The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems

by John Wilson

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THE ISLE OF PALMS.

CANTO FOURTH.

A summer Night descends in balm
On the orange-bloom, and the stately Palm,
Of that romantic steep,
Where, silent as the silent hour,
'Mid the soft leaves of their Indian bower,
Three happy spirits sleep.
And we will leave them to themselves,
To the moon and the stars, these happy elves,
To the murmuring wave, and the zephyr's wing,
That dreams of gentlest joyance bring
To bathe their slumbering eyes;
And on the moving clouds of night,
High o'er the main will take our flight,
Where beauteous Albion lies.
Wondrous, and strange, and fair, I ween,
The sounds, the forms, the hues have been
Of these delightful groves;
And mournful as the melting sky,
Or a faint-remember'd melody,
The story of their loves.
Yet though they sleep, those breathings wild,
That told of the Fay-like sylvan child,
And of them who live in lonely bliss,
Like bright flowers of the wilderness,
Happy and beauteous as the sky
That views them with a loving eye,
Another tale I have to sing,
Whose low and plaintive murmuring
May well thy heart beguile,
And when thou weep'st along with me,
Through tears no longer mayst thou see
That fairy Indian Isle.

Among the Cambrian hills we stand!
By dear compulsion chain'd unto the strand
Of a still Lake, yet sleeping in the mist,
The thin blue mist that beautifies the morning:
Old Snowdon's gloomy brow the sun hath kiss'd,
Till, rising like a giant from his bed,
High o'er the mountainous sea he lifts his head,
The loneliness of Nature's reign adorning
With a calm majesty and pleasing dread.
A spirit is singing from the coves
Yet dim and dark; that spirit loves
To sing unto the Dawn,
When first he sees the shadowy veil,
As if by some slow-stealing gale,
From her fair face withdrawn.
How the Lake brightens while we gaze!
Impatient for the flood of rays
That soon will bathe its breast:
Where rock, and hill, and cloud, and sky,
Even like its peaceful self, will lie
Ere long in perfect rest.
The dawn hath brighten'd into day:
Blessings be on yon crescent-bay
Beloved in former years!
Dolbardan! at this silent hour,
More solemn far thy lonely tower
Unto my soul appears,
Than when, in days of roaming youth,
I saw thee first, and scarce could tell
If thou wert frowning there in truth,
Or only raised by Fancy's spell,
An airy tower 'mid an unearthly dell.

O! wildest Bridge, by human hand e'er framed!
If so thou mayst be named:
Thou! who for many a year hast stood
Cloth'd with the deep-green moss of age,
As if thy tremulous length were living wood,
Sprung from the bank on either side,
Despising, with a careless pride,
The tumults of the wintry flood,
And hill-born tempest's rage.
Each flower upon thy moss I know,
Or think I know; like things they seem
Fair and unchanged of a returning dream!
While underneath, the peaceful flow
Of the smooth river to my heart
Brings back the thoughts that long ago
I felt, when forced to part
From the deep calm of Nature's reign,
To walk the world's loud scenes again.
And let us with that river glide
Around yon hillock's verdant side;
And lo! a gleam of sweet surprise,
Like sudden sunshine, warms thine eyes.
White as the spring's unmelted snow,
That lives though winter storms be o'er,
A cot beneath the mountain's brow
Smiles through its shading sycamore.
The silence of the morning air
Persuades our hearts to enter there.
In dreams all quiet things we love;
And sure no star that lies above
Cradled in clouds, that also sleep,
Enjoys a calm more husht and deep
Than doth this slumbering cell:
Yea! like a star it looketh down
In pleasure from its mountain-throne,
On its own little dell.

A lovelier form now meets mine eye,
Than the loveliest cloud that sails the sky;
And human feelings blend
With the pleasure born of the glistening air,
As in our dreams uprises fair
The face of a dear friend.
A vision glides before my brain,
Like her who lives beyond the Main!
Breathing delight, the beauteous flower
That Heaven had raised to grace this bower.
To me this field is holy ground!
Her voice is speaking in the sound
That cheers the streamlet's bed.
Sweet Maiden!—side by side we stand,
While gently moves beneath my hand
Her soft and silky head.
A moment's pause!—and as I look
On the silent cot, and the idle brook,
And the face of the quiet day,
I know from all that many a year
Hath slowly past in sorrow here,
Since Mary went away.
But that wreath of smoke now melting thin,
Tells that some being dwells within;
And the balmy breath that stole
From the rose-tree, and jasmin, clustering wide,
O'er all the dwelling's blooming side,
Tells that whoe'er doth there abide,
Must have a gentle soul.

Then gently breathe, and softly tread,
As if thy steps were o'er the dead!
Break not the slumber of the air,
Even by the whisper of a prayer,
But in thy spirit let there be
A silent "Benedicite!"
Thine eye falls on the vision bright,
As she sits amid the lonely light
That gleams from her cottage-hearth:
O! fear not to gaze on her with love!
For, though these looks are from above,
She is a form of earth.
In the silence of her long distress,
She sits with pious stateliness;
As if she felt the eye of God
Were on her childless lone abode.
While her lips move with silent vows,
With saintly grace the phantom bows
Over a Book spread open on her knee.
O blessed Book! such thoughts to wake!
It tells of Him who for our sake
Died on the cross,—Our Saviour's History.
How beauteously hath sorrow shed
Its mildness round her aged head!
How beauteously her sorrow lies
In the solemn light of her faded eyes!
And lo! a faint and feeble trace
Of hope yet lingers on her face,
That she may yet embrace again
Her child, returning from the Main;
For the brooding dove shall leave her nest,
Sooner than hope a mother's breast.

Her long-lost child may still survive!
That thought hath kept her wasted heart alive;
And often, to herself unknown,
Hath mingled with the midnight sigh,
When she breathed, in a voice of agony,
"Now every hope is gone!"
'Twas this that gave her strength to look
On the mossy banks of the singing brook,
Where Mary oft had play'd;
And duly, at one stated hour,
To go in calmness to the bower
Built in her favourite glade.
'Twas this that made her, every morn,
As she bless'd it, bathe the ancient thorn
With water from the spring;
And gently tend each flowret's stalk,
For she call'd to mind who loved to walk
Through their fragrant blossoming.
Yea! the voice of hope oft touch'd her ear
From the hymn of the lark that caroll'd clear,
Through the heart of the silent sky.
"Oh, such was my Mary's joyful strain!
And such she may haply sing again
Before her Mother die."
Thus hath she lived for seven long years,
With gleams of comfort through her tears;
Thus hath that beauty to her face been given!
And thus, though silver-grey her hair,
And pale her cheek, yet is she fair
As any Child of Heaven.