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POEMS, 
 
 BY 
 
 JAMES g; PERCTVAL. 
 
 NKW-yi>RK : 
 (HARLES AVILEY, 3 WALL-STREET 
 
 WM. GRATTAN, rRINTEH. 
 
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 SftUiAeni District of JSeio-York , ss. 
 
 BE IT HE5IEMBERED, That on the eleventh day bt Novem- 
 ber in the forty-eighth year of tlie Independence of llie United States 
 of America, JAMES G. PERCIVAL, of the said District, has depo- 
 sited in tliis Office, the title oi a Book, the right whereof he claims 
 as author and proprietor iu the words following, to wit : 
 
 " Poems by James G. Percival." 
 In conformity to the Act of Congress of the United States, entitled 
 "An Act for the encouragement of Learning, b> securing the copies 
 of Maps, charts, and Books, to the authors anil proprietors of such 
 eopies. during the time therein menu .ineil." And also to an Act, en- 
 titled ■' An Act, supplementary to an act, entitled an Act for the en- 
 oouragement of Learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, 
 and Books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the 
 times therein mentioned, and extending the benefits thereof to the 
 arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prmts." 
 
 JAMES UILL, 
 Chrk of the Sovihern Uistrict of New-Tm-Je. 
 
 / 
 
 K 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Wreck, a Tale, 
 Prometheus, part 1, 
 
 , part 2, 
 
 The Suicide, 
 
 Poetry, 
 
 Love of Study, 
 
 Heaven, . 
 
 A Picture, 
 
 Mental Beauty, 
 
 Mental Harmony, 
 
 Ruins, 
 
 Maria, the Village Girl, 
 
 A Tale, 
 
 Night Watching, 
 
 Pleasures of rhildhood, 
 
 Voyage of Life. 
 
 A Picture, Cat skill Valle 
 
 Spirit of Freedom, 
 
 Hoaic, 
 
 The Deserted Wife. 
 
 Love at Evening, 
 
 " Silent she stood before 
 
 =5t-.v ^f the Pensive, 
 
 O ! there is bliss in tear 
 V'aucluse, 
 Light of Love, 
 Flower of a Southern Garden 
 Rose of my Heart, 
 The Queen of Flowers, 
 The Spirit of the Air, 
 Catania, . 
 Sonnets, 
 Ode to Music, 
 The Judgment, 
 Tribute to the Brave, 
 Libeity to Athens, 
 Senate of Callimachi, 
 Greek Emigrant's Swng, 
 Ode to Freedom, 
 Platonic Bacchanal Song 
 " Here's to her," 
 Dithyrambic, 
 The Serenade, 
 
 Page 
 , 1 
 39 
 97 
 168 
 191 
 197 
 201 
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 2t'9 
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 301 
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 306 
 308 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Consiniiptioii, . 
 
 The EJoustonia Cerulea 
 
 The Coral Grove, 
 
 The Anemone, 
 
 " A Tulip blossomed," 
 
 " I had found out a sweet green spot," 
 
 The Lake in Vermont, 
 
 The Mermaid, 
 
 The house of my Birth 
 
 The Broken Heart, 
 
 The parting of William and Mary 
 
 <* Vanity of Vanities," 
 
 The Fairest Rose is far awa', 
 
 The Flower of the Valley, 
 
 Montevideo, .... 
 
 " Once on a cloudless summer day,' 
 
 " My heart too firmly trusted," 
 
 To Seneca Lake, 
 
 " How beautiful is Night," 
 
 " Often when at night delaying," 
 
 Song — " O ! pure is the wind," 
 
 " ! had I the wings of a swallow,' 
 
 The Land of the Blest, 
 
 Retrospection, . 
 
 Calm at Sea, ... 
 
 <' My heart was a mirror," 
 
 " ! now's the hour," 
 
 " O ! wilt thou go with me, lov 
 
 <' Here the air is sweet," . 
 
 The Wandering Spirit, 
 
 Farewell to my Lyre, 
 
 Despondency 
 
 Anacreontics, . 
 
 Horatian, 
 
 The Paphian Doves, 
 
 Fragments of a Poem on the Incas, 
 
 312 
 315 
 318 
 319 
 321 
 323 
 324 
 327 
 329 
 339 
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 343 
 353 
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 357 
 358 
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 361 
 363 
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 374 
 376 
 378 
 379 
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 388 
 388 
 391 
 
THE WRECK, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 'T WAS a calm summer evening — on the sea 
 Spread out a perfect mirror, there was seen. 
 In the bkie hazy distance, one white sail, 
 That caught the eye of hope and love. She came, 
 When her light task was ended, to the brow 
 Of a commanding precipice, that hung 
 Its dark wall o'er the waters. By the staff, 
 On which a flag was hoisted, she sat down 
 In the red sun-light, which, to all below. 
 Gave a deep tincture to the towering cliff, 
 And the loose folds, that tremulously waved 
 In the scarce-breathing sea-wind, and the snow 
 Of her own tender paleness. She had caught 
 The sail from the lone cottage ofrher sire; 
 For she was motherless, and had not known 
 The name of sister ; but her heart was bound 
 In the affection of a father's heart, 
 
 1 
 
2 percival's poems. 
 
 Aiid in the love of one who was not there, 
 But far upon the ocean. She had been 
 Nursed tenderly and fondly; for the hand 
 That reared her in that sohtude wasifuU, 
 And might have lived in cities, and have been 
 Courted by the vain crowd, but that he chose 
 The silence of a distant, wild retreat. 
 Which left him to the company of books. 
 And the dear culture of the infant mind. 
 To which his heart was knit by all the links 
 That bind us to the cherished and the young, 
 The gentle and the lovely. He had fled 
 From a harsh world; and on the ocean's brink. 
 And in the bosom of romantic hills. 
 And by the channel of a broken stream, 
 Had sought communion with the beautiful 
 And the sublime of Nature ; but he still 
 Nourished the kindest feelings ; and in one 
 Who had from him her life, and was the life 
 Of his decaying years, he treasured up 
 All he had ever known of early love 
 And youth's devoted passion. She had grown. 
 In her unstained seclusion, bright and pure 
 As a first opened rose-bud, when it spreads 
 Its pink leaves to the sweetest dawn of May, 
 After a night-shower, which had wet the woods 
 And gardens with the big round drops that hang 
 Dancing in the fresh breeze, and tremblingly 
 
percival's poems. 
 
 Specking the flowers with light. She too had been 
 
 Not only shielded from all tint and stain 
 
 Of the world's evil, that the first clear stream 
 
 Of feeling in her heart still flowed as clear 
 
 As when it first ran onward, like a spring 
 
 That ever comes from the deep-caverned rock 
 
 Flowing in virgin crystal — but her mind 
 
 Was lifted by the guidance of a mind 
 
 Wrought to habitual greatness, and endued 
 
 With the true sense of glory. She was taught 
 
 That happiness was in the tender heart 
 
 And the waked soul; that the full treasure spread 
 
 In beauty o'er the ocean and the earth, 
 
 With change of season, and its ever new 
 
 And grand or lovely aspect, was enough 
 
 To move the heart to rapture, and supply 
 
 The food of thought, the never-failing spring 
 
 Of sweet sensations and unwasting joys. 
 
 But nature still was in her, and she soon 
 
 Felt, that the fond afiection of her sire. 
 
 And her loved tasks — the study of high thoughts, 
 
 Poured out in sainted volumes, which had been 
 
 Stamped in the mint of Genius, and had come 
 
 Unhurt through darkest ages, bright as gems 
 
 That sparkle, though in dust — the skilful touch 
 
 Of instruments of music, and the voice 
 
 Sweet in its untaught melody, as birds 
 
 Clear-warbling in the bushes, but attuned 
 
4 PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 To the just flow of harmony — the hand 
 
 That woke the forms of penciled life, and gave 
 
 Its colour to the violet, and its fire 
 
 To the dark eye, its blushes to the cheek. 
 
 And to the lip its sweetness; or that drew 
 
 O'er the pure lawn the silken thread, and wove 
 
 The full-leafed vine, and the luxuriant rose, 
 
 All petals and vermilion — or the walk 
 
 On the rude shore, to hear the rushing waves, 
 
 Or view the wide sea sleeping — on the hill 
 
 To catch the living landscape, and combine 
 
 The miracles of nature in one full 
 
 And deep enchantment — or to trace the brook 
 
 Up to its highest fountain in the shade 
 
 Of a thick tuft of alders, and go down 
 
 By all its leaps and windings, gathering there 
 
 The forest roses, and the nameless flowers, 
 
 That open in the wilderness, and live 
 
 Awhile in sweetest loveliness, and die 
 
 Without an eye^to watch them, or a heart 
 
 To gladden in their beauty— or in that. 
 
 The fondest to the pure and delicate, 
 
 The gentle deed of charity, the gift 
 
 That cheers the widow, or dries up the flow 
 
 Of a lone orphan's bitterness, the voice. 
 
 The melting voice of sympathy, which heals, 
 
 With a far softer touch, the wounded heart, 
 
 Than the cold alms dropped by a scornful hand, 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. / 
 
 That flings the dole it grudges — such but tears 
 Anew the closed wound open ; while the friend, 
 Who smiles when smoothing down the lonely couch, 
 And does kind deeds, which any one can do, 
 Who has a feeling spirit, such a friend 
 Heals with a searching balsam : — though her days 
 Passed on in such sweet labours, still she felt 
 Alone, and there was in her virgin heart 
 A void that all her pleasures could not fill. 
 She was not made to waste her years alone, 
 But the great voice of Nature spake to her. 
 That loving, and beloved by one like her, 
 Youthful and beautiful, her heart would find 
 In the fond interchange of looks and thoughts. 
 And in the deep anxiety of love. 
 The measure of her joyous spirit full. 
 
 And such an one she found. One Sabbath eve 
 She sat within an ivied church hard by. 
 Beside her honoured father, when the choir 
 Sang their last chant, and the deep organ-peal 
 Was dying through the twilight vault away; 
 When the set sun had thrown upon the broad 
 And chequered window, one full safiVon blaze, 
 So that the pillars glittered, and the gold 
 And crimson of the pulpit tapestry 
 Shone like the clouds that curtained o'er the west. 
 And seemed to glow, as they were folds of fire 
 Hung round the dark blue mountains; when the light 
 
6 percival's poems. 
 
 Fell through the aisles, and glanced along the seats 
 
 So clear, the eye was dazzled, and all forms 
 
 Were half intensely bright, and half deep shade — 
 
 Then, as the magic sunset, and the place 
 
 Hallowed to her pure spirit, and the sounds 
 
 Of closing melody, and the calm words, 
 
 That asked a blessing on the silent crowd. 
 
 Who listened to the prayer with breathless awe — 
 
 -\s these came o'er her feelings with a charm 
 
 Of most delicious sweetness, when her soul 
 
 Caught part of the new energy abroad 
 
 In that deep-hallowed mansion, and was far 
 
 Ascending to the glory which pervades 
 
 The one Eternal Temple — then her eye, 
 
 Living with her rapt spirit, chanced to fall 
 
 On the bright features of a noble youth. 
 
 Whose eye fell full on hers. As if a sense 
 
 Of kindred being had at once possessed 
 
 Their spirits, and a sacred fire informed 
 
 Their souls with one new life, they looked and loved. 
 
 It was the birth of passion — there went forth 
 
 From each an influence, that as a chain 
 
 Linked their young hearts together. They would turn 
 
 Aside their eyes, but in an instant back 
 
 They glanced and met; and as they met, they fell 
 
 In deep confusion downward. Then their hearts 
 
 Beat throbbingly ; a blush rose on their cheeks, 
 
 Flushing and fading like the changeful play 
 
I'ERCIVAL S POEMS. 7 
 
 Of colours on a dolphin. Thus they looked 
 Few minutes, and then parted; but as back 
 They sauntered to their several homes, they turned 
 Momently to behold the lovely thing. 
 Which, once beloved, grew dearer every time 
 Their fond eyes met; and when they heard a sound 
 From lips that long had trembled — when the touch 
 Thrilled them, and tender words were given in fear, 
 So that the low voice quivered, and the words 
 Died half unfinished — it was then beheld 
 As something more than mortal. 
 
 Love went on, 
 Day after day expanding, like the flower 
 That closes with the darkness, and awakes 
 When the new morn awakens. So their love 
 Caught new life from their often interviews, 
 And opened, and grew riper; their young hearts 
 Beat in a truer harmony the more 
 Their looks were blended, and their words exchanged. 
 So they passed on in love, a flowery path 
 Over a fragrant meadow, where all hues 
 Of loveliness were painted, and all airs 
 Of fragrance flowing. In the pure blue heaven, 
 Calm as a summer day, serenity 
 Smiled ever, and their hearts partook the calm, 
 That reigned so bright around them. 'T was a timr 
 Of Eden, such as soon will pass away, 
 And leave the storm behind it. Not for earth. 
 
b PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Not for the changeful beings, who m sport 
 
 Or sorrow dwell amid its thorns and flowers, • 
 
 Is this serenity a certain thing, 
 
 Above the reach of passion, or the clouds 
 
 That chill and darken. They had lived awhile 
 
 Most happy, in their pure and innocent love : 
 
 They were too young for evil; and they knew 
 
 But ill the feeling which pervaded them, 
 
 And drew them to each other's side, and made 
 
 Their hours of meeting ecstacy. Their play, 
 
 Their walks, their books, their talk of other days 
 
 And other nations, all that they had gleaned 
 
 From nature and from man — these had a zest. 
 
 Which they could ill account for; but they knew, 
 
 And keenly felt, its happiness. They looked 
 
 Affection, but they told it not : their love 
 
 Was silent; it grew on through many years. 
 
 And ripened as the tender down of youth 
 
 Showed the approach of manhood. Then it spake, 
 
 And would not be denied. The quiet stream, 
 
 Which through its banks of velvet turf and flowers, 
 
 Flowed in an unseen channel, with a voice 
 
 Low whispering o'er its smooth and sandy bed — 
 
 This stream now gathered strength, and checked and 
 
 bound. 
 Rushed to its freedom — it could not prevail. 
 The laws of honor, and the stern behest 
 Of a false order, chained them, and compelled 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Their kindred spirits to a separate path, 
 
 And told them they must part, and meet no more. 
 
 Her life was humble, and her simple home 
 Showed little of the greatness which lay hid 
 Beneath so plain a shelter. Ivied walls, 
 And woodbines trained to overarch the doors 
 And windows : some few beds of summer flowers. 
 And a wild shrubbery, where neatness reigned. 
 And only checked the too luxuriant growth 
 Of Nature, but subdued it not; within 
 A plain well-ordered household, without show 
 Of wealth or fashion — this concealed from all, 
 Who were not in the secret, what had marred 
 The peace of its possessor, and had drawn 
 The parasite and flatterer to disturb 
 The rest he sought so earnestly and long. 
 He found it and was happy. He had marked 
 The growing fondness of these youthful ones, 
 And sometimes feared, but did not yet refuse 
 His sanction to their interviews. No sign 
 Of aught but common friendship yet had met 
 His watchful eye; but when he saw the flame 
 Come forth in energy, and at the time 
 When love is danger, and if checked not, death — 
 Then he was filled with fears, and well he knew, 
 Unless their fondness could be linked by law. 
 In the pure bond of wedded love, that ruin 
 Would soon o'ertake them, and his treasured child 
 
 2 
 
10 pebcival's poems. 
 
 Be cast on the cold world, its sport and scorn. 
 Therefore he sought the parents of the youth, 
 The high and lordly. In their castle hall 
 They met him, under frowning battlements, 
 Behind the high-arched gateway, in the midst 
 Of trophies and of pictures, which revealed 
 The greatness of their ancestry. Their pride 
 Was stung by the base offer, and they spurned 
 The good man from their presence, and pronounced 
 Their deepest malediction on their son. 
 If he should ever think of stooping down 
 From the high perch of his nobility, 
 To woo and wed with plebians, and those poor. 
 
 It soon was ended — with the generous heart 
 Of a young noble, who has joined the pride 
 Of lofty birth with all the unchecked force 
 Of nature, he refused to bend his soul 
 To the stern mandates of societ3^ 
 He loved — loved keenly ; and he could not bo\N 
 To what seemed tyranny, and so he sought 
 His wonted happiness, at least the bliss 
 Of mutual tears, and vows of tenderness, 
 Never to leave their loves, but always cling 
 To the fixed hope, that there should be a time, 
 When they could meet unfettered, and be blessed 
 With the full happiness of certain love. 
 He sought his usual meeting, but he found 
 The welcome door closed on him, and was told, 
 
PKRCIVAL S POEMS. 11 
 
 He must away, for though his noble life, 
 Bright with its many virtues, and high deeds, 
 Had nought to alienate her father's heart, 
 Yet their unequal fortunes must forever 
 Part them, and therefore he must not delay. 
 He turned with heavy heart, and slowly went. 
 With often pauses, to the sounding shore. 
 And, seated on a broken rock, looked long 
 Over the far blue waters. " I will go," 
 He said, after long silence, " I will go 
 To other lands, and find in other worlds, 
 Wherewith to quell this passion, if a love 
 So long and deeply cherished, can be quelled 
 By time and change. There is no pleasure here ; 
 The cold dead-hearted nuptials, which the great 
 Seek, in their anxious longing to retain 
 The show of their once sure ascendency. 
 Made sure by personal greatness, and the sway 
 Of a high spirit, and a lofty mind 
 
 O'er meaner souls these are my deepest scorn. 
 
 My horror, and my loathing, I am one 
 
 Who find within me a nobility 
 
 That spurns the idle prating of the great. 
 
 And their mean boast of what their fathers were, 
 
 While they themselves are fools, effeminates. 
 
 The scorn of all who know the worth of mi»d 
 
 And virtue. I have cherished in my heart 
 
 A love for one, whose beauty would have charmed 
 
12 percival's poems. 
 
 In Athens, and have won the sensual love 
 
 Of Eastern monarchs ; but to the pure heart, 
 
 And the great soul within her, 't is to me 
 
 As nothing, and I know what 't is to love 
 
 A spiritual beauty, and behind the foil 
 
 Of an unblemished loveliness still find 
 
 Charms of a higher order, and a power 
 
 Deeper and more resistless. Had I found 
 
 Such thoughts and feelings, such a clear deep stream 
 
 Of mind, in one whom vulgar men had thrown 
 
 As a dull pebble from them, I had loved. 
 
