Read Ebook: The Sylphs of the Season with Other Poems by Allston Washington

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Ebook has 230 lines and 19164 words, and 5 pages

If e'er with fearful ear at eve Hast heard the wailing tempest grieve Through chink of shatter'd wall; The while it conjur'd o'er thy brain Of wandering ghosts a mournful train, That low in fitful sobs complain, Of Death's untimely call:

Or feeling, as the storm increas'd, The love of terror nerve thy breast, Didst venture to the coast; To see the mighty war-ship leap From wave to wave upon the deep, Like chamoise goat from steep to steep, 'Till low in valleys lost;

Then, glancing to the angry sky, Behold the clouds with fury fly The lurid moon athwart; Like armies huge in battle, throng, And pour in vollying ranks along, While piping winds in martial song To rushing war exhort:

Oh, then to me thy heart be given, To me, ordain'd by Him in heaven Thy nobler powers to wake. And oh! if thou with poet's soul, High brooding o'er the frozen pole, Hast felt beneath my stern control The desert region quake;

Or heard adown the mountain's steep The northern blast with furious sweep Some cliff dissever'd dash; And seen it spring with dreadful bound From rock to rock, to gulph profound, While echoes fierce from caves resound The never-ending crash:

If thus, with terror's mighty spell Thy soul inspir'd, was wont to swell, Thy heaving frame expand; Oh, then to me thy heart incline; For know, the wondrous charm was mine That fear and joy did thus combine In magick union bland.

Nor think confin'd my native sphere To horrors gaunt, or ghastly fear, Or desolation wild: For I of pleasures fair could sing, That steal from life its sharpest sting, And man have made around it cling, Like mother to her child.

When thou, beneath the clear blue sky, So calm no cloud was seen to fly, Hast gaz'd on snowy plain, Where Nature slept so pure and sweet, She seem'd a corse in winding-sheet, Whose happy soul had gone to meet The blest Angelic train;

Or mark'd the sun's declining ray In thousand varying colours play O'er ice-incrusted heath, In gleams of orange now, and green, And now in red and azure sheen, Like hues on dying dolphins seen, Most lovely when in death;

Or seen at dawn of eastern light The frosty toil of Fays by night On pane of casement clear, Where bright the mimic glaciers shine, And Alps, with many a mountain pine, And armed knights from Palestine In winding march appear:

That o'er thy teeming brain did raise The spirits of departed days Through all the varying year; And images of things remote, And sounds that long had ceas'd to float, With every hue, and every note, As living now they were:

And taught thee from the motley mass Each harmonizing part to class, And then, as work'd thy wayward will, From these with rare combining skill, With new-created worlds to fill Of space the mighty void.

Oh then to me thy heart incline; To me whose plastick powers combine The harvest of the mind; To me, whose magic coffers bear The spoils of all the toiling year, That still in mental vision wear A lustre more refin'd.

"Oh blessed band, of birth divine, What mortal task is like to mine!"-- And further had I spoke, When, lo! there pour'd a flood of light So fiercely on my aching sight, I fell beneath the vision bright, And with the pain I woke.

Say why in every work of man Some imperfection mars the plan? Why join'd in every human art A perfect and imperfect part? Is it that life for art is short? Or is it nature's cruel sport? Or would she thus a moral teach; That man should see, but never reach, The height of excellence, and show The vanity of works below? Or consequence of Pride, or Sloth; Or rather the effect of both? Whoe'er on life his eye has cast, I fear, alas, will say the last!

Nor longer did their courteous guile, Like serpent, twisting through a smile, Each other sting in civil phrase, And poison with envenom'd praise; For now the fiend of anger rose, Distending each death-withered nose, And, rolling fierce each glassy eye, Like owlets' at the noonday sky, Such flaming vollies pour'd of ire As set old Charon's phlegm on fire. Peace! peace! the grizly boatman cried, You drown the roar of Styx's tide; Unmanner'd ghosts! if such your strife, 'Twere better you were still in life! If passions such as these you show You'll make another Earth below; Which, sure, would be a viler birth, Than if we made a Hell on Earth. At which in loud defensive strain 'Gan speak the angry Shades again. I'll hear no more, cried he; 'no more' In echoes hoarse return'd the shore. To Minos' court you soon shall hie, 'tis he will try Your jealous cause, and prove at once That only dunce can hate a dunce.

