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The Bells and Other Poems
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Год написания книги: 2017
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TO F – S S. O – D
[Mrs. Frances Sargent Osgood]Thou wouldst be loved? – then let thy heartFrom its present pathway part not!Being everything which now thou art,Be nothing which thou art not.So with the world thy gentle ways,Thy grace, thy more than beauty,Shall be an endless theme of praise,And love – a simple duty.BRIDAL BALLAD
The ring is on my hand.And the wreath is on my brow;Satin and jewels grandAre all at my command,And I am happy now.And my lord he loves me well;But, when first he breathed his vow,I felt my bosom swell —For the words rang as a knell,And the voice seemed his who fellIn the battle down the dell,And who is happy now.But he spoke to re-assure me,And he kissed my pallid brow,While a reverie came o'er me,And to the church-yard bore me,And I sighed to him before me,Thinking him dead D'Elormie,"Oh, I am happy now!"And thus the words were spoken,And this the plighted vow,And, though my faith be broken,And, though my heart be broken,Here is a ring, as tokenThat I am happy now!Would God I could awaken!For I dream I know not how!And my soul is sorely shakenLest an evil step be taken, —Lest the dead who is forsakenMay not be happy now.TO MY MOTHER
[His Mother-in-law, Mrs. Clemm.]Because I feel that, in the Heavens above,The angels, whispering to one another,Can find, among their burning terms of love,None so devotional as that of "Mother,"Therefore by that dear name I long have called you —You who are more than mother unto me,And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed youIn setting my Virginia's spirit free.My mother – my own mother, who died early,Was but the mother of myself; but youAre mother to the one I loved so dearly,And thus are dearer than the mother I knewBy that infinity with which my wifeWas dearer to my soul than its soul-life.TO HELEN
["Helen" was Mrs. Stannard, whose death also inspired Lenore.]Helen, thy beauty is to meLike those Nicean barks of yore,That gently, o'er a perfumed sea,The weary, wayworn wanderer boreTo his own native shore.On desperate seas long wont to roam,Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face,Thy Naiad airs have brought me homeTo the glory that was Greece,And the grandeur that was Rome.Lo! in yon brilliant window-nicheHow statue-like I see thee stand,The agate lamp within thy hand!Ah, Psyche, from the regions whichAre Holy Land!THE VALLEY OF UNREST
Once it smiled a silent dellWhere the people did not dwell;They had gone unto the wars,Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,Nightly, from their azure towers,To keep watch above the flowers,In the midst of which all dayThe red sunlight lazily lay.Now each visitor shall confessThe sad valley's restlessness.Nothing there is motionless —Nothing save the airs that broodOver the magic solitude.Ah, by no wind are stirred those treesThat palpitate like the chill seasAround the misty Hebrides!Ah, by no wind those clouds are drivenThat rustle through the unquiet HeavenUneasily, from morn till even,Over the violets there that lieIn myriad types of the human eye —Over the lilies there that waveAnd weep above a nameless grave!They wave: – from out their fragrant topsEternal dews come down in drops.They weep: – from off their delicate stemsPerennial tears descend in gems.THE LAKE – TO —
In spring of youth it was my lotTo haunt of the wide world a spotThe which I could not love the less —So lovely was the lonelinessOf a wild lake, with black rock bound,And the tall pines that towered around.But when the Night had thrown her pallUpon that spot, as upon all,And the mystic wind went byMurmuring in melody —Then – ah then I would awakeTo the terror of the lone lakeYet that terror was not fright,But a tremulous delight —A feeling not the jewelled mineCould 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 graveFor him who thence could solace bringTo his lone imagining —Whose solitary sole could makeAn Eden of that dim lake.THE HAPPIEST DAY, THE HAPPIEST HOUR
