The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems

by John Wilson

In love and mercy, sure on him had God
The sacred power that stirs the soul bestow'd;
Nor fell his hymns on Mary's ear in vain;
With brightening smiles the Vision hung
O'er the rapt poet while he sung,
More beauteous from the strain.
The songs he pour'd were sad and wild,
And while they would have sooth'd a child,
Who soon bestows his tears,
A deeper pathos in them lay
That would have moved a hermit gray,
Bow'd down with holy years.
One song he had about a Ship
That perish'd on the Main,
So woeful, that his Mary pray'd,
At one most touching pause he made,
To cease the hearse-like strain:
And yet, in spite of all her pain,
Implored him, soon as he obey'd,
To sing it once again.
With faultering voice then would he sing
Of many a well-known far-off thing,
Towers, castles, lakes, and rills;
Their names he gave not—could not give—
But happy ye, he thought, who live
Among the Cambrian hills.
Then of their own sweet Isle of Palms,
Full many a lovely lay
He sung;—and of two happy sprites
Who live and revel in delights
For ever, night and day.
And who, even of immortal birth,
Or that for Heaven have left this earth,
Were e'er more blest than they?

But shall that bliss endure for ever?
And shall these consecrated groves
Behold and cherish their immortal loves?
Or must it come, the hour that is to sever
Those whom the Ocean in his wrath did spare?
Awful that thought, and, like unto despair,
Oft to their hearts it sends an icy chill;
Pain, death they fear not, come they when they will,
But the same fate together let them share;
For how could either hope to die resign'd,
If God should say, "One must remain behind!"
Yet wisely doth the spirit shrink
From thought, when it is death to think;
Or haply, a kind being turns
To brighter hopes the soul that mourns
In killing woe; else many an eye,
Now glad, would weep its destiny.
Even so it fares with them: they wish to live
Long on this island, lonely though it be.
Old age itself to them would pleasure give,
For lo! a sight, which it is heaven to see,
Down yonder hill comes glancing beauteously,
And with a silver voice most wildly sweet,
Flings herself, laughing, down before her parents' feet.

Are they in truth her parents?—Was her birth
Not drawn from heavenly sire, and from the breast
Of some fair spirit, whose sinless nature glow'd
With purest flames, enamour'd of a God,
And gave this child to light in realms of rest;
Then sent her to adorn these island bowers,
To sport and play with the delighted hours,
Till call'd again to dwell among the blest?
Sweet are such fancies:—but that kindling smile
Dissolves them all!—Her native isle
This sure must be: If she in Heaven were born,
What breath'd into her face
That winning human grace,
Now dim, now dazzling like the break of morn?
For, like the timid light of infant day,
That oft, when dawning, seems to die away,
The gleam of rapture from her visage flies,
Then fades, as if afraid, into her tender eyes.
Open thy lips, thou blessed thing, again!
And let thy parents live upon the sound;
No other music wish they till they die.
For never yet disease, or grief, or pain,
Within thy breast the living lyre hath found,
Whose chords send forth that touching melody.
Sing on! Sing on! It is a lovely air.
Well could thy mother sing it when a maid:
Yet strange it is in this wild Indian glade,
To list a tune that breathes of nothing there,
A tune that by his mountain springs,
Beside his slumbering lambkins fair,
The Cambrian shepherd sings.

The air on her sweet lips hath died,
And as a harper, when his tune is play'd,
Pathetic though it be, with smiling brow
Haply doth careless fling his harp aside,
Even so regardlessly upstarteth now,
With playful frolic, the light-hearted maid,
As if, with a capricious gladness,
She strove to mock the soul of sadness,
Then mourning through the glade.
Light as a falling leaf that springs
Away before the zephyr's wings,
Amid the verdure seems to lie
Of motion reft, then suddenly
With bird-like fluttering mounts on high,
Up yon steep hill's unbroken side,
Behold the little Fairy glide.
Though free her breath, untired her limb,
For through the air she seems to swim,
Yet oft she stops to look behind
On them below;—till with the wind
She flies again, and on the hill-top far
Shines like the spirit of the evening star.
Nor lingers long: as if a sight
Half-fear, half-wonder, urged her flight,
In rapid motion, winding still
To break the steepness of the hill,
With leaps, and springs, and outstretch'd arms,
More graceful in her vain alarms,
The child outstrips the Ocean gale,
In haste to tell her wondrous tale.
Her parents' joyful hearts admire,
Of peacock's plumes her glancing tire,
All bright with tiny suns,
And the gleamings of the feathery gold,
That play along each wavy fold
Of her mantle as she runs.

"What ails my child?" her mother cries,
Seeing the wildness in her eyes,
The wonder on her cheek;
But fearfully she beckons still,
Up to her watch-tower on the hill,
Ere one word can she speak.
"My Father! Mother! quickly fly
Up to the green-hill top with me,
And tell me what you there descry;
For a cloud hath fallen from the sky,
And is sailing on the sea."
They wait not to hear that word again:
The steep seems level as the plain,
And up they glide with ease:
They stand one moment on the height
In agony, then bless the sight,
And drop upon their knees.
"A Ship!"—no more can Mary say,
"A blessed Ship!" and faints away.—
Not so the happy sight subdues
Fitz-Owen's heart;—he calmly views
The gallant vessel toss
Her prow superbly up and down,
As if she wore the Ocean Crown;
And now, exulting in the breeze,
With new-woke English pride he sees
St George's blessed Cross.

