Cupid And Psyche.
(The Spirit of the Tale)
For in the morning of our love, there came
The spirit singing such entrancing notes,
As sweeps the whole empyrian with a flame,
Wherein, a dream, pure lofty pleasure floats,
And love and beauty find their mellow throats,
In glorious fervor, drinking from the golden bowl,
The wine of joy that binds them soul to soul,
Thou art my muse and thine the phantasy
With spirit hand to guide unconsciously.
For all I bring thee, minion of thy beauty,
This little garland of a memory fruity—
A simple tale, as old as love is old,
Of virgin art within a golden mold,
Still burning, molten, shaping unto glory—
A matchless song and yet a simple story.
How mischief led a cold unwitting boy
Along new paths to taste a sudden joy;
How curious Love asport from flower to flower,
Hath found a sense too sweet to overpower,
And yet such magic sweet, that once is tasted,
A moment otherwheres were eons wasted;
How Cupid, wandering in a lovely valley
With arrowed bow, by many a maid must dally,
Till Psyche, like a prisms ingathered hues,
Into a sudden virgin light he woos.
Sweet Psyche princes in a golden land,
And Princess still from bounding strand to strand,
The fairest maid of any. Cupid heavenly born,
Fair son of Beauty's queen, whom to adorn.
Needs but to name, Great Venus Queen of Beauty—
Whom to adore was but a solemn duty.
This lad whom she hath dowered with all her charms,
A voice resistless and soft amorous arms,
And named him Love, now raptured, lies,
A simple lover in a woman's eyes.
A tale of heart and soul, and so of sorrow,
In afterwhiles when riches stoop to borrow—
A tale of being's subtlest jewelry
O'erlaying grief with golden filigree.
And I would soar on golden wings of song,
And in the souls empyrian float along,
From height to height of all the heart's dear chimes,
To bless thee for the love that thou hast brought,
With greater life. Let tender tinkling rhimes,
Like pure white doves, lead on the lovely thought.
I
Deep in a woody vale, where crystal streams
Run vaguely like the threads of vanished dreams;
Where fountains tinkle to the yellow sun
Sweet rainbow-tinted hopes, and lightly run,
In joyful race unto the distant ocean;
Where greeny swards are checked with light and shade,
To make a cool retreat for fine emotion;
And velvet lawns, than never weft was laid,
More intricate designed of pleasing hues,
So richly gem'd in Orient pearls of dews
Along quaint aisles in mosques of Samarkand,
To bear some solemn priest in deep devotion;
Where vague far vistas stretch on every hand.
To luring scenes; where happy shepherds amble,
With happy maids, as light as lambs agambol,
Or lie alone, with flocks abrowse by streams,
And rear quaint misty cities out of dreams,
Along far clouds of pearly shape and lining,
In crystal walls and domes of no defining,
And people them with shepherds, maids and gods
That live for love, until the shepherd nods,
And dreams of his own Phillis fairer far,—
Upon a hillock in a shady grove,
The heart of this fair scene, its central star,
And viewless as the stars of heaven are,
With too much light, stood once the house of love.
A mansion builded of the rarest stone,
Transparent, gem like, carved, and strangely wrought,
As some fine architecture in a dream is sought,
And gird with fancy's fairest flowers blown.
The house of love, and here of balmy days,
Its gentle spirits thrid in dreamy maze.
And here the days are always balmy, here
'Tis sweet to laugh, and sweet to drop a tear.
Its crystal halls in magic mirror walls,
Stand empty but for one, while myriad falls
Of lover's feet go tripping after her
Or him and wild faint odors sweetly stir
Through all the room from raptured lovers breathing,
While each a rosy crown for aye is wreathing.
This is the house of love, the golden key
Is faith, sweet faith in joy of living,
That doubts the mirror not, nor cares to see
What hidden scenes the glass is loth in giving.
II
Here long ago, so runs the gentle tale,
Sweet Psyche, wondrous fair and pearly pale,
Her young loves virgin brow all softly tinting,
With far faint hues of waking loves first hinting,
And all enraptured Cupid, arm in arm,
Secluded far from rude eyes loveless harm,
Have wiled through many a long and gracious hour,
Like fair twin bees within a fragrant flower.
