Hath then the gloomy Power Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres Seized on her sinless soul?
Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow, That lovely outline, which is fair
As breathing marble, perish? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin? Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,
On which the lightest heart might moralize? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation,
Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness?
Will Ianthe wake again,
And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture, from her smile?
Yes! she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage, Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. Her dewy eyes are closed,
And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed: Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride, Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column.
Hark! whence that rushing sound? "Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells, Which, wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at evening: "Tis softer than the west wind's sigh; "Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings
The genii of the breezes sweep:
Those lines of rainbow light
Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedral window, but the teints Are such as may not find Comparison on earth.
Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light:
These the Queen of Spells drew in, She spread a charm around the spot, And leaning graceful from the ethereal car, Long did she gaze, and silently,
Upon the slumbering maid.
Oh! not the visioned poet in his dreams, When silveryclouds float through the wildered brain, When every sight of lovely, wild and grand, Astonishes, enraptures, elevates- When fancy at a glance combines The wond'rous and the beautiful,— So bright, so fair, so wild a shape Hath ever yet beheld,
As that which reined the coursers of the air, And poured the magic of her Upon the sleeping maid.
The broad and yellow moon Shone dimly through her form— That form of faultless symmetry; The pearly and pellucid car
Moved not the moonlight's line : "Twas not an earthly pageant; Those who had look'd upon the sight, Passing all human glory, Saw not the yellow moon, Saw not the mortal scene, Heard not the night-wind's rush, Heard not an earthly sound, Saw but the fairy pageant, Heard but the heavenly strains That filled the lonely dwelling.
The Fairy's frame was slight; yon fibrous cloud, That catches but the palest tinge of even,
And which the straining eye can hardly seize When melting into eastern twilight's shadow, Were scarce so thin, so slight; but the fair star That gems the glittering coronet of morn,
Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form, Spread a purpureal halo round the scene,
Yet with an undulating motion, Swayed to her outline gracefully.
From her celestial car The Fairy Queen descended, And thrice she waved her wand Circled with wreaths of amaranth : Her thin and misty form Moved with the moving air, And the clear silver tones, As thus she spoke, were such As are unheard by all but gifted ear.
Stars! your balmiest influence shed! Elements! your wrath suspend ! Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds
That circle thy domain !
Let not a breath be seen to stir Around yon grass-grown ruin's height, Let even the restless gossamer
Sleep on the moveless air!
Soul of Ianthe! thou,
Judged alone worthy of the envied boon That waits the good and the sincere; that waits Those who have struggled, and with resolute will Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, burst the The icy chains of custom, and have shone [chains, The day-stars of their age ;-Soul of Ianthe! Awake! arise!
Sudden arose
Ianthe's Soul; it stood
All beautiful in naked purity,
The perfect semblance of its bodily frame. Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace, Each stain of earthliness
Had passed away, it reassumed Its native dignity, and stood Immortal amid ruin.
Upon the couch the body lay, Wrapt in the depth of slumber :
Its features were fixed and meaningless, Yet animal life was there,
And every organ yet performed Its natural functions; 'twas a sight Of wonder to behold the body and soul. The self-same lineaments, the same Marks of identity were there;
Yet, oh how different! One aspires to heaven, Pants for its sempiternal heritage, And ever-changing, ever-rising still,
Wantons in endless being.
The other, for a time the unwilling sport Of circumstance and passion, struggles on ; Fleets through its sad duration rapidly; Then like a useless and worn-out machine, Rots, perishes and passes.
Spirit! who hast dived so deep; Spirit! who hast soar'd so high; Thou the fearless, thou the mild, Accept the boon thy worth hath earned, Ascend the car with me.
Do I dream? Is this new feeling But a visioned ghost of slumber? If indeed I am a soul, A free, a disembodied soul, Speak again to me.
I am the Fairy MAB: to me 'tis given The wonders of the human world to keep. The secrets of the immeasurable past, In the unfailing consciences of men, Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find : The future, from the causes which arise In each event, I gather: not the sting Which retributive memory implants In the hard bosom of the selfish man; Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day,
Are unforeseen, unregistered by me : And it is yet permitted me, to rend The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, Clothed in its changeless purity, may know How soonest to accomplish the great end For which it hath its being, and may taste That peace, which in the end, all life will share. This is the meed of virtue; happy Soul, Ascend the car with me!
