The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems

by John Wilson

But turn around, if thou hast power
To leave a scene so fair,
And looking left-wards from the bower,
What glory meets thee there!
For lo! the heaven-encircled Sea
Outspreads his dazzling pageantry,
As if the whole creation were his own,
And the Isle, on which thy feet now stand,
In beauty rose at his command,
And for his joy alone.
Beyond his billows rolling bright,
The Spirit dares not wing her flight;
For where, upon the boundless deep,
Should she, if wearied, sink to sleep?
Back to the beauteous Isle of Palms
Glad she returns; there constant calms
The bays, that sleep like inland lakes, invest:
Delightful all!—but to your eyes,
O blessed Pair! one circlet lies
More fair than all the rest.
At evening, through that silent bay
With beating hearts ye steer'd your way,
Yet trusting in the guiding love of Heaven;
And there, upon your bended knees,
To the unseen Pilot of the Seas
Your speechless prayers were given.
From your bower-porch the skiff behold
That to this Eden bore
Your almost hopeless souls:—how bold
It seems to lie, all danger o'er,
A speck amid the fluid gold
That burns along the shore!

Five cloudless days have, from the placid deep,
In glory risen o'er this refulgent Isle,
And still the sun retired to rest too soon;
And each night with more gracious smile,
Guarding the lovers when they sleep,
Hath watch'd the holy Moon.
Through many a dim and dazzling glade,
They in their restless joy have stray'd,
In many a grot repos'd, and twilight cave;
Have wander'd round each ocean bay,
And gazed where inland waters lay
Serene as night, and bright as day,
Untouch'd by wind or wave.
Happy their doom, though strange and wild,
And soon their souls are reconciled
For ever here to live, and here to die.
Why should they grieve? a constant mirth
With music fills the air and earth,
And beautifies the sky.
High on the rocks the wild-flowers shine
In beauty bathed, and joy divine:
In their dark nooks to them are given
The sunshine and the dews of Heaven.
The fish that dart like silver gleams
Are happy in their rock-bound streams,
Happy as they that roam the Ocean's breast;
Though far away on sounding wings
Yon bird could fly, content he sings
Around his secret nest.
And shall the Monarchs of this Isle
Lament, when one unclouded smile
Hangs like perpetual spring on every wood?
And often in their listening souls
By a delightful awe subdued,
God's voice, like mellow thunder, rolls
All through the silent solitude.

Five days have fled!—The sun again,
Like an angel, o'er the brightening Main
Uplifts his radiant head;
And full upon yon dewy bower,
The warm tints of the dawning hour
Mid warmer still are shed.
The sun pours not his light in vain
On them who therein dwell:—a strain
Of pious music, through the morning calm
Wakening unwonted echoes, wildly rings,
And kneeling there to Mercy's fane,
While flowers supply their incense-balm,
At the foot of yon majestic Palm
The Maid her matins sings.
It is the Sabbath morn:—since last
From Heaven it shone, what awful things have past!
In their beloved vessel as it roll'd
In pride and beauty o'er the waves of gold,
Then were they sailing free from all alarms,
Rejoicing in her scarce-felt motion
When the ship flew, or slumbering Ocean
Detain'd her in his arms.
Beneath the sail's expanded shade,
They and the thoughtless crew together pray'd,
And sweet their voices rose above the wave;
Nor seem'd it woeful as a strain
That never was to rise again,
And chaunted o'er the grave.

Ne'er seem'd before the Isle so bright;
And when their hymns were ended,
Oh! ne'er in such intense delight
Had their rapt souls been blended.
Some natural tears they surely owed
To those who wept for them, and fast they flow'd,
And oft will flow amid their happiest hours;
But not less fair the summer day,
Though glittering through the sunny ray
Are seen descending showers.
But how could Sorrow, Grief, or Pain,
The glory of that morn sustain?
Alone amid the Wilderness
More touching seem'd the holiness
Of that mysterious day of soul-felt rest:
They are the first that e'er adored
On this wild spot their Heavenly Lord,
Or gentle Jesus bless'd.
"O Son of God!"—How sweetly came
Into their souls that blessed name!
Even like health's hope-reviving breath
To one upon the bed of death.
"Our Saviour!"—What angelic grace
Stole with dim smiles o'er Mary's face,
While through the solitude profound
With love and awe she breath'd that holy sound!
Yes! He will save! a still small voice
To Mary's fervent prayer replied;
Beneath his tender care rejoice,
On earth who for his children died.
Her Lover saw that, while she pray'd,
Communion with her God was given
Unto her sinless spirit:—nought he said;
But gazing on her with a fearful love,
Such as saints feel for sister-souls above,
Her cheek upon his bosom gently laid,
And dreamt with her of Heaven.

Pure were their souls, as infant's breath,
Who in its cradle guiltless sinks in death.
No place for human frailty this,
Despondency or fears,
Too beautiful the wild appears
Almost for human bliss.
Was love like theirs then given in vain?
And must they, trembling, shrink from pure delight?
Or shall that God, who on the main
Hath bound them with a billowy chain,
Approve the holy rite,
That, by their pious souls alone
Perform'd before his silent throne
In innocence and joy,
Here, and in realms beyond the grave,
Unites those whom the cruel wave
Could not for grief destroy?
No fears felt they of guilt or sin,
For sure they heard a voice within
That set their hearts at rest;
They pass'd the day in peaceful prayer,
And when beneath the evening air
They sought again their arbour fair,
A smiling angel met them there,
And bade their couch be blest.
Nor veil'd the Moon her virgin-light,
But, clear and cloudless all the night,
Hung o'er the flowers where love and beauty lay;
And, loth to leave that holy bower,
With lingering pace obey'd the power
Of bright-returning day.