Such love as they have sipt! Such silent bliss
Of raptured bosoms welded with a kiss!
Such kisses lavished rich and juicy ripe!
Such glorious songs as only lovers pipe!
From morn to morn, the lover's boundless season,
Unvext with chilly thought, or chilled with reason.
Ah! Love thou art a happy reckless boy,
To measure ages with a moments joy!
Adown the streams of golden waterfalls,
On hidden rocks the white faced Lurley calls.
Rash wilful Cupid recks without the cost—
If Venus favor not then all is lost.
Afar he flies unto her royal throne,
To claim the boon of joys that he would own,
And bring unto the mount his glorious bride,
Immortal thence forever by his side.
But Venus, queen of Beauty, waxes wrath,
To find new beauty cross her royal path.
And shall this son of all her royal favor,
Bind to a watery chit of mortal flavor?
Not so! A mother's newest plans are older,
Than any fancy scheme of youthful molder—
His fate is hers to mold! Then hie away
To sport, but think no more to disobey.
Old mother Locksmith! Venus is thy name!
Of myriad escapades, all back to thee the blame!
The angry queen hath ruled, and Love, achaffing
At wasted time, hies back to love alaughing.
And he hath sworn that she is fairer far
Than that proud goddess of the morning star,
Albeit queen of Beauty. Here, in mortal line,
Our tale should end beneath the smile parental,
In Iris tinted shower of peace divine,
And blessings less of use than ornamental.
III
But all the mount hath heard this reckless oath,
And all the mount aghast, if Venus wroth,
Be not the Venus terrible. Alas!
Such lovers make sad flowers in the grass.
And woful trees by many a dusky stream
Embar the fire of many a love's young dream.
And grizzly monsters moan in sunken path,
Some fiery love that stirred the gods to wrath.
But beauty's queen hath brooked no passing jest
To penetrate her deep heart's wild unrest.
But in the stilly quiet of her wrath,
Conceives dark pitfalls for the lover's path.
And she that once hath hied to amorous chase,
And grieved outstript in love's immortal race,
Now calls her white winged swans, on fleecy pinions,
To bear her down to earthly love's dominions,
For naught of love or sorrow. From a cave,
Whence flowed her double fountain bitter wave,
Two serpents, green and gray, and mottled golden,
Within her chariots hold hath she close folden;
Cirque-couchant, glittering, whispering sibilant
Deep curses old, they with their fury pant,
To strains the subtle bonds of jealous art,
And plant deep venomed fangs within her heart.
But now the feathry chariot glides along
The airy sea, among the sable throng
Of darkling hours, whose soundless feet are gliding
Unto the amorous dome of Love's abiding.
And they have halted, serpents, swans and queen
Within a grove that shields them with its screen
Of em'rald interlacing. There a little bloom
Of nameless hue, and forest wild perfume,
She plucks, and crusheth in a bowl of jade.
And with her breath a syrup weird hath made,
Whose faint escaping break along dim aisles,
Of forests, brooding mournful eld, beguiles,
Till such a wild heart rending moan hath risen,
As never rose within a tortured prison
To greet a ray of light. But heark'ning not,
She bends above her serpents, breathing hot
Upon their heads, een as they pause to strike,
This mystic lotion. Lo! what wonders like
Hath ever magic seer in lore beholden?—
Each serpent skin a woman's form enfolden,
That with that breath of drunken magic lotion
Hath sprung to being with an exquisite motion,
And such sweet words, as through a thousand years,
Have gathered music for a tale of tears.
But Lo! one groweth old, and very old,—
A toothless haggard hideous to behold.
And one hath grown a marvellous sun-bright creature,
Of luscious form and speechless worship's feature.
One stands like sunlight on a crested wave,
And one like murky darkness in a cave.
But each a low obedient knee hath bended,
To hear the queenly will thus long suspended.
And thus the queen, to her the radiant maiden:
"Thou bitter sweet, thou vessel overladen,
"In yonder dome a fairer maid than thou,
"Sees all her beauty in a lover's vow,
"Nor heeds the ripples on that mirror's sheen,
"From troubled depths of her fair self unseen.