The happiest day – the happiest hourMy 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 inheritThe venom thou hast pour'd on me —Be still, my spirit!The happiest day – the happiest hourMine eyes shall see – have ever seen,The brightest glance of pride and power,I feel – have been:But were that hope of pride and powerNow offer'd, with the painEven then I felt – that brightest hourI would not live again:For on its wing was dark alloy,And, as it flutter'd – fellAn essence – powerful to destroyA soul that knew it well.CATHOLIC HYMN
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'ercastDarkly my Present and my Past,Let my Future radiant shineWith sweet hopes of thee and thine!TO —
[Mrs. Marie Louise Shew.]Not long ago, the writer of these lines,In the mad pride of intellectuality,Maintained "the power of words" – denied that everA thought arose within the human brainBeyond 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 murmuredBy angels dreaming in the moonlit "dewThat 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 visionsThan 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 goldenThreshold 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 awayTo where the prospect terminates —thee only.EVENING STAR
'Twas noontide of summer,And mid-time of night;And stars in their orbits,Shone pale, thro' the lightOf the brighter, cold moon,'Mid planets her slaves,Herself in the Heavens,Her beam on the waves.I gazed awhileOn her cold smile;Too cold – too cold for me —There pass'd, as a shroud,A fleecy cloud,And I turn'd away to thee,Proud Evening Star,In thy glory afar,And dearer thy beam shall be;For joy to my heartIs the proud partThou bearest in Heaven at night,And more I admireThy distant fire,Than that colder, lowly light.STANZAS
How often we forget all time, when loneAdmiring Nature's universal throne;Her woods – her wilds – her mountains – the intenseReply of hers to our intelligence![Byron, The Island.]1In youth have I known one with whom the EarthIn secret communing held – as he with it,In daylight, and in beauty from his birth:Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was litFrom the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forthA passionate light – such for his spirit was fit —And yet that spirit knew not, in the hourOf its own fervour – what had o'er it power.2Perhaps it may be that my mind is wroughtTo a fever by the moonbeam that hangs o'er,But I will half believe that wild light fraughtWith more of sovereignty than ancient loreHath ever told – or is it of a thoughtThe unembodied essence, and no moreThat with a quickening spell doth o'er us passAs dew of the night-time o'er the summer grass?3Doth o'er us pass, when, as th' expanding eyeTo the loved object – so the tear to the lidWill start, which lately slept in apathy?And yet it need not be – (that object) hidFrom us in life – but common – which doth lieEach hour before us – but then only, bidWith a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken,To awake us – 'Tis a symbol and a token4Of what in other worlds shall be – and givenIn beauty by our God, to those aloneWho otherwise would fall from life and HeavenDrawn by their heart's passion, and that tone,That high tone of the spirit which hath strivenTho' not with Faith – with godliness – whose throneWith desperate energy 't hath beaten down;Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.SPIRITS OF THE DEAD
Thy soul shall find itself alone'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;Not one, of all the crowd, to pryInto thine hour of secrecy.Be silent in that solitude,Which is not loneliness – for thenThe spirits of the dead, who stoodIn life before thee, are againIn death around thee, and their willShall overshadow thee; be still.The night, though clear, shall frown,And the stars shall not look downFrom their high thrones in the HeavenWith light like hope to mortals given,But their red orbs, without beam,To thy weariness shall seemAs a burning and a feverWhich would cling to thee for ever.Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,Now are visions ne'er to vanish;From thy spirit shall they passNo more, like dew-drop from the grass.The breeze, the breath of God, is still,And the mist upon the hillShadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,Is a symbol and a token.How it hangs upon the trees,A mystery of mysteries!ISRAFEL
And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God's creatures. —Koran.