And say! what wanteth now the Isle of Palms,
To make it happy as those Isles of rest
(When eve the sky becalms
Like a subsiding sea)
That hang resplendent mid the gorgeous west,
All brightly imaged, mountain, grove, and tree,
The setting sun's last lingering pageantry!
Hath Fancy ever dreamt of seraph-Powers
Walking in beauty through these cloud-framed bowers,
Light as the mist that wraps their dazzling feet?
And hath she ever paused to hear,
By moonlight brought unto her ear,
Their hymnings wild and sweet?
Lo! human creatures meet her view
As happy, and as beauteous too,
As those aërial phantoms!—in their mien,
Where'er they move, a graceful calm is seen
All foreign to this utter solitude,
Yet blended with such wild and fairy glide,
As erst in Grecian Isle had beautified
The guardian Deities of Grove and Flood.
Are these fair creatures earth-born and alive,
And mortal like the flowers that round them smile?
Or if into the Ocean sank their Isle
A thousand fathoms deep—would they survive,—
Like sudden rainbows spread their arching wings,
And while, to chear their airy voyage, sings
With joy the charmed sea, the Heavens give way,
That in the spirits, who had sojourn'd long
On earth, might glide, then re-assume their sway,
And from the gratulating throng
Of kindred spirits, drink the inexpressive song?

Oh! fairer now these blessed Lovers seem,
Gliding like spirits through o'er-arching trees,
Their beauty mellowing in the checquered light,
Than, years ago, on that resplendent night,
When yielded up to an unearthly dream,
In their sweet ship they sail'd upon the seas.
Aye! years ago!—for in this temperate clime,
Fleet, passing fleet, the noiseless plumes of time
Float through the fragrance of the sunny air;
One little month seems scarcely gone,
Since in a vessel of their own
At eve they landed there.
Their bower is now a stately bower,
For, on its roof, the loftiest flower
To bloom so lowly grieves,
And up like an ambitious thing
That feareth nought, behold it spring
Till it meet the high Palm-leaves!
The porch is opening seen no more,
But folded up with blossoms hoar,
And leaves green as the sea,
And, when the wind hath found them out,
The merry waves that dancing rout
May not surpass in glee.
About their home so little art,
They seem to live in Nature's heart,
A sylvan court to hold
In a palace framed of lustre green,
More rare than to the bright Flower Queen
Was ever built of old.

Where are they in the hours of day?
—The birds are happy on the spray,
The dolphins on the deep,
Whether they wanton full of life,
Or, wearied with their playful strife,
Amid the sunshine sleep.
And are these things by Nature blest
In sport, in labour, and in rest,—
And yet the Sovereigns of the Isle opprest
With languor or with pain?
No! with light glide, and chearful song,
Through flowers and fruit they dance along,
And still fresh joys, uncall'd for, throng
Through their romantic reign.
The wild-deer bounds along the rock,
But let him not yon hunter mock,
Though strong, and fierce, and fleet;
For he will trace his mountain-path,
Or else his antler's threatening wrath
In some dark winding meet.
Vaunt not, gay bird! thy gorgeous plume,
Though on yon leafy tree it bloom
Like a flower both rich and fair:
Vain thy loud song and scarlet glow,
To save from his unerring bow;
The arrow finds thee there.
Dark are the caverns of the wave,
Yet those, that sport there, cannot save,
Though hidden from the day,
With silvery sides bedropt with gold,
Struggling they on the beach are roll'd
O'er shells as bright as they.

Their pastimes these, and labours too,
From day to day unwearied they renew,
In garments floating with a woodland grace:
Oh! lovelier far than fabled sprites,
They glide along through new delights,
Like health and beauty vying in the race.
Yet hours of soberer bliss they know,
Their spirits in more solemn flow
At day-fall oft will run,
When from his throne, with kingly motion,
Into the loving arms of Ocean
Descends the setting Sun.
"Oh! beauteous are thy rocky vales,
Land of my birth, forsaken Wales!
Towering from continent or sea,
Where is the Mountain like to thee?—
The eagle's darling, and the tempest's pride,—
Thou! on whose ever-varying side
The shadows and the sun-beams glide
In still or stormy weather.
Oh Snowdon! may I breathe thy name?
And thine too, of gigantic frame,
Cader-Idris? 'neath the solar flame,
Oh! proud ye stand together!
And thou, sweet Lake!"—but from its wave
She turn'd her inward eye,
For near these banks, within her grave,
Her Mother sure must lie:
Weak were her limbs, long, long ago,
And grief, ere this, hath laid them low.

Yet soon Fitz-Owen's eye and voice
From these sad dreams recal
His weeping wife; and deeply chear'd
She soon forgets them all.
Or, haply, through delighted tears,
Her mother's smiling shade appears,
And, her most duteous child caressing,
Bestows on her a parent's blessing,
And tells that o'er these holy groves
Oft hangs the parent whom she loves.
How beauteous both in hours like these!
Prest in each other's arms, or on their knees,
They think of things for which no words are found;
They need not speak: their looks express
More life-pervading tenderness
Than music's sweetest sound.
He thinks upon the dove-like rest
That broods within her pious breast;
The holy calm, the hush divine,
Where pensive, night-like glories shine;
Even as the mighty Ocean deep,
Yet clear and waveless as the sleep
Of some lone heaven-reflecting lake,
When evening-airs its gleam forsake.
She thinks upon his love for her,
His wild, empassion'd character,
To whom a look, a kiss, a smile,
Rewards for danger and for toil!
His power of spirit unsubdued,
His fearlessness,—his fortitude,—
The radiance of his gifted soul
Where never mists or darkness roll:
A poet's soul that flows for ever,
Right onwards like a noble river,
Refulgent still, or by its native woods
Shaded, and rolling on through sunless solitudes.