given

More perfect for her sake.

Each look, each word, of one so good

Devoutly he obey'd,

And trusted that a gracious eye

Would ever guide his destiny,

For whom in holy solitude

So sweet an Angel pray'd.

Those days of tranquil joy are fled,

And tears of deep distress

From night to morn hath Mary shed:

And, say! when sorrow bow'd her head

Did he then love her less?

Ah no! more touching beauty rose

Through the dim paleness of her woes,

Than when her cheek did bloom

With joy's own lustre: something there,

A saint-like calm, a deep repose,

Made her look like a spirit fair

New risen from the tomb.

For ever in his heart shall dwell

The voice with which she said farewell

To the fading English shore;

It dropp'd like dew upon his ear,

And for the while he ceased to hear

The sea-wind's freshening roar.

"To thee I trust my sinless child:

"And therefore am I reconciled

"To bear my lonely lot,

"The Gracious One, who loves the good,

"For her will smooth the Ocean wild,

"Nor in her aged solitude

"A parent be forgot."

The last words these her Mother spake,

Sobbing as if her heart would break

Beside the cold sea-shore,

When onwards with the favouring gale,

Glad to be free, in pride of sail

Th' impatient Vessel bore.

Oh! could she now in magic glass

Behold the winged glory pass

With a slow and cloud-like motion,

While, as they melted on her eye,

She scarce should ken the peaceful sky

From the still more peaceful Ocean!

And it may be such dreams are given

In mercy by indulgent Heaven,

To solace them that mourn:

The absent bless our longing sight,

The future shows than truth more bright,

And phantoms of expir'd delight

Most passing sweet return.

Mother! behold thy Child: How still

Her upward face! She thinks on thee:

Oh, thou canst never gaze thy fill!

How beautiful such piety!

There in her lover's guardian arms

She rests: and all the wild alarms

Of waves or winds are hush'd, no more to rise.

Of thee, and thee alone, she thinks:

See! on her knees thy daughter sinks:

Sure God will bless the prayer that lights such eyes!

Didst thou e'er think thy child so fair?

The rapture of her granted prayer

Hath breathed that awful beauty through her face:

Once more upon the deck she stands,

Slowly unclasps her pious hands,

And brightening smiles, assured of heavenly grace.

Oh, blessed pair! and, while I gaze,

As beautiful as blest!

Emblem of all your future days

Seems now the Ocean's rest!

Beyond the blue depths of the sky,

The Tempests sleep;—and there must lie,

Like baleful spirits barr'd from realms of bliss.

But singing airs, and gleams of light,

And birds of calm, all-glancing bright,

Must hither in their gladness come.

—Where shall they find a fitter home

Than a night-scene fair as this?

And when, her fairy voyage past,

The happy Ship is moor'd at last

In the loved haven of her Indian Isle,

How dear to you will be the beams

Of the silent Moon! What touching dreams

Your musing hearts beguile!

Though haply then her radiance fall

On some low mansion's flowery wall,

Far up an inland vale,

Yet then the sheeted mast will tower,

Her shrouds all rustling like a shower,

And, melting as wild music's power,

Low pipe the sea-born gale.

Each star will speak the tenderest things,

And when the clouds expand their wings,

All parting like a fleet,

Your own beloved Ship, I ween,

Will foremost in the van be seen,

And, rising loud and sweet,

The sailor's joyful shouts be heard,

Such as the midnight silence stirr'd

When the wish'd-for breezes blew,

And, instant as the loud commands,

Sent upwards from a hundred hands

The broad sails rose unto the sky,

And from her slumbers suddenly

The Ship like lightning flew!

But list! a low and moaning sound

At distance heard, like a spirit's song,

And now it reigns above, around,

As if it call'd the Ship along.

The Moon is sunk; and a clouded grey

Declares that her course is run,

And like a God who brings the day,

Up mounts the glorious Sun.