In Heaven a spirit doth dwell"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"None sing so wildly wellAs the angel Israfel,And the giddy Stars (so legends tell)Ceasing their hymns, attend the spellOf his voice, all mute.Tottering aboveIn her highest noon,The enamoured moonBlushes with love,While, to listen, the red levin(With the rapid Pleiads, even,Which were seven,)Pauses in Heaven.And they say (the starry choirAnd the other listening things)That Israfeli's fireIs owing to that lyreBy which he sits and sings —The trembling living wireOf those unusual strings.But the skies that angel trod,Where deep thoughts are a duty —Where Love's a grown up God —Where the Houri glances areImbued with all the beautyWhich we worship in a star.Therefore thou art not wrong,Israfeli, who despisestAn unimpassioned song;To thee the laurels belong,Best bard, because the wisest!Merrily live, and long!The ecstasies aboveWith thy burning measures suit —Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,With the fervour of thy lute —Well may the stars be mute!Yes, Heaven is thine; but thisIs a world of sweets and sours;Our flowers are merely – flowers,And the shadow of thy perfect blissIs the sunshine of ours.If I could dwellWhere IsrafelHath dwelt, and he where I,He might not sing so wildly wellA mortal melody,While a bolder note than this might swellFrom my lyre within the sky.SONG
I saw thee on thy bridal day —When a burning blush came o'er thee,Though happiness around thee lay,The world all love before thee:And in thine eye a kindling light(Whatever it might be)Was all on Earth my aching sightOf Loveliness could see.That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame —As such it well may pass —Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flameIn the breast of him, alas!Who saw thee on that bridal day,When that deep blush would come o'er thee,Though happiness around thee lay;The world all love before thee.TO —
The bowers whereat, in dreams, I seeThe wantonest singing birds,Are lips – and all thy melodyOf lip-begotten words —Thine eyes, in Heaven of heart enshrined,Then desolately fall,O God! on my funereal mindLike starlight on a pall —Thy heart —thy heart! – I wake and sigh,And sleep to dream till dayOf the truth that gold can never buy —Of the baubles that it may.FAIRY-LAND
Dim vales – and shadowy floods —And cloudy-looking woods,Whose forms we can't discoverFor the tears that drip all overHuge moons there wax and wane —Again – again – again —Every moment of the night —Forever changing places —And they put out the star-lightWith the breath from their pale faces.About twelve by the moon-dial,One more filmy than the rest(A kind which, upon trial,They have found to be the best)Comes down – still down – and down,With its centre on the crownOf a mountain's eminence,While its wide circumferenceIn easy drapery fallsOver hamlets, over halls,Wherever they may be —O'er the strange woods – o'er the sea —Over spirits on the wing —Over every drowsy thing —And buries them up quiteIn a labyrinth of light —And then, how deep! – O, deep!Is the passion of their sleep.In the morning they arise,And their moony coveringIs soaring in the skies,With the tempests as they toss,Like-almost anything —Or a yellow Albatross.They use that moon no moreFor the same end as before —Videlicet a tent —Which I think extravagant:Its atomies, however,Into a shower dissever,Of which those butterflies,Of Earth, who seek the skies,And so come down again(Never-contented things!)Have brought a specimenUpon their quivering wings.THE COLISEUM
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquaryOf lofty contemplation left to TimeBy buried centuries of pomp and power!At length – at length – after so many daysOf weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)I kneel, an altered and an humble man,Amid thy shadows, and so drink withinMy very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!I feel ye now – I feel ye in your strength —O spells more sure than e'er Judaean kingTaught in the gardens of Gethsemane!O charms more potent than the rapt ChaldeeEver drew down from out the quiet stars!Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!Here, where the mimic eagle glared in goldA midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hairWaved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,The swift and silent lizard of the stones!But stay! these walls – these ivy-clad arcades —These mouldering plinths – these sad and blackened shafts —These vague entablatures – this crumbling frieze —These shattered cornices – this wreck – this ruin —These stones – alas! these grey stones – are they all —All of the famed, and the colossal leftBy the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?"Not all" – the Echoes answer me – "not all!Prophetic sounds and loud, arise foreverFrom us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,As melody from Memnon to the Sun.We rule the hearts of mightiest men – we ruleWith a despotic sway all giant minds.We are not impotent – we pallid stones.Not all the power is gone – not all our fame —Not all the magic of our high renown —Not all the wonder that encircles us —Not all the mysteries that in us lie —Not all the memories that hang uponAnd cling around about us as a garment,Clothing us in a robe of more than glory."DREAMLAND
By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have reached these lands but newlyFrom an ultimate dim Thule —From a wild weird clime that lieth, sublime,Out of Space – out of Time.Bottomless vales and boundless floods,And chasms, and caves, and Titan woods,With forms that no man can discoverFor the tears that drip all over;Mountains toppling evermoreInto seas without a shore;Seas that restlessly aspire,Surging, unto skies of fire;Lakes that endlessly outspreadTheir lone waters – lone and dead, —Their still waters – still and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily.By the lakes that thus outspreadTheir lone waters, lone and dead, —Their sad waters, sad and chillyWith the snows of the lolling lily —By the mountains – near the riverMurmuring lowly, murmuring ever, —By the grey woods, – by the swampWhere the toad and the newt encamp, —By the dismal tarns and poolsWhere dwell the Ghouls, —By each spot the most unholy —In each nook most melancholy, —There the traveller meets aghastSheeted Memories of the Past —Shrouded forms that start and sighAs they pass the wanderer by —White-robed forms of friends long given,In agony, to the Earth – and Heaven.For the heart whose woes are legion'Tis a peaceful, soothing region —For the spirit that walks in shadow'Tis – oh, 'tis an Eldorado!But the traveller, travelling through it,May not – dare not openly view it!Never its mysteries are exposedTo the weak human eye unclosed;So wills its King, who hath forbidThe uplifting of the fringèd lid;And thus the sad Soul that here passesBeholds it but through darkened glasses.By a route obscure and lonely,Haunted by ill angels only,Where an Eidolon, named Night,On a black throne reigns upright,I have wandered home but newlyFrom this ultimate dim Thule.FOR ANNIE
Thank Heaven! the crisis —The danger is past,And the lingering illnessIs over at last —And the fever called "Living"Is conquered at last.Sadly, I knowI am shorn of my strength,And no muscle I moveAs I lie at full length —But no matter! – I feelI am better at length.And I rest so composedly,Now, in my bed,That any beholderMight fancy me dead —Might start at beholding me,Thinking me dead.The moaning and groaning,The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now,With that horrible throbbingAt heart: – ah, that horrible,Horrible throbbing!The sickness – the nausea —The pitiless pain —Have ceased, with the feverThat maddened my brain —With the fever called "Living"That burned in my brain.And oh! of all tortureThat torture the worstHas abated – the terribleTorture of thirstFor the naphthaline riverOf Passion accurst: —I have drunk of a waterThat quenches all thirst: —Of a water that flows,With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very fewFeet under ground —From a cavern not very farDown under ground.And ah! let it neverBe foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomyAnd narrow my bed;For man never sleptIn a different bed —And, to sleep, you must slumberIn just such a bed.My tantalized spiritHere blandly reposes.Forgetting, or neverRegretting its roses —Its old agitationsOf myrtles and roses;For now, while so quietlyLying, it fanciesA holier odourAbout it, of pansies —A rosemary odour,Commingled with pansies —With rue and the beautifulPuritan pansies.And so it lies happily,Bathing in manyA dream of the truthAnd the beauty of Annie —Drowned in a bathOf the tresses of Annie.She tenderly kissed me,She fondly caressed,And then I fell gentlyTo sleep on her breastDeeply to sleepFrom the heaven of her breast.When the light was extinguishedShe covered me warm,And she prayed to the angelsTo keep me from harm —To the queen of the angelsTo shield me from harm.And I lie so composedly,Now, in my bed,(Knowing her love)That you fancy me dead —And I rest so contentedly,Now, in my bed,(With her love at my breast)That you fancy me dead —That you shudder to look at me,Thinking me dead; —But my heart it is brighterThan all of the manyStars in the sky,For it sparkles with Annie —It glows with the lightOf the love of my Annie —With the thought of the lightOf the eyes of my Annie.ALONE