"Go thou, and with thine ointed tongue reverse
"The mirror's face, and there thine own immerse;
"Remembering still, thou hast a serpent's tongue,
"That holds thee slave, till thou hast surely flung
"Its glittering barb into that silly heart."
Then, like an apparition of a dream,
The maid hath vanished, with a hellish gleam.
And thus the queen, unto that gruesome hag:
"In yonder dome a youth hath founden beauty
"Within a maid, and swears all foul and sooty,
"That is not there. Thou hast a serpent's eyes,
"And seeth so what dreary falsehood lies,
"In such a mirror. Go reverse the glass,
"And thine the beauty he has wasted on the lass,
"He hath not seen." The hory dame is gone.
And Venus left within the grove alone,
Recalls her swans and mounts the starry air.
Then she, the new born maid, as false as fair,
Hath found sweet Psyche in the crystal dome,
And creeping, like a mad thing to her soul,
In friendly guise, exacts a hideous toll
For all her blissful life: "How can she bind
"Her sunny soul to such a treacherous mind?
"And she hath wed a libertine, a rake,
"Whom even now her pleasures must forsake
"To drink new pleasures with another bride.
"And if she creeps in silence to his side
"Forsooth unwelcome sights might come unto her."
With such foul words the fiend began to woo her,
And in her pearly ear hath poured the breath,
Of hideous doubt that stabs her soul to death.
And then hath wandered with exultant heart,
Unto the vales of Crete, her glittering dart,
Of barbed tongue, a woman's sweetness singing,
And ever more hath myriad minions clinging,
Unto her heartless laughter. But no more
To grace our tale. And now the haggard hoar,
On Cupid's angry ears, with whisperings
Of faithless women, and the direful springs
Of wasted lives: "And she hath heard the wind
"Sing always, maids are false and men are blind,
"And in a cavern by the ocean side,
"'Tis daily jest of Wind and Sun and Tide,
"How Psyche tweaks the gentle Cupid's nose
"Between the beds; and Psyche false as fair,
"Needs but a whim to lay her treason bare.
"This very night, if he will but deny her,
"If nothing more, at least 'twere time to try her,
"For sooth unwelcome sights might come unto him."
With such foul words the witch began to woo him,
And in his angry ears hath poured the bane,
That sets his heart at riot in his brain.
IV
What wonder then if in the lonely night,
Sweet Psyche weeps to find her love is slighted;
Feels darkness fall upon her trembling light,
And throws to wind the vows her love has plighted!
And she hath risen from her loveless bed,
With all the stealth her grief supplies instead,
And steals to Cupid's fine unguarded room,
Where she must feast her heart on deeper gloom.
Here Cupid, airy souled, hath fall'n asleep,
Too filled of love such watch for long to keep,
And even now with her in blissful dreams,
He roams again, and all the future seems
As sweets of old. No little pains of doubt,
To mar recalling moments with their rout.
All through the halls, such joy of living blent
Her soul and his in single ravishment.
And Oh! they wander in the flow'ry vale,
All through the dewy morn and evening pale,
And each to drink the other's loveliness,
Despising richest nectar. Even the stress,
Of queenly anger now had bode its time,
And fresh Aurora speeding to this clime,
Hath Venus' royal word to grant his prayer,
That with the dawn to clasp his Psyche there,
In perfect love, with all the world their own.
Ah, promised day! his eager soul hath flown,
To meet the morning. On his lonely bed
Reclines his happy visionary head,
In such sweet dreams. An hour hath lightly flown
When o'er his senses steals a softened moan,
As when a soul all pent and warp'd in gloom,
Hath breathed soul deep, some sudden wild perfume,
That is of freedom. Awaked to such surprise,
He sees with heart aghast the famished eyes,
Of Psyche filling to their very brim
With his forbidden beauty, sees for him,
The golden future vanish, sees aghast
For now he knows his lovely dream hath passed;
That soulless doubt hath razed the golden dome
Of his high hopes to desert sandy loam.