 Not with a love less fond, nor with a flame 
 
 Of less intense devotion. I must go ; 
 
 I must forget. There is a sense of death 
 
 Comes o'er me, when I tear myself away 
 
 From one so bright and lovely. Had the Sun 
 
 Set in an endless darkness, life had been 
 
 Not darker than the journey I must take 
 
 Alone, along a hard and thorny way, 
 
 Where only interest rules, and faith and love 
 
 Are banished, and the cold and heartless crowd 
 
 Live, each the other's plunderer, as if life 
 
 Were only meant for rapine, and poor man 
 
 Were made to prey upon his kindred wretch. 
 
 But I must go — only one short adieu, 
 
 Only a few fond words, a few dear looks, 
 
 One kiss at parting, and our hopes are ended. 
 
 We long have dreamed of happiness, long known 
 
percival's poems. 13 
 
 Joys which were more than mortal, long have felt 
 The bliss of mingled hearts and blended souls, 
 And long have thought the vision was eternal : 
 It vanishes, and I am now a wretch, 
 And what will be her sorrows, none can tell." 
 The sun was setting, and his last rays threw 
 Bright colours on the clouds that hung around 
 The moimtains, dimly rising in the west 
 Over a broad expanse of sheeted gold, 
 On which a ship lay floating. It was calm — 
 Her sails were set, but yet the dying wind 
 Scarce wooed them, as they trembled on the yard 
 With an uncertain motion. She arose, 
 As a swan rises on her gilded wings, 
 When on a lake at a sunset she uprears 
 Her form from out the waveless stream, and steers 
 Into the far blue ether — so that ship 
 Seemed lifted from the waters, and suspended, 
 Winged with her bright sails, in the silent air. 
 A voice came from that ship, the voice of joy, 
 The song of a light heart, and it invoked 
 The coming of the breeze, to send them forth 
 Over the rolling ocean. He looked out 
 On the wide sea, and on the sheeted bay. 
 And on the rocking vessel ; and at once 
 His purpose was resolved. He must away. 
 He must to other regions, and there strive 
 To conquer love so cherished. He drew out 
 
14 pkkcival's poems. 
 
 His pencil, and then traced few hurried lines, 
 
 Telling her of his absence, and his hope 
 
 Of happiness at his return, and yet 
 
 Ending it with a fear, that he should never 
 
 Cross the wide waters to her : — he too gave 
 
 His signal ; if perchance a ship drew near, 
 
 And bore a pennon on the topmast yard, 
 
 White with a heart stamped on it, she might know 
 
 He was there, hastening home, and be prepared 
 
 To meet him, and be happy. This he took, 
 
 And up a narrow valley, hung with trees, 
 
 Whose roots clung to the rifted rock, whose boughs 
 
 Met, and o'erarched the glade ; along the bank 
 
 Of a clear stream, that calmly wound its way 
 
 Under this verdant canopy, and flowed 
 
 Through a fresh turf, and beds of scented flowers — 
 
 Up this he took his path, and as he drew 
 
 Near to the garden wall, and stood with ear 
 
 Attentive to a sound, that came to him 
 
 On the still evening air, as if a hymn 
 
 Were sung above the clouds, and floated down 
 
 Through mist and dews, and softly fell to earth, 
 
 Charming the ear of darkness — soon he saw 
 
 Beneath a vine bower, seated on a couch 
 
 Of closely matted turf, the tender girl. 
 
 Where all his wishes centered, and he drew 
 
 Silently through the thicket to her side. 
 
 She started first in fear, but when she saw 
 
percival's poems. 15 
 
 The well-known youth, she deeply blushed and smiled; 
 
 Then thinking of his banishment, she dropped 
 
 Warm tears of truest sorrow. He, with fond 
 
 And feeling voice, consoled her, and renewed 
 
 His oft repeated vows, and told of years 
 
 Of undisturbed affection — how that time 
 
 And truth would conquer, and their love would be 
 
 Brighter by their affliction. Though his heart 
 
 Ached with the thought of partmg, and was forced 
 
 Even to a stern composure, yet he smiled 
 
 To make her happy. " We must part awhile ; 
 
 I must go o'er the sea to other lands; 
 
 It is the call of duty; but fear not, 
 
 I shall return, and then our loves are sure. 
 
 Dream not of danger on the sea — one power 
 
 Protects us always, and the honest heart 
 
 Fears not the tempest. We must part awhile ; 
 
 A few short months — though short, they must be long 
 
 Without thy dear society ; but yet 
 
 We must endure it, and our love will be 
 
 The fonder after parting — it will grow 
 
 Intenser in our absence, and again 
 
 Burn with a keener glow, when I return. 
 
 Fear not; this is my last resolve, and this 
 
 My parting kiss." He put the folded lines 
 
 In her soft hand, and kissed her offered lips 
 
 Ardently, and then suddenly withdrew 
 
 From her embrace, and down the narrow vale 
 
16 percival's poems. 
 
 Fled on with hasty footsteps to the shore. 
 
 Along the beach he wandered, looking out 
 
 Upon the glorious sunset, which arrayed 
 
 All things in glory, painting them with gold 
 
 And deepest red and azure — over head 
 
 The sky was coloured with a purest blue, 
 
 And there one star shone forth, the star of love, 
 
 His beacon; and it hung above the ship 
 
 As if it led him thither. He received 
 
 The omen, and went onward. Out at sea 
 
 The broad waves heaved, now blue, now green, now 
 
 tipped 
 With a gilt foam, and on the unruffled bay 
 There was a circle round the setting sun 
 Of a most glittering gold, and as it spread 
 Farther and farther out, it changed its hue 
 To a clear glassy silver, till it seemed 
 Thin air, and the far mountains hung above it 
 Suspended in the sky. They darkly frowned, 
 And their long shadows travelled o'er the bay, 
 As the sun sank still lower, while their ridge 
 Glowed like a flaming furnace, and a line 
 Of mottled clouds, that rose behind them, streaming 
 Into the clear cold North, was dyed with tints, 
 Like the new rainbow, when it first comes out 
 From the dark bosom of the thunder cloud, 
 And spans it with its beauty, or the hues 
 That veiled Aurora, when she first awolje 
 
percival's poems. 17 
 
 And sprang from darkness, and with saffron robe 
 And rosy fingers, drove her fiery car 
 On over Ida to the higher heaven. 
 
 He went amid these glorious things of earth. 
 Transient as glorious, and along the beach 
 Of snowy sands, and rounded pebbles, walked, 
 Watching the coming of the evening tide, 
 Rising with every ripple, as it kissed 
 The gravel with a softly gurgling sound, 
 And still advancing up the level shore. 
 Till, in his deep abstraction, it flowed round 
 His foot-prints, and awoke him. When he came, 
 Where a long reef stretched out, and in its bays 
 Scooped from the shelving rocks, received the sea, 
 And held it as a mirror deep and dark. 
 He paused, and standing then against the ship. 
 He gave his signal. Soon he saw on board 
 The stir of preparation ; they let down 
 A boat, and soon her raised and dipping oars 
 Flashed in the setting light, and round her prow 
 The gilt sea swelled and crinkled, spreading out 
 In a wide circle ; and she glided on 
 Smoothly, and with a whispering sound, that grew i 
 Louder with every dipping of the oars. 
 Until she neared the reef, and sent a surge 
 Up through its coves, and covered them with foam. 
 He stepped on board, and soon they bore him back 
 To the scarce rocking vessel, where she lay 
 
 3 
 
18 percival's poems. 
 
 Waiting the night wind. On the deck he sat, 
 And looked to one point only, save at times, 
 When his eye glanced around the mingled scene 
 Of beauty and sublimity. Meanwhile 
 The sun had set, the painted sky and clouds 
 Put off their liveries, the bay its robe 
 Of brightness, and the stars were thick in heaven. 
 They looked upon the waters, and below 
 Another sky swelled out, thick set with stars. 
 And chequered with light clouds, which from the North 
 Came flitting o'er the dim-seen hills, and shot 
 Like birds across the bay. A distant shade 
 Dimmed the clear sheet — it darkened, and it drew 
 Nearer. The waveless sea was seen to rise 
 In feathery curls, and soon it met the ship, 
 And a breeze struck her. Quick the floating sails 
 Rose up and drooped again. The wind came on 
 Fresher; the curls were waves; the sails were filled 
 Tensely; the vessel righted to her course. 
 And ploughed the waters; round her prow the foam 
 Tossed, and went back along her polished sides, 
 And floated off, bounding the rushing wake, 
 •'^That seemed to pour in torrents from her stern. 
 The wind still freshened, and the sails were stretched. 
 Till the yards cracked. She bent before its force, 
 And dipped her lee-side low beneath the waves. 
 Straight out she went to sea, as when a hawk 
 Darts on a dove, and with a motionless wing 
 
percival's poems. 19 
 
 Cuts the light yielding air. The mountains dipped 
 
 Their dark walls to the waters, and the hills 
 
 Scarce reared their green tops o'er them. One white 
 
 point, 
 On which a light house blazed, alone stood out 
 In the broad sea, and there he fixed his eye, 
 Taking his last look of his native shore. 
 Night wore away, and still the wind blew strong, 
 And the ship ploughed the waves, which now were 
 
 heaved 
 In high and rolling billows. All were glad, 
 And laughed and shouted, as she darted on, 
 And plunged amid the foam, and tossed it high 
 Over the deck, as when a strong curbed steed 
 Flings the froth from him in his eager race. 
 All had been dimly star-lit, but the moon 
 Late rising, silvered o'er the tossing sea, 
 And lighted up its foam-wreaths, and just threw 
 One parting glance upon the distant shores. 
 They met his eye — the sinking rocks were bright, 
 And a clear line of silver marked the hills, 
 Where he had said farewell. A sudden tear 
 Gushed, and his heart was melted; but he soon *'# 
 
 Repressed the weakness, and he calmly watched 
 The fading vision. Just as it retired 
 Into the common darkness, on his eyes 
 Sleep fell, and with his looks turned to his home, 
 And dearer than his home — to her he loved, 
 
20 percival's poems. 
 
 He closed them, and his thoughts were lost in dreams 
 
 Bright and too glad to be realities. 
 
 Calmly he slept, and lived on happy dreams, 
 
 Till from the bosom of the bomidless sea, 
 
 Now spreading far and wide without a shore, 
 
 The cloudless sun arose, and he awoke. '. 
 
 The sky was still serene, and from the bed 
 Of ocean darted forth the glowing sun, 
 And flashed along the waters. On they sailed : 
 The wind blew steady, and they saw that sun 
 Rise, and go down, and set, and still it blew 
 Freshly and calmly. They had left the shore 
 Long leagues behind them, and the mid-sea now 
 Bore them upon its bosom on their way 
 To lands where other flowers and other trees 
 Dress out the landscape, and where other men 
 Walk in the light of Heaven. Thither he went, 
 And none knew, of his kindred, when or where 
 He had escaped them. They, with anxious quest, 
 Sought him, and after long and fruitless search 
 Believed him dead. Awhile they mourned his loss. 
 As great ones mourn, and then he passed away 
 Into oblivion, and they filled his^^ace 
 In their afiections with a gilded toy, 
 And found their treasures ampler by his death. 
 Not so with her who loved him ; when he fled. 
 She followed, but soon 'sank beneath the weight 
 Of deep and sudden sorrow. He had gone 
 
percival's poems. 21 
 
 Over the sea ; had sought the dangerous wave, 
 
 And might be wrecked, or on some distant shore 
 
 Lingering a hopeless captive. To that point 
 
 Where the flag waved, she often bent her steps, 
 
 And gazed upon the ocean earnestly. 
 
 Watching each dim speck on the farthest verge 
 
 Of sight, and deeming every cloud a sail, 
 
 And every wreath of foam her lover's sign. 
 
 Two years had gone away, and she had thus 
 
 Sought the high cliff at morning, noon, and night, 
 
 And gazed in eager longing till her eye 
 
 Was fixed and glazed. Her cheek grew thin and pale; 
 
 Her form was wasted ; and all knew that sorrow 
 
 Preyed on the blossom of her health, and eat 
 
 Her life away. A little while, and death 
 
 Would come to her deliverance. Little know 
 
 The cold unfeeling crowd how strong the love, 
 
 The first warm love of youth ; how long it lives 
 
 Unfed and unrequited ; how it bears 
 
 Absence and cruel scorn, and still looks calm 
 
 And patient on the eye, that turns aside. 
 
 And shows its studied coldness — how much more 
 
 It burns and feeds upon the flame of life, 
 
 When it was fully met, and found a heart 
 
 As warm and ardent, and as bent to hers, 
 
 As hers to him. Youth is the time of love; 
 
 All other loves are lifeless, and but flowers 
 
 Wreathed round decay, and with a livid hue 
 
22 percival's poems. 
 
 Blowing upon a grave. The first fresh love 
 Dies never wholly ; it lives on through pain 
 And disappointment : often when the heart 
 Is crushed and all its sympathies pressed out, 
 This lingers, and awakens, and shines bright, 
 Even on the borders of a wretched grave. 
 Unhappy he, who throws that gift away; 
 Unhappy he, who lets a tender heart, 
 Bound to him by the earliest ties of love, 
 Fall from him by his own neglect, and die, 
 Because it met no kindness, and was spurned 
 Even in the earnest offer. Life soon fades, 
 And VAdth it love ; and when it once has faded, 
 There is no after bloom, no second spring. 
 " So passes in the passage of a day 
 The flower and verdure of our mortal life ; 
 Nor, though the spring renew her fruits and flowers, 
 Doth it renew its beauty, but it fades 
 Once and forever. Let us pluck the rose, 
 In the unclouded morning of this day. 
 Which soon will lose its bright serenity. 
 O ! let us pluck the first blown rose of love ; 
 Let us love now in this our fairest youth, 
 When love can find a full and fond return."* 
 One evening I had wandered by the shore, 
 Looking upon the ocean, as it lay 
 
 * Cosi trajiassa al trapassar d'liii giorno, &.c. Tasso. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 'Z6 
 
 Spread in its beauty round me. 'T was a time 
 
 For spirits, all had such serenity. 
 
 Scarce had a cloud chequered the autumn sky, 
 
 That rose above me in a boundless arch 
 
 Of purest azure. All the woods were hung 
 
 With many tints, the fading livery 
 
 Of life, in which it mourns the coming storms 
 
 Of winter, and the quiet winds awoke 
 
 Faint dirges in their withered leaves, and breathed 
 
 Their sorrows through the groves. My heart felt soft 
 
 Under their tender influence. I seemed 
 
 A sharer in the grief of sighing winds. 
 
 And whispering trees. I clomb the rock, and trod 
 
 The d3'ing grass that grew upon its brow, 
 
 And gazed upon the ocean, now as bright 
 
 As in the freshest spring, unchangeable, 
 
 Always the same, or onJy to the force 
 
 Of calm and tempest yielding, never old. 
 
 And never fading; in its wildest storms 
 
 Soon to be calm, and when in sheeted light 
 
 Spread to the farthest circle of the sky, 
 
 Soon to obey the winds, and wake in wrath. 
 
 I walked along that rock, and heard the waves 
 Chafing its foot, and saw the tossing foam 
 Playing in eddies round it. Then the tide 
 Had risen, and a wind came from the sea 
 Curling the little waves, until they broke 
 In infant surges on the murmuring shore. 
 
24 percival's poems. 
 
 The sky grew dark ; and, as I homeward turned, 
 I saw a woman sitting by the staff 
 On which the signal hmig, with mantle wrapped 
 Close roimd her, and with eye intently fixed 
 On an approaching vessel, as it came 
 Quickly before the wind, and up the bay 
 Glided. She followed it with earnest look, 
 Until it turned a distant point, and drew 
 Dimly behind the hills and vanished. Then 
 She turned again to sea, and long she looked 
 On the white curls of foam, as if she saw 
 A signal there; but yet there was no sail 
 On the dark waters. With a lingering foot 
 Back she retired, and, often turning, looked 
 Still earnestly abroad, and found no hope. 
 I saw her weep, and faintly hang her head, 
 As a pale lily hangs, when, filled with rain, 
 After long summer heat and heavy showers, 
 It bends upon its withered stalk, and sheds 
 The unwelcome moisture. Slowly she withdrew 
 Into a thicket, where a trodden path. 
 Her daily path, led to her father's home. 
 
 He saw her fading cheek; he knew the fire 
 That wasted her; and with a parent's love 
 He sought to heal her grief, but only made 
 The wound still deeper. Comfort cannot soothe 
 The heart, whose life is centered in the thought 
 Of happy loves, once known, and still in hope 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. J 
 
 Living with a consuming energy. 
 He found remonstrance fruitless, reason vain; 
 And therefore, with a kindness, which was wise, 
 He humoured her, and let her seek that rock 
 Unchecked, and only watched, that nought of harm 
 Might meet her. So she sought it, when the snow 
 Mantled it, and the sea was rudely lashed 
 By the cold north wind ; but a father's hand 
 Was ntfar to guard her. It was now divined. 
 That he, whom she had loved, had crossed the sea, 
 And still was living, and would soon return. 
 Some then were joyous, not with unfeigned joy; 
 For when they told their hopes, that he would come 
 From his long wanderings home, they inly felt 
 A sorrow, which revealed itself, and checked 
 Often the words of comfort, which they gave 
 To those, who wept his loss sincerely, those 
 Who cannot conquer nature, which will make 
 A child forever dear, and through the clouds, 
 That vice and selfish greatness cast around. 
 Sometimes will tiash abroad, and be revealed. 
 
 Winter had passed away, and then Spring came. 
 Lovely as ever, with her crown of flowers. 
 And dress of verdure. She was decked with smiles. 
 And as she danced along the springing turf. 
 New flowers awoke to welcome her, and birds 
 Hailed her from bush and forest. Then the sea, 
 Girt by its greener shores, seemed rolling on 
 
 4 
 
26 percival's poems. 
 
 With brighter waves, and the sun sparkled there 
 
 With an unusual brilliancy. The earth 
 
 Was beautiful, and like the seat of Gods, 
 
 Or what we dream of Eden; and all hearts 
 
 Were sharers in its gladness. Bird and beast 
 
 Felt it, and, as they leaped, or as they flew. 
 
 They spake their joy ; and even the voiceless woods, 
 
 Mute in themselves, were vocal with the winds. 
 
 And the low murmuring breezes through their boughs 
 
 Seemed to speak out their still and quiet bliss. 
 
 All hearts were glad with the glad season. One 
 
 Alone knew nought of pleasure, and the smiles 
 
 Of others were a mockery to her, 
 
 And told her of the joy, that once had been. 
 
 But was not, and she could not hope, would be. 
 
 Hope, by too long deferring, had gone out. 
 