Thus check'd, in sullen mood they sped, Nor more on either side was said; Nor aught the dismal silence broke, Save only when the boatman's stroke, Deep-whizzing through the wave was heard, And now and then a spectre-bird, Low-cow'ring, with a hungry scream. For spectre-fishes in the stream.

Now midway pass'd, the creaking oar Is heard upon the fronting shore; Where thronging round in many a band, The curious ghosts beset the strand. Now suddenly the boat they 'spy, Like gull diminish'd in the sky; And now, like cloud of dusky white, Slow sailing o'er the deep of night, The sheeted group within the bark Is seen amid the billows dark. Anon the keel with grating sound They hear upon the pebbly ground. And now with kind, officious hand, They help the ghostly crew to land.

At which, with fix'd and fishy The Strangers both express'd amaze. Good Sir, said they, 'tis strange you dare Such meanness of yourself declare.

He ceas'd. But still with stubborn pride The Rival Shades each other eyed; When, bursting with terrifick sound, The voice of Minos shook the ground, The startled ghosts on either side, Like clouds before the wind, divide; And leaving far a passage free, Each, conning his defensive plea, With many a crafty lure for grace. The Painters onward hold their pace. Anon before the Judgement Seat, With sneer confronting sneer they meet: And now in deep and awful strain, Piercing like fiery darts the brain, Thus Minos spake. Though I am he, From whom no secret thought may flee; Who sees it ere the birth be known To him, that claims it for his own; Yet would I still with patience hear What each may for himself declare, That all in your defence may see The justice pure of my decree.-- But, hold!--It ill beseems my place To hear debate in such a case: Be therefore thou, Da Vinci's shade, Who when on earth to men display'd The scattered powers of human kind In thy capacious soul combin'd; Be thou the umpire of the strife, And judge as thou wert still in life.

Such fair demand, the Judge replied, Could not with justice be denied. Good Merc'ry, hence! I fly, my Lord, The Courier said. And, at the word, High-bounding, wings his airy flight So swift his form eludes the sight; Nor aught is seen his course to mark, Save when athwart the region dark His brazen helm is spied afar, Bright-trailing like a falling star.

Enough! the frighted Painter cried, And hung his head in fallen pride.

But most I marvel That Jove's high Gift, your noble Art, Bestow'd to raise Man's grov'ling heart, Refining with ethereal ray Each gross and selfish thought away, Should pander turn of paltry pelf, Imprisoning each within himself; Or like a gorgeous serpent, be Your splendid source of misery, And, crushing with his burnish'd folds, Still narrower make your narrow souls.

But words can ne'er reform produce, In Ignorance and Pride obtuse. Then know, ye rain and foolish Pair! Your doom is fix'd a yoke to bear Like beasts on Earth; and, thus in tether, Five Centuries to paint together. If, thus by mutual labours join'd, Your jarring souls should be combin'd, The faults of each the other mending, The powers of both harmonious blending; Great Jove, perhaps, in gracious vein, May send your souls on Earth again; Yet there One only Painter be; For thus the eternal Fates decree: One Leg alone shall never run, Nor two Half-Painters make but One.

Eccentricity.

Projecere animas. VIRG.

Alas, my friend! what hope have I of fame, Who am, as Nature made me, still the same? And thou, poor suitor to a bankrupt muse, How mad thy toil, how arrogant thy views! What though endued with Genius' power to move The magick chords of sympathy and love, The painter's eye, the poet's fervid heart, The tongue of eloquence, the vital art Of bold Prometheus, kindling at command With breathing life the labours of his hand; Yet shall the World thy daring high pretence With scorn deride, for thou--hast common sense.

Alas, poor Cowper! could thy chasten'd eye, Revisit earth, what indignation strange Would sting thee to behold the courtly change! Here "velvet" lawns, there "plushy" woods that lave Their "silken" tresses in the "glassy" wave; Here "'broider'd" meads, there flow'ry "carpets" spread, And "downy" banks to "pillow" Nature's head; How wouldst thou start to find thy native soil. Like birth-day belle, by gross mechanick toil Trick'd out to charm with meretricious air, As though all France and Manchester were there! But this were luxury, were bliss refin'd, To view the alter'd region of the mind; Where whim and mystery, like wizards, rule, And conjure wisdom from the seeming fool; Where learned heads, like old cremonas, boast Their merit soundest that are cracked the most; While Genius' self, infected with the joke, His person decks with Folly's motley cloak.