The structured palace falls with all its art,
To grieve a valley with an aching heart.
From out a darkened corner of the ruin rises,
And laughs to view the dismal crisis,
That baneful hag. But Ah! what beauty fairer!
What luscious form arrayed in raiment rarer!
And she hath flown to vales of Thessaly,
Where ever more her mocking eyes shall see,
A myriad eyes upon her beauty glisten,
A myriad ears unto her rumor listen.
And Cupid flees in sudden wild despair.
To drown his soul within the bitter fountain,
Nor Venus now may crown his heart laid bare,
Nor any luscious goddess of the mountain.
V
But Psyche wanders, like a saddened rill,
Thrust from a jewelled grotto in the hill,
To perish in a lonely sandy waste,
And all forlorn, with steps that can not haste,
For such absorbing grief, she chides his heart
That was a glittering palace, now a part
Of ruined things. She writes within the sand
Some resolution high her grievous heart hath planned—
A sign to mark the spot, some time, some how,
A charm to lead her back again. And now
A little shrine within a lonely place,
Which flow'ry vines with subtle interlace,
Hath reared to Demeter, her wearied feet
Have found. And all her soul hath flown to meet
Her prayer's happiness. It is a bowl,
Of crystal dew, where nature paints her soul.
And Psyche now, a gentle worshipper,
Hath bent sad prayerful knees, and pearly ear,
Low for the golden oracle. Sad eyes,
In tangled braid of smiles and tears surprise
The crystal truth. Lo! she hath seen. And death
Seems struggling for her weary, panting breath!
What horrid charm of Circe's baneful art!
It is a serpent's head, green eyed and swart,
With lightning flashes of a forked tongue,
And glittering treachery on its forehead hung.
Oh! for a generous draft of that sweet moly,
To bring dear Psyche back as pure and holy,
As when a maiden in her jewel palace,
She kissed, for love, her nectar's brimming chalice,
That held serene a limned picture there,
Of wealth of beauty framed in golden hair.
But nature's shrine guides not the errant feet
Of little faith. And sudden prayers all unmeet
For crippled love. Ah! where the happy shrine
Of boundless heart, and still a tongue divine,
In lover's oracles? With holy words
Of sweet ablution when the night engirds
Each little tear? When never a smile but darkens
Its firefly gloom? When never an ear that hearkens.
But dulls a moan? And never a scene outspread
In mirror drops, but darts a serpent's head?
Such bitter moan she made, such bitter moan
No grieving Pan on bursting reeds alone,
In madness ever made to startled streams.
No nightingale her saddest tongueless dreams,
Hath sobbed to beauty on a hidden thorn,
To swoon in over-music at the morn.
But soul is exquisite, the flowers essence,
That through its bruises breathes quintessence.
And all the suffering of the dateless world,
Its rarest, gladdest petals hold enfurled.
This is the soul. Yet all its world a thought
Of smiling strands and sunlit oceans, fraught
With homing argosies. And waneless suns
Shine on its passing gonfalons.
What e'er the mask, its keener eyes see through it.
What e'er the ban its laughter will undo it.
What e'er the time, its fleeting thought will span it.
What e'er the deed its ancient hour began it.
And bruised, unfurl the leaf, the bruise is gone,
Yet heal the wound, the essence breathe right on.
This is the soul. But Psyche grieves an hour
Till every petal in the spirit's flower
Is bruised by so much time, and wand'ring far,
She yet hath wandered farther, like a star
Of aimless race, in melancholy deeps.
Her bittered feet have struggled on the steeps.
Her moaning soul hath crossed the stygian river.
And she hath read the runes of never, never,
In wailing spirits of the sunless moors,
And piteous quagmires seeking piteous shores.
And she, whose mirror was a drop of dew,
When golden fancy played upon her ear,
Now shrieks where horror strikes her spirit through,
Within the gloomy region of a tear.
VI
But one that she hath met within the gloom,
Some shadow wearied from the lake of doom,
Whom she remembers for her ancient self,
Hath led her from the low and crumbling shelf,
That hangs upon oblivion; bound her tresses,
About her brow with old times fond caresses.
