Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 5 November 1848. VariousЧитать онлайн книгу.

      The watcher on the deep —

      Though weary be his eye —

      Forgets even drowsy sleep,

      When thou art in the sky!

      For with thine image on the silvery sea

      A thousand forms of memory

      Whirl in a mazy dance;

      And when he upward looks to thee,

      In thy far-reaching glance

      There is a sacred bond of sympathy

      'Twixt sea and land;

      For on his native strand

      That glance awakens kindred souls

      To kindred thought,

      And though the deep between them rolls,

      Hearts are together brought;

      While tears that fall from eyes at home,

      And those that wet the sailor's cheek,

      From the same sacred fountains come —

      The same emotion speak.

      The watcher on the land —

      Who holds the burning hand

      Of one whom scorching fever wastes —

      Beholds thee, orient moon!

      With reddened face, expanded in the east,

      Till Superstition chills his breast,

      While tremulous he hastes

      To draw the curtains as thou journeyest on:

      But when the far-spent night

      Is streaked with dawning light,

      Again, to look on thee,

      He lifts the drapery,

      And hope divine now triumphs over fear,

      As in the zenith far

      A pale, small orb thou dost appear,

      While eastward rises morn's resplendent star!

      And Fancy sees the passing soul ascend

      Where thy mild glories with the azure blend.

      Even on the face of Death thou lookest calm,

      Fair Dian! as when watchful thou didst keep

      Love's holy vigils o'er Endymion's sleep,

      Drinking the breath of youth's perpetual balm.

      Thy beams are kissing now

      The icy brow

      Of many a youth in slumber deep,

      Who cannot yield to thee

      The incense of Love's perfumed breath,

      For no response gives Death!

      Ah, 'tis a fearful sight to see

      Thy lustre on a human face

      Where the Promethean spark has left no trace,

      As if it shone upon

      The marble cold,

      Of that famed ruin old —

      The grand, but empty Parthenon!

      Dian, enchantress of all hearts!

      While mine in song now worships thee,

      From thy far-shooting bow the silver darts

      Fall thick and fast on me:

      Oh, beautiful in light and shade,

      By thee is this fair landscape made!

      Gems sparkle on the river's breast —

      Now covered by an icy vest —

      Upon the frozen hills

      A regal glory shines!

      And all the scene, as Fancy wills,

      Shifts into new designs.

      Yet night is still as Death's unbroken realms,

      And solemnly thy light, wan orb, is cast

      Through the arched branches of these reverend elms,

      As though it through the Gothic windows passed

      Of some old abbey or cathedral vast.

      In awe my spirit kneels —

      And seems before a hallowed shrine;

      Yet not the majesty of Art it feels,

      But Nature's law divine —

      The presence of her mighty Architect!

      Who piled these pyramidal hills sublime,

      That still, pure moon, thy radiance will reflect,

      And still defy the crumbling touch of Time:

      Who built this temple of gigantic trees,

      Where Nature's worshipers repair

      To pray the heart's unuttered prayer,

      Whose veiled thought the great Omniscient sees.

      Oh, I could wonder, and adore

      Religious Night! and thee, her queen!

      Till golden Phœbus should restore

      His splendor to the scene!

      But the same natural laws control

      Thy motions and the poet's will;

      So, that while tireless roves the soul,

      This actual life must weary still.

      And oh, inspirer of my song!

      While close these eyes upon thy beams,

      Watching, amid thy starry throng,

      Be thou the goddess of my dreams.

      Ring out, ring out, thy clear sweet note!

      Art longing to be free —

      To break thy bars and heavenward float?

      My bird, this may not be.

      Thou ne'er hast known another home

      Than in that cage of thine,

      And shouldst thou from its shelter roam,

      Where meet a love like mine?

      When the gay wealth of leaves and flowers

      Wreathes every fragrant bough,

      And hides thee all the summer hours

      From noontide's sultry glow —

      And when the limpid grass-fringed brook

      Reflects thy yellow wing,

      And thou may'st seek each quiet nook

      Where sweets are blossoming —

      And warble there the cheerful song

      That oft has charmed mine ear,

      Thou might'st, those leafy shades among,

      Be happier far than here.

      But when sad Autumn sheds abroad

      The stillness of decay,

      And leaves beneath the feet are trod

      Where young winds love to play —

      When icy chains the streams have bound,

      Gems hang from every tree,

      And