This seen-from thy height immeasurable
Thou comest through all space and chaos down,
Like lava stone which droppeth from the moon,
'Till close approaching to the earth's green face,
Like lighting lark that doth outspread its wings,
Slow sink thy coursers and thy chariot,
E'en as an eddying leaf comes to the ground—
And then the race is run, the tale is told;
But ah! too swift the race, it were so bold,
And all too brief the tale, it were so bright a mould!
MASTER of Melody! if this wild harp
Tuned in the forest of the woody West,
May wake a strain to thee whose airy chord
Can give one note to please thy wizard heart,
Then hear it now-thou son of Music's self!
For thou hast caught the magic spirit wild
Whose voice along the Baltic's azure shore
Came when the starlight trembled on the deep,
The gentle Neck! who, in her secret cove,
Where greenest trees kiss every dark blue swell,
Pours forth her midnight song into the Moon,
And fills the silent air with wilder tones
Than that enchanted harp of melody
Whereon the West wind breathes its song and dies.
Thou must have stood upon some island lone
Where from the Polar Seas tall icy cliffs
Shoot like cathedral spires to the clouds,
And catch the golden rain from setting suns!
Or when pale Night her starry children led
Along the Northern fields to see the lights
Which ride like horsemen battling in the air;
Or o'er vermillion clouds, in fairy troops,
Throng in their scarlet robes, which flash and fade;
And where their crimson figures on the wave
Glow thick as shadows from the household flames;
Where lamps of Riga redden on the sea,-
Thou must have stood where greenest Russian pines
Loom up, and almost overlook the Pole,
And heard witch legions whistling through the air,
As on they sped to Lapland wizard's cave,—
That cave of ice, where gleams the magic torch
O'er frozen crystals, with a rainbow's hues,
That mighty temple underneath the earth,
Whose columns vast, with snow-wreathed roof,
Flash back a radiance like the noontide sun,
From fires hidden far beneath the ground,-
There thou hast heard the minstrel gnomes that play
Their subterranean symphonies sublime,
To which the ancient Norse-Gods sit and list
In solemn circles, speechless with delight!
These thou hast heard, or such wild melodies
Could never start up from thy touch, and fly
Like troops of fairies from the the greensward's breast;
For o'er thine instrument thy fingers play
As when a humming-bird comes to a rose
And winnows all her crimson bosom bare;
Until she trembles with ecstatic thrill,
As when a Peri enters heaven's gate
Of purple clouds, and drinks its air of balm!—
By thy enchanting art, what were a throne,
Since in thyself thou dost create such charms
As not a monarch knows? Nay, not the Czar,
With all his palaces, and lands that stretch
From Polar Star unto Marmora's tide,
Hath such a realm as thy rare skill doth own—
For thou canst call such sprites of beauty up
From out sweet Music's spheres, as earth knows not:
The winds, the waves, the woodland birds are thine,
The sea-shell's requiem, which hidden lives
With the fair mermaid in the ocean caves,
Where the red coral lights the darksome cell,
And silver fish flash through the azure brine—
Earth's sweetest sounds are all thine own,
And from strange realms of melody unknown,
Thy strong enchantment doth command its lutes
To whisper in thine ear such choral strain
As makes old Time lean long upon his scythe!-
Rare Genius of the realm of song, adieu!-
The Sylvan Muse, whose emerald robe is made
Of the green leaves of Western forests dark,
For thee doth twine a wreath of blossoms white,
And in them weaves a coronal of buds,
Blushing to think their pale pink leaflets poor,
To crown a brow like thine; but when their bloom
Its perfume all shall lose, their withered leaves
Shall call to mind that all, save Music, dies;
But Music, Love and Friendship, these remain, And of these amaranths in triple twine,
Behold a garland lying at thy feet!
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