And to the weeping shade of beauty's fall,
Presents a little curious lachrimal,
Which she hath wrought with many quaint enlaying
Of happy times and tears. Presents it, saying,
"This is thy beauty bear it to thy love
"And ask no more. Quick to the light above,
"Thy wings must bear this precious charm away,
"Nor pause till thou deliverest it. The day
"Must wane not on thy loveless spirit lorn,
"So long." Then swifter than the dainty morn
She flies unto her love, and all agleam
Her beating fancy lives her future dream.
How fair! How fair! But even as she flies,
The curious urn must tempt her famished eyes,
And she hath paused. Ah! woe betide the lover,
That halts to dream, and tempt the soul to steep
In th' unrevealed. What lethe fumes discover
In such unfathomed deeps, of death or sleep!
VII
As if a pearl had golden wings and far
Had flown to purple lurings of a star,
From out her jewelled grotto still to seem,
The gladdest spirit of a precious dream,
And fluttering over misty mantled hills,
Hath fallen wearied, where her beauty fills,
Some fair recess within a mossy dingle,
For such a rest, and lieth all amingle
With gladdest flowers that ever quivered through
To kiss so sweet and strange a drop of dew—
A bit of beauty ravishing the brain,
'Till unremembered dream touch back again
And sketch sweet rainbows on the raptured soul,
Thus gaining e'en her spirits golden goal
Hath Psyche, curious Psyche fallen asleep.
Her jewelled urn, in bedded mosses deep,
Hath fall'n aside and lieth like a gem,
Of goddess lost from starry anadem.
And here the sun in drinking up the dew,
Hath paused to find an ancient thirst renew,
And, raptured connoisseur of dewy gems,
Would woo the nymph the stony silence hems.
But on her pearly cheek his amorous kisses,
Fall deadly cold. And all is warm caresses,
Unheeded. Lo! His godly art of change,
He fain work. And make some rare and strange
Addition to the old immortal throng:
Behold! Within the raptured skies of song,
Another music like the morning star!
Poor gentle Echo wandering far
Here finds her dear Narcissus kissing lips,
As sweet as hers. But while the honey drips
Of saddest love he poureth in those ears,
Meander's flowery vale a happy whisper hears:
"Narcissus, dear Narcissus now is free,
"Ah! sweet to sing, e'en though his eyes but see,
"This new divine." And pausing on her wings,
Her heart is free with old remembered things.
Poor wronged Arachne spins, a golden thread,
From oak to oak, and hoping wild has fled,
Along such path with such a beating heart,
To catch some dream that hedged her olden art.
It was not meet, in such an artist soul,
Should lurk a spider's venom, nor the whole
Of godly anger lessens this a bit.
And sad Arachne on her beam aflit,
Within a shower of hopes her soul doth steep,
To weave ah! thus to weave a soul asleep!
And Zephyr gathering anemones,
Among the flower beds her dear form sees,
Whom he of late in scented scarf hath borne,
With such fond care, and over seas of corn,
Of emerald depth far stretched in dreamy waves,
To flowery strands, where happy Flora laves
On April morns, he calls his love to view
This pearly fancy sleeping in the dew.
Sweet Flora goddess of the scented hours
Hath woven a dainty wreath of April flowers—
The tend'rest bloom she gathers for the scent
In maiden April's lap of wonderment—
A little wreath round head and feet and wing,
For Love-at-ease to call a fairy ring,
Where those enamored blooms must dance
For breezy joy about a soul in trance.
VIII
Now wing'd Apollo, fing'ring golden strings,
Hath wandered far in his dear ponderings,
And fashioned such a music, wild and free,
As wakes to love the cold anemone,
And saddened Hyacinth forgets to moan,
Beside a sweetness sadder than his own—A
sweeter strain than Orpheus honeyed breath,
Had sung to charm the stygian tides of death.
And Iris on a heavenly message sent,
Hath paused to hear this new forlorn lament.