From childhood's hour I have not beenAs others were; I have not seenAs others saw; I could not bringMy passions from a common spring.From the same source I have not takenMy sorrow; I could not awakenMy heart to joy at the same tone;And all I loved I loved alone.Then – in my childhood, in the dawnOf a most stormy life – was drawnFrom every depth of good and illThe mystery which binds me still:From the torrent, or the fountain,From the red cliff of the mountain,From the sun that round me rolledIn its autumn tint of gold,From the lightning in the skyAs it passed me flying by,From the thunder and the storm,And the cloud that took the form(When the rest of Heaven was blue)Of a demon in my view.TAMERLANE
Kind solace in a dying hour!Such, father, is not (now) my theme —I will not madly deem that powerOf Earth may shrive me of the sinUnearthly pride hath revell'd in —I have no time to dote or dream:You call it hope – that fire of fire!It is but agony of desire:If I can hope – O God! I can —Its fount is holier – more divine —I would not call thee fool, old man,But such is not a gift of thine.Know thou the secret of a spiritBow'd from its wild pride into shame.O yearning heart! I did inheritThy withering portion with the fame,The searing glory which hath shoneAmid the jewels of my throne,Halo of Hell! and with a painNot Hell shall make me fear again —O craving heart, for the lost flowersAnd sunshine of my summer hours!The undying voice of that dead time,With its interminable chime,Rings, in the spirit of a spell,Upon thy emptiness – a knell.I have not always been as now:The fever'd diadem on my browI claim'd and won usurpingly —Hath not the same fierce heirdom givenRome to the Cæsar – this to me?The heritage of a kingly mind,And a proud spirit which hath strivenTriumphantly with human kind.On mountain soil I first drew life:The mists of the Taglay have shedNightly their dews upon my head,And, I believe, the wingèd strifeAnd tumult of the headlong airHave nestled in my very hair.So late from Heaven – that dew – it fell('Mid dreams of an unholy night)Upon me with the touch of Hell,While the red flashing of the lightFrom clouds that hung, like banners, o'er,Appeared to my half-closing eyeThe pageantry of monarchy,And the deep trumpet-thunder's roarCame hurriedly upon me, tellingOf human battle, where my voice,My own voice, silly child! – was swelling(O! how my spirit would rejoice,And leap within me at the cry)The battle-cry of Victory!The rain came down upon my headUnshelter'd – and the heavy windRendered me mad and deaf and blind.It was but man, I thought, who shedLaurels upon me: and the rush —The torrent of the chilly airGurgled within my ear the crushOf empires – with the captive's prayer —The hum of suitors – and the toneOf flattery 'round a sovereign's throne.My passions, from that hapless hour,Usurp'd a tyranny which menHave deem'd since I have reach'd to power,My innate nature – be it so:But father, there liv'd one who, then,Then – in my boyhood – when their fireBurn'd with a still intenser glow,(For passion must, with youth, expire)E'en then who knew this iron heartIn woman's weakness had a part.I have no words – alas! – to tellThe loveliness of loving well!Nor would I now attempt to traceThe more than beauty of a faceWhose lineaments, upon my mind,Are – shadows on th' unstable windThus I remember having dweltSome page of early lore upon,With loitering eye, till I have feltThe letters – with their meaning – meltTo fantasies – with none.O, she was worthy of all love!Love – as in infancy was mine —'Twas such as angel minds aboveMight envy; her young heart the shrineOn which my every hope and thoughtWere incense – then a goodly gift,For they were childish and upright —Pure – as her young example taught:Why did I leave it, and, adrift,Trust to the fire within, for light?We grew in age – and love – together,Roaming the forest, and the wild;My breast her shield in wintry weather —And, when the friendly sunshine smil'dAnd she would mark the opening skies,I saw no Heaven – but in her eyes.Young Love's first lesson is – the heart:For 'mid that sunshine, and those smiles,When, from our little cares apart,And laughing at her girlish wiles,I'd throw me on her throbbing breast,And pour