 And left her soul in darkness. Still she went 
 
 Daily to that one point, rnd there she gazed 
 
 Fixedly on the ocean, till her head 
 
 Grew dizzy, and her reason almost went; 
 
 And then she wandered^ home, and wept away 
 
 The fever of her brain. A woodbine grew 
 
 Over her window, and its leaves shut out 
 
 The light, and now its flowers were opening forth 
 
 Their sweetness, and the wind that entered there 
 
 Came loaded with its perfume. Once she loved 
 
 The tufted flowers, and she inhaled their breath 
 
 With a deep sense of gladness ; but she now 
 
percival's poems. 27 
 
 Repelled it as a hateful thing:, and wished 
 The vine were torn and scattered. Every year 
 A linnet came, and built her cup-like nest 
 Within that arbour, and she fed her young, 
 And sang them to their slumbers, and at dawn 
 Wakened them with her clear and lively note. 
 She fed the timid creature, till it grew 
 Familiar, and would sit upon her hand, 
 And pick the crumbs she gave itj but she now 
 Neglected it, and when it came, and sought 
 Her former kindness, she regarded not 
 Its fluttering and its song. Her heart was chilled 
 And dead to all its softer sympathies. 
 It cherished but one feeling, hopeless love. 
 Love stronger by endurance, ever growing 
 With the decay of life and all its powers. 
 
 He had been wandering long, and found no rest—- 
 Nothing could tear the image from his soul, 
 That dwelt there as an ever present God, 
 Controlling all his being. He had seen 
 Nature in a new beauty; and a heart 
 Free from all other influence, had swelled 
 Beneath the bright enchantment ; but he looked 
 On all the fair variety around 
 With a cold eye, because he looked alone, 
 And felt that what he looked on, was not seen 
 By one, who had been ever in his walks, 
 As an attendant spirit, watching all 
 
2S percival's poems. 
 
 That lifted him, or soothed him, with a sense 
 
 Of kindred awe or pleasure. When alone 
 
 He could not mingle with the glorious things 
 
 Of Earth and Heaven ; he could not pass away 
 
 Into the open depths of the far sky, 
 
 And dwell among its many-coloured forms 
 
 Of cloud and vapour, where they hung the arch, 
 
 As with imperial tapestry, and veiled 
 
 The throne of the Omnipotent. The Earth, 
 
 Now in its newest Spring, all dressed with flowers, 
 
 And redolent of roses and of vines 
 
 From their wide purple beds, and sunward slopes, 
 
 Where the bee murmured, and the early dews 
 
 Soon rose in clouds of perfume,' as the dawn 
 
 Came o'er the pine-clad mountains, and lit up 
 
 A world of present life and ancient ruin, 
 
 Where the rose bloomed as brightly, and the vine 
 
 Shot forth as heavy cluster and full wreaths 
 
 Of ivy twined around each tottering pile, 
 
 And mantled arch and column, with its deep 
 
 Luxuriant verdure ; all that he beheld 
 
 Of evergrowing nature and of man. 
 
 Whose works are fading, and when they decay, 
 
 Have no restoring energy, but drop 
 
 Fragment by fragment into utter ruin ; 
 
 All that had waked in other hearts the love 
 
 Of ancient glory, and the proud resolve 
 
 To be, as they were, glorious, or had filled 
 
percival's poems. 29 
 
 The soul with sorrow, and the eye with tears, 
 Over their fallen greatness, yet had made 
 This sorrow partly joyous, by the sight 
 Of a new life forever springing round them, 
 And still as fresh and fragrant, as when first 
 Bright from the quarry, their new temples stood 
 Proud in the sun, and lifted high their fronts 
 To the admiring eye of gods and men — 
 This had to him no pleasure; he could not 
 Raze out the deep-fixed passion, which so long 
 Had been his daily happiness, and formed 
 And fashioned all his studies and his joys 
 To this one pure enjoyment. Earth was fair, 
 And Heaven was glorious, when he heard her say, 
 They were thus fair and glorious ; but alone. 
 They had no form nor colour, and were lost 
 In one dim melancholy hue of death. 
 And so with man — he wandered through the crowd 
 In solitude, that coldest solitude. 
 Which tortures, while it chills us. They were gay 
 And busy, but he heeded not; the great 
 Rolled by him, and were noticed not; the poor 
 Pleaded, and yet he listened not : — one thought 
 Alone went with him, and all other things 
 Stirred round him like the shadows of a dream. 
 He would not linger thus ; he looked to home, 
 And her who gave to home a double charm. 
 He was resolved, and soon again the sea 
 
30 percival's poems. 
 
 Received him ; and for many days the sun 
 Beheld him steering to his native shore. 
 
 'T was a calm summer evening — one white sail 
 Moved on the silent water, motionless, 
 Scarce stealing to the shore. She watched that sail, 
 And followed it with an inquiring eye. 
 In every tack it took to catch the wind, 
 Fancying she saw the signal. Slowly on 
 It came. The glassy ocean seemed to change 
 At distance into air; and so the ship 
 Seemed moving like a bird along the sky. 
 Sometimes it stood athwart her, and the sails, 
 Hung loosely on the yards, seemed waving lines 
 Tinged with the sunset; and again it turned 
 With prow directed to her, and at once 
 The broad white canvass threw its silvery sheet 
 Full on her eye, and glittered in the west. 
 Nearer it came, but slowly; till at length 
 Its form was marked distinctly, and she caught 
 Eagerly, as it waved upon a yard 
 Near the main topmast, what her wearied eye 
 Had sought so long, and found not. It was there : 
 The signal, one white pennon, with a heart 
 Stamped in its centre; and at once her joy 
 Was speechless and o'erflowing. Fixed, she looked 
 With trembling earnestness, and down her cheeks 
 The tears ran fast, and her scarce-moving lips 
 Had words without a voice. Thus she sat long, 
 
PERCIVAL S P0EM3. 31 
 
 Motionless in the fervour of her joj*^, 
 
 Absorbed in one emotion, which had bound 
 
 Her form unto her spirit, and had made 
 
 All other powers the ministers to thought. 
 
 They hurried through her mind, her first fond love, 
 
 Its many pleasures, hours of early hope 
 
 Unclouded by the fear of coming ill, 
 
 And present happiness, which, like the dawn 
 
 In the sweet month of May, is full of life, 
 
 And yet serene and tranquil, budding out 
 
 With blossoms of futurity, and spreading 
 
 To the bright eye of Heaven the tender flowers, 
 
 Where the young fruit lies hidden, till the sun 
 
 Ripen it to its full maturity. 
 
 These hurried through her mind, and with them came 
 
 Long anxious days, long days of bitterness. 
 
 Dark with the fears that weigh upon the heart 
 
 Whose love is young and tender, when the chance 
 
 Of sea or battle passes o'er the head 
 
 Of him who has the secret of her soul. 
 
 The sun was setting, and the dazzling orb 
 Sunk down behind the mountains, darting up 
 Long rays of golden light into the air, 
 Like glories round the sacred countenance 
 In one of Raphael's pictures. All was clear 
 But one dark cloud, which rose from out the point 
 Where the storm gathers after sultry days, 
 And launches forth the lightning. This heaved up 
 
32 PEBCIVAL. S POEMS. 
 
 Its dusky billows, and their tips were tinged 
 With a bright flame, while all below was dark 
 Fearfully, and it swelled before the wind, 
 Like the strong canvass of a gallant ship 
 Standing before the tempest. It just crowned 
 The hill at sunset; but it now came on. 
 First slowly, till it rose upon the air. 
 Frowning, and threw its shadow o'er the earth. 
 And flashed intensely; then it seemed to move 
 With a new pace, and every instant swept 
 Still farther on the sky, and sent its voice 
 Deep-roaring with the mingled sound of winds 
 Amid the shaken forests, and the peals 
 Re-echoed from the mountains. Now the sea 
 Darkened beneath its shadow, and it curled 
 Without a breath, as if it shook in fear 
 Before the coming tempest. She looked wild, 
 First on the cloud, then on the ship, which now 
 Steered to a cove behind a sandy point, 
 On which the light house stood, but yet the winds 
 Were light and baffling, and against her course ; 
 And so the sails flapped loosely, and she rocked 
 Motionless on the crisping waves, and lay 
 Waiting, a victim, for the threatening storm. 
 Then, as she looked with an intenser gaze. 
 She saw the sweeps put out, and every arm 
 Strained to the effort, but their strength availed not 
 To send them to a haven. Then her heai't 
 
pkrcival's poems. 33 
 
 Sank, and her hopes were darkened, till her form 
 Shook with her fears. The clouds rolled on the wind 
 In mingling billows, and the lightnings leaped 
 From point to point ; then in an instant burst 
 The thunder crash, and one undying roar 
 Filled the wide air. At last the cold wind came, 
 And the flag streamed and quivered, and her robes 
 Flew lightly round her. First short broken waves 
 Rose on the bay ; their tops were white with foam, 
 And on they hurried, like the darting flight 
 Of sea-mews when they fly before the storm. 
 She looked upon the ship ; all hands aloft 
 Took in the sails, and scarcely were they furled. 
 When the blast struck her. To its force she bowed, 
 And as the waves rose now with mountain swell, 
 Upward she sprang, and then she rushed away 
 Into the gulfy waters. Now the storm 
 Stood o'er her, and the rain and hail came down 
 In torrents. All was darkness; through the air 
 The gushing clouds streamed onward, and they took 
 The nearest headlands from her straining sight, 
 And made the sea invisible, but when 
 A flash revealed it, and she saw the surge 
 Pouring upon the rocks below, all foam 
 And fury. What a mingled sound above. 
 Around her, and beneath her ; one long peal 
 Seemed to pervade the heavens; and one wide rush 
 Of winds and rain poured by her ; and the sound 
 
34 percival's poems. 
 
 Of the dashed billows on the rocks below 
 
 Rang like a knell. No vessel met her then; 
 
 They lit the signal lamp, she saw it not; 
 
 They fired the gim, but in the louder roar 
 
 Of waters it was drowned, and they were left 
 
 Alone to struggle with the warring waves. 
 
 A cry went forth, " a ship was on the rocks," 
 
 And hundreds crowded to the shore to aid 
 
 The suffering crew, and fires were kindled there, 
 
 But all availed not — not a man was saved. 
 
 The storm went swiftly by ; and soon the winds 
 
 Subsided, and the western sky shone out,* 
 
 And light glanced o'er the waters. On a reef, 
 
 That stretched from off the cliffs along that shore, 
 
 The broken wreck lay scattered ; and at last 
 
 One and another corse came floating up, 
 
 But none were saved. They wandered o'er the sands ; 
 
 And here a bale lay stranded ; there an oar. 
 
 And there a yard. Just as the cloud had flown 
 
 Over the zenith, and the moon shone out 
 
 From its dark bosom, she went down the rocks, 
 
 And bent her trembling steps along the shore. 
 
 The moon looked out in sadness, and her light 
 Threw a faint glimmering on the broken waves, 
 And paled the dying watch-fires, as they fell 
 Flickering away, and showed the fearful looks 
 Of those who watched the wreck, and stood to save. 
 The waves still rolled tremendously, and burst 
 
percival's poems. 35 
 
 Loud thundering on the rocks : they tossed the foam 
 High up the hills, and ploughed the moving sands, 
 Sweeping the fragments forth, then rushing back 
 With a devouring strength, that cleared the shore. 
 The west shone fair; the evening star was bright, 
 And many glittering stars were gathering round, 
 Set in a deep, dark blue. The distant hills 
 Showed faintly, and long wreaths of mist arose 
 Curling around their sides, like cottage smoke 
 Sent from the hidden valley in the dawn. 
 O'er all the moon presided, and her face. 
 Though clear, was darkened, and it filled the heart 
 Of the beholder with a silent awe. 
 And a cold heavy sadness. On the sea 
 Her light descended, and a silver wake 
 Came from beneath her onward to the shore. 
 Crossing the bursting waves. The cloud still lay 
 Dark-rolling in the east, and often sent 
 Pale flashes forth; and still the thunder growled 
 Fainter and fainter, as the storm moved on 
 Over the distant ocean. There the moon 
 Lit a faint bow, that spanned the cloud, and seemed 
 Just fading into darkness. All was still, 
 But the contending waters, and the drops, 
 Now trickling from the forest leaves, were heard 
 Pattering upon the grass ; and as a sign 
 That a sure calm had come, the fire-fly lit 
 Its lamp along the meadows, and the chirp 
 
36 percival's poems. 
 
 Of the green locust from the thicket told 
 How tranquil was the air. A solemn fear 
 Went through the hearts of all, as they surveyed 
 The corpses, but their faces all were strange. 
 They took them from the beach, and decently 
 Conveyed them to a shelter, there to wait 
 The last sad offices. Alone she went 
 Still farther on the shore, until she came 
 Where a long reef stood out, on which the ship 
 Was broken; and the very reef where he 
 First went on board, despairing and resolved. 
 One feeling led her onward, and sustained 
 Her wasted body, (which was sinking fast 
 Beneath the desperate conflict,) with the strength 
 Of madness, and her easy steps betrayed not 
 The woe that wrung within her. She had seen 
 Her lover standing far upon that reef; 
 Had seen the boat go there, and bear him off, 
 And as the ship went out to sea had fainted. 
 Therefore she sought that reef, with a wild hope — 
 Such often tokens madness — that she there 
 Might jfind him safely rescued. She now stood 
 On the projecting rocks, and as she threw 
 Her dark eye downward to a glimmering cove, 
 She saw him. Lifted by the swelling wave, 
 He seemed yet living, and a shrill laugh told 
 Her glad but wandering spirit. Down she leaped 
 And clasped him ; — he was motionless and cold. 
 
percival's poems. 37 
 
 She kissed him, but he opened not his eyes, 
 
 And smiled not. Then she spake the much-loved name, 
 
 With an endearing tone, but none replied. 
 
 " Art thou not living? thou wert once so kind, 
 
 Thy smile so happy, and thy kiss so warm; 
 
 But thou art cold now, and thine eye darts not 
 
 Upon me, as it wont to do; thy lips 
 
 Move not, thou hast no voice, no welcome for me." 
 
 She raised her head, and as she caught the moon 
 
 Half veiled in vapour, from her glassy eye 
 
 The tears stole down, and with a quivering voice, 
 
 Faint as a night wind through the falling leaves 
 
 In autumn, " It is over then," she spake; 
 
 " The dream is over; he indeed is wrecked, 
 
 As I had fancied long; he cannot wake; 
 
 This is not sleep; there is no life-blood here; 
 
 No flush upon his forehead; he is cold, 
 
 And will not wake again. He said to me. 
 
 Farewell, perhaps forever; — O! too true 
 
 The last fond words at parting; — but forever — 
 
 Ah ! no — I meet him — I have lingered long — 
 
 He calls me on my journey — he awaits me. 
 
 And why do I delay ? — I come, my love ; — 
 
 Only a moment, and I come, my love." 
 
 Suddenly she sprang forth, with outstretched arms, 
 
 And a wild look, that told there was no hope; 
 
 A few short steps, she paused, and then sank down, 
 
 As a flower sinks upon the new-mown turf, 
 
38 percival's poems. 
 
 Beautiful even in death. They came, and raised 
 The dying girl. Her loose locks floated wide; 
 And on her slender neck her languid head 
 Drooped, and her eyes were closed. Her lips still 
 
 moved 
 With the last breath, and then were still. At once 
 Her madness was no more. A tender smile 
 Played round her, and her looks were full of love 
 And gentleness, such as when first she met, 
 And first awoke his love. She long had borne 
 The conflict, and with desperate energy 
 Been nerved to all endurance ; but this shock 
 Subdued her, and her spirit had departed. 
 And well they knew its passage was in peace. 
 They both were buried, where they first had met. 
 Beneath one stone, and they were wept by all. 
 A willow grows above them, with its boughs 
 Drooping, as if in sorrow ; and at night 
 A sweet bird sings there, and the village girls 
 Say 'tis a spirit's voice. They dress that grave 
 Each Sabbath-day with roses; and they strew 
 Fresh violets there on May-day, and then sing 
 A simple tale of true love, till their hearts 
 Are swelling, and their cheeks are bathed in tears. 
 Love knows no rank, and when two hearts would meet 
 On earth, but cannot, they will meet in Heaven. 
 All hearts that love are equal in the grave. 
 
PKOMETHEUS. 
 
 AI2X. nPOM. AESM. 
 
PROMETHEUS, 
 
 PART I. 
 
 THEY talk of love and pleasure — ^biit 'tis all 
 A tale of falsehood. Life is made of gloom — 
 The fairest scenes are clad in ruin's pall, 
 The loveliest pathway leads but to the tomb 5 
 Alas ! destruction is man's only doom. 
 We rise, and sigh our little lives away, 
 A moment blushes beauty's vernal bloom, 
 A moment brightens manhood's summer ray, 
 Then all is wrapped in cold and comfortless decay. 
 
 And yet the busy insects sweat and toil. 
 And struggle hard to heap the shining ore — 
 How trifling seems their bustle and turmoil, 
 And even how trifling seems the sage's lore; 
 Even he, who buried in the classic store 
 Of ancient ages, ponders o'er the page 
 Of Tully or of Plato, does no more 
 Than with his bosom's quiet warfare wage. 
 And in an endless round of useless thought engage. 
 
 6 
 
42 percival's poems. 
 
 Then close thy ponderous foHo, and retire 
 
 To shady coverts, undisturbed retreats, 
 
 And lay thy careless hand upon thy lyre, 
 
 And call the muses from their woodland seats : 
 
 But ah! the Poet's pulse how vainly beats ; 
 
 'Tis but vexation to attune his strings. 
 
 Even he, who with the Chian bard competes, 
 
 Had better close his fancy's soaring wings. 
 
 And own, earth's highest bliss no true enjoyment brings. 
 
 We find this earth a gloomy, dull abode, 
 And yet we wish for pleasure — sense is keen, 
 And so this life is but a toilsome road, 
 That leads us to a more delightful scene: 
 Well, if thou find'st a solace there, I ween, 
 It is the only joy thou e'er can'st know; 
 And yet it is but fancy, never seen 
 By mortal eye was all that lovely show, 
 That paradise where we so fondly wish to go. 
 
 We have a body — and the wintry wind 
 
 Will not respect the Poet. No ; the storm 
 
 Beats heavy on the case that holds a mind 
 
 Of heavenly mould, as on the vulgar form ; 
 
 When bleak winds blow how can the soul be warm.^ 
 
 Can fancy brighten in the cell of care. ^ 
 
 Can inspiration's breath the soul inform. 
 
 When tl:e limbs shiver in the gusty air, 
 
 And in the thin, pale face the fiends of hunger stare i* 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 4 
 
 O ! they may tell me of the ethereal flame 
 That burns and burns forever; — 'tis the dream 
 Of those high intellects, who well may claim 
 Relation to the pure, celestial beam : 
 The life eternal — 'tis a glorious theme, 
 Whereon bards, sages, have out-poured their fire; 
 Yet view it narrowly, and it will seem 
 But the wild mounting of unquenched desire, 
 The long extended wish to raise our being higher. 
 
