Isa. A subtle sprite: and, now I think of it, Dost thou remember the old story told
By Diaz Ortis, the lame mariner,
Of an adventure in the Indian Seas,
Where he made one with John of Portugal, Touching a woman of the ocean wave,
That swam beside the barque, and sang strange songs Of riches in the waters; with a speech So winning on the senses, that the crew Grew all infected with the melody;
And, but for a good father of the church,
Who made the sign of the cross, and offer'd up Befitting pray'rs, which drove the fiend away, They had been tempted by her cunning voice To leap into the ocean.
And, at the time, I do remember me,
I made much mirth of the extravagant tale, As a deceit of the reason: the old man Being in his second childhood, and at fits Wild, as you know, on other themes than this.
Isa. I never more shall mock at marvellous things, Such strange conceits hath after-time found true, That once were themes for jest. I shall not smile At the most monstrous legend.
To any tale of mighty wonderment
I shall bestow my ear, nor wonder more; And every fancy that my childhood bred, In vagrant dreams of frolic, I shall look To have, without rebuke, my sense approve. Thus, like a little island in the sea, Girt in by perilous waters, and unknown To all adventure, may be yon same cloud, Specking, with fleecy bosom, the blue sky, Lit by the rising moon. There we may dream, And find no censure in an after day- Throng the assembled fairies, perch'd on beams, And riding on their way triumphantly.
There gather the coy spirits. Many a fay, Roving the silver sands of that same isle, Floating in azure ether, plumes her wing Of ever-frolicsome fancy, and pursues— While myriads, like herself, do watch the chase- Some truant sylph, through the infinitude Of their uncircumscribed and rich domain. There sport they through the night, with mimicry Of strife and battle; striking their tiny shields And gathering into combat; meeting fierce, With lip compress'd and spear aloft, and eye Glaring with fight and desperate circumstance; Then sudden-in a moment all their wrath, Mellow'd to friendly terms of courtesy- Throwing aside the dread array, and linked, Each, in his foe's embrace. Then comes the dance, The grateful route, the wild and musical pomp, The long procession o'er fantastic realms
Of cloud and moonbeam, through th' enamoured Making it all one revel. Thus the eye, Breathed on by fancy, with enlarged scope, Through the protracted and deep hush of night May note the fairies, coursing the lazy hours In various changes and without fatigue. A fickle race, who tell their time by flow'rs, And live on zephyrs, and have stars for lamps, And night-dews for ambrosia; perch'd on beams, Speeding through space, even with the scattering On which they feed and frolic.
And yet, since this same tale we laughed at once, The story of old Ortis, is made sooth— Perchance not all a dream. I will not doubt. Leon. And yet there may be, dress'd in subtle guise Of unsuspected art, some gay deceit
Of human conjuration mix'd with this. Some cunning seaman having natural skill- As, from the books, we learn may yet be done― Hath 'yond our vessel's figure pitched his voice, Leading us wantonly.
Or does my sense deceive? Look there: the wave A perch beyond our barque. What dost thou see?
Leon. A marvellous shape, that with the billow In gambols of the deep, and yet is not
Its wonted burden; for beneath the waves
I mark a gracious form, though nothing clear Of visage I discern. Again it speaks.
THE EDGE OF THE SWAMP.
'Tis a wild spot and hath a gloomy look; The bird sings never merrily in the trees,
And the young leaves seem blighted. A rank growth Spreads poisonously round, with pow'r to taint, With blistering dews, the thoughtless hand that dares To penetrate the covert. Cypresses
Crowd on the dank, wet earth; and, stretched at length,
The cayman-a fit dweller in such home- Slumbers, half buried in the sedgy grass, Beside the green ooze where he shelters him. A whooping crane erects his skeleton form,
And shrieks in flight. Two summer ducks, aroused To apprehension as they hear his cry,
Dash up from the lagoon with marvellous, haste, Following his guidance. Meetly taught by these, And startled at our rapid, near approach,
The steel-jawed monster, from his grassy bed, Crawls slowly to his slimy, green abode, Which straight receives him. You behold him now, His ridgy back uprising as he speeds
In silence to the centre of the stream,
Whence his head peers alone. A butterfly, That, travelling all the day, has counted climes Only by flowers, to rest himself a while, Lights on the monster's brow. The surly mute Straightway goes down, so suddenly, that he, K
The dandy of the summer flow'rs and woods, Dips his light wings and spoils his golden coat With the rank water of that turbid pond. Wondering and vex'd, the pluméd citizen Flies, with an hurried effort, to the shore, Seeking his kindred flow'rs; but seeks in vain : Nothing of genial growth may there be seen, Nothing of beautiful! Wild, ragged trees, That look like felon spectres-fetid shrubs, That taint the gloomy atmosphere-dusk shades, That gather, half a cloud and half a fiend In aspect, lurking on the swamp's wild edge— Gloom with their sternness and forbidding frowns The general prospect. The sad butterfly, Waving his lacker'd wings, darts quickly on, And, by his free flight, counsels us to speed For better lodgings, and a scene more sweet Than these drear borders offer us to-night.
TO AN INFANT SLEEPING IN A GARDEN.
SLEEP on, sweet babe! the flowers that wake Around thee are not half so fair; Thy dimpling smiles unconscious break, Like sunlight on the vernal air.
Sleep on! no dreams of care are thine, No anxious thoughts that may not rest; For angel arms around thee twine, To make thy infant slumbers bless'd.
Perchance her spirit hovers near, Whose name thy infant beauty bears, To guard thine eyelids from the tear That every child of sorrow shares.
Oh! may thy life like hers endure, Unsullied to its spotless close;
And bend to earth as calm and pure As ever bowed the summer rose.
SUNRISE FROM MOUNT WASHINGTON.
THE laughing hours have chased away the night, Plucking the stars out from her diadem:
And now the blue-eyed Morn, with modest grace, Looks through her half-drawn curtains in the east, Blushing in smiles and glad as infancy.
And see, the foolish Moon, but now so vain Of borrowed beauty, how she yields her charms, And, pale with envy, steals herself away! The clouds have put their gorgeous livery on, Attendant on the day: the mountain tops Have lit their beacons, and the vales below Send up a welcoming: no song of birds, Warbling to charm the air with melody, Floats on the frosty breeze; yet Nature hath The very soul of music in her looks! The sunshine and the shade of poetry.
I stand upon thy lofty pinnacle, Temple of Nature! and look down with awe On the wide world beneath me, dimly seen; Around me crowd the giant sons of earth, Fixed on their old foundations, unsubdued; Firm as when first rebellion bade them rise Unrifted to the Thunderer: now they seem A family of mountains, clustering round Their hoary patriarch, emulously watching To meet the partial glances of the day. Far in the glowing east the flickering light, Mellow'd by distance, with the blue sky blending, Questions the eye with ever-varying forms,
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