Growing in green luxuriance. Vineyards yield
Their purpling drink up to the thirsty day,
And a tall wood flings forth its olive shield
Where curious forms of limpid currents stray.
O'er grassy pinnacles a pine-tree soared
Sun-bronzed, like Triumph on a pedestal ;
And groves of ever-ripened fruits afford
Delicious rest and banqueting, and all
That Nature's holiest hand refineth unadorned.
And all the living verdure grows so well,
No soft small worm hath life amid its roots;
And through the air no sound unechoed shoots,
And not a leaf but whose light curl can tell
Of waters playing on their coral flutes;
No sigh or sorrow, or heart-heard farewell,
Or sharper wail when worldly promise fell-
Leaving the heart to break or find its fruits
Black with a deadly bloom-to feel its fame
But folly, disappointment, and dumb shame.
Here nothing lived that owned an earthly law :
Sincerity and Fearlessness were by;
And each seemed kindred to the scenes it saw
Break on its separate nature, from an eye
Which guiltless oped at morn and closed as merrily.
The air not damp and dark with human ills
Was as a heavenly breath, serene, endued
With warmer life and truer principles;
With woman's faith not man's ingratitude.
Nature, amid the rich romantic scene,
Assumed the likeness of a fairy queen,
Marking with sunny wand her pleasant circles green.
Here among scenes which the pale tempest pities, Sighing along the desert and the waves;
Here unprofaned beneath the breath of cities,
Nor humbled by the height of painted domes
(Fit pride for kings and wonder of rude slaves),
These two united were. Upon the earth,
Heaven's altar first, they knelt and saw their homes,
Formed for all times, for mournfulness and mirth.
O'er chains like theirs but transient torture plays,
Whose links are forged from over-pliant rays.
Round the fair world they looked and saw no error;
All there was hope not precipiced by terror,
But laughing like an infant through a dream
Which ne'er might waken to a sadder theme.
Their creed is written on each other's heart,
And sealed with truth that no false hand can part.
-And o'er them flies the day, but leaves behind
A track where the moon glides, with stars strewn o'er,
Like jewels in the night sea; and they find
A bird is lingering by, unseen before,
With crest of crimson, lightening more and more
As the sun droppeth on his drowsy shore.
And as a seraph-guide its wings did show
The path from that proud place, and did illume
With darting lights, and filled with rare perfume,
The herbage and the air; that held no foe
To the sweet rites which none beside may know.
And now the bird hath severed the grey gloom,
A winged devotee of love; and under
A palm-tree's ceiling shows a shrine of wonder,
Surrounded with sweet flowers-some hung like bells
And breathed upon, as a faint ringing tells;
And some when evening closed them shut within
The beam which they had loved; and these shed round
That mystic couch the light which they did win.
Each thing displayed a beauty so profound
That heaven's pure eyes look down and see no sin;
And the presiding moon hears not a sound
In her fine hall more happy than the sighs,
That break from the bride's bosom to apprize
Her poet lord, as falls the last disguise
From her full wish; and on the threshold fair
Of that safe structure, a scarce murmured air
Invites her further. They have entered there.
WHAT is it but the living voice
Heard in the earth and air,
Bidding a blade of grass rejoice
That man may not despair!
What is it but the air of heaven
Along an earthly lyre,
Whence drops the snow that death has driven
To quench its chords of fire!
Its music mingles with the singing
With which the seas and shores are ringing,
When nothing folds the mystic sense
And all is naked and intense.
It is the voice of wondrous things,
Covered and crowned with magical wings,
Whose rustling as they stir on high,
Wakes in the heart of heaven a spell of Poesy.
The moon is a harp on yon hall,
Whence beams and strange harmonies fall;
Its flashing o'er myriads flew,
But its voice was bestowed but for a few.
It burns in the delicate air,
But hark! are its melodies there?
The light may be seen on the main,
But the sound must be sought in the brain.
And stars are voiced with pleasant songs,
Whose sweetness to the night belongs;
Notes that sail along the sea-
You wonder how such notes could be,
Weeping for them as they flee
Through the wave mysteriously.
Measures made to steal and tinkle
Through the crystal veins of light;
Poet spirits born to twinkle
On the breast of Night.
Many eyes behold them glisten
Rich the ear that stays to listen.
Each form of thin and pallid mist
That passes and melts by the starlight kissed,
The natural smoke from the morning's lamp,
Hath a sound as it walks, though you hear no tramp;
And from the sounds of fairy wreathing
Comes a meek and mournful breathing—
Murmured passion, sad and holy—
All that's sweet and melancholy.
Clouds that looks like swans, and steer
O'er the sky calm and clear,
Keep like them their treasured tune
From the hot and gaudy noon,
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