To be the theme of every hour By one whose heart, though vain and wild, Can proudly still aspire to be All that may yet win smiles from thee: If thus to live in every part Can give thee one faint gleam of joy, Ev'n more than Love should dare to say,- And though that heart be dead to mine, Since Love is life, and wakes not thine, I'll take thy image, as the form Of one whom Love had fail'd to warm, THE GENIUS OF HARMONY. AN IRREGULAR ODE. Ad harmoniam canere mundum. CICERO de Nat. Deor., lib. iii. THERE lies a shell beneath the waves, Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed; From the white bosom of a syren fell, As once she wander'd by the tide that laves It bears Upon its shining side the mystic notes, The genii of the deep were wont to swell, roll'd! Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats; Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear, Go, bring the bright shell to my bower, And I will fold thee in such downy dreams As lap the Spirit of the Seventh Sphere, When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear!1 And thou shalt own, That, through the circle of creation's zone, From the pellucid tides," that whirl From the rich sigh Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky," To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields On Afric's burning fields;18 Thou'lt wondering own this universe divine Is mine! That I respire in all and all in me, One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony. Welcome, welcome, mystic shell! O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,20 Hath in the waters slept. Now blest I'll fly With the bright treasure to my choral sky Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre;" The winged chariot of some blissful soul;a2 Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee! Thou'lt see a streamlet run, Which I've imbued with breathing melody;" And there, when night-winds down the current die, Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh: A liquid chord is every wave that flows, An airy plectrum every breeze that blows.24 By the great diadem that twines my hair, In a soft iris of harmonious light, Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams. I FOUND her not-the chamber seem'd Like some divinely haunted place, Where fairy forms had lately beam'd, And left behind their odorous trace! It felt, as if her lips had shed I saw the veil, which, all the day, Had floated o'er her cheek of rose; Her limbs had left, as pure and warm And Love himself had stamp'd the form. Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou? TO MRS. HENRY TIGHE, ON READING HER "PSYCHE." TELL me the witching tale again, For never has my heart or ear Hung on so sweet, so pure a strain, So pure to feel, so sweet to hear. Say, Love, in all thy prime of fame, When the high heaven itself was thine, When piety confess'd the flame, And even thy errors were divine; |