The chains of earth's immurement Fell from Ianthe's spirit ;
They shrank and brake like bandages of straw Beneath a wakened giant's strength. She knew her glorious change, And felt in apprehension uncontrolled New raptures opening round: Each day-dream of her mortal life, Each frenzied vision of the slumbers That closed each well-spent day, Seemed now to meet reality.
The Fairy and the Soul proceeded; The silver clouds disparted; And as the car of magic they ascended, Again the speechless music swelled, Again the coursers of the air
Unfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen, Shaking the beamy reins, Bade them pursue their way.
The magic car moved on.
The night was fair, and countless stars Studded heaven's dark blue vault,-
Just o'er the eastern wave Peeped the first faint smile of morn :- The magic car moved on-
From the celestial hoofs
The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew, And where the burning wheels Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak, Was traced a line of lightning. Now it flew far above a rock,
The utmost verge of earth,
The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow Lowered o'er the silver sea.
Far, far below the chariot's path, Calm as a slumbering babe, Tremendous Ocean lay.
The mirror of its stillness showed The pale and waning stars, The chariot's fiery track, And the grey light of morn Tinging those fleecy clouds That canopied the dawn. Seemed it, that the chariot's way
Lay through the midst of an immense concave, Radiant with million constellations, tinged
With shades of infinite colour, And semicircled with a belt Flashing incessant meteors.
The magic car moved on.
As they approached their goal, The coursers seemed to gather speed; The sea no longer was distinguished; earth Appear'd a vast and shadowy sphere;
The sun's unclouded orb Rolled through the black concave;
Its rays of rapid light Parted around the chariot's swifter course, And fell, like ocean's feathery spray Dashed from the boiling surge Before a vessel's prow.
The magic car moved on. Earth's distant orb appeared
The smallest light that twinkles in the heaven; Whilst round the chariot's way Innumerable systems rolled, And countless spheres diffused An ever-varying glory.
It was a sight of wonder: some Were horned like the crescent moon; Some shed a mild and silver beam
Like Hesperus o'er the western sea; Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, Like worlds to death and ruin driven; Some shone like suns, and as the chariot passed, Eclipsed all other light.
Spirit of Nature! here!
In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple.
Yet not the lightest leaf That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee:
Yet not the meanest worm
That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead Less shares thy eternal breath. Spirit of Nature! thou! Imperishable as this scene, Here is thy fitting temple!
IF solitude hath ever led thy steps To the wild ocean's echoing shore, And thou hast lingered there, Until the sun's broad orb
Seemed resting on the burnished wave, Thou must have marked the lines
Of purple gold, that motionless
Hung o'er the sinking sphere:
Thou must have marked the billowy clouds Edged with intolerable radiancy, Towering like rocks of jet
Crowned with a diamond wreath. And yet there is a moment, When the sun's highest point
Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge, When those far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea; Then has thy fancy soared above the earth, And furled its wearied wing
Within the Fairy's fane.
Yet not the golden islands
Gleaming in yon flood of light,
Nor the feathery curtains
Stretching o'er the sun's bright couch, Nor the burnished ocean-waves,
Paving that gorgeous dome,
So fair, so wonderful a sight
As Mab's ethereal palace could afford.
Yet likest evening's vault, that fairy Hall! As Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread Its floors of flashing light, Its vast and azure dome, Its fertile golden islands Floating on a silver sea;
Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted Through clouds of circumambient darkness, And pearly battlements around Looked o'er the immense of Heaven.
The magic car no longer moved. The Fairy and the Spirit Entered the Hall of Spells :
Those golden clouds
That rolled in glittering billows Beneath the azure canopy,
With the ethereal footsteps trembled not: The light and crimson mists,
Floating to strains of thrilling melody
Through that unearthly dwelling, Yielded to every movement of the will. Upon their passive swell the Spirit leaned, And, for the varied bliss that pressed around, Used not the glorious privilege
Of virtue and of wisdom.
Spirit! the Fairy said, And pointed to the gorgeous dome, This is a wondrous sight And mocks all human grandeur; But, were it virtue's only meed, to dwell In a celestial palace, all resigned To pleasurable impulses, immured Within the prison of itself, the will
Of changeless nature would be unfulfilled. Learn to make others happy. Spirit, come! This is thine high reward:-the past shall rise; Thou shalt behold the present; I will teach The secrets of the future.
Behold yon sterile spot;
Where now the wandering Arab's tent Flaps in the desert-blast.
There once old Salem's haughty fane Reared high to heaven its thousand golden domes, And in the blushing face of day
Exposed its shameful glory.
