Poems | Page 3

win the fame that still might shine on her;?And e'en--how dear the thought!--this wondrous power,?This godlike influence which has dawn'd on me,?Thus from my love takes colouring and aim!?Not love her! Well, well, I'll forget the word--?The sun shines on, though blind eyes see it not.
[A pause.
It cannot be--this aim so deeply--weigh'd,?So long and calmly sifted, cannot fail.?O wondrous power! great mystery of life!?Reserved for me of all the sons of men;?Fruit ripening high upon the wall of heaven?For me to pluck with eager, trembling hands,?And press its vintage out for thirsting worlds?More blessed still that into her sweet cup?First may I pour the clearest of the wine--?For her--for her--ah, yes! for her supreme,?I struggle onward through this blinding light,?E'en at whose dazzling threshold I might stand,?Pale, trembling, like a terror-smitten soul,?Waiting bewilder'd at the gate of heaven.?Yet once again let me the plan review,?Searching within my soul of souls each part,?That doubt or danger, lurking there, may thus?By love's keen-scented instincts hunted be.--
[A long pause.
Yes! it is so--this deep magnetic sleep,?That from my being passes upon her,?Bindeth the body close in deepest thrall,?But setteth free the soul. What real need?Hath spirit of these sensuous avenues,?Through which the soul looks feebly on the world??This power then opes the prison door awhile,?And sends the spirit chainless o'er the earth.?This know I--without eyes the spirit sees,?Gains instant cognizance of hidden things,?And counts all space for nothing; knowledge comes?Upon it with the falling of the flesh,?So that there is no thing in earth or heaven?But to the unhoused spirit native is--?The mantle falls and leaves the Prophet angel!?Body, then, is the prison-house of soul,?And freedom is its highest happiness,?Its heaven, its primal being full of joy.?This power that holdeth thus the keys of life,?Can then at will give moments of release,?Which to the soul are as the water-brooks?That scantly rise amid a sun-scorch'd waste:?These, oft repeated, must at length destroy?The thraldom of the flesh, and give at will?A freer issue to the practised soul--?At lowest gladden it with gleams of bliss,?Glimpses of heaven amid this exile time.?Yes! thus, my Mabel, shall thy prison'd soul?Rise to its sister angels heavenward still;?And soon the mortal fetters shall hang loose,?Scarce clogging aught its motions glad and free.?Thus shall thy young fair frame no longer be?A prison, but a meetest dwelling-place,?Full of all infinite delights, and dear?As is its nest to the heaven-soaring lark,?That yearns down, singing, to it from the sky.?These men, did they not see it in thine eyes,?Amazed and fearful at the dazzling sight,?As some rude passer gazing up aloft?Sees from some casement, unawares, a face?That makes his great rough heart on sudden rock?With wonder and with worship--in her frame?Did they not see the mortal waxing faint,?The immortal fusing it with heavenly fire??Ay! the charm works, and thou, my life, my love,?Reapest the first-fruits of my long, long toil.
SCENE III.--_A Boudoir. Flowers about it, in beautifully?shaped Vases. A Greenhouse at one end. The?window-panes delicately tinted, and hung with light?fleecy draperies_. MABEL _working, and singing in a?low voice_.
MABEL (singing).
At night when stars shine bright and clear,?The soft winds on the casements blow,?And round the chamber rustle low,?Like one unseen, whose voice we hear,?On tiptoe stealing to and fro--
At night when clouds are dark and drear,?They moan about the lattice sore,?And murmur sighs for evermore,?That fill us with a chilly fear,?Oft glancing at the well-barr'd door--
At night, in moonlight or in gloom,?They wander round the drooping thatch,?Like some poor exile thence to catch?Fond glimpses of each well-loved room,?And sigh beside the unraised latch--
O unseen Wind! art thou alone,?Thus breathing round the sleeping land??Or roams with thee a spirit band,?Blending sad voices with thine own,--?Voices that once with cheerful tone?Made music round the sleeping land?
ORAN (from the Greenhouse, unperceived).
Ah! her dear voice. How all my nature thrills,?My heart, my brain, beneath the mellow sound,?Like some great dome with holy music fill'd!?She is the lark, above my listening soul?Hovering still with carols from Heaven's gate.?She is the perfumed breeze, that evermore?Sweeps music from the Aeolian strings of life.?She is the sea, that fills with sweetest sound?The yearning earth that folds it in its arms.?Not love her--Ah! dear heart, how utterly!
[A pause.
What if amid these spirit wanderings,?This so mysterious power can grant at will,--?What if the angels, smitten with her grace,?Woo'd her away for ever from my heart??The dove came twice again unto the ark,?With messages of peace, and hope, and joy,?But the third time return'd not. She's my dove--?Oh! wing'd she ever from my longing heart,?The waters of my life would quick subside,?And leave me stranded on the shoals of Time.?What if God saw her hovering aloft,?And smiled her in amongst his cherubim??What if the draught of bliss should, Lethe-like,?Blot me for ever from her memory,?So that she sought me never, never more??Oblivion! take again this fearful power--?No