This tender goddess of all daintiness,
Stands tiptoe holding up her showery dress,
'Tween dainty fingers, till the spangled folds
Of mingled hues, in wondrous bow she holds,
And leans to learn what wondrous thing of beauty,
Must prompt so sweet a lay. Forgotten duty,
That bade her speed to regions somnolent,
For balmy dreams, to nurse a languishment,
That pales the boyish cheek of dimpled Cupid,
She speeds where all of beauty's minions groupéd,
Do feast their eyes upon the source of song.
And after her still comes a charmed throng,
From music's toils the slaves of loveliness.
Ah! when this radiant scene her eye doth bless
What sighs are born of deep enraptured joy!
And Iris now recalls the languid boy;
For this is Psyche! This the dainty nymph,
Whose love hath paled his cheek to dewy lymph!
And all aflame to do a happy thing,
She bounds away upon her swiftest wing,
To Somnus' gloomy cavern. Scarce a thought,
Might mark the time in which her pinions brought,
Her to the drowsy rug of poppies spread,
Where drowsy Somnus nods his hoary head.
His myriad minions, like the forest leaves,
When some wild gust their autumn rest upheaves,
Rush to her overwhelming. Lethe fumes,
Of sweet seduction, oozing from the glooms,
That shield the murky river, drag to aching
Her wearied eyes, and e'en her sense forsaking,
She fain would rest upon the poppied rug,
Like some pale Orient deep within a drug.
But beauty is the dream of godly sleep,
And scare her eyes have fluttered, when a peep
Of golden fragments tantalize their sense
To waking; thus to try, with soul intense,
To reconstruct some evanescent gleam
Of something they remember. Ah! what dream
So fair as Psyche sleeping in a fairy ring?
So fair as languid love's sad wandering
To grief or joy along a feverish beam?
She wakes the drowsy god, demands a dream:
And quits the sunless cave with winged Morpheus.
And now again the amorous sire of Orpheus,
They meet, and now the sad immortal strain,
Shall lure them on to Psyche's dell again.
What though the Thracian queen may bide but ill,
Miscarrying chance with her imperial will?—
Sweet Iris hath a gentler thought. She brings,
The dream to see those luminous sleeping wings,
All pied and crested like a tiger moth,
When from a soothing beam his heart is loth,
To part, and basks for very idleness;
Those tiny feet where they so lightly press
As not to weight a daisy to the earth;
Turned dimple breasts, such beauty of one birth
As Nature yields no more; one small hand prest
Against them coldly white, and one carest
By raptured blooms, outstretched upon the grasses;
And oh! her head! what glory there surpasses,
Of golden ringlets curling and uncurling
As gentle Zephyr with a silent purling,
Plays free among them,—scarcely parted lips,
So flower like, a wild bee drops and sips,
So sweet he flies away full honey laden,
Unconscious of his lightness. Such a maiden
That Morpheus eld historian of th' ideal
Must write another canto. Softly steal,
The fine emotions o'er his countenance,
As though a prism's unveiléd hues should dance,
Upon a shy chamelion. Seeing this,
The happy Iris mounts upon his bliss,
With soothing words; "Thou seest the butterfly,
"Whose flooding beam hath drown'd dear Cupid's eye.
"The queen demands thou bring him fairest pleasure,
"Of all the joys thou holdest in thy measure.
"Sweet Psyche's story, whispered by the wind,
"In every dewy flower cup thou'lt find,
"As deeply mirrored as the starry skies.
"Fly to the fretting boy with dear surprise
"Of all thy cunning. Kiss his fevered lips,
"As Psyche then, when doubting falls and slips,
"Still left unmarred their blissful stream of life.
"Sweet whisper tales of life and love arife,
"To guide his swooning fancy from its pain,
"To revel in the life of love again."
The Dream hath kindled to a gorgeous hue,
Out speaking words, and in a drop of dew
Hath read sweet Psyche's tearful story.
And Lo! the boy beholds a growing glory
Of something rich and old; and feels the sense
Of olden kisses planted quick, intense,
And warm caresses softly lingering
To lose no dear sensation. Blushes bring,
In quick succession, while his chin atilt,
'Tween tender fingers, meets a raptured lilt,
Of love for love, as lovers only know.
