IV.
Thought I was on an island—the brightest thing ever dancing in a poet’s vision, a perfect Eden-spot, an Elysium—
Ye of the pure heart, come to me!
List to a tale of Poesy;
List—for, for it, ye may better be—
So scorn not the minstrel’s minstrelsy.
Ye with a brow like the broken wave’s drift,
With an eye whose light is the first star of even,
When it streameth afar through the sky’s red rift,
The only and loveliest thing in heaven;—
Ye with a cheek like the marble fair,
Ye with a lip like the bright summer dew,
Ye with a softness and loveliness there
That Fancy never drew;—
Whose hands and whose hearts have been ever lent,
As spirits of mercy from Heaven sent:—
Ye have the pure heart—come to me!
List to a tale of poesy;
Give me your ear—give me your smile—
List to the lay of ‘The happy Isle.’
That Isle—so beautiful to view!
No poet’s fancy ever drew;
He had not dreamed of such a thing,
With all the beauty he could bring.
It lay upon the open sea,
It lay beneath the stars and sun—
A thing, too beautiful to be,
A jewel, cast that sea upon.
The winds came upward to the beach—
The waves came rolling up the sand—
Then backward with a gentle reach,
Now forward to the land,
Sparkling and beautiful—tossing there,
Then vanishing into the air.
The winds came upward to the beach—
The waves came upward in a curl—
Then far along the shore’s slope reach,
There ran a line of pearl.
And shells were there of every hue—
From snowy white, to burning gold—
The jasper, and the Tyrian blue—
The sardonyx and emerald;
And o’er them as the soft winds crept,
A melody from each was swept—
For melody within each slept,
Harmoniously blended;
And never, till the winds gave out,
And ceased the surf its tiny shout,
That melody was ended:
Morn, noon, and eve, was heard to be,
The music of those shells and sea.
The winds went upward from the deep—
The winds went up across the sand—
And never did the sea winds sweep
Over a lovelier land.
The northern seas, the southern shores,
The eastern, and the western isles,
Had rifled all their sweets and stores,
To deck this lovely place with smiles:
And mounts were here, and tipp’d with green,
And kindled by the glowing sun;
And vales were here, and stretch’d between,
Where waters frolic’d in their fun:
And goats were feeding in the light,
And birds were in the green-wood halls;
And, echoing o’er each hilly height,
Was heard the dash of waterfalls:
O! all was beauty, bliss, and sound;
A Sabbath sweetness reigned around;
All was delight—for every thing
Was robed in loveliness and spring—
Color, and fragrance, fruit, and flower,
Were here within this Island bower.
But purer, sweeter, brighter far—
Brighter than Even’s earliest star,
Was she, the spirit of the place,
The mortal with an angel’s face.
A form of youthful innocence,
With love, and grace, and beauty rife—
As erst, from ocean’s tossing foam,
Fair Venus sparkled into life.
Around her pale and placid brow,
By long and auburn ringlets hid,
A radiant flame ran circling,
And o’er her face a lustre shed.
Her eye, so full—a spirit nursed,
So blue—it seem’d a part of heaven,
So light—it was the sudden burst
Of meteors mid the stars of even.
A robe of azure pale she wore,
Her matchless symmetry concealing;
Save where her bodice oped before,
Her soft and snowy breast revealing.
And in her hand (her arms were free)
She bore a reed from ocean’s side;
Her feet were bare— * * *
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