 True — 'tis a mighty stretch, when unconfined 
 
 The soul expatiates in imagined being, 
 
 And where the vulgar eye can only find 
 
 Dust, by a second sight strange visions seeing, 
 
 And still from wonder on to wonder fleeing, 
 
 By its enkindled feelings wildly driven. 
 
 It leaps the walls of earth, but ill agreeing 
 
 With those high-mounting thoughts to genius given, 
 
 Nor rests till it has set its eagle-foot in heaven. 
 
 And there it culls the choicest fields of earth 
 
 For all the pure, and beautiful, and bright, 
 
 And gives a gay and odorous Eden birth, 
 
 And rains around a flood of golden light. 
 
 Where sun, moon, stars, no more awake the sight, 
 
 But pouring from the Eternal's viewless throne, 
 
 It fills us with ineflable delight. 
 
 And every stain of earth forever flown, 
 
 We bathe and bask in this ethereal fount alone. 
 
44 percival's poems. 
 
 And flowers of every hue and scent are there; 
 
 The laughing fields are one enamelled bed, 
 
 And filled with sweetness breathes the fanning air, 
 
 And soaring birds are singing overhead. 
 
 And bubbling brooks, by living fountains fed, 
 
 O'er pebbled gems and pearl sands winding play; 
 
 One boundless beauty o'er creation shed, 
 
 The storm, the cloud, the mist, have hied away, 
 
 And nothing dims the blaze of this immortal day. 
 
 And man, a pure and quenchless beam of light, 
 
 All eye, all ear, all feeling, reason, soul. 
 
 He takes from good to good his tireless flight, 
 
 And ever aiming at perfection's goal, *» 
 
 Sees at one instant-glance the moral whole ; 
 
 Powers ever kindling, always on the wing, 
 
 The disembodied spark Prometheus stole, 
 
 To science, virtue, love, devotion spring 
 
 His fancy, reason, heart — creation's angel king. 
 
 The whole machine of worlds before his eye 
 
 Unfolded as a map, he glances through 
 
 Systems in moments, sees the comet fly 
 
 In its clear orbit through the fields of blue, 
 
 And every instant gives him something new, 
 
 Whereon his ever quenchless thirst he feeds; 
 
 From star to insect, sun to falling dew, 
 
 From atom to the immortal mind he speeds. 
 
 And in the glow of thought the boundless volume reads. 
 
percival's poems. 45 
 
 Truth stands before him in a full, clear blaze, 
 
 An intellectual sun-beam, and his eye 
 
 Can look upon it with unbending gaze, 
 
 And its minutest lineaments descry; 
 
 No speck, nor line is passed unnoticed by, 
 
 And the bright form perfection's image wears, 
 
 And on its forehead sceptred majesty 
 
 The calm, but awful port of justice bears, (she spares. 
 
 Who weeps, when she condemns, but smiles not, when 
 
 Mercy ! thou dearest attribute of heaven. 
 The attractive charm, the smile of Deity, 
 To whom the keys of Paradise are given — 
 Thy glance is love, thy brow benignity, 
 And bending o'er the world with tender eye, 
 Thy bright tears fall upon our hearts like dew, 
 And melting at the call of clemency. 
 We raise to God again our earth-fixed view, 
 And in our bosom glows the living fire anew. 
 
 The perfect sense of beauty — how the heart. 
 Even in this low estate, with transport swells. 
 When Nature's charms at once upon us start — 
 The ocean's roaring waste, where grandeur dwells. 
 The cloud-girt mountain, whose bald summit tells, 
 Beneath a pure black sky the faintest star, 
 The flowery maze of woods, and hills, and dells, 
 The bubbling brook, the cascade sounding far, 
 Robed in a mellow mist, as Evening mounts her car, 
 
46 percival's poems. 
 
 And with her glowing pencil paints the skies 
 
 In hues, transparent, melting, deep, and clear, 
 
 The richest picture shown to mortal eyes, 
 
 And lovelier when a dearer self is near, 
 
 And we can whisper in her bending ear, 
 
 " How fair are these, and yet how fairer thou," 
 
 And pleased the artless flattery to hear, 
 
 Her full blue eyes in meek confusion bow — 
 
 That hour, that look, that eye, are living to me now. 
 
 But there the cloud of earth-born passion gone, 
 Taste, quick, correct, exalted, raised, refined, • 
 Rears o'er the subject intellect her throne, 
 The pure platonic extacy of mind; 
 By universal harmony defined, 
 It feels the fitness of each tint and hue, 
 Of every tone that breathes along the wind, 
 Of every motion, form, that charm the view. 
 And lives upon the grand, the beautiful, and new. 
 
 The feelings of the heart retain their sway, 
 
 But are ennobled — not the instinctive tie, 
 
 The storge, that so often leads astray. 
 
 And poisons all the springs of infancy. 
 
 So that, thenceforth, to live is but to die, 
 
 And linger with a venom at the heart. 
 
 To feel the sinking of despondency. 
 
 To writhe around the early planted dart. 
 
 And burn and pant with thirst that never can depart. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 47 
 
 Such are the wounds mdulgent parents give, 
 
 Who slay the smihng blossom of their love ; 
 
 And if the blighted plant should lingering live, 
 
 The spirit cannot wing its flight above, 
 
 But in its restless agony will rove 
 
 Still on and onward in forbidden joy, 
 
 Till wildly, as a whirlwind's fury drove, 
 
 He rushes to the foes that soon destroy, 
 
 And then they weep, and curse their lost, deluded boy. 
 
 His friendship warmed to love — all things, that feel, 
 
 In all his tenderness of feeling share; 
 
 His love, bright as devotion's holiest zeal, 
 
 For sex, without its ill, has being there; 
 
 All pleasure's smile and virtue's beauty wear. 
 
 And kindred souls in dear communion blend. 
 
 Love, purest love, without its sigh and care, 
 
 And hand in hand their mounting way they wend, 
 
 With hope that meets no chill, and joys that never end. 
 
 Devotion — 'tis an all-absorbing flame — 
 
 The Omnipotent, all-perfect, endless Being, 
 
 The builder of the universal frame. 
 
 At one quick glance, past, present, future, seeing, 
 
 By whom, hot, cold, moist, dry, good, ill, agreeing, 
 
 At last, the perfect birth of bliss comes forth, 
 
 And evil to its native darkness fleeing. 
 
 Virtue shines out in her unspotted worth, 
 
 And blasts to meanest dust the proudest forms of earth. 
 
48 percival's poems. 
 
 Hark — hear the holy choir around the throne j 
 
 Their lips are coals, their paeans vocal fire ; 
 
 They sing the Eternal Lord, who sits alone, 
 
 And still their swelling anthem rises higher, 
 
 The warbling of the universal lyre. 
 
 The harmony of hearts, and souls, and spheres — 
 
 O ! how my bosom burns with long desire, 
 
 How flow my bitter, penitential tears; 
 
 O ! 'tis a strain too loud and sweet for mortal ears. 
 
 But stop, delirious fancy ! now awaking 
 
 From thy enchanted dream, what meets thy sight .^ 
 
 The charmed spell, that bound thy senses, breaking, 
 
 Thy Eden withers in a simoom's blight. 
 
 And all its suns have set in endless night j 
 
 Love, sanctity, and glory, all a gleam, 
 
 Thy airy paradise has vanished quite, 
 
 And falling, fading, flickering, dies life's beam, 
 
 Thy visioned heaven has fled — alas ! 'twas but a dream ! 
 
 O ! for those early days, when patriarchs dwelt 
 In pastoral tents, that rose beneath the palm, 
 When life was pure, and every bosom felt 
 Unwarped affection's sweetest, holiest balm, . 
 And like the silent scene around them, calm, 
 Years stole along in one unruffled flow; 
 Their hearts a3^e warbled with devotion's psalm, 
 And as they saw their buds around them blow. 
 Their keenly glistening eye revealed the grateful glow. 
 
percival's poems. 49 
 
 They sat at evening, when their gathered flocks 
 Bleated and sported by the pahn-crowned well, 
 The sun was glittering on the pointed rocks, 
 And long and wide the deepening shadows fell; 
 They sang their hymn, and in a choral swell 
 They raised their simple voices to the Power, 
 Who smiled along the fair sky ; they would dwell 
 Fondly and deeply on his praise ; that hour (shower. 
 Was to them, as to flowers that droop and fade, the 
 
 He warmed them in the sunbeams, and they gazed 
 
 In wonder on that kindling fount of light, 
 
 And as, hung in the glowing west, it blazed 
 
 In brighter glories, with a full delight 
 
 They poured their pealing anthem, and when night 
 
 Lifted her silver forehead, and the moon 
 
 Rolled through the blue serenity, in bright 
 
 But softer radiance, they blessed the boon (noon. 
 
 That gave those hours the charm without the fire of 
 
 Spring of the living world, the dawn of nature, 
 When Man walked forth the lord of all below. 
 Erect and godlike in his giant stature, 
 Before the tainted gales of vice 'gan blow; 
 His conscience spotless as the new-fallen snow, 
 Pure as the crystal spouting from the spring, 
 He aimed no murderous dagger, drew no bow, 
 But at the soaring of the eagle's wing, (spring. 
 
 The gaunt wolf's stealthy step, the lion's raveninfj 
 
 7 
 
50 percival's poems. 
 
 With brutes alone he armed himself for war ; 
 
 Free to the winds his long locks dancing flew, 
 
 And at his prowling enemy afar, 
 
 He shot his death-shaft from the nervy yew; 
 
 In morning's mist his shrill-voiced bugle blew, 
 
 And with the rising sun on tall rocks. strode, 
 
 And bounding through the gemmed and sparkling dew, 
 
 The rose of health, that in his full cheek glowed, (flowed. 
 
 Told of the pure, fresh stream, that there enkindling 
 
 This was the age, when mind was all on fire, 
 The day of inspiration, when the soul. 
 Warmed, heightened, lifted, burning with desire 
 For all the great and lovely, to the goal 
 Of man's essential glory rushed ; then stole 
 The sage his spark from heaven, the prophet spake 
 His deep-toned words of thunder, as when roll 
 The peals amid the clouds — words that would break 
 The spirit's leaden sleep, and all its terrors wake. 
 
 He stood on Sinai, wrapped in storm-clouds, wild 
 His loose locks streamed around him, and his eye 
 Flashed indignation on a world defiled 
 With sense and slavery, who lost the high 
 Prerogative of power and spirit, by 
 Their longings for their flesh-pots — O! 'tis lust, 
 Which robs us of our freedom, makes us lie 
 Wallowing in willing wretchedness, nor burst (curst. 
 That thraldom, of our woes, most foul, most hard, most 
 
percival's poems. 51 
 
 He saw those Samsons by a harlot shorn, 
 
 He saw them take the distaff, and assume 
 
 The soft and tawdry tunics, which adorn 
 
 The leering siren ; all their flush and bloom, 
 
 And might and vigour, all that can illume 
 
 And blazon manhood, by the magic rod 
 
 Of pleasure changed to weakness, squalor, gloom. 
 
 And they, who erst with port majestic trod, (gic nod. 
 
 Then drmik, and gorged, and numbed, in sleep lethar- 
 
 He stood and raised his mighty voice in wrath, 
 And sent it, like a whirlwind, o'er those ears, 
 And thrilled them, like a simoom on its path 
 Of havoc. See, the slumbering giant hears, 
 And waked, and roused, and kindled by his fears, 
 Starts into new life with an instant spring; 
 This is no time for soft repentant tears; 
 At once away their wine-drenched spoils they fling, 
 Their energy is up, their souls are on the wing. 
 
 They did not lie, and wish, and long to break 
 
 The manacles which clasped them; they did tear 
 
 Cables as we would silk-threads, and did take 
 
 An upward journey, where the world shines fair, 
 
 The temple of true virtue, glory, where 
 
 Man lives and glows in simshine, where the prize, 
 
 More rich than laurel wreaths, for all, who dare 
 
 To reason's perfect, fearless freedom rise, (eyes. 
 
 Sends forth bright beams, that dim and blind all meaner 
 
52 percival's poems. 
 
 Go o'er the fields of Greece and see her towers 
 
 Fallen, and torn, and crumbled — see her fanes 
 
 Prostrate and weed-encircled; dimly lours 
 
 Brute ignorance around them, slavery reigns 
 
 And lords it o'er their sacred cities, chains 
 
 Are rivoted upon them, and they gall (strains 
 
 Their cramped limbs to the bone, the lashed wretch 
 
 To rend the gnawing iron — but his fall 
 
 Is in himself — sleep on — ye well deserve your thrall. 
 
 This is the old age of our fallen race ; 
 
 We mince in steps correct, but feeble; creep 
 
 By rule unwavering in a tortoise pace; 
 
 We do not, like the new-born ancient, leap 
 
 At once o'er mind's old barriers, but we keep 
 
 Drilling and shaving down the wall; we play 
 
 With stones, and shells, and flowers, and as we peep 
 
 In nature's outward folds, like infants, say. 
 
 How bright, and clear, and pure, our intellectual day. 
 
 We let gorged despots rise and plant their foot 
 
 Upon our prostrate necks, if they but give 
 
 Their golden counters. Tyranny takes root 
 
 In a rich soil of sloth and self — we live 
 
 Like oysters in their closed shells — can we strive 
 
 For freedom when this cobweb circle draws 
 
 Its tangling coils around us? let us give 
 
 Our hearts to Nature and her sacred laws, (cause. 
 
 And we can fight unharmed, unchecked in freedom's 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 53 
 
 There are a few grand spirits who can feel 
 
 The beauty of simplicity, and pour 
 
 Their ardent wishes forth, and sternly deal 
 
 Their crumbling blows around them; they would soar, 
 
 Where man unfettered rises, proudly o'er 
 
 The common herd of slaves to power and rule : 
 
 Go, search the world, you cannot find a more 
 
 Weak, drivelling subject for a despot's tool. 
 
 Than him who dares not leave the lessons of his school. 
 
 Cast back your sickened eye upon the dawn 
 
 Of Greek and Roman freedom — See their sons 
 
 Before the bulwark of their dear rights drawn, 
 
 Proud in their simple dignity, as runs 
 
 The courser to the fair stream — on their thrones 
 
 They sat, all kings, all people — they were free, 
 
 For they were strong and temperate, and in tones 
 
 Deep and canorous, nature's melody, 
 
 They sung in one full voice the hymn of liberty. 
 
 In Dorian mood they marched to meet their foes; 
 
 With measured step their awful front they bore. 
 
 As when a mountain billow slowly flows, 
 
 Rising and heaving onward to the shore, 
 
 It rolls its mingled waters with a roar, 
 
 That echoes through the mountains; wide they dash. 
 
 Blue as the heavens they kiss, and tumbling o'er. 
 
 They burst upon the coast, and foaming lash (crash. 
 
 The rocks and splintered cliffs, Earth groans beneath the 
 
54 PEKCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Then liberty and law were brightest — men 
 
 Were not themselves — the city was their soulj 
 
 They did not keep their treasures in a den, 
 
 And brood them, as a fowl her eggs — the pole 
 
 To which their hearts were pointed, and the goal 
 
 Of all their strivings was the public good ; 
 
 The sage, with naked brow and flowing stole, 
 
 And snowy beard, and eye majestic, stood, 
 
 And gave to willing minds their high but simple food. 
 
 It was not cates which pleased then — ^but they drew, 
 And filled their brimming goblet from the stream, 
 And plucked the fruits that overhung it; few 
 But noble were their works — the living beam 
 Of sun-light stamped their pages — we may dream 
 Of monsters, till the brain is mad — the pure. 
 Bright images, wherewith their volumes teem, 
 Tlie taste of nature always will allure, (endure. 
 
 And while man reads and thinks, and feels and loves, 
 
 Then wisdom crowned her head with stars, and smiled 
 
 In Socrates, and glowed in Plato, shone 
 
 Like Day's God in the Stagyrite, who piled 
 
 A pyramid of high thoughts ; as a throne, 
 
 It lorde^ o'er the world for ages ; grown 
 
 Weak in a second childhood, they did count 
 
 And nicely measure each minutest stone, 
 
 And crawled around the base, but could not mount 
 
 And taste, upon the top, the pure ethereal fount. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 55 
 
 Then Eloquence was power — it was the burst 
 Of feeling, clothed in words o'erwhelming, poured 
 From mind's long cherished treasury, and nurst 
 By virtue into Majesty; it soared 
 And thundered in Pericles ; and was stored 
 With fire that flashed, and kindled, in that soul, 
 Who called, when Philip, with barbarian horde, 
 Hung over Athens, and prepared to roll (whole. 
 
 His deluge on her towers, and drown her freedom's 
 
 Then Poetry was inspiration — loud, 
 
 And sweet, and rich, in speaking tones it rung. 
 
 As if a choir of muses from a cloud. 
 
 Sun-kindled, on the bright horizon hung; 
 
 Their voices harmonized, their lyres full strung, 
 
 Rolled a deep descant o'er a listening world — 
 
 There was a force, a majesty, when sung 
 
 The bard of Troy — his living thoughts were hurled, 
 
 Like lightnings, when the folds of tempests are unfurled. 
 
 Was it the tumult of contending powers, 
 
 The clash of swords and shields, the rush of cars, 
 
 Or when aloft in night's serenest hours, 
 
 The moon, encircled by her train of stars. 
 
 Poured her soft light around, and dewy airs (brow ; 
 
 Breathed through the camp and cooled the warrior's 
 
 Was it the mellow slumber, which repairs 
 
 The languid limbs, or keen-edged words, that bow 
 
 The soul in wondering awe ; or was it, round the prow, 
 
50 . PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 The purple wave disparting, and in foam 
 
 Roaring behind the vessel, as she flew, 
 
 A white-winged falcon, from her lessening home, 
 
 Ploughing the sea's broad back, as loudly blew 
 
 The winds among the cordage — Nature threw 
 
 Her energy athwart his page, and shed 
 
 Her blaze upon his mind, and there we view. 
 
 If,' chance, by taste, unwarped, unfettered, led, 
 
 A new-made world, all life and light, around us spread. 
 
 The times are altered — man is now no more 
 
 "The being of his capabilities ; 
 
 The days of all his energy are o'er; 
 
 And will those fallen demi-gods arise 
 
 In all their panoply, and hear the cries 
 
 Of king-crushed myriads, who wear the chain 
 
 Of bondage ; will light dawn upon their eyes. 
 
 And wake them from their iron sleep, again 
 
 To bear their breast in strife on freedom's holy plain .'' ^ 
 
 A trumpet echoes o'er their tombs — awake ! 
 