my spirit out in tears —There was no need to speak the rest —No need to quiet any fearsOf her – who ask'd no reason why,But turned on me her quiet eye!Yet more than worthy of the loveMy spirit struggled with, and strove,When, on the mountain peak, alone,Ambition lent it a new tone —I had no being – but in thee:The world, and all it did containIn the earth – the air – the sea —Its joy – its little lot of painThat was new pleasure – the ideal,Dim vanities of dreams by night —And dimmer nothings which were real —(Shadows – and a more shadowy light!)Parted upon their misty wings,And, so, confusedly, becameThine image, and – a name – a name!Two separate – yet most intimate things.I was ambitious – have you knownThe passion, father? You have not:A cottager, I mark'd a throneOf half the world as all my own,And murmur'd at such lowly lot —But, just like any other dream,Upon the vapour of the dewMy own had past, did not the beamOf beauty which did while it thro'The minute – the hour – the day – oppressMy mind with double loveliness.We walk'd together on the crownOf a high mountain which look'd downAfar from its proud natural towersOf rock and forest, on the hills —The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers,And shouting with a thousand rills.I spoke to her of power and pride,But mystically – in such guiseThat she might deem it nought besideThe moment's converse; in her eyesI read, perhaps too carelessly —A mingled feeling with my own —The flush on her bright cheek, to meSeem'd to become a queenly throneToo well that I should let it beLight in the wilderness alone.I wrapp'd myself in grandeur then,And donn'd a visionary crown —Yet it was not that FantasyHad thrown her mantle over me —But that, among the rabble – men,Lion ambition is chained down —And crouches to a keeper's hand —Not so in deserts where the grand —The wild – the terrible conspireWith their own breath to fan his fire.Look'round thee now on Samarcand!Is not she queen of Earth? her prideAbove all cities? in her handTheir destinies? in all besideOf glory which the world hath knownStands she not nobly and alone?Falling – her veriest stepping-stoneShall form the pedestal of a throne —And who her sovereign? Timour – heWhom the astonished people sawStriding o'er empires haughtilyA diadem'd outlaw!O, human love! thou spirit given,On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!Which fall'st into the soul like rainUpon the Siroc-wither'd plain,And, failing in thy power to bless,But leav'st the heart a wilderness!Idea! which bindest life aroundWith music of so strange a sound,And beauty of so wild a birth —Farewell! for I have won the Earth.When Hope, the eagle that tower'd, could seeNo cliff beyond him in the sky,His pinions were bent droopingly —And homeward turn'd his soften'd eye.'Twas sunset: when the sun will partThere comes a sullenness of heartTo him who still would look uponThe glory of the summer sun.That soul will hate the ev'ning mist,So often lovely, and will listTo the sound of the coming darkness (knownTo those whose spirits hearken) as oneWho, in a dream of night, would flyBut cannot, from a danger nigh.What tho' the moon – the white moonShed all the splendour of her noon,Her smile is chilly, and her beam,In that time of dreariness, will seem(So like you gather in your breath)A portrait taken after death.And boyhood is a summer sunWhose waning is the dreariest one —For all we live to know is known,And all we seek to keep hath flown —Let life, then, as the day-flower, fallWith the noon-day beauty – which is all.I reach'd my home – my home no more —For all had flown who made it so.I pass'd from out its mossy door,And, tho' my tread was soft and low,A voice came from the threshold stoneOf one whom I had earlier known —O, I defy thee, Hell, to showOn beds of fire that burn below,A humbler heart – a deeper woe.Father, I firmly do believe —I know– for Death, who comes for meFrom regions of the blest afar,Where there is nothing to deceive,Hath left his iron gate ajar,And rays of truth you cannot seeAre flashing thro' Eternity —I do believe that Eblis hathA snare in every human path —Else how, when in the holy groveI wandered of the idol, Love,Who daily scents his snowy wingsWith incense of burnt offeringsFrom the most unpolluted things,Whose pleasant bowers are yet so rivenAbove with trellis'd rays from HeavenNo mote may shun – no tiniest fly —The light'ning of his eagle eye —How was it that Ambition crept,Unseen, amid the revels there,Till growing bold, he laughed and leaptIn the tangles of Love's very hair?
