|
|
by Thomas Boyd
Where is thy lovely perilous abode? Say, in the Isle of Youth hast though thy home, And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal, Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath Or, is thy palace entered thro' some cliff And would he, entereing on the brimming flood, And there the pearl of that great glittering shell Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro' Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams, Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,
In what strange phantom-land
Glimmer the fairy turrets whereto rode
The ill-starred poet band?
The sweetest singer there,
Stealing on winged steed across the foam
Through the moonlit air?
Haunted by storm and cloud,
Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall
His singing robe and shroud?
The red stems of the pine,
And sunbeams strike thro' shadow, dost thou breathe
The word that makes him thine?
When radiant tides are full,
And round thy lover's wandering starlit skiff
Coil in luxurious lull?
See caverns vast in height,
And daimond columns, crowned with leaf and bud,
Glow in long lanes of light.
Trembling, behold thee lone,
Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,
Now still upon thy throne?
Then melt as in a dream;
The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue
And all that Be and Seem!
Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme
That anceint Nature sings,
That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,
And echoes thro' all things!
Thy light makes all lights dim;
An aching solitude from henceforth seems
The world of men to him.
He follows with delight,
Shutting behind him Life's last gloomy door,
And fares into the Night.