 The long full peal is " vengeance! — sleep no more;" 
 
 The marble walls, as by an earthquake, break, 
 
 And, lo ! an armed legion onward pour 
 
 Bright casques and nodding plumes, and thirsting gore. 
 
 The blood of awe-struck tyrants, flash their swords ; 
 
 Their march is as a torrent river's roar, 
 
 And with a waked slave's desperation, towards 
 
 Their homes of icy gloom, they drive Sarmatia's hordes. 
 
percival's poems. 57 
 
 There is a flood of light rolled round the hill 
 
 Of Jove, and from its cloudy brightness spring 
 
 Spectres of long-departed greatness; still 
 
 Their heart-felt homage to that shrine they bring, 
 
 Which time has made all-sacred, where the king 
 
 Of thunder sat upon his ivory throne, 
 
 And by him stood his bird, with ready wing 
 
 To pounce upon his foes. The days are flown, (own, 
 
 When darkness ruled as God — Valour will claim his 
 
 And Rome again is free, and from thy shore, 
 
 Italia! Gaul, and Goth, and Hun, shall fly; 
 
 Thy sons shall wash away their shame in gore, 
 
 And once again the year of liberty, 
 
 The mighty months of glory, they shall see, 
 
 Along thy radiant Zodiac, on the path 
 
 Of ages, warn the nations, " we are free" — 
 
 O ! who can tell the madness and the wrath. 
 
 The drunkenness of soul, a new-waked people hath r 
 
 They stand for hearth and altar, wife and sire; 
 Their lisping infants call them to the fight, 
 And as they call, their eye-balls flashing fire. 
 And shouting with a courser's wild delight, 
 When loosed he bounds and prances in the might 
 Of young life. There is in the sound of home 
 A magic, and the patriot, in his right 
 Strong-founded, meets the prowling foes, that come 
 To waste his land — no threats his valour can benumb. 
 
58 percival's poems. 
 
 The torch that lights him in his high career, 
 
 Was kindled at the purest, holiest flame ; 
 
 He fights for all his bosom holds most dear, 
 
 And O ! no voice so conquering as the claim 
 
 Of filial tenderness and love ; no name 
 
 So melting as sire, wife, and children — all 
 
 Are in those sweet words blended. What is fame, 
 
 Though pealing with her trumpet, to the call 
 
 Of kindred, bound and toiling in a tyrant's thrall ? 
 
 He sees the noble and the learned stoop, 
 
 And kiss the feet that crush them, and the crowd, 
 
 In hopeless, cureless, willing bondage, droop ; 
 
 And yet he does not shrink beneath that cloud, 
 
 But, muttering execrations deep, not loud, 
 
 He whets his sword upon his heaped-up wrong j 
 
 And starting, like a spectre from his shroud. 
 
 Stung by the lash of slavery's knotted thong. 
 
 In all the might of wrath, he hm*ls his strength along. 
 
 Even as a tigress, when her secret lair 
 
 The hunter hath invaded — how she draws 
 
 Her limbs to all their tenseness, points her hair, 
 
 Gnashes her grinding teeth, and bares ber claws, 
 
 And breathes a stifled growl, and in a pause 
 
 Of burning fury hangs upon the spring ; 
 
 And nerved and heated in a parent's cause, 
 
 Bounds roaring on the robber, like the wing (sling. 
 
 Of poimcing hawk, or stone hurled whizzing from the 
 
percival's poems. 59 
 
 They meet at Tivoli — and night has spread 
 
 Her curtain o'er those legions, who would quench 
 
 The flame, that Brutus, Tully, Cato, fed; 
 
 And from its lofty column madly wrench 
 
 The new-raised statue. Freemen will not blench, 
 
 When they have broke their fetters ; but will arm 
 
 Their nervy hands with vengeance, and will clench 
 
 And grapple with their masters ; for the charm 
 
 Of liberty's sweet voice the coldest heart will warm. 
 
 They meet, and they are victors — but the soul, 
 
 Like his own mountain's lava glowing, dies, 
 
 And falls with hand firm-grasped upon the goal 
 
 Of all his longings. As he mounts the skies, 
 
 He drops his mantle on the youth, who rise 
 
 To give their lives, like him, to liberty ; 
 
 Devoted to the noblest sacrifice. 
 
 Like stars of purest brightness, they shall be (shall flee. 
 
 The rallying point, where all the bruised and crushed 
 
 A dream — a cruel dream — fair rose the sun 
 
 Of freedom on that sky without a cloud ; 
 
 Sweet was the dawn, when liberty was won 
 
 By hands unweaponed; and they hasted, proud 
 
 Of bloodless conquest, in their paeans loud 
 
 To those, who Samson-like had rent their chain; 
 
 Then heavenward shone the foreheads, which had bowed 
 
 To foreign rule for ages, and again 
 
 The people's majesty towered over hill and plain. 
 
60 percival's poems. 
 
 Aiid we did hope the Roman had awaked, 
 
 And ancient valour had revived anew, 
 
 And that the Eagle's thirst of light unslaked, 
 
 As when above the capitol she flew, 
 
 Still sought her eyry in the boundless blue ; 
 
 And we did hope a spirit had gone forth, 
 
 Which tyrants and their parasites would rue, 
 
 And, like a torrent rolling to the north, (worth. 
 
 Would with it blend all hearts, that kept man's native 
 
 It seemed the renovation of the world, 
 The knell of despots, and the day when thrones 
 Were tottering, and crowns falling, when Kings, hurled 
 From their base height of lust, should leave their bones 
 To moulder in their feudal filth ; the stones 
 Which bound the arch of empire, lost their hold, 
 And in the sudden crush were heard the groans 
 Of gorged and pampered spoilers, who had rolled 
 Like havoc on the dumb, weak tremblers of their fold. 
 
 And we did see a nation on their way 
 
 To stop the invading torrent, ere it came 
 
 And deluged their fair fields. It was a day 
 
 Of breathless expectation, when the flame 
 
 Of freedom burned the highest, for the game 
 
 Of Man's emancipation was at stake. 
 
 The heart that would not throb then, had no claim 
 
 And place in Honor's column — 'twould not wake, 
 
 Even if a bolt from Heaven should by its pillow break. 
 
percival's poems. 61 
 
 They hung upon the mountains, like a storm 
 Crowning the Appenine with deep, dun shade, 
 And o'er them towered the bold and ardent form, 
 Who seemed in panoply of fire arrayed; 
 And from their pikes and bayonets there played 
 A stream of lightnings on the advancing host. 
 Which, trained and nurtured in the murdering trade, 
 Like tempest-billows rolling to the coast, (post. 
 
 Marched slow, and still, and sure, to storm that rocky 
 
 In all the discipline of war they came; 
 
 Their strong squared columns moved with heavy tread ; 
 
 Their step, their bearing, even their breath the same. 
 
 And not a murmur whispered through the dead 
 
 And boding silence ; by a master led. 
 
 Even as a rock, that fronts the infuriate wave, 
 
 They saw them hanging on their mountain's head; 
 
 With cold, proud sneer they marked the untutored brave, 
 
 And knew here lay wide-yawned Italian freedom's grave. 
 
 Secure and calm, they pitched their camp, and piled 
 
 Their arms, and furled their banners ; all was still, 
 
 When, like the bursting of a hail-cloud, wild 
 
 Those sun-fired legions hurried down the hill, 
 
 And dashed against their robbers, with a will 
 
 To do all deeds of daring, and a might 
 
 Nerved into madness by those wrongs, that fill 
 
 The heart to overflowing; from that height, 
 
 In one wild rush, they poured their souls into the fight. 
 
62 percival's poems. 
 
 Awhile the Austrian wavered, for the blows 
 
 Fell with a giant's vigour; but the clear, 
 
 Quick-sighted leader bade their stretched wings close, 
 
 And circle in the headlong swarms; then fear 
 
 Usurped the seat of courage ; far and near 
 
 The plain was covered with the flying bands. 
 
 In vain the patriot's effort, word, and tear. 
 
 His life's blood only drenched his country's sands, 
 
 Or stained with fruitless drops the brute invader's hands. 
 
 The invading wave rolls on — no arm is raised 
 
 To stem its ceaseless progress; in its flood 
 
 It swallows all the hopes, on which men gazed 
 
 With such deep yearnings, as when linnets brood 
 
 Their callow nestlings — they are now the food 
 
 Of sceptered ribaldry and regal sneers; 
 
 Well, let them laugh and revel in light mood — 
 
 A voice of wrath, ere long, will thrill their ears. 
 
 And give them doubly full their cup of blood and tears. 
 
 Fosterers of nations ! whose parental hand 
 Scourges the unwilling subject to obey, 
 To you, ye self-misnomered holy hand, 
 The goaded slaves their stripes and wounds shall pay; 
 Though now their heads in child-like fear they lay, 
 They keenly feel the smart of all their wrong; 
 They now may stoop and crawl, there is a day 
 When they will rise and to their vengeance throng; 
 Even now ye trembling dread what will not linger long. 
 
percival's poems. 63 
 
 Aceldema of nations ! thou hast bled 
 
 From countless gashes — thou must still bleed on; 
 
 Thy children's gore that harvest-field has fed, 
 
 Where thou thy chains and manacles hast won; 
 
 Thy struggle for true liberty is done, 
 
 France, Italy, have roused and burst their thrall, 
 
 And started in that glorious race to run — 
 
 Where have their high words ended? See their fall — 
 
 The despots crush them now, and say, " So perish all 
 
 Who will not sleep contented, while we rule, 
 
 And fleece, and flay them ;" you may writhe and turn. 
 
 And curse them, as you crouch, their earth-pressed stool ; 
 
 Yes, ye may start a moment, spring and spurn 
 
 The foot that treads you; ye may glow and burn 
 
 With wrath to be so scofl^ed at, but a weight 
 
 Like mountains bows you down ; dust is your urn ; 
 
 The spirit is besotted — this your fate. 
 
 To rise and stumble, kneel and kiss the hand you hate. 
 
 One storm has come and gone — the film is torn 
 
 From off your eyes — you look, and Power is there ; 
 
 Around his throne unnumbered shields are borne. 
 
 Serried in close array; you cannot tear 
 
 The monster from his pinnacle; his lair 
 
 Is filled with bones of freemen he has slain. 
 
 As a crouched lion, when his fangs are bare. 
 
 He casts around his keen eye; Hope in vain 
 
 Lifts up her gaze, his glance bends it to earth again. 
 
64 pkkcival's puems. 
 
 Freedom can have no dwelling on that shore; 
 
 She must away and cross the Atlantic flood : 
 
 Why play the rude game over? you may pour 
 
 In waves, like torrent rivers, your best blood, 
 
 But it will end in " we have dared and stood 
 
 In battle for our rights; we sink again 
 
 Before an overwhelming weight, the food 
 
 Of tyrants and their parasites, who drain (chain." 
 
 Our tears like wine, and bind with doubled links our 
 
 Severe and simple, walked the Cyprian sage 
 
 In Athens' pictured porch ; he showed and taught 
 
 Unbending virtue in a downward age. 
 
 And reckoned all the joys of sense as nought. 
 
 And mastered down the tide of swelling thought, 
 
 And bound on passion an unyielding rein ; 
 
 With slow, sure step, the highest good he sought, 
 
 And shunning, as a viper's tooth, the stain 
 
 Of weakness, marched erect to truth's majestic fane, 
 
 Which stood aloft in Doric plainness, bright 
 The sun-beams played upon its marble pride, 
 And from it flashed a stream of purest light 
 Down its ascending path — as rolls the tide 
 Of snow-fed torrents, in a deep, a wide, 
 Resistless rush of waters, till the plain 
 Is satiate with its richness ; then they glide 
 In summer's scanty wave, so pure, no stain 
 Darkens its liquid light, when rolling to the main. 
 
percival's poems. 65 
 
 So on the mind enwrapped in error's cloak, 
 
 Whom bigotry and sense have led astray; 
 
 If chance the fetters of his thought are broke, 
 
 And all the night that dimmed him, swept away, 
 
 And on him wisdom pours her fullest ray, 
 
 A flood seems rolled through his exulting soul. 
 
 And all its fulness hardly can allay 
 
 His new-waked thirst for knowledge ; to the goal 
 
 Of truth he springs and spurns indignant all control. 
 
 Awhile he grasps at Science, with the strong, 
 
 Fierce spirit of ambition, when his car 
 
 O'er fortune's field of blood is borne along. 
 
 Drawn by the wildly rushing steeds of war, 
 
 And hurrying on in quest of Fame's bright star, (gore ; 
 
 That shines through smoke, and dust, and wounds, and 
 
 Justice and mercy cannot raise a bar 
 
 Across the torrent of his wrath; its roar 
 
 Drives virtue, love, and peace, aflVighted from its shore. 
 
 So on he rushes, in the high pursuit 
 Of knowledge, till his stored and wearied mind 
 Bows 'neath the weight of its collected fruit, 
 And casting all its useless load behind, 
 No more to man's essential being blind. 
 His thought dwells only on the good supreme; 
 Then calm in dignity, in taste refined, 
 A spirit pure and lucid, as the beam 
 Ethereal, virtue's charms are his continual theme. 
 
 9 
 
66 tercival's poems. 
 
 And what is virtue but the just employ 
 
 Of all our faculties, so that we live 
 
 Longest, and soundest, and serenest — -joy 
 
 Its handmaid, all the sweets that health can give, 
 
 The light heart, and the strong frame, which can strive 
 
 Delighted in the war we must endure; 
 
 Thoughts clear, bold, tireless, feelings all alive, 
 
 No passion can subdue, no sense allure, 
 
 Even as our Sire in Heaven, just, merciful, and pure. 
 
 The animal is crushed, the God bears sway, 
 
 The immortal essence, the enkindling fire; 
 
 What powers, what energy, it can display. 
 
 When, freed from life's gross wants, it dare aspire, 
 
 And give a free rein to its high desire. 
 
 And longing for a mind that cannot sleep, 
 
 Even as Apollo with his golden lyre. 
 
 And canopied in sunbeams, he would sweep (deep. 
 
 His chords, and pour a hymn, harmonious, full, and 
 
 A hymn to Nature, and the unseen hand 
 
 That guides its living wheels, the moving soul 
 
 Of this material universe, who spanned 
 
 Within his grasp, its circle, where suns roll, 
 
 Each in its fixed orb, and around the whole 
 
 Has drawn in viewless light its flaming walls; 
 
 This is the limit of our thought, the goal 
 
 Where mind's imaginative pinion falls, 
 
 When wrapt in solemn thought, no link of earth inthrals. 
 
percival's poems. 67 
 
 I walk abroad at midnight, and my eye, 
 
 Purged from its sensual blindness, upward turns. 
 
 And wanders o'er the dark and spangled sky, 
 
 Where every star, a fount of being, burns. 
 
 And pours out life, as Naiads, from their urns, 
 
 Drop their refreshing dew on herbs and flowers — 
 
 I gaze, until my fancy's eye discerns. 
 
 As in an azure hall, the assembled powers 
 
 Of nature spend in deep consult those solemn hours. 
 
 Methinks I hear their language — but it sounds 
 
 Too high for my conception, as the roar 
 
 Of thunder in the mountains, when it bounds 
 
 From peak to peak; or on the echoing shore 
 
 The tempest-driven billows bursting pour. 
 
 And raise their awful voices; or the groan 
 
 Rumbling in ^Etna's entrails, ere its store 
 
 Of lava spouts its red jets ; or the moan 
 
 Of winds, that war within their caverned walls of stone. 
 
 And there is melody among those spheres, 
 
 A music sweeter than the vernal train, 
 
 Or fay notes, which the nymph-struck shepherd hears. 
 
 Where moon-light dances on the liquid plain, 
 
 That curls before the west wind, till the main 
 
 Seems waving like a ruffled sheet of fire — 
 
 'Tis Nature's Alleluia; and again 
 
 The stars extilt, as when the Eternal Sire (desire. 
 
 Said, " be there light," and light shone forth at his 
 
68 percival's poems. 
 
 How my heart trembles on so vast a theme — - 
 
 The boundless source of energy and power, 
 
 The living essence of the good supreme, 
 
 The all-seeing eye that watches every hour, 
 
 That marks the opening of each bud and flower, 
 
 That paints the colours of the ephemeron's wing, 
 
 That counts the myriad drops, which form the showex'. 
 
 As wondrous in the awakening call of spring, 
 
 As worlds that lie beyond the stretch of Fancy's wing. 
 
 With brute unconscious gaze, man marks the earth 
 
 Take on its livery of early flowers ; 
 
 He sees no beauty in this annual birth, 
 
 No ceaseless working of creative powers j 
 
 His soul, lethargic, wakes not in those hours 
 
 When air is living, and the waters teem 
 
 With new-born being, and the mantling bowers 
 
 Are full of love and melody, and seem 
 
 The happy Eden of a poet's raptured dream. 
 
 The sky is then serenest and its arch 
 
 Of brighter sapphire; and the sportive train 
 
 Of life-awakening zephyrs, on their march, 
 
 Shed renovating influence o'er the plain; 
 
 The blue waves sparkle on the laughing main, 
 
 Which renders back to heaven its placid smile; 
 
 The chequered sky, now clear, now dropping rain 
 
 On flowers, that spread their leaves to catch it, while 
 
 The full-swoln river rolls a fertilizing Nile. 
 
percival's poems. 69 
 
 How lovely is the landscape ! Morning peeps 
 
 Behind yon leafy mountain, and her eye 
 
 Looks o'er a fresh, green world, that calmly sleeps 
 
 In the sweet cradle of its infancy, 
 
 And clustering round the rocky summits, fly 
 
 Light mists, now painted in the rich array 
 
 Of Heaven's majestic spectrum, which on high ' 
 
 Spans the dark tempest, as it steals away, 
 
 And westward glows in pomp the golden eye of day. 
 
 Beneath the cliff that frowns in blackness, lies 
 
 The mirror of dark waters, on it rest 
 
 Soft wreaths of snowy vapour, such as rise 
 
 Spotless in winter on the mountain's breast, 
 
 Soft as the downy couch by beauty prest, 
 
 And mantled in as gay a canopy 
 
 Of overhanging clouds in crimson drest. 
 
 All glow, transparency and purity. 
 
 Fit curtain to the throne where dwells Eternity. 
 
 And now the sun springs upward from his bed, 
 
 Insufferably brilliant, and his blaze 
 
 Tinges with flowing gold the icy head 
 
 Of peaks which rise above the clouds, and gaze 
 
 In lonely grandeur on an endless maze 
 
 Of budding landscape, hills, woods, meadows, lakes, 
 
 Rivers, and winding rivulets, where plays 
 
 The wave in lines of silver. Day now breaks 
 
 In dazzling floods of light, and living nature wakes 
 
70 vercival's poems. 
 
