Creep slowly on, O charm'd reluctant Time—
Rarely so hallow'd, Time, creep slowly on—
Ev'n I would linger in my truant rhyme,
Nor tell too soon how soon those hours were gone.
Flowers bloom again—leaves glad once more the tree—
Poor life, there comes no second Spring to thee!
PART THE SECOND.
"Protinus insoliti subierunt corda furores,
Uror amans intus, flammaque totus eram.
Interea misero quæ jam mihi sola placebat
Ablata est oculis non reditura meis."—Milt. Eleg. vii.
I.
Who shall dispart the Poet's golden threads,
From the fine tissues of Philosophy?—
Mounts to one goal, each guess that upward leads,
Whether it soar in some impassion'd sigh
Or some still thought; alike, it doth but tend
To Light that draws it heavenward.—'Tis but one
Great law that from the violet lifts the dew
At dawn and twilight to the amorous sun,
Or calls the mist, which navies glimmer through,
From the vast hush of an unfathom'd sea.
The Athenian guess'd that when our souls descend
From some lost realm (sad aliens here to be),
Dim broken memories of the state before
Form what we call our 'reason';[C]—nothing taught
But all remember'd;—gleams from elder lore,
Pallid revivals of sublimer thought,
Which, though by fits and dreamily recall'd,
Make all the light our sense receives below;
Like the vague hues down-floating—disenthrall'd
From their bright birthplace, the lost Iris-bow.
Is this Philosophy or Song? Why ask?
How judge?—The instant that we leave the ground
Of the hard Positive, who saith "I know?"
Conjecture, fancy, faith—'tis these we task,
When Reason passes but an inch the bound
In which our senses draw the captive's breath.
And never yet Philosopher severe
Strove for a glimpse beyond the Bridge of Death,
But straight he enter'd on that atmosphere
Poets illume:—Let Logic prove the Known;
Truths that we know not, if we would explore,
We must imagine! Link, then, evermore
Together—each so desolate alone,
O Poesy, O Knowledge!—
Is not Love,
Of all those memories which to parent skies
Mount struggling back—(as to their source above,
In upward showers, imprison'd founts arise;)
Oh, is not Love the strongest and the clearest?
Love, and thine eyes instinctive seek the Heaven;
Love, and a hymn from every star thou hearest;
Love, and a world beyond the sense is given;
Love, and how many a glorious sleeping power
Wakes in thy breast and lifts thyself from thee;
Love, and, till then so wedded to the Hour,
Thy thoughts go forth and ask Eternity!
Lose what thou lovest, and the life of old
Is from thine eyes, O soul, no more conceal'd;
Look beyond Death, and through thy tears behold
There, where Love goes—thine ancient home reveal'd.
II.
The lovers met in twilight and in stealth.
Like to the Roc-bird in the Orient Tale,
That builds its nest in pathless pinnacles,
And there collects and there conceals the wealth,
Which paves the surface of the Diamond Vale,
Love hoards aloof the glories that it stealeth;
And gems, but found in life's enchanted dells,
On airy heights that kiss the heaven concealeth.