Behold them now, the happy three,
Hang up a signal o'er the sea,
And shout with echoing sound,
While, gladden'd by her parents' bliss,
The child prints many a playful kiss
Upon their hands, or, mad with glee,
Is dancing round and round.
Scarce doth the thoughtless infant know
Why thus their tears like rain should flow,
Yet she must also weep;
Such tears as innocence doth shed
Upon its undisturbed bed,
When dreaming in its sleep.
And oft, and oft, her father presses
Her breast to his, and bathes her tresses,
Her sweet eyes, and fair brow.
"How beautiful upon the wave
The vessel sails, who comes to save!
Fitting it was that first she shone
Before the wondering eyes of one,
So beautiful as thou.
See how before the wind she goes,
Scattering the waves like melting snows!
Her course with glory fills
The sea for many a league!—Descending,
She stoopeth now into the vale,
Now, as more freshly blows the gale,
She mounts in triumph o'er the watery hills.
Oh! whither is she tending?
She holds in sight yon shelter'd bay;
As for her crew, how blest are they!
See! how she veers around!
Back whirl the waves with louder sound;
And now her prow points to the land:
For the Ship, at her glad lord's command,
Doth well her helm obey."

They cast their eyes around the isle:
But what a change is there!
For ever fled that lonely smile
That lay on earth and air,
That made its haunts so still and holy,
Almost for bliss too melancholy,
For life too wildly fair.
Gone—gone is all its loneliness,
And with it much of loveliness.
Into each deep glen's dark recess,
The day-shine pours like rain,
So strong and sudden is the light
Reflected from that wonder bright,
Now tilting o'er the Main.
Soon as the thundering cannon spoke,
The voice of the evening-gun,
The spell of the enchantment broke,
Like dew beneath the sun.
Soon shall they hear th' unwonted cheers
Of these delighted mariners,
And the loud sound of the oar,
As bending back away they pull,
With measured pause, most beautiful,
Approaching to the shore.
For her yards are bare of man and sail,
Nor moves the giant to the gale;
But, on the Ocean's breast,
With storm-proof cables, stretching far,
There lies the stately Ship of War;
And glad is she of rest.

Ungrateful ye! and will ye sail away,
And leave your bower to flourish and decay,
Without one parting tear?
Where you have slept, and loved, and pray'd,
And with your smiling infant play'd
For many a blessed year!
No! not in vain that bower hath shed
Its blossoms o'er your marriage-bed,
Nor the sweet Moon look'd down in vain,
Forgetful of her heavenly reign,
On them whose pure and holy bliss
Even beautified that wilderness.
To every rock, and glade, and dell,
You now breathe forth a sad farewell.
"Say! wilt thou ever murmur on
With that same voice when we are gone,
Beloved stream!—Ye birds of light!
And in your joy as musical as bright,
Still will you pour that thrilling strain,
Unheard by us who sail the distant main?
We leave our nuptial bower to you:
There still your harmless loves renew,
And there, as they who left it, blest,
The loveliest ever build your nest.
Farewell once more—for now and ever!
Yet, though unhoped-for mercy sever
Our lives from thee, where grief might come at last;
Yet whether chain'd in tropic calms,
Or driven before the blast,
Most surely shall our spirits never
Forget the Isle of Palms."

"What means the Ship?" Fitz-Owen cries,
And scarce can trust his startled eyes,
"While safely she at anchor swings,
Why doth she thus expand her wings?
She will not surely leave the bay,
Where sweetly smiles the closing day,
As if it tempted her to stay.
O cruel Ship! 'tis even so:
No sooner come than in haste to go.
Angel of bliss! and fiend of wo!"—
—"Oh! let that God who brought her here,
My husband's wounded spirit chear!
Mayhap the ship for months and years
Hath been among the storms, and fears
Yon lowering cloud, that on the wave
Flings down the shadow of a grave;
For well thou know'st the bold can be
By shadows daunted, when they sail the sea.
Think, in our own lost Ship, when o'er our head
Walk'd the sweet Moon in unobscured light,
How oft the sailors gazed with causeless dread
On her, the glory of the innocent night,
As if in those still hours of heavenly joy,
They saw a spirit smiling to destroy.
Trust that, when morning brings her light,
The sun will shew a glorious sight,
This very Ship in joy returning
With outspread sails and ensigns burning,
To quench in bliss our causeless mourning."
—"O Father! look with kinder eyes
On me,"—the Fairy-infant cries.
"Though oft thy face hath look'd most sad,
At times when I was gay and glad,
These are not like thy other sighs.
But that I saw my Father grieve,
Most happy when yon thing did leave
Our shores, was I:—Mid waves and wind,
Where, Father! could we ever find
So sweet an island as our own?
And so we all would think, I well believe,
Lamenting, when we look'd behind,
That the Isle of Palms was gone."

Oh blessed child! each artless tone
Of that sweet voice, thus plaintively
Breathing of comfort to thyself unknown,
Who feelest not how beautiful thou art,
Sinks like an anthem's pious melody
Into thy father's agitated heart,
And makes it calm and tranquil as thy own.
A shower of kisses bathes thy smiling face,
And thou, rejoicing once again to hear
The voice of love so pleasant to thine ear,
Thorough the brake, and o'er the lawn,
Bounding along like a sportive fawn,
With laugh and song renew'st thy devious race;
Or round them, like a guardian sprite,
Dancing with more than mortal grace,
Steepest their gazing souls in still delight.
For how could they, thy parents, see
Thy innocent and fearless glee,
And not forget, but one short hour ago,
When the Ship sail'd away, how bitter was their woe?
—Most like a dream it doth appear,
When she, the vanish'd Ship, was here:—
A glimpse of joy, that, while it shone,
Was surely passing-sweet:—now it is gone,
Not worth one single tear.