 Her woodland choristers, and air is breathing 
 
 In tones of love-tuned harmony, the deep, 
 
 Heart-kindling, soul-inspiring anthem wreathing 
 
 The burst of native joy, that will not sleep. 
 
 But at the summons of the dawn will leap, 
 
 And all its full-swoln tides of feeling pour, 
 
 And, as the light winds from the bright lake sweep 
 
 The mantling vapours, it will freely soar (roar. 
 
 And with its strong voice drown the waterfall's wide 
 
 Let Man come forth, and in the general throng 
 
 Of tuneful hearts, his high devotion raise, 
 
 And, joining in the universal song 
 
 Of thankful rapture, centre all the rays 
 
 Of that heaven-lighted intellect, whose blaze, 
 
 Bright emanation from the ethereal beam, 
 
 Forever kindling through eternal days, 
 
 A disembodied spark, along life's stream. 
 
 Shall always hasten on to excellence supreme. 
 
 There is its only resting place — while here 
 
 We pine in heart-sick longing. Is the fire, 
 
 That burns within our bosoms, for a sphere 
 
 Of brighter, purer being, something higher 
 
 Than all Man ever reached to, the desire 
 
 Of sinless purity and tireless thought, 
 
 But the vibration of a living wire, 
 
 The motion of frail flesh more nicely wrought, 
 
 That trembles here awhile and then consumes to naught ': 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 71 
 
 Our thoughts are boundless though our frames are frail, 
 
 Our souls immortal, though our limbs decay; 
 
 Though darkened in this poor life by a veil 
 
 Of suffering, dying matter, we shall play 
 
 In truth's eternal sunbeams ; on the way 
 
 To Heaven's high capitol our car shall roll; 
 
 The temple of the power whom all obey. 
 
 That is the mark we tend to, for the soul 
 
 Can take no lower flight, and seek no meaner goal. 
 
 I feel it — though the flesh is weak, I feel 
 
 The spirit has its energies untamed 
 
 By all its fatal wanderings; time may heal 
 
 The wounds which it has suffered ; folly claimed 
 
 Too large a portion of its youth ; ashamed 
 
 Of those low pleasures, it would leap and fly, 
 
 And soar on wings of lightning, like the famed 
 
 Elijah, when the chariot rushing by 
 
 Bore him with steeds of fire triumphant to the sky. 
 
 We are as barks afloat upon the sea 
 
 Helmless and oarless, when the light has fled. 
 
 The spirit, whose strong influence can free 
 
 The drowsy soul, that slumbers in the dead, 
 
 Cold night of mortal darkness; from the bed 
 
 Of sloth he rouses at her sacred call. 
 
 And kindling in the blaze around him shed, 
 
 Rends with strong effort sin's debasing thrall, (all. 
 
 And gives to God, his strength, his heart, his mind, his 
 
72 I'KRCIVAIi's POEMM. 
 
 Our home is not on oartli; ;illliough we sleep, 
 
 And sink in s<'(!inini^ dcjith siwliilc, yet tlien 
 
 The awakcniiif^ voice sjxj.iks loudly, and we leap 
 
 To life, and energy, and light, again ^ 
 
 We cannot slumber always in the den 
 
 or sense and selfishness; the day will break, 
 
 Ere we forever leave the haunts of men ; 
 
 Even at the parting hour the soul will wake. 
 
 Nor like a senseless brute its unknown journey take. 
 
 How awfid is that hour, when conscience stings 
 
 The hoary wretch, who on his death-bed hears, 
 
 Deep in his soul, the thundering voice that rings, 
 
 In <>n(; dark, (hinuiing niouicnt, crimes of years, 
 
 And screaming like a vulture in his ears, 
 
 Tells one by one his thoughts and d(;eds of shame; 
 
 How wild the fury of his soul careers! 
 
 His swart eye flashes with intensest flame. 
 
 And like the torture's ra<k tin; wrestling of his frame. 
 
 Our souls have wings; their flight is like the rush 
 
 Of wHiirlwiiuls, and they U[)ward point their way, 
 
 I/ike him who bears the thundcir, when the flush 
 
 Of his keen eye feeds on the; dazzling ray: 
 
 He claps his pinions in the bla/e of day, 
 
 Aiul gaining tm the loftiest arch his throne 
 
 Darts his quick vision on his fated prey. 
 
 And, galheriug all his vigcu', he is gone, 
 
 And in an instant grasps his victim as his own. , 
 
percival's poems. 7tj 
 
 We soar as proudly, and as quickly fall, 
 
 This moment in the empyrean, then we sink, 
 
 And wrapping; in the joys of sense our all, 
 
 The stream, that flows from Heaven we caimot drink, 
 
 But we will lie along the flowery brink 
 
 Of pleasure's tempting current, till the wave 
 
 Is bitter and its banks bare, then we think 
 
 Of what we miiifht have been, and, idly brave, 
 
 We take a short weak flight, and drop into the grave. 
 
 My heart has felt new vigour, and the glow 
 
 Of high hopes and bright fancy, and the spring 
 
 Of that unchanging being, whither flow 
 
 The breathings of our spirit, when its wing 
 
 Is spread to take its last flight, where we cling 
 
 In all the storms of life, as to an oar; 
 
 There, like the shining serpent, we shall fling 
 
 Away our earthly shackles; there no more 
 
 The wind shall lift the waves and send them to the shore, 
 
 To make wild music on the surging beach. 
 And fling the foam aloft in snowy curls. 
 And, pouring headlong through the sea-wall's breach. 
 Suck, in the raging vortex' giddy whirls. 
 The sea-bird lighting on the wave, that hurls 
 To swift destruction, but there is a rock. 
 Built strong, deep-planted — mercy there unfurls 
 Her white flag, and the bark, that stands the shock, 
 The tempest-tossing tide, the breaker's burst shall mock-. 
 
 30 
 
74 percival's poems. 
 
 Much study is a weariness — so said 
 
 The sage of sages, and the aching eye, 
 
 The pallid cheek, the trembling frame, the head 
 
 Throbbing with thought and torn with agony. 
 
 Attest his truth ; and yet we will obey 
 
 The intellectual JVumen, and will gaze 
 
 In wondering awe upon it, and will pay 
 
 Worship to its omnipotence; the blaze 
 
 Of mind is as a fount of fire, that upward plays 
 
 Aloft on snow-clad mountains, on whose breast 
 
 Unspotted purity has ever lain; 
 
 The clouds of sense and passion cannot rest 
 
 Upon its shadowy summit, nor can stain 
 
 The white veil which enwraps it, nor in vain 
 
 Roll the white floods of liquid heat, they melt 
 
 The gathered stores of ages, to the plain 
 
 They pom* them down in streams enkindling, felt 
 
 By every human heart, in myriad channels dealt. 
 
 This is the electric spark sent down from Heaven, 
 That woke to second life the man of clay; 
 The torch was lit in ether, light was given, 
 Which not all passion's storms can sweep away, 
 There is no closing to this once-risen day; 
 Tempests may darken, but the sun will glow, 
 Serene, unclouded, dazzling, and its ray 
 Through some small crevices will always flow, 
 Nor leave in utter night the world that gropes below. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 75 
 
 And now and then some spirit, from the throng. 
 With wings D.nedalean, in his rage will soar, 
 And spreading wide his pinions, with a strong 
 And desperate eflbrt, from this servile shore 
 Mounting like Minder's swans, whose voices pour 
 Melodious music, like the dying fall 
 Of zephyrs in a pine grove, or the roar 
 Heard through the lonely forest, when the pall 
 Of night o'erhangs us, borne from some far waterfall. 
 
 With wing as tireless, and with voice as sweet, 
 
 His eye the falcon's, and his heart the dove's, 
 
 He lifts his heavenward daring, till the heat 
 
 Of that same oib he aimed to, which he loves 
 
 To mark with keen eye till the cloud removes. 
 
 That gave its glow a softness, with its blight 
 
 Withers his sinewy strength; so Heaven reproves 
 
 The minds, that scan it with audacious sight, 
 
 And seek with restless gaze too pure, unmingled light. 
 
 Gay was the Paradise of love he drew. 
 
 And pictured in his fancy; he did dwell 
 
 Upon it till it had a life ; he threw 
 
 A tint of Heaven athwart it — who can tell 
 
 The yearnings of his heart, the charm, the spell, 
 
 That bound him to that vision.^ Cold truth came 
 
 And plucked aside the veil — he saw a hell. 
 
 And o'er it curled blue flakes of lurid flame — (shame. 
 
 He laid him down and clasped his damp chill brow in 
 
76 pekcival's poems. 
 
 His fall is as the Titan's, who would tear 
 
 The thunder from their monarch, and would pile 
 
 Their mountain stairway to Olympus, where 
 
 The bolt they grasped at, pierced them ; with a smile 
 
 Of fearless power the thunderer sat the while, 
 
 And mocked their fruitless toiling, then he hurled 
 
 His whitening arrows, and at once their guile 
 
 And force were blasted, and their fall unfurled 
 
 An awful warning flag to a presumptuous world. 
 
 They stand, a beacon chained upon the rock; 
 
 Heaven o'er them lifts unveiled her boundless blue; 
 
 Ambition's sun still scorches, and the mock 
 
 Of all their high desires is full in view ; 
 
 Affection cools their foreheads with no dew 
 
 Of melting hearts, no rain of pitying eyes ; 
 
 The vulture, conscience, gnaws them, ever new 
 
 Their heart's torn fibres into life will rise. 
 
 The gorging fury clings, repelled she never flies. 
 
 These are the men who dared to rend the veil 
 Religion hung around us ; they would tear 
 The film from oflf our eyes, and break the pale 
 That bound the awe-struck spirit, nor would spare 
 The worship paid by ages ; in the glare 
 Of their red torches Piety grew blind. 
 And saw no more her comforter; her fair 
 And fond hopes lost their beauty ; can the mind^ 
 When rifled of its faith, so dear a solace find ? 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. " 77 
 
 They pull down Jove from his Idaean throne; 
 They quench the Jew's Schechinah, and the cross, 
 That bore the mangled corse of Heaven's own Son, 
 They trample in the dust, and spurn as dross; 
 And will they recompense the world its loss? 
 Have they a fairer light to cheer our gloom? 
 Oh no ! — the grave yawns on us as a fosse, 
 Where we must sleep forever; this our doom — 
 Body and mind shall rot and moulder in the tomb. 
 
 There is a mourner, and her heart is broken — 
 
 She is a widow ; she is old and poor ; 
 
 Her only hope is in that sacred token 
 
 Of peaceful happiness, when life is o'er ; 
 
 She asks nor wealth nor pleasure, begs no more 
 
 Than Heaven's delightful volume, and the sight 
 
 Of her Redeemer. Sceptics ! would you pour 
 
 Your blasting vials on her head, and blight (night? 
 
 Sharon's sweet rose, that blooms and charms her being's 
 
 She lives in her affections ; for the grave 
 Has closed upon her husband, children; all 
 Her hopes are with the arm she trusts will save 
 Her treasured jewels ; though her views are small. 
 Though she has never mounted high to fall 
 And writhe in her debasement, yet the spring 
 Of her meek, tender feelings cannot pall 
 Her unperverted palate, but will bring 
 A joy without regret, a bliss that has no sting. 
 
78 i'ERCIV'AL's POEMS. 
 
 Even as a fountain, whose unsullied wave 
 
 Wells in the pathless valley, flowing o'er 
 
 With silent waters, kissing, as they lave. 
 
 The pebbles with light rippling, and the shore 
 
 Of matted grass and flowers — so softly pour 
 
 The breathings of her bosom, when she prays, 
 
 Low-bowed, before her Maker; then no more 
 
 She muses on the griefs of former days; (rays. 
 
 Her full heart melts and flows in Heaven's dissolving 
 
 And Faith can see a new world, and the eyes 
 Of Saints look pity on her ; Death will come — 
 A few short moments over, and the prize 
 Of peace eternal waits her, and the tomb 
 Becomes her fondest pillow; all its gloom 
 Is scattered; what a meeting there will be 
 To her and all she loved here, and the bloom 
 Of new life from those cheeks shall never flee — 
 Theirs is the health which lasts through all eternity 
 
 There is a war within me, and a strife 
 
 Between my meaner and my nobler powers; 
 
 I would and yet I cannot part with life ; 
 
 'Tis as a scorpion's sting to view those hours, 
 
 Where soul has bowed to sense, and darkly lours 
 
 The future in the distance. There are men. 
 
 Whose strange-blent nature, now an angel's towers, 
 
 And rides among the loftiest, and then 
 
 Seeks, like a snarling dog, the cynic's squalid den. 
 
percival's poems. 79 
 
 They nestle in their prison ; they can find 
 
 No friend to pour their hearts on; they would cling 
 
 Closer than ivy to the kindred mind 
 
 They touch — its ice-cold freezes, then they fling 
 
 Aftection to the winds, and madly spring 
 
 To shun their hated fellows in some cave; 
 
 A leaden weight confines their spirit's wing. 
 
 Life palls them, there is naught beyond the grave. 
 
 They turn a sneer on Him, who gives his hand to save. 
 
 Theirs is the boundless love of sentient being — 
 As they have now the will, had they the power, 
 Were but their longings and their strength agreeing, 
 Their outspread hand a flood of bliss would shower, 
 And wake the moral world, as in the hour 
 Of spring wakes living nature — from his sleep 
 Of vice and superstition Man should tower; 
 Thoughts pure, high feelings, purpose strong and deep, 
 Should lift him on, like wings, up virtue's craggy steep. 
 
 And flowers should bloom on his ascending track, ' 
 
 Like roses on their wild thorns, by the way 
 
 The hunter scales the mountains, nor should lack 
 
 Music of tuneful birds ; the flute should play 
 
 The soft airs of the shepherdess ; when day (night 
 
 Spreads the broad plane tree's noon shade, and when 
 
 Spangles her silent canopy, away 
 
 By some dark cavern on the lonely height, 
 
 The full- voiced hymn should tell the hermit's holy flight; 
 
80 peiicival's poeihs. 
 
 Who sits alone in darkness, wrapped In musing, 
 Communing with the Universe, the Power, 
 Whose ceaseless mercy love and life diffusing, 
 Bids the sun dart his warm rays, sends the shower, 
 Mantles the turf in green, and decks the bower 
 With tufted leaves and wreathed flowers, whose perfume, 
 Earth's incense, breathes most sweetly at the hour, 
 When soft-descending night-dews steep the bloom, 
 And with their star-lit gems the mantling arch illume ; 
 
 And from this waste of beauty fills the urn 
 
 Of plenty with her fair fruits, spreads the plain 
 
 With all the wealth of harvest, the return 
 
 Of spring's delightful promise, with a chain 
 
 Of love and bounty binding life's domain 
 
 To Him, who by his fiat gave it birth; 
 
 Else had these flowery fields a desert lain, 
 
 And all the riches of the teeming earth 
 
 Been withered by the touch of endless, hopeless dearth ; 
 
 Else had one wilderness of rock and sand, 
 Treeless and herbless, where no rain nor dew 
 Poured their reviving influence, one land 
 Of sparkling barrenness appalled the view. 
 And o'er it Heaven had raised its cloudless blue, 
 Hot as the burning steel's cerulean glow. 
 And the sun's blasting arrows darted through 
 The scorched brain, till its lava blood would flow 
 In torrents, and its veins throb with delirious throe ; 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 81 
 
 And man had died of thirst and famine — Death 
 Comes not with direr aspect ; ej^es of blood, 
 Staring and bursting; frequent, fiery breath 
 Heaved from the breast, that seems one boiling flood 
 Of maddening pulses, writhing as a brood 
 Of serpents roused to fury; like their hiss 
 They rush along the swoln veins, and for food 
 His parched jaws gnaw his flesh, and O ! what bliss (this. 
 To drain his life's warm stream — there is no death like 
 
 This is the living prototype of hell — 
 The earth all fire without, all flame within, 
 And conscience barking like a Hya^n's yell, 
 And pouring out her vialed wrath on sin; 
 She lights her torch unwasting — then begin 
 Ages of endless torture, for the heart. 
 Whom Circe and the tempting Sirens win. 
 While Hstening to their voice, must feel the smart 
 And pangs of unfed Hope's forever probing dart. 
 
 The clouds are gathering on the mountain tops, 
 And in their dark veil wrap those clifl's and towers 
 Of wasteless granite, those enduring props. 
 On which the arch of Heaven rests, where the Powers 
 Of winter hold their rule, even in the hours 
 When sultry summer scorches; there they roll 
 And spread their frowning curtains; night there lours 
 With an unusual blackness, and the pole 
 Rocks with the bolt, as if the knell of nature tolled. 
 
 11 
 
82 percival's poems. 
 
 In hazy gloom the threatening tempest broods, 
 
 Crowning with ebon wreaths the mountain's cone. 
 
 And holding in its magazine, the floods, 
 
 That soon will hurry headlong from its throne. 
 
 From rock to rock impetuous pouring down 
 
 Their dark, foam-crested waters, as the mane 
 
 Waving amid the rush of war, and drown, 
 
 In their wide-wasting waves, the cultured plain. 
 
 And bear flocks, forests, towns, and harvests, to the main. 
 
 And see — the cloudy billows heave their surges, 
 
 In airy tides, along yon western wall, 
 
 Now swiftly rolling as the roused wind urges, 
 
 Now hanging silent as the wild blasts fall. 
 
 Drooping in massy folds, as if the pall 
 
 Of all these sweet scenes o'er us were outspread ; 
 
 Even as a spectre rising grim and tall 
 
 At night to some scared wanderer, fancy-led, (head. 
 
 Sullen, and dim, and dark, towers yonder mountain's^ 
 
 A solemn pause — the woods below are still; 
 
 No breezes wave their light leaves, and the lake 
 
 Lies like a sleeping mirror; on the hill 
 
 The white flocks eye the rain-drops, that will slake 
 
 Their hot thirst, and the screaming curlews take 
 
 Their circling flight along the silent stream; 
 
 Save their storm-loving music now awake, 
 
 Nature seems slumbering in a midnight dream; 
 
 She starts — behold aloft that sudden quivering gleam. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS, Bb 
 
 The torch is lit among the clouds — the peals 
 
 Roar through the lonely wilds, and echoing swell 
 
 Around the far horizon — earth now feels 
 
 And trembles as she listens — who can tell 
 
 The spirit's awe ? as if it heard its knell, 
 
 It bows before the Power, whose hand controls 
 
 Lightning, and wind, and waves, who loves to dwell 
 
 In storms, and on its path the tempest rolls, (souls, 
 
 Whose words are bolts, whose glance electric pierces 
 
 And makes the bold blasphemer pale with awe. 
 
