Άστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ὲνὶ ζωοῒσιν ἑᾣος, Νὔν δἑ θαννὡ λἀνπεις Έσπερος έν φθιμένοις.
“Thou wert a morning star among the living Ere thy fair light had fled; Now, being gone, thou art as Hesperus, giving New lustre to the dead.” Plato.
XVII.
Sweet saint! whose rising dawned upon the sight Like fair Aurora chasing mists away; Our ocean billows, and thy western height Gave back reflections of the tender ray, Sparkling and smiling as night turned to day:— Ah! whither vanished that celestial light? Suns rise and set, Monadnoc’s amethyst Year-long above the sullen cloud appears, Daily the waves our summer strand have kissed, But thou returnest not with days and years: Or is it thine, yon clear and beckoning star, Seen o’er the hills that guarded once thy home? Dost guide thy friend’s free steps that widely roam Toward that far country where his wishes are?
“Thus sing I to cragg’d clifts and hills, To sighing winds, to murmuring rills, To wasteful woods, to empty groves, Such things as my dear mind most loves.” Henry More.
XVIII.
Adventurous mariner! in whose gray skiff, Dashing disastrous o’er the fretful wave, The steersman, subject to each breeze’s whiff, Or blast capricious that o’er seas doth rave, Scarce turns his rudder from the fatal cliff,— Scorning his craft or e’en himself to save. Ye Powers of air, that shift the seaman’s grave, Adjust the tackle of his right intent, And bring him safely to the port he meant! Long musing there on that divinity Who to his hazard had assistance lent, He verses cons, oft taken by surprise In diverse meanings, and shrewd subtlety, That pass quaint Donne, and even Shakespeare wise.
“But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Syrens’ harmony That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those that hold the vital shears, And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound.” Milton.
XIX.
Romancer, far more coy than that coy sex! Perchance some stroke of magic thee befell, Ere thy baronial keep the Muse did vex, Nor grant deliverance from enchanted spell, But tease thee all the while and sore perplex, Till thou that wizard tale shouldst fairly tell, Better than poets in thy own clear prose. Painter of sin in its deep scarlet dyes, Thy doomsday pencil Justice doth expose, Hearing and judging at the dread assize; New England’s guilt blazoning before all eyes, No other chronicler than thee she chose. Magician deathless! dost thou vigil keep, Whilst ’neath our pines thou feignest deathlike sleep?