And he hath seen the bitter path of woe,
Each ragged rock her feet have limp'd upon;
Each hopeless deep, and heard each bitter moan.
And he hath seen her loving spirit burn,
To ope for him the glory of the urn;
Such glory as her joyful eyes have drunken,
Till drugg'd with their own beauty, they have sunken
Unto a dreamless swoon, where ringed thime
Hath framed an art, to rare to draw in rhime.
Then hath he risen from his joyless bed,
Thrown off his garb of woe, and swiftly sped,
Adown the olden path. And like a thought
His heart hath brought him to this valley fraught
With his rich treasure, all his soul asinging
To name the bubbling hope that he is bringing.
And softly as a warming shadow falls
On flowery paths along the sunny halls,
His gentle words caress her sleeping ear,
With all the magic love that she hath long'd to hear.
A blossom opening to the morning sun,
With white cold cheeks the dew hath dreamed upon,
Hath never opened sweeter eyes than hers.
Such sudden pulsing breast! such light that stirs
Such eyes unmeasured deep! as closely folded
In strong white arms her being is remolded,
And Lo! he leads her scarce a thought beyond,
And there where she hath written in the sand,
As though a wizzard waves a magic wand,
The palace rises, new and passing grand.
pp. 7-24
Ode to A Rural Scene.
Oh! Soul of balsam calm, sweet rural scene!
Thy spirit hand hath led me back again,
By pebbly paths, to mossy couches green,
And where the glowworm and the moth have lain,
To lie and dream!
Or on some warm and soothing rock,
Supine, to watch the white clouds flee and flock,
On everchanging wings,
Of childhood's sweet imaginings.
Or seeking out some shadowy stream,
Where playful fishes flash and gleam, and vanish,
A wild thing too, dull leaden footed care to banish,
How I would seem!
Along the smoky autumn afternoon,
Where fall the brown leaves, wandring aimlessly,
What song of forest pine, what wild bird's tune,
Hath waked me not to life, but still to be
A spirit wild!
To cut me from the hickory bough,
A whistle piping music sweet enow,
And on the swinging vine,
As free as Bacchus, munch the wine,
From purple festoons undefiled;
Or with the wild winds sport from hill to hill,
As happy as the dewy balm they drink and spill,—
Their nameless child.
Or where the rain falls, patt'ring in the dust,
Of winding lanes, to seek no shelt'ring place,
But bare the soul to greet the coolly gust,
And laugh to feel the cold rain in the face.
What joys are mine,
Of haunted nook, and hidden dingle,
Where life and dimpling mirth, may meet and mingle,
And clear melodious plot,
To pipe sweet ditties of their lot,
Till the sad soul that did repine,
Shall wake to consciousness as sweet and wild,
As some lone promise-mother's dreaming of her child,
And as divine!
Along these paths what amorous gods have pass'd!
What wood nymphs vanished down these shadowy lanes!
What happy olden memories here may last
Of shepherd lassies and great amorous swains,
In jocund dance;
Or fairy Mab, the merry queen,
Hath led her pageantry upon the green,
In delicate rigadoon,
Along the midnight's charmed noon!
But not of these my soul's entrance,
If now the mock bird, warbling wildwood notes,
In rich liquidity of myriad tuneful throats,
Tells his romance.
Or if the red bird preen his richest plume
Upon the dogwood bough; or crested jay,
Hid in some leafy oak's sequestered gloom,
Shall fret and chatter all the live long day.
Perchance to hear
Some music, fainter than a dream,
Range on its pinions till the soul must deem
That it is there and know
It hath been ever singing so.
And thus to grow as fine and clear—
Like wild-wood sound to come, to dream, to die,—
And only pray nought else to charm the spirit's eye,
The spirit's ear.
pp. 27-29
The Mystery.
The gos'mer web that mistifies,
Lies not on any whole or part,
Or stop or start, but in the art,
Men hang upon their eyes.
And haply in an age afar,
Two men may see the self-same mote—
The selfsame beam, with motes afloat,
And learn what souls and systems are.
p. 48
~ Niendorff, John, Divine Adventures: A Book of Verse, published in 1907.