 And stills the madman's laugh, and strikes with dread 
 
 The brow, that bore defiance to the law 
 
 Stamped on the universe; he hides his head 
 
 In darkness like the ostrich, all those, led 
 
 By his once fearless mocking, slink away, 
 
 And o'er them prostrate, wrathful angels tread. 
 
 And draw their fiery arrows, and repay 
 
 With fear and death the hearts that dare to disobey. 
 
 'Tis night, and we are on the mountain top — 
 The air is motionless, and not a breath 
 Of wind is whispered, and the pure dews drop 
 From Heaven, like tears, upon this lovely death 
 Of nature, while the landscape underneath, 
 And the vast arch above, smile in the ray 
 Of the full moon, who, circled in her wreath 
 Of glory, walks, a queen, her lofty way. 
 And pours upon the world a softer, calmer day. 
 
84 percival's poems. 
 
 The hills, the plains, and meadows, far below, 
 
 Sparkle with watery diamonds, and the stream 
 
 That steals in oft meanders, in its flow 
 
 Of peacefulness, is silvered with her beam, 
 
 And the round basins in the woodlands seem 
 
 Like mirrors circled in a pearly row. 
 
 And like the colours of the dying bream, 
 
 The soft mists hovering round them, bear the bow. 
 
 The aerial brede of light, lit with a mellower glow. 
 
 Than when it sits majestic on the storm, 
 
 What time it hangs along the eastern sky. 
 
 The herald of returning calm, its form, 
 
 As imaged erst, a maid of peaceful eye, 
 
 Who on her dewy saffron wings would fly. 
 
 And roll away the clouds along the wind, 
 
 And laughing as she saw the car on high 
 
 Shine in its full effulgence, as the mind. 
 
 Whom sense can never sink, nor passion's fury blind. 
 
 So rolls that car along its arch of blue, 
 
 And shines with a serener efiiuence; air 
 
 Wakened by fanning breezes, charms anew 
 
 The flushed cheek with its coolness; Heaven is fair, 
 
 A speck dims not its liquid azure, there 
 
 The eye can rest with calmness, and the green 
 
 And bloom of grass and flowers new richness wear, 
 
 And sweeter incense rises from the bean, 
 
 And jessamine, and rose, that scent this dewy scene. 
 
percival's poems. 85 
 
 As when the twilight of a weary life 
 
 Comes on with quietness and purity, 
 
 And after vainly struggling in the strife 
 
 Of pleasure or ambition, from the eye 
 
 The film falls, and the mantling vapours fly. 
 
 And Man stands forth in his pure, native worth, 
 
 And after tears for lost years hurried by, 
 
 The soul awakens to a second birth, 
 
 And for a few hours knows there is a Heaven on earth. 
 
 Live for the present moment, but live so 
 
 As you might live forever; let the cares 
 
 And toils of this poor transient being go. 
 
 And pluck the fruit the tree of knowledge bears, 
 
 And gaze upon the charms which virtue wears. 
 
 Till her eye's light has filled and warmed your breast — 
 
 Be strong, and bold, and active — he who dares 
 
 Contend in virtue's panoply is blest 
 
 Alone with Heaven's unstained, enduring, noiseless rest. -> 
 
 Give me the evening of a summer's day, 
 
 A long bright day of glory, when the sun 
 
 Is most efiidgent, and the earth most gay, 
 
 And after deeds of lofty daring done, 
 
 And palms on many a field of combat won. 
 
 Where tempests rage, or noontide glows with power, 
 
 And when the mind its high career has run 
 
 To seek a covert at this silent hour. 
 
 Where songs and gales may lull in some secluded bower. 
 
-86 percival's poems. 
 
 'Tis night, and winds are hushed — the leaves are still, 
 
 Or scarcely ruffle on the poplar bough, 
 
 And where a stream of waving light, the rill 
 
 Drips o'er the face of yonder mountain's brow. 
 
 The moon-beams shine as on Endymion; now 
 
 The forests are unpeopled of those gay 
 
 And lovely nymphs and wanton fawns, but how 
 
 They gave the fancy of the Poet play. 
 
 And threw a rosy hue and perfume o'er his lay. 
 
 The Spring came forth, and with her came a train 
 Of hours and loves and graces, every bower 
 Concealed its nymph, and every flowery plain 
 Was full of light-winged Cupids; for the power 
 Of love awaked the Universe, the hour, 
 When Hymen lit his torch, and Psyche came 
 Wrapped in the embrace of Eros, and a shower 
 Of sweets was poured around them, and a flame 
 Shot from the glowing eyes of that enamoured dame. 
 
 She gave her soul to love, and on her lip 
 Her heart stood, and he kissed the prize away, 
 More sweet than when the dews from roses drip 
 In spangles on the grass, in early day, 
 When emerald sylphs on airy pinions play. 
 And lightly hover, as the leaves unfold 
 And spread their vermil velvet, in the ray 
 Poured through the leafy canopy, and rolled 
 O'er all the bloom below in waving floods of gold: 
 
percival's poems. St 
 
 The lilac purpling with its luscious spires, 
 
 Breathing a milky sweetness, like the balm 
 
 From Aden's groves of myrrh, where summer fires 
 
 The living world to rapture, but the calm, 
 
 Cool shade of spreading maples, than the palm 
 
 With all its crimson clusters, charms me more; 
 
 The violet, lurking underneath the halm 
 
 Of withered grass tufts, has a dearer store (shore. 
 
 Of sweets, than all the flowers that glow on Ceylon's 
 
 The heart cannot be cold in such a shade ; 
 
 It will be melted, as the icy stream 
 
 That steals with limpid current through the glade, 
 
 And murmurs not in winter, but the beam 
 
 Of warmth dissolves it; as a fleeting dream 
 
 The fretted icicles are gone, the wave. 
 
 Gliding o'er snowy sands in morning's gleam, 
 
 Chimes like the song of sorrow Cycnus gave. 
 
 In tones of dying woe aromid his brother's grave. 
 
 How poor, how weak, how impotent is Man — 
 
 Cradled in imbecility, the prey 
 
 Of those who love him fondest, who will fan 
 
 His passions by indulgence, and will sway 
 
 To sense and self, and pride and fear, and play 
 
 Their apish tricks upon him, till his soul 
 
 Has lost its native innocence; the ray 
 
 Kindled from Heaven, while feeble yet, is stole (bowl. 
 
 By sirens, and then quenched in Pleasure's mantling 
 
S8 percival's poems. 
 
 The foaming goblet sparkles to the brim, 
 
 And heedless youth hangs o'er the glowing stream, 
 
 And in its amber waters gaily swim 
 
 The fairest visions of enchantment's dream, 
 
 And o'er it plays a soft and sminy beam, 
 
 That steals in serpent windings to the heart, 
 
 And like a viper's hid in roses, gleam 
 
 The flashings of its keen eyes, as a dart (depart. 
 
 With venom tipped, they give deep womids that ne'er 
 
 We lie along in gay voluptuous ease — 
 
 The full vine mantles o'er us, and our pillow 
 
 Of mingled moss and flowers ; the hum of bees 
 
 Sucking the dew of roses, and the willow 
 
 Now hung in downy bloom, and clothed in yellow. 
 
 Comes like a drowsy zephyr on the ear, 
 
 And the clear-flowing fountain murmurs mellow, 
 
 And airy birds in mazy circles veer, 
 
 And all seems fair and bright as some celestial sphere. 
 
 We sip the cup of promise, and we drain 
 
 With eager lip its nectar, till the fume 
 
 Mounts kindling to the wild and heated brain ; 
 
 And then all things a richer tint assume. 
 
 And are enrobed in splendour, and illumed 
 
 With gay looks, and bright eyes, and speaking glances, 
 
 And laughing frolic waves her spangled plume. 
 
 And revelry with light step featly dances, 
 
 And on their rainbow wings flit round a crowd of fancies. 
 
percival's poems. 8d 
 
 And from our couch we spring — we scarce can tread 
 
 This poor earth in our extacy, on high 
 
 We float through fields of Ether, overhead 
 
 Swells with a bluer, loftier arch the sky, 
 
 And on an eagle's wings we seem to fly, 
 
 And all the kingdoms of the world appear 
 
 In dazzling beauty to the fancy's eye, 
 
 And like the tuneful spirit of some sphere. 
 
 The sweet winds pour full floods of music in our ear. 
 
 As breezes from Sabfea o'er the main 
 
 Waft fragrance on their pinions from the groves 
 
 Of Myrrh and Cassia, and the snowy plain ^ 
 
 Of Coffee-blossoms, where the Queen of Loves, 
 
 Drawn in her pearly car by purple doves. 
 
 Would linger with most fondness on her way; 
 
 A land of passion — under shady coves 
 
 Hollowed in living rock, they spend the day, 
 
 To see their Houries dance and hear their citterns play. 
 
 The past is gone — it can return no more, 
 The dew of life exhaled, its glory set ; 
 It has no other goods for me in store, 
 It is a dreary wilderness, and yet 
 I fondly look and linger. In the net 
 Of pleasure all the breathings of my soul, 
 The burning thoughts alone on Learning set 
 In tender childhood, pointed to the goal, fstole. 
 
 Where bards and sages aimed, in Youth blind leaders 
 
 12 
 
90 percival's poems. 
 
 And vile companions rifled, and they left 
 
 My heart dispirited, and sunk, and poor, 
 
 Of all its highest hopes and wants bereft, 
 
 A pinnace on the waves with naught to moor 
 
 Or bind it to the safe bank; from the shore, 
 
 Where my best powers stood weeping, o'er the deep, 
 
 Tossing and madly heaving, wild winds bore 
 
 My dark, distracted being, where fiends keep (sleep. 
 
 Their orgies, and the worm that gnaws, will never 
 
 There is no hope — ten years the winds have blown, 
 
 That bore me to my ruin, and the waves 
 
 Roll in my wake like mountains — Joy has flown, 
 
 And left behind the lonely turfless graves 
 
 Of early fond attachments — like the slaves 
 
 Bound fettered to the galley, at the oar 
 
 Still 1 must toil uncheered, or in the caves, 
 
 Where not a ray of hope comes, I must pour (core. 
 
 Tears, bitter tears, that well from the heart's bleeding 
 
 The soul that had its home with me was bright, 
 Its early promise as the flowers of spring. 
 Profuse in richness as the davnii g light. 
 When the gay rosy-footed Hours take wing, 
 And from the glowing East the coursers spring, 
 That bear the car of day along its road. 
 And o'er a waking world their radiance fling- 
 So bright the stream of mind within me flowed, 
 It had one only wish — to scale the high abode, 
 
percival's poems- 91 
 
 Where Truth has reared her awful throne, and pure 
 
 Platonic beauty sits, a smiling bride, 
 
 The Majesty that bows, and to allure 
 
 The winning charms of Virtue by his side — 
 
 Cursed be the drawling pedants, who divide 
 
 The monarch from his lovely queen, and sink 
 
 The soul in stupid awe, too soon to hide 
 
 Its coward head in pleasure's lap, and drink (brink 
 
 Her tempting, fiery draughts — Stop! ye are on the 
 
 Of endless woe and ruin — sleep no more — 
 
 The charm will soon be broken- — ye will wake, 
 
 And find the alluring hours that wooed you o'er, 
 
 And rising like a fury. Vice will shake 
 
 Her smoky torch, and in your heart's blood slake 
 
 Its Hell-lit fires, and you will seek in vain 
 
 The young days that have vanished; in the lake, 
 
 That Priests have drawn so highly, there remain 
 
 But years of hopeless thought, and still returning pain. 
 
 The world may scorn me, if they choose — I care 
 But little for their scoffings — I will think 
 Freely, while life shall linger on, and there 
 I find a plank, that bears me — I may sink 
 For moments, but I rise again, nor shrink 
 From doing what the love of Man inspires : 
 I will not flatter, fawn, nor crouch, nor wink 
 At what high-mounted wealth or power desires ; 
 I have a loftier aim to which my soul aspires. 
 
92 PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 'Tis of no common order, but is fomided 
 
 On all the capabilities of Man, 
 
 Not like Condorcct's wakincf dreams, 'tis bounded 
 
 By what our free, unfettered efforts can, 
 
 The liii2:h career that Tally, Plato, ran, 
 
 Or higher still, the ideal they could form — 
 
 'Tis ignorance, not nature, puts the ban 
 
 On these bright, perfect visions, which could warm 
 
 Worthies of Old, who lived in virtue's darkest storm. 
 
 They saw Man sunk around them, groveling, vile, 
 
 A mass of brutal grossness, shivering fear, 
 
 Follies, that made the cold Abderite smile 
 
 And on his fellows look with bitter sneer, 
 
 And squalid woes, that drew the Ephesian's tear, 
 
 Which flowed for miseries he could not heal; 
 
 So wept the man, to whom all life was dear, 
 
 Whose heart was made most sensitive to feel, 
 
 And from a wretched world in hopeless sorrow steal. 
 
 He could not cure the malady — too deep 
 The poisoned dart was planted; but he gave 
 His witness, and his voice should never sleep, 
 A warning sound should issue from his grave, 
 And tell to ages words, which heard might save 
 From woes like those he suffered, woes like mine; 
 The man, who will speak boldly, and will brave 
 A thoughtless world's contempt, deserves to shine 
 Bright in the loftiest niche of Fame's enduring shrine. 
 
percival's poems. 93 
 
 To feel a heart within thee, tender, flowing 
 
 In tears at others pain, and racked with thine, 
 
 A soul that longs for high attainments, glowing 
 
 For all that can ennohle, raise, refine. 
 
 Whose dearest longh)gs seem almost divine. 
 
 The insatiate grasp for knowledge, and the aim 
 
 Of tireless, fearless virtue, then to pine. 
 
 Unknown, unvalued, and to quench the flame 
 
 Of mind in some low slough, and bid farewell to fame. 
 
 And why.^" because no hand was near to check 
 The wanderings of my childhood, but their care. 
 If care it could be called, which caused my wreck, 
 Made sin's descending path to me seem fair; 
 They poured her tempting fruits and viands there, 
 And kindled in my heart the lava stream 
 Of wasting passion — now I wake, and bare 
 Before me lie the horrors of that dream. 
 Which poor perverted youth the fairest Eden deem. 
 
 The world will never pity woes like mine — 
 
 'Tis only justice pouring out her flood — 
 
 I ask no pity, nor will I incline 
 
 Weakly before the cross, nor in the blood 
 
 Of others wash away my crimes — I stood 
 
 Alone, wrapped in suspicion and despair. 
 
 For they did goad me early to that mood — 
 
 I hate not men, but yet I will not share 
 
 Again their follies, hopes, their toils and fears, nor wear 
 
94 percival's poems. 
 
 The mantle of the Hypocrite, nor bow 
 Before a fancied power, nor lisp the creed. 
 Which offers them new life, they know not how, 
 A blind belief, whose ministers will lead, 
 Even as a hireling slave the shackled steed, 
 The many, who' to nature's laws are blind — 
 The heart whom early wrongs have taught to bleed, 
 When blended with a bright and well stored-mind, 
 In solace such as this, no hope, no joy can find. 
 
 I will not lift my hand against those laws. 
 Which nature wears instamped upon her, nor 
 Gird me to battle in so weak a cause. 
 Nor waste my efforts in so fruitless warj 
 But I will weep the hopes I panted for, 
 Which virtue might have made reality. 
 And know that fortune with malignant star 
 Lighted my path, and with an evil eye 
 Left me to those who crawled in Epicurus' stye. 
 
 I see the charms of virtue — can I take 
 
 Again her narrow path, which leads to Heaven .'* 
 
 Beside it flows a fountain, which can slake 
 
 The temperate thirst of nature, there are given 
 
 Fruits which refresh, not kindle — I have striven 
 
 Against the long perversions of my frame. 
 
 And I will strive — but no, by passion driven, 
 
 In evil hour I do the deed of shame. 
 
 And for a time I quench the soul's reviving flame. 
 
percival's poems. 95 
 
 I have no hand to cheer me — was there one. 
 
 Whom I must ever long for, was that heart 
 
 Still mine in all my failings, as the sun 
 
 Wakens a slumbering world, she might impart 
 
 New being to me, and my soul would start, 
 
 As giants from their sleep, to run the race 
 
 Of glory, and to hurl the unerring dart, 
 
 Where victory rears her palm branch — No, my chase 
 
 Of fame is done, and left behind it scarce a trace. 
 
PROMETHEUS, 
 
 PART II. 
 
 AWAKE, thou sleeper, from thy languid dream 
 Of pleasure crowned with roses; thou must lake 
 Anew the harp of solemn tone — a theme ' 
 
 Demands thee to attune it, which should wake 
 The fire within thy bosom hid, and break 
 The flowery fetters, that entwine thee : — Hark ! 
 A clear voice calls thee, where the blue waves make 
 Music around the light and bounding bark, (ark. 
 
 That rides the shoreless sea of mind, a heaven-built 
 
 Fair shines the sun to greet thee on thy way 
 Over the hurried ocean — Heaven is clear 
 In its serenest vestment, light winds play 
 And sport along the billows, far and near 
 Earth, air, and sea, are beautiful, a sphere 
 Of purest light o'erhangs thee, full the sail 
 Swells, as the north-wind, in its mild career, 
 With the still breathing of a summer gale, 
 O'er the long-rolling deep doth steadily prevail. 
 13 
 
98 pkrcival's poems. 
 
 On with thy voyage ! leave the darker shore, 
 Where keener spirits feel their light grow dim, 
 And as thy white wing hastens on before 
 The breath of heaven, exalt thy farewell hymn ; 
 Weave the fresh flowers to crown thy goblet's brim, 
 And pour thy offering to the Powers, who keep 
 Watch o'er the waters, while the vessel's rim 
 Rides low along the green wave, up the steep 
 Climbing, or sinking soft into the furrowed deep. 
 
 On o'er the boundless waters ! thou wilt bear 
 
 Prayers for mild winds and sunshine ; .every soul, 
 
 That hath a portion of Heaven's fire, will share 
 
 In all thy fortunes : whether ocean roll 
 
 Calm in a mellowed brightness, or the whole 
 
 Wrath of the tempest lash it, still steer on. 
 
 Joyous or firm in courage; Man's control 
 
 Is on the sea, and proudest wreaths are won 
 
 Alone in those wild storms where hardest deeds are done. 
 