'Has Truth no charms?' When first beheld, I grant, But, wanting novelty, has every want: For pleasure's thrill the sickly palate flies, Save haply pungent with a rare surprise. The humble toad that leaps her nightly round, The harmless tenant of the garden ground, Is loath'd, abhor'd, nay, all the reptile race Together join'd were never half so base; Yet snugly find her in some quarry pent, Through ages doom'd to one tremendous lent, Surviving still, as if "in Nature's spite," Without or nourishment, or air, or light, What raptures then th' astonish'd gazer seize! What lovely creature like a toad can please!

Hence many an oaf, by Nature doom'd to shine The unknown father of an unknown line, If haply shipwreck'd on some desert shore Of Folly's seas, by man untrod before, Which, bleak and barren, to the starving mind Yields nought but fog, or damp, unwholesome wind, With loud applause the wond'ring world shall hail, And Fame embalm him in the marv'lous tale.

With chest erect, and bright uplifted eye, On tiptoe rais'd, like one prepared to fly. Yon wight behold, whose sole aspiring hope Eccentrick soars to catch the hangman's rope. In order rang'd, with date of place and time, Each owner's name, his parentage and crime, High on his walls, inscribed to glorious shame, Unnumber'd halters gibbet him to Fame.

Who next appears thus stalking by his side? Why that is one who'd sooner die than--ride! No inch of ground can maps unheard of show Untrac'd by him, unknown to every toe: As if intent this punning age to suit, The globe's circumf'rence meas'ring by the foot.

A sample comes. Observe his sombre face, Twin-born with Death, without his brother's grace! No joy in mirth his soul perverted knows, Whose only joy to tell of others' woes. A fractur'd limb, a conflagrating fire, A name or fortune lost his tongue inspire: From house to house where'er misfortunes press, Like Fate, he roams, and revels in distress; In every ear with dismal boding moans-- walking register of sighs and groans!

Who covets fame should ne'er be over nice, Some slight distortion pays the market price. If haply lam'd by some propitious chance, Instruct in attitude, or teach to dance; Be still extravagant in deed, or word; If new, enough, no matter how absurd.

Then what is Genius? Nay, if rightly us'd, Some gift of Nature happily abus'd. Nor wrongly deem by this eccentrick rule That Nature favours whom she makes a fool; Her scorn and favour we alike despise; Not Nature's follies but our own we prize.

"Or what is wit?" a meteor bright and rare, What comes and goes we know not whence, or where; A brilliant nothing out of something wrought, A mental vacuum by condensing thought.

Behold Tortoso. There's a man of wit; To all things fitted, though for nothing fit; Scourge of the world, yet crouching for a name, And honour bartering for the breath of fame: Born to command, and yet an arrant slave; Through too much honesty a seeming knave; At all things grasping, though on nothing bent, And ease pursuing e'en with discontent; Through Nature, Arts, and Sciences he flies, And gathers truth to manufacture lies.

'Then wherefore read? why cram the youthful head With all the learned lumber of the dead; Who seeking wisdom followed Nature's laws, Nor dar'd effects admit without a cause?' Why?--Ask the sophist of our modern school; To foil the workman we must know the tool; And, that possess'd, how swiftly is defac'd The noblest, rarest monument of taste! So neatly too, the mutilations stand Like native errors of the artist's hand; Nay, what is more, the very tool betray'd To seem the product of the work it made.

But who, half sceptic, half afraid of wrong, Shall walk our streets, and mark the passing throng; The brawny oaf in mould herculean cast, The pigmy statesman trembling in his blast, The cumb'rous citizen of portly paunch, Unwont to soar beyond the smoaking haunch; The meagre bard behind the moving tun, His shadow seeming lengthen'd by the sun; Who forms scarce visible shall thus descry, Like flitting clouds athwart the mental sky; From giant bodies then bare gleams of mind, Like mountain watch-lights blinking to the wind; Nor blush to find his unperverted eye Flash on his heart, and give his tongue the lie.

