Mazelli, and Other Poems | Page 5

time's swift current hurried by,?Till I, of all my kith alone,?Am left to wait, and wish to die.
VII.
How strong a hand hath Time! Man rears,?And names his work immortal; years?Go by. Behold! where dwelt his pride,?Stern Desolation's brood abide;?The owl within his bower sits,?The lone bat through his chamber flits;?Where bounded by the buoyant throng,?With measured step, and choral song,?The wily serpent winds along;?While the Destroyer stalketh by,?And smiles, as if in mockery.?How strong a band hath Time! Love weaves?His wreath of flowers and myrtle leaves,?(Methinks his fittest crown would be?A chaplet from the cypress tree;)?With hope his breast is swelling high,?And brightly beams his laughing eye;?But soon his hopes are mixed with fears,?And soon his smiles are quenched in tears:?Then Disappointment's blighting breath?Breathes o'er him, and he droops to death;?While the Destroyer glideth by,?And smiles, as if in mockery.?How strong a hand hath Time! Fame wins?The eager youth to her embrace;?With tameless ardour he begins,?And follows up the bootless race;?Ah! bootless--for, as on he hies,?With equal speed the phantom flies,?Till youth, and strength, and vigour gone,?He faints, and sinks, and dies unknown;?While the Destroyer passeth by,?And smiles, as if in mockery.?Gaze, stranger, on the scene below;?'Tis scarce a century ago,?Since here abode another race,?The men of tomahawk and bow,?The savage sons of war and chase;?Yet where, ah! where, abide they now??Go search, and see if thou canst find,?One trace which they have left behind,?A single mound, or mossy grave,?That holds the ashes of the brave;?A single lettered stone to say?That they have lived, and passed away.?Men soon will cease to name their name,?Oblivion soon will quench their fame,?And the wild story of their fate,?Will yet be subject of debate,?'Twixt antiquarians sage and able,?Who doubt if it be truth or fable.
VIII.
I said I minded well the time,?When first beside yon stream I stood;?Then one interminable wood,?In its unbounded breadth sublime,?And in its loneliness profound,?Spread like a leafy sea around.?To one of foreign land and birth,?Nursed 'mid the loveliest scenes of earth,?But now from home and friends exiled,?Such wilderness were doubly wild;--?I thought it so, and scarce could I?My tears repress, when standing by?The river's brink, I thought of mine?Own native stream, the glorious Rhine!?For, near to it, with loving eye,?My mother watched my infancy;?Along its banks my childhood strayed,?With its strong waves my boyhood played.?And I could see, in memory, still?My father's cottage on the hill,?With green vines trailing round and o'er?Wall, roof and casement, porch and door:?Yet soon I learned yon stream to bless,?And love the wooded wilderness.?I could not then have told thee how?The change came o'er my heart, but now?I know full well the charm that wrought,?Into my soul, the spell of thought--?Of tender, pensive thought, which made?Me love the forest's deepest shade,?And listen, with delighted ear,?To the low voice of waters near,?As gliding, gushing, gurgling by,?They utter their sweet minstrelsy.?I scarce need give that charm a name;?Thy heart, I know, hath felt the same,--?Ah! where is mind, or heart, or soul,?That has not bowed to its control?
IX.
See, where yon towering, rocky ledge,?Hangs jutting o'er the river's edge,?There channelled dark, and dull, and deep,?The lazy, lagging waters sleep;?Thence follow, with thine eagle sight,?A double stone's cast to the right,?Mark where a white-walled cottage stands,?Devised and reared by cunning hands,?A stately pile, and fair to see!?The chisel's touch, and pencil's trace,?Have blent for it a goodly grace;?And yet, it much less pleaseth me,?Than did the simple rustic cot,?Which occupied of yore that spot.?For, 'neath its humble shelter, grew?The fairest flower that e'er drank dew;?A lone exotic of the wood,?The fairy of the solitude,?Who dwelt amid its loneliness?To brighten, beautify, and bless.?The summer sky's serenest blue,?Would best portray her eye's soft hue;?From her white brow were backward rolled?Long curls of mingled light and gold;?The flush upon her cheek of snow,?Had shamed the rose's harsher glow;?And haughty love had, haughtier grown,?To own her breast his fairest throne.?The eye that once behold her, ne'er?Could lose her image;--firm and bright,?All-beautiful, and pure, and clear,?'Twas stamped upon th' enamoured sight;?Unchangeable, for ever fair,?Above decay, it lingered there!?As it has lingered on mine own,?These many years, till it has grown,?In its mysterious strength, to be?A portion of my soul and me.
X.
Not in the peopled solitude?Of cities, does true love belong;?For it is of A thoughtful mood,?And thought abides not with the throng.?Nor is it won by glittering wealth,?By cunning, nor device of art,?Unheralded, by silent stealth,?It wins its way into the heart.?And once the soul has known its dream,?Thenceforth its empire is supreme,?For heart, and brain, and soul, and will,?Are bowed by its subduing thrill.?My love, alas! not born to bless,?Had birth in nature's loneliness;?And held, at first, as a sweet spell,?It grew in strength, till it became?A spirit, which I could not quell,--?A quenchless--a volcanic flame,?Which, without pause, or time of rest,?Must burn