| |
| RAPT in a vision of the barbarous past, | |
| I saw upon thy marge a wild-eyed race, | |
| And, startled, heard the yell | |
| That echoed round thy shores! | |
| |
| And now, enchanted with the picture fair, | 5 |
| Which Fancy holds to view, I fain would blend | |
| The murmur of thy waves, | |
| And warblings of my lute. | |
| |
| Translucent flood! within thy ever pure | |
| And stainless breast, the heavens with wonder view | 10 |
| As beautiful a heaven, | |
| As tranquil and serene: | |
| |
| The while, a new creation spreads around— | |
| Hills piled on hills, seem laughing in thy wave, | |
| And groves, inverted, nod | 15 |
| To like majestic groves. | |
| |
| And what if o’er thy brink no frowning cliffs | |
| Impend—no cloud-tipt mountains, as with wall | |
| Insuperable, fence | |
| Thee from the northern blast,— | 20 |
| |
| Yet dost thou scornful mock its utmost force, | |
| And ruffian winter’s rudest breath defy; | |
| Fiercely he sweeps along, | |
| But may not chain thy wave. 1 | |
| |
| And still exulting with the dancing spring, | 25 |
| Thou seest new beauties deck thy soft domain; | |
| And when from summer’s gaze | |
| The earth dejected shrinks, | |
| |
| Thou spread’st thy dazzling bosom to the sun: | |
| While pleased, anon, with Autumn’s rainbow hues | 30 |
| And mournful shell, thou bidd’st | |
| Thy waves wild music make. | |
| |
| In that glad moment, when the star of morn | |
| Leads up the effulgent day, and liquid pearls | |
| Are on the flowers, and thou | 35 |
| In snowy mist art wrapp’d,— | |
| |
| How have I stood, delighted, to behold | |
| The sun, like a young deity look forth, | |
| And, with a glance, thy face | |
| At once again unveil! | 40 |
| |
| And when the golden curtains of the west | |
| Are gathering round his couch, and his last ray | |
| Descending, seems to melt | |
| In thy unruffled flood,— | |
| |
| How have I rivetted my eye on thee, | 45 |
| And wish’d that on my breast a heavenly gleam | |
| Might fall, and thus within | |
| My soul as softly sink! | |
| |
| Yet if there be a more propitious hour, | |
| ’T is when the moon from out the silvery east | 50 |
| In chasten’d splendor beams,— | |
| And sheds o’er thee, and o’er | |
| |
| The tranquil earth, her mild and holy light: | |
| A shadowy grandeur then invests the scene, | |
| While through the willing mind | 55 |
| A pleasing sadness steals. | |
| |
| O fond remembrance!—but what boots it now | |
| To sing of absent charms? Thou calmly sleep’st | |
| Beneath thy circling hills, | |
| While I am tempest-tost! | 60 |
| |
| Yet brighter eyes, and innocent as bright, | |
| Shall long upon thy varied beauties gaze, | |
| And young glad beings too | |
| Delight in thee to lave: | |
| |
| And science, haply, on thy banks shall rear | 65 |
| Her proudest domes; and, emulous of fame, | |
| Bards, yet unborn, shall chant | |
| In lofty verse thy praise. | |
