ENTHUSIASM.
FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.
As erst the eagle of the sky
Bore Ganymede to courts of Jove,
Yearning for earth, the unwilling boy
Against the bird imperial strove;
He, while more closely in their clasp
The panting prize his talons grasp,
Soared upward to the immortals’ seat;
And heedless of the suppliant’s prayer,
His captive cast, all trembling, there,
Before the Thunderer’s feet.
Thus, when my earth-bound soul to claim,
Oh eagle conqueror! stoop’st thou near,
The rushing of thy wings of flame
My bosom thrills with holy fear.
I struggle vainly ’gainst thy might—
Shrink trembling from the presence bright
That well might blast a heart like mine;
As fire that heaven’s winged bolt allumes,
Unquenched, unquenchable, consumes
The votive pyre, the fane, the shrine!
But to the daring flight of thought
Sense would oppose its bonds in vain;
Beneath the god to frenzy wrought,
My soul leaps up, and spurns the chain.
The lightning courses through my veins,
The fire that in my being reigns,
Even while I strive, more fiercely glows;
The lava of o’erflowing soul
In waves of melody doth roll,
My breast consuming while it flows.
Lo, muse! thy victim here behold!
No more the brow inspired is mine,
No more the glance so rapt and bold,
That once shot forth a ray divine!
Worn with the heart-devouring strife,
A wretched residue of life
Scarce to my wearied youth is left;
With wan exhaustion stamped, my face
Bears but the scathing thunder’s trace,
Whose bolt this frame of vigor reft.
Happy the bard insensible!
Unbathed with burning tears his lyre;
His fancy, ruled by peaceful will,
Feels not the touch of passion’s fire.
For him, a clear and grateful tide,
The gathered streams of pleasure glide
In measured and harmonious flow:
His Icarus, that ne’er essayed
To soar in Heaven, with wing betrayed,
No fall from heaven can know.
But we must burn, who proudly claim
To kindle generous souls;—must steal
From jealous heaven its triple flame:
To paint all things—all things must feel!
A focus of concentrate light,
The heart from all in nature bright
Must gather all the rays;—
Why on our life should censure fall?
The torch that fires with envy all
Was kindled first at passion’s blaze.
No—never from a tranquil breast
Such heavenly raptures found their way;
The concord wild, the sweet unrest,
Wherewith a subject world we sway.
The God that ruled o’er Homer’s birth,
When, his dread darts to launch on earth,
From Eryx’ radiant height he came,
To hell’s infernal kingdoms strode,
And dipped his weapons in the flood,
In Stygian waves of boiling flame.
Thou from the height of song descend,
Who ’dst blush for transports idly given;
The heroic lute alone can blend
The thrilling harmonies of heaven!
The heart of Genius, proud and bold,
Is like the marble which of old
Breathed its wild dirge o’er Memnon’s tomb;
To give the statue voice and might,
From the pure day-god’s eye of light
One beam must pierce the gloom.
Thou wouldst that rousing in my breast
The fires that ’neath their ashes lie,
I barter now my spirit’s rest
For tones that vanish with a sigh.
Ah! glory is a shadow’s dream!
Too brief even to its votaries seem
The fleeting days its charms that prove!
Thou wouldst that in the mocking strife
I waste my last frail breath of life—
I would that breath preserve—to love!