In spring of youth it was my lot To haunt of the wide world a spot The which I could not love the less-- So lovely was the loneliness Of a wild lake, with black rock bound, And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall Upon that spot, as upon all, And the mystic wind went by Murmuring in melody-- Then--ah then I would awake To the terror of the lone lake Yet that terror was not fright, But a tremulous delight-- A feeling not the jewelled mine Could teach or bribe me to define-- Nor Love--although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave, And in its gulf a fitting grave For him who thence could solace bring To his lone imagining-- Whose solitary sole could make An Eden of that dim lake.
The happiest day--the happiest hour My sear'd and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown.
Of power! said I? yes! such I ween; But they have vanish'd long, alas! The visions of my youth have been-- But let them pass.
And, pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may even inherit The venom thou hast pour'd on me-- Be still, my spirit!
The happiest day--the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see--have ever seen, The brightest glance of pride and power, I feel--have been:
But were that hope of pride and power Now offer'd, with the pain Even _then_ I felt--that brightest hour I would not live again:
For on its wing was dark alloy, And, as it flutter'd--fell An essence--powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well.
At morn--at noon--at twilight dim-- Maria! thou hast heard my hymn! In joy and woe--in good and ill-- Mother of God, be with me still! When the hours flew brightly by, And not a cloud obscured the sky, My soul, lest it should truant be, Thy grace did guide to thine and thee; Now, when storms of Fate o'ercast Darkly my Present and my Past, Let my Future radiant shine With sweet hopes of thee and thine!
Not long ago, the writer of these lines, In the mad pride of intellectuality, Maintained "the power of words"--denied that ever A thought arose within the human brain Beyond the utterance of the human tongue: And now, as if in mockery of that boast, Two words--two foreign soft dissyllables-- Italian tones, made only to be murmured By angels dreaming in the moonlit "dew That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill," Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart, Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought, Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions Than even seraph harper, Israfel, (Who has "the sweetest voice of all God's creatures,") Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken. The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand. With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee, I cannot write--I cannot speak or think-- Alas, I cannot feel; for 'tis not feeling, This standing motionless upon the golden Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams. Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista, And thrilling as I see, upon the right, Upon the left, and all the way along, Amid empurpled vapours, far away To where the prospect terminates--_thee only_.