Thou sought'st him in his desolation; placed
On thy warm bosom his unpillowed head;
Bade him for visions live
More bright than worlds can give;
O'er his pale lips thy soul infusive shed
That left his dust adored where kings decay untraced.
[FN#3] "On the banks of the Meles was shown the spot where Critheis, the mother of Homer, brought him into the world, and the cavern to which he retired to compose his immortal verses. A monument erected to his memory and inscribed with his name stood in the middle of the city—it was adorned with spacious porticos under which the citizens assembled."
Source of deep feeling—of surpassing love—
Creative power,—'tis thou hast peopled heaven
Since man from dust arose
His birth the cherub owes [FN#4]
To thee—by thee his rapturous harp was given
And white wings tipp'd with gold that cool the domes above.
[FN#4] The Indians (says M. de Voltaire) from whom every species of theology is derived, invented the angels and represented them in their ancient book the "Shasta," as immortal creatures, participating in the divinity of their creator; against whom a great number revolted in heaven, "Les Parsis ignicoles, qui subsistent encore ont communique a l'auteur de la religion des anciens Perses les noms des anges que les premiers Perses reconnaissaient. On en trouve cent-dix- neuf, parmi desquels ne sont ni Raphael ni Gabriel que les Perses n'adopterent que long-tems apres. Ces mots sont Chaldeens; ils ne furent connus des Juifs que dans leur captivite."
Husher of secret sighs—from childhood's hour
The slave of Fate, I've knelt before thy throne;
To thy loved courts have sped
Whene'er my heart has bled,
And every ray of bliss that heart has known
Has reached it thro' thy grief-dispelling power.
Fain thro' my native solitudes I'd roam
Bathe my rude harp in my bright native streams
Twine it with flowers that bloom
But for the deserts gloom,
Or, for the long and jetty hair that gleams
O'er the dark-bosomed maid that makes the wild her home. [FN#5]
[FN#5] This invocation when composed was intended to precede a series of poems entitled Occidental Eclogues; which work the writer has never found opportunity to finish.
I sing not for the crowd, or low or high—
A pensive wanderer on life's thorny heath
Earth's pageants for my view
Have nought: I love but few,
And few who chance to hear thy trembling breath,
My lyre, for her who wakes thee, have a sigh. [FN#6]
[FN#6] It may not be improper to observe that these stanzas were composed during a period of misfortune and dejection.
Forsake me not! none ever loved thee more!
Fair queen, I'll meet woe's fearfulest frown—and smile;
If mid the scene severe
Thou'lt drop on me one tear,
And let thy flitting form sometimes beguile
The present of its ills—I'll scorn them and adore.