: The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems by Allston Washington - American poetry

@FreeBooksTue 06 Jun, 2023

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The Sylphs of the Seasons; a Poet's Dream The Two Pointers; a Tale Eccentricity The Paint King Myrtilla: addressed to a Lady, who lamented that she had never been in love To a Lady who spoke slightingly of Poets Sonnet on a Falling Group in the Last Judgment of Michael Angelo, in the Cappella Sistina Sonnet on the Group of the Three Angels before the Tent of Abraham, by Raffaelle, in the Vatican Sonnet, on seeing the Picture of AEolus, by Peligrino Tibaldi, in the Institute at Bologna Sonnet on Rembrant; occasioned by his Picture of Jacob's Dream Sonnet on the Luxembourg Gallery Sonnet to my venerable Friend, the President of the Royal Academy The Mad Lover at the Grave of his Mistress First Love: a Ballad The Complaint Will, the Maniac: a Ballad

The Sylphs of the Seasons;

Prefatory Note to The Sylphs of the Seasons.

If the above be admitted, it is needless to add more; if it be not, it would be useless.

The Sylphs of the Seasons.

Long has it been my fate to hear The slave of Mammon, with a sneer, My indolence reprove. Ah, little knows he of the care, The toil, the hardship that I bear, While lolling in my elbow-chair, And seeming scarce to move:

But would the Man of Lucre know What riches from my labours flow?-- A DREAM is my reply. And who for wealth has ever pin'd, That had a World within his mind, Where every treasure he may find, And joys that never die!

One night, my task diurnal done, Fatigued, I sought the couch of rest; My wonted pray'r to Heaven address'd; But scarce had I my pillow press'd When thus a vision rose.

Methought within a desert cave, Cold, dark, and solemn as the grave, I suddenly awoke. It seem'd of sable Night the cell, Where, save when from the ceiling fell An oozing drop, her silent spell No sound had ever broke.

There motionless I stood alone, Like some strange monument of stone Upon a barren wild; Or like, A man that's buried under ground, Where pyramids are pil'd.

Thus fix'd, a dreadful hour I past, And now I heard, as from a blast, A voice pronounce my name: Nor long upon my ear it dwelt, When round me 'gan the air to melt. And motion once again I felt Quick circling o'er my frame.

Again it call'd; and then a ray, That seem'd a gushing fount of day, Across the cavern stream'd. Half struck with terror and delight, I hail'd the little blessed light, And follow'd 'till my aching sight An orb of darkness seem'd.

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