Soon as his light has warm'd the seas,

From the parting cloud fresh blows the Breeze;

And that is the spirit whose well-known song

Makes the vessel to sail in joy along.

No fears hath she;—Her giant-form

O'er wrathful surge, through blackening storm,

Majestically calm, would go

Mid the deep darkness white as snow!

But gently now the small waves glide

Like playful lambs o'er a mountain's side.

So stately her bearing, so proud her array,

The Main she will traverse for ever and aye.

Many ports will exult at the gleam of her mast!

—Hush! hush! thou vain dreamer! this hour is her last.

Five hundred souls in one instant of dread

Are hurried o'er the deck;

And fast the miserable Ship

Becomes a lifeless wreck.

Her keel hath struck on a hidden rock,

Her planks are torn asunder,

And down come her masts with a reeling shock,

And a hideous crash like thunder.

Her sails are draggled in the brine

That gladdened late the skies,

And her pendant that kiss'd the fair moonshine

Down many a fathom lies.

Her beauteous sides, whose rainbow hues

Gleam'd softly from below,

And flung a warm and sunny flush

O'er the wreaths of murmuring snow,

To the coral rocks are hurrying down

To sleep amid colours as bright as their own.

Oh! many a dream was in the Ship

An hour before her death;

And sights of home with sighs disturb'd

The sleepers' long-drawn breath.

Instead of the murmur of the sea

The sailor heard the humming tree

Alive through all its leaves,

The hum of the spreading sycamore

That grows before his cottage-door,

And the swallow's song in the eaves.

His arms inclosed a blooming boy,

Who listen'd with tears of sorrow and joy

To the dangers his father had pass'd;

And his wife—by turns she wept and smiled,

As she look'd on the father of her child

Return'd to her heart at last.

—He wakes at the vessel's sudden roll,

And the rush of waters is in his soul.

Astounded the reeling deck he paces,

Mid hurrying forms and ghastly faces;—

The whole Ship's crew are there.

Wailings around and overhead,

Brave spirits stupefied or dead,

And madness and despair.

Leave not the wreck, thou cruel Boat,

While yet 'tis thine to save,

And angel-hands will bid thee float

Uninjured o'er the wave,

Though whirlpools yawn across thy way,

And storms, impatient for their prey,

Around thee fiercely rave!

Vain all the prayers of pleading eyes,

Of outcry loud, and humble sighs,

Hands clasp'd, or wildly toss'd on high

To bless or curse in agony!

Despair and resignation vain!

Away like a strong-wing'd bird she flies,

That heeds not human miseries,

And far off in the sunshine dies

Like a wave of the restless main.

Hush! hush! Ye wretches left behind!

Silence becomes the brave, resign'd

To unexpected doom.

How quiet the once noisy crowd!

The sails now serve them for a shroud,

And the sea-cave is their tomb.

And where is that loveliest Being gone?

Hope not that she is saved alone,

Immortal though such beauty seem'd to be.

She, and the Youth that loved her too,

Went down with the ship and her gallant crew—

No favourites hath the sea.

Now is the Ocean's bosom bare,

Unbroken as the floating air;

The Ship hath melted quite away,

Like a struggling dream at break of day.

No image meets my wandering eye

But the new-risen sun, and the sunny sky.

Though the night-shades are gone, yet a vapour dull

Bedims the waves so beautiful;

While a low and melancholy moan

Mourns for the glory that hath flown.

Oh! that the wild and wailing strain

Were a dream that murmurs in my brain!

What happiness would then be mine,

When my eyes, as they felt the morning shine,

Instead of the unfathom'd Ocean-grave

Should behold Winander's peaceful wave,

And the Isles that love her loving breast,

Each brooding like a Halcyon's nest.

It may not be:—too well I know

The real doom from fancied woe,

The black and dismal hue.

Yea, many a visage wan and pale

Will hang at midnight o'er my tale,

And weep that it is true.