But who shall cast an introverted eye Upon himself, that will not there descry A conscious life that shall, nor cannot die? E'en at our birth, when first the infant mould Gives it a mansion and an earthly hold, Th' exulting Spirit feels the heavenly fire That lights her tenement will ne'er expire; And when, in after years, disease and age, Our fellow-bodies sweeping from life's stage, Obtrude the thought of death, e'en then we seem, As in the revelation of a dream, To hear a voice, more audible than speech, Warn of a part which death can never reach. Survey the tribes of savage men that roam Like wand'ring herds, each wilderness their home;-- Nay, even there th' immortal spirit stands Firm on the verge of death, and looks to brighter lands.

Shall human wisdom then, with beetle sight, Because obstructed in its blund'ring flight, Despise the deep conviction of our birth, And limit life to this degraded earth?

Oh, far from me be that insatiate pride, Which, turning on itself, drinks up the tide Of natural light; 'till one eternal gloom, Like walls of adamant enclose the tomb. Tremendous thought! that this transcendant Power, Fell'd with the body in one fatal hour, With all its faculties, should pass like air For ages without end as though it never were!

Say, whence, obedient, to their destin'd end The various tribes of living nature tend? Why beast, and bird, and all the countless race Of earth and waters, each his proper place Instinctive knows, and through the endless chain Of being moves in one harmonious strain; While man alone, with strange perversion, draws Rebellious fame from Nature's broken laws? Methinks I hear, in that still voice which stole On Horeb's mount o'er rapt Elijah's soul, With stern reproof indignant Heaven reply: 'Tis o'erweening Pride, that blinds the eye Of reasoning man, and o'er his darkened life Confusion spreads and misery and strife.

With wonder fill'd and self-reflecting praise, The slave of pride his mighty powers surveys; On Reason's sun Adoring gazes, 'till the dazzling light, To darkness sears his rain presumptuous sight; Then bold, though blind, through error's night he runs, In fancy lighted by a thousand suns; For bloody laurels now the warrior plays, Now libels nature for the poet's bays; Now darkness drinks from metaphysic springs, Or follows fate on astrologick wings: 'Mid toils at length the world's loud wonder won, With Persian piety, to Reason's sun Profound he bows, and, idolist of fame, Forgets the God who lighted first the flame.

All potent Reason! what thy wond'rous light? A shooting star athwart a polar night; A bubble's gleam amid the boundless main; A sparkling sand on waste Arabia's plain: E'en such, vain Power, thy limited control, E'en such thou art, to mans mysterious soul!

Presumptuous man! would'st thou aspiring reach True wisdom's height, let conscious weakness teach Thy feeble soul her poor dependant state, Nor madly war with Nature to be great.

Nor wrongly deem the cynick muse aspires, With monkish tears to quench our nobler fires. Let honest pride our humble hearts inflame, First to deserve, ere yet we look to, fame; Not fame miscall'd, the mob's applauding stare; This monsters have, proportion'd as they're rare; But that sweet praise, the tribute of the good, For wisdom gain'd, through love of truth pursued. Coeval with our birth, this pure desire Was given to lift our grov'ling natures higher, Till that high praise, by genuine merit wrung From men's slow justice, shall employ the tongue Of yon Supernal Court, from whom may flow Or bliss eternal or eternal wo. And since in all this hope exalting lives, Let virtuous toil improve what Nature gives: Each in his sphere some glorious palm may gain, For Heaven all-wise created nought in vain.

Oh, task sublime, to till the human soil Where fruits immortal crown the lab'ror's toil! Where deathless flowers, in everlasting bloom, May gales from Heaven with odorous sweets perfume; Whose fragrance still when man's last work is done, And hoary Time his final course has run, Thro' ages back, with fresh'ning power shall last, Mark his long track, and linger where he past!

The Paint-Kings.

Fair Ellen was long the delight of the young, No damsel could with her compare; Her charms were the theme of the heart and the tongue. And bards without number in extacies sung, The beauties of Ellen the fair.

Yet cold was the maid; and tho' legions advanced, All drill'd by Ovidean art, And languish'd, and ogled, protested and danced, Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced From the hard polish'd ice of her heart.

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