Oh! many a widow, many an orphan cursed The building of that fane; and many a father, Worn out with toil and slavery, implored
The poor man's God to sweep it from the earth, And spare his children the detested task Of piling stone on stone, and poisoning The choicest days of life,
To soothe a dotard's vanity.
There an inhuman and uncultured race Howled hideous praises to their Demon-God; They rushed to war, tore from the mother's womb The unborn child,-old age and infancy Promiscuous perished; their victorious arms Left not a soul to breathe. Oh they were
But what was he who taught them that the God Of nature and benevolence had given A special sanction to the trade of blood? His name and theirs are fading, and the tales Of this barbarian nation, which imposture Recites till terror credits, are pursuing Itself into forgetfulness.
Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta stood,
There is a moral desert now:
The mean and miserable huts,
The yet more wretched palaces, Contrasted with those ancient fanes, Now crumbling to oblivion; The long and lonely colonnades, Through which the ghost of Freedom stalks, Seem like a well-known tune,
Which, in some dear scene we have loved to hear, Remembered now in sadness.
But, oh! how much more changed, How gloomier is the contrast
Of human nature there!
Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's slave,
A coward and a fool, spreads death around- Then, shuddering, meets his own.
Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, A cowled and hypocritical monk Prays, curses, and deceives.
Spirit! ten thousand years Have scarcely passed away,
Since, in the waste where now the savage drinks His enemy's blood, and aping Europe's sons, Wakes the unholy song of war, Arose a stately city,
Metropolis of the western continent : There, now, the mossy column-stone, Indented by time's unrelaxing grasp, Which once appeared to brave All, save its country's ruin; There the wide forest scene,
Rude in the uncultivated loveliness
Of gardens long run wild,
Seems, to the unwilling sojourner, whose steps Chance in that desert has delayed,
Thus to have stood since earth was what it is. Yet once it was the busiest haunt, Whither, as to a common centre, flocked Strangers, and ships, and merchandize : Once peace and freedom blest The cultivated plain :
But wealth, that curse of man, Blighted the bud of its prosperity: Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty, Fled, to return not, until man shall know That they alone can give the bliss
Worthy a soul that claims Its kindred with eternity.
There's not one atom of yon earth But once was living man; Nor the minutest drop of rain, That hangeth in its thinnest cloud, But flowed in human veins : And from the burning plains Where Lybian monsters yell, From the most gloomy glens Of Greenland's sunless clime, To where the golden fields Of fertile England spread Their harvest to the day, Thou canst not find one spot Whereon no city stood.
How strange is human pride! I tell thee that those living things, To whom the fragile blade of grass, That springeth in the morn
And perisheth ere noon,
Is an unbounded world;
I tell thee that those viewless beings, Whose mansion is the smallest particle Of the impassive atmosphere,
Think, feel and live like man; That their affections and antipathies, Like his, produce the laws Ruling their moral state; And the minutest throb That through their frame diffuses The slightest, faintest motion, Is fixed and indispensable As the majestic laws
That rule yon rolling orbs.
The Fairy paused. The Spirit,
In ecstacy of admiration, felt
All knowledge of the past revived; the events Of old and wondrous times,
Which dim tradition interruptedly Teaches the credulous vulgar, were unfolded In just perspective to the view; Yet dim from their infinitude. The Spirit seemed to stand
High on an isolated pinnacle; The flood of ages combating below, The depth of the unbounded universe Above, and all around
Nature's unchanging harmony.
FAIRY! the Spirit said,
And on the Queen of Spells Fixed her ethereal eyes,
I thank thee. Thou hast given A boon which I will not resign, and taught A lesson not to be unlearned. I know The past, and thence I will essay to glean A warning for the future, so that man May profit by his errors, and derive Experience from his folly: For, when the power of imparting joy Is equal to the will, the human soul Requires no other heaven.
Turn thee, surpassing Spirit! Much yet remains unscanned. Thou knowest how great is man, Thou knowest his imbecility: Yet learn thou what he is; Yet learn the lofty destiny Which restless Time prepares For every living soul."
Behold a gorgeous palace, that, amid Yon populous city, rears its thousand towers And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops Of sentinels, in stern and silent ranks, Encompass it around: the dweller there Cannot be free and happy; hearest thou not The curses of the fatherless, the groans Of those who have no friend? He passes on: The King, the wearer of a gilded chain That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave Even to the basest appetites-that man
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