 Up with thy swelling canvass ! now the gale 
 Woos thee to strain thy cordage, down the bay 
 The small waves fleet like quick streams down the dale^ 
 Speeding o'er poUshed stones their babbhng way; 
 The shrill voice of the air forbids thy stay. 
 It summons thee to take the gift, it throws 
 With such a smile before thee : — now when day 
 Sits on its high throne, and the pure sky glows 
 Unclouded, as the form of things in beauty rosej 
 
percival's poems. 99 
 
 Now, in this noon of life, this jubilee 
 
 Of the united elements, this flow 
 
 Of soul from eye to eye, this harmony 
 
 Of all that shine above with all below 
 
 In their unfaded loveliness, this glow 
 
 Of Nature in its manhood ; now expand 
 
 All to the embrace of the sweet airs, that blow 
 
 Wafting fresh odours from the bowers they fanned. 
 
 To meet the sweeter breath of a diviner land : 
 
 Where on the coast the flowering myrtles bend, 
 
 Laden with Love's own garlands ; in its rear 
 
 Towers a fair summit, where all treasures blend. 
 
 That Spring showers from her full urn; one may hear 
 
 Voices that speak all melody, tones dear 
 
 To young hearts, as the tones of those we love j 
 
 Sweeter the mellow touch, the more we near 
 
 The thicket where it dwells, as from her cove (grove. 
 
 The stock-dove's widowed voice comes wailing thro' the 
 
 Such is the land that welcomes thee afar 
 
 To cut thy long bright track, and proudly go, 
 
 Led by the light of a celestial star, 
 
 That from its seat of beauty sparkles so, 
 
 As mind from its dark portal ; in the flow 
 
 Of the broad stream of ocean, with the sky 
 
 The dome to crown thy temple, and the glow 
 
 Of suns to light and cheer thee, send on high, (die ; 
 
 From off thy full-toned harp, sounds that should never 
 
100 percival's poems. 
 
 But with the hymns that have been sung of old, 
 Burnmg on hps of inspiration, glowing 
 Deep in those ancient hearts of keener mould, 
 With tireless energy their treasure throwing 
 In lavish gifts around them, and bestowing 
 New being on the wanderer of the wild ; 
 Those spirits nerved with intellect, all-knowing, 
 Whose voice now roused in terror, now they smiled, 
 Reading soft words of love to the delighted child j 
 
 With these, and all who have been of the train, 
 
 That hold the power of harmony to give 
 
 Joy unto others, as the melting rain 
 
 Wakens the earth, so that all freshly live, 
 
 And, as again in infancy, revive 
 
 With an intenser hue and shade of green, 
 
 When the waked bees come thicker from their hive — 
 
 O ! when these lords of harmony convene, (scene. 
 
 There be the farewell hymn that paints the parting 
 
 Farewell to the lost land, where life was young. 
 
 And the fresh earth seemed lovely; where the heart 
 
 First felt the thrill of ecstacy, when strung 
 
 With its fine tender chords, all could impart 
 
 Joy to its laughing innocence — I start 
 
 To find 1 am so cold, where all before 
 
 Was tinctured with divinity — we part, 
 
 Land of my early loves ! thy once bright shore 
 
 Has lost its dearest charm — Farewell ! we meet no more. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 101 
 
 The world that is, seems Eden to the child 
 
 The rainbows on a bubble are a spell 
 
 To chain him in sweet wonder; O! how wild 
 
 Do the first wakened throbs of feeling swell, 
 
 There is no music like the village bell. 
 
 That o'er the far hills sends its silver sound. 
 
 There is no beauty like the forms, that dwell 
 
 In flower and bud, and shell and insect, found, (round. 
 
 When through the watered vale we take our infant 
 
 But this is for the new mind — soon we tire 
 
 Of all this simple loveliness, we form 
 
 Within a magic fane, whose sun-gilt spire 
 
 Biu'ns in the azure firmament — the storm 
 
 Is portion of its majesty, we warm. 
 
 Not tremble in the lightning's vivid glare — 
 
 Sounds must be heard from Heaven, that they inform 
 
 The spirit with the life of thought, and bear, (dare. 
 
 Through all their unseen flight, the souls that upward 
 
 The world imagined, to the world we feel, 
 Is glory and magnificence; we turn 
 From earth in sated weariness, but kneel 
 Before the pomp we dream of — when the urn 
 Holds all that now hath form and life, we spurn 
 The shackles, that debase us and confine; 
 Deep in its central fountain mind will burn 
 Brighter in darkness, like the gems that shine 
 With a fixed eye of fire, the stars of cave and mine. 
 
102 percival's poems. 
 
 When the gay visions once so fair are fled, 
 
 Whefi time has dropped his rose-wreaths, and his brow 
 
 Hath only snows to shade it; hearts have bled, 
 
 And healed themselves to be all callous ; now 
 
 In the cold years of vanished hope, we plough 
 
 And sow in barrenness to reap in blight — 
 
 Then the soul in its solitude doth bow 
 
 To its own grandeur, and from outer night 
 
 Turns to the world within, and finds all love and lighL 
 
 Darkness hath then no covering, but its veil 
 
 Is as a pictured curtain o'er a scene, 
 
 That hides the life of some bewitching tale, 
 
 And is itself all beauty ; on the green 
 
 Before an ancient temple walks the queen 
 
 Of smiles, dispensing happiness to choirs 
 
 Of youths and maidens, whose ecstatic mien 
 
 Tells of the heart within, whose keen desires 
 
 Burn with the pure flame lit from Love's Olympian fires. 
 
 Not kindled from the altar, which below 
 
 Stood in Idaha, bowered in myrtle shades, 
 
 The shrine of him who bore the bijrning bow, 
 
 Whose earthly passion, ere it ripens, fades : 
 
 'T is the one Spirit, who with light pervades 
 
 The infinite of being, but controls 
 
 Alike the insect floating through the glades 
 
 On the soft air of June, or human souls 
 
 New in their merry morn, or all that lives and rolls 
 
percival's poems. 10:? 
 
 Wide through the waste of ether, sun, or star, 
 
 All linked by Harmony, which is the chain. 
 
 That binds to earth the orbs, that wheel afar 
 
 Through the blue fields of Nature's wide domain ; 
 
 From the last glimmerer in the starry train, 
 
 To that which is to us the God of day. 
 
 From the beam glancing on the tossing main, 
 
 To the full floods, that o'er creation play. 
 
 And feed the lamps of life, all feel that boundless sway. 
 
 Love is attraction, and attraction love — 
 
 The meeting of two fond eyes, and the beat 
 
 Of two accordant pulses are above 
 
 Planets, that always tend, but never meet : 
 
 To us, that have a feeling, love is sweet, 
 
 The life of our existence, the great aim 
 
 Of all our hope and beauty — but they fleet, 
 
 Moments of fond endearment — years will tame 
 
 The electric throb of bliss, and quench the spirit's flame. 
 
 But yet there is to us a purer light, 
 
 And that is in the beautiful unfading. 
 
 The mould, wherein all phantoms of delight 
 
 Are fashioned into loveliness; the shading 
 
 Of earth may give it softness, kindly aiding 
 
 The weakness of our feebler nature, while 
 
 Mind has not fledged its pinions; soon pervading 
 
 Space in its daring, as a long-sought isle. 
 
 It turns with naked gaze to that Eternal smile. 
 
104 percival's poems. 
 
 Whose charm is on the Universe, the blue 
 
 Mellowed with light's full essence on the sphere 
 
 Wrapping us in its mantle, whence the dew 
 
 Falls clear and pearly, like a tender tear 
 
 Shed on the hues, that fade so quickly here, 
 
 But are awhile so beautiful — the sea 
 
 That smooths its gold, or, as the light winds veer, 
 
 Crisps it, or decks it o'er with stars — the sea 
 
 Takes all it hath to charm. Eternal Love ! from thee. 
 
 And thee the fountain's worship, where they lie 
 
 Curling in silent loveliness, or sending 
 
 Through the flowered vale, the brook that prattles by, 
 
 Twinkling o'er polished pebbles; willovvs bending 
 
 Wave in thy soft breath, when its fragrance lending 
 
 Balm to the new spring makes the Earth perfume: 
 
 All hues, that o'er the tufted meadow blending. 
 
 As the wind sinks or rises oft, assume (bloom. 
 
 New shades and tints, in thee expand their buds and 
 
 In thee all creatures gladden, on the air 
 Moving their film}' wings, or calm at sail 
 Skimming the winding water sheeted fair. 
 As the sun walks above it — their bright mail 
 Burns on the polished mirror, which doth vail 
 To the bossed form, that studs it like a gem — 
 Whether their serried pinions cut the gale. 
 Or their quick-glancing fins the current stem, 
 Or earth is their domain — Thy life enkindles them. 
 
percival's poems. 105 
 
 And Man becomes thy worshipper, when first 
 The sense of beauty wakens him to kneel 
 Before the images, which thou hast nurst, 
 And stamped them with thy deep eternal seal; 
 Forms from which age and ruin cannot steal 
 The pure free grace of nature — hut they wear 
 The magic charm, in which we hve and feel 
 That we have caught a higher sense, and bear 
 New wrought within our souls the essence of the fair. 
 
 And to those forms of light our wishes tend, 
 
 And our fixed longing is to stand and gaze, 
 
 Where, to the Parian stone the mind doth lend 
 
 Its own divinity, and pour its rays 
 
 Harmonious o'er the canvass, where life plays 
 
 In the flushed cheek, blue veins, and speaking eye, 
 
 And lip with passion trembling — Mind can raise 
 
 From its unseen conceptions, where they lie 
 
 Bright in their mine, forms, hues, that look Eternity; 
 
 That send through the long waste of ages, pure 
 From the corruption of a grosser time. 
 Those models of perfection, which endure, 
 The guides of all the graceful and sublime 
 In our own nature, fashioned in the clime 
 Of the sweet myrtle, and the kindling vine. 
 Of roseate skies, green vales, and rocks that climb 
 Amid the never-wasting snows, and shine 
 In the glad Sun — the seat of all they held divine. 
 
 14 
 
106 percival's poems. 
 
 It was from gazing on the fairy hues 
 
 That hung around the born and dying day, 
 
 The tender flush, whose mellow stain imbues 
 
 Heaven with all freaks of light, and where it lay 
 
 Deep-bosomed in a still and waveless bay, 
 
 The sea" reflected all that glowed above, 
 
 Till a new sky, softer but not so gay, 
 
 Arched in its bosom, trembled like a dove, 
 
 When o'er her silken plumes wanders the light of love. 
 
 It was from gazing on them, when the flowers 
 First wakened from their wintry sleep, and flung 
 Their first warm tints o'er garden beds and bowers, 
 When from the temple roof the swallow sung, 
 And in the thorny thicket sweetly rung, (tone 
 
 Through the still moonlight hours, the heart-breathed 
 Of the lone warbler — when the loosed steed sprung 
 Bright o'er the sounding plain, and the charmed zone, 
 In one soft twine of love, round all that lived was thrown. 
 
 When there were dances in the Platane shades. 
 
 And the vine-arbours breathed with music — Night 
 
 Looked from her starry throne on youths and maids, 
 
 Bounding and shouting in their full delight, 
 
 From the round orb of azure sparkled bright 
 
 The spirit in its ecstacy, wreathed gold 
 
 Flowed tressed behind them, as their footsteps light 
 
 Leaped in the mazy ring, and the wide fold 
 
 Of mantles waved to fly the clasping girdle's hold : 
 
percival's poems. 107 
 
 And feeling voices blended with the lute. 
 
 Raising the hymn to beauty and to love, 
 
 The parent and the infant boy — the flute, 
 
 In tempered sweetness, flowing like the dove 
 
 In her deep sorrow, from the elm above 
 
 The dark stream sleeping in seclusion; so, 
 
 As the voice ceased, and Echo from her cove 
 
 Answered, the flute, in one continual flow, 
 
 Breathed every winding note and falling touch of woe : 
 
 And smiles were changed to tears, the dance became 
 
 Still, and the dancers breathless; you might see 
 
 In the soft dews of sorrow quenched the flame 
 
 Of buoyant passion; — soon the sound of glee 
 
 Rang on the merry cymbal-, then all free, 
 
 As the winds hurry o'er the mountains, beat, 
 
 In numbered steps attuned to melody, 
 
 Round the close-shaven green their glancing feet. 
 
 Light as the spotted fawns through Tegean forests fleet. 
 
 And there the pencil and the chisel drew 
 
 Apollos and Dianas ; there they wrought 
 
 Into one form the charms that nature threw 
 
 Round the fair youth of Athens ; there they sought 
 
 All the soft lines of elegance, and caught 
 
 The grandeur too of loveliness, which lends 
 
 Power to the young god ; there they culled and brought 
 
 From innocent forms the perfect grace, which sends 
 
 Such magic on the heart of youth, that awed it bends. 
 
108 percival's poems. 
 
 Once they were planted in a marble fane 
 
 Built to the Power that in the statue stood, 
 
 Or underneath the blue sky on the plain, 
 
 Or m the shadow of a sacred wood, 
 
 Or where the poplar quivered o'er the flood, 
 
 Itself m air, its image glassed below : 
 
 But now they stand, the artist's holy food, 
 
 Where the high dome permits the light to flow, 
 
 Aloft above the crowd that wondering gaze below. 
 
 And there they stand, still perfect; though the stain 
 
 Of centuries has lent to them a hue, 
 
 Which tells of age and change, 't is not in vain. 
 
 But is their triumph : they have risen through 
 
 The roar of ruin round them, to renew 
 
 Taste in the land of music, and of form, 
 
 And tint, and shade — So eagerly we view 
 
 The long-tost bark, that rudely beat the storm, (swarm. 
 
 And rode unharmed, unwrecked, where all its terrors 
 
 They stand replete with life, the marble speaks, 
 And the cold eye looks passion; they might tell 
 Of cultured fields, where now the dead fen reeks. 
 Of pomp and feast, where bats and night birds dwell; 
 Though from their first-raised pedestal they fell, 
 Yet they revived in glory. It is sure, 
 Stamped by the seal of nature, that the well 
 Of Mind, where all its waters gather pure, 
 Shall with unquestioned spell all meaner hearts allure.. 
 
percival's poems. 109 
 
 We gaze on them, and on the ancient page, 
 And read its mystic characters, which seem, 
 Through the expanding haziness of age, 
 The fading forms of a majestic dream. 
 Cold is the heart, that not on such a theme 
 Feels the warm spirit kindle — 't is- the sound 
 Of a gone trumpet rolling on the stream 
 Of Time, and catching still at each rebound 
 Deeper and clearer tones to bear its warning round, 
 
 And ever waken from the dull repose 
 
 Of peace and plenty, where we waste in rust 
 
 That love of high emprise, which ever glows. 
 
 When the roused mind hath sternly shook the dust 
 
 From off its robe, and in a child-like trust 
 
 To its own inspiration, and the power 
 
 That speaks from buried nations, at the bust 
 
 Of ancient mind gives worship, in the hour (shower. 
 
 When the waked eyes of Heaven their tempering influence 
 
 Language of Gods and Godlike men ! thy tone 
 
 First sounded on Olympus from the lyre 
 
 Of the glad virgins, when around the throne 
 
 They raised the joyful Paean, in a choir 
 
 Alternate with Apollo, sitting higher, 
 
 The sovereign of all harmony — thence came 
 
 That sounding speech, whose words, imbued with fire, 
 
 Could the wild wave of Athens bend and tame. 
 
 And wreath the Poet's harp with locks of lambent flame. 
 
110 PERCIVAL S POKMS. 
 
 Thy faintest tone is music — when thy words 
 
 Come o'er my ear, I seem on wings at play 
 
 With every bard who sung thee, like the birds, 
 
 Who feed on dewy air, and float in day, 
 
 Speeding in endless round their lives away, 
 
 Aloft above the region of the storm. 
 
 Where nought can soil their golden plumes, nor stay 
 
 Their swift career — no sudden gust deform 
 
 The beauty of their flight, but all is still and warm. 
 
 And the clear sun stands over them, his hair 
 
 Waves gloriously athwart the perfect blue; 
 
 There is no rustling in the deep calm air, 
 
 But one eternal tide is rolling through 
 
 The far expanse, and thus it ever drew 
 
 The waves of Ether in its willing train; 
 
 Higher than ever wing of eagle flew, 
 
 Or white curl dimmed the noon-vault with its stain, 
 
 There, bird of Eden, spreads thy pure and bright domain. 
 
 And thou too hast a voice, and oft at night. 
 When thy wing winds among the stars, 't is said 
 By those who watch the sky in fixed delight, 
 On fairy dreams of wooing fortune led. 
 When the cools winds, around the flowery bed 
 Hid in the garden alcove, long delay. 
 Because the spot is fragrant, then 't is said 
 The midnight gazer hears thee far away, 
 liike a sweet angel's voice, salute the coming day. 
 
percival's poems. Ill 
 
 Fit image of those subtile kindled souls, 
 
 Who spurned at baseness, and arose from earth 
 
 Indignantly, who fixed in Heaven their goals, 
 
 Whose only rival was departed worth ; 
 
 Whose restless passion laboured in the birth 
 
 Of moral greatness — whether on the page. 
 
 Statue, or canvass, round the quiet hearth, 
 
 On the loud Pynx, or in the sanguine rage 
 
 Of fight — they sought to charm and conquer every age. 
 
 And this with such a language, sweetly blending 
 
 All in one round of fulness, that it flowed 
 
 A streamlet or a torrent, ocean sending 
 
 Its bhie waves on its rocky barrier — glowed 
 
 Sparkles of beauty thickly o'er it — strode 
 
 Mind on its breast, like Gods, who sail through air 
 
 Throned on a tempest cloud — whether the ode 
 
 Burned, or the epic thundered, or the fair (there. 
 
 Fond Lesbian sighed and wooed, the magic sound wa? 
 
 Yes, but the accent, the nice touch and tone. 
 Have perished with the tongues whose melody 
 Was Music's essence — Yes, the sound has flown 
 With the keen life aloft, where it will be 
 Absorbed and blended in Eternity, 
 The spirit of a grander, purer time : 
 Language of Heaven, O lend thy voice to me ! 
 Give me the perfect note, the tempered chime, 
 That I at times may feel and live with the sublime ; 
 
112 percival's poems. 
 
 That I may read the rhapsodies and odes, 
 
 And proud harangues, and flowing histories, 
 
 Those flights, where mortals mingled with the Gods, 
 
 And threw their eye beyond the life that is ; 
 
 Those sun-bright lessons of the good and wise, 
 
 Those golden songs of a diviner age — 
 
 O ! could my mind but gain that long-sought prize, 
 
 O! could I take the early Grecian rage, 
 
 And pour Homeric fire along my wandering page — 
 
 There should be altars to thee, and the flame 
 
 Should be ethereal, no gross earthly fire 
 
 Should taint their marble purity, but tame 
 
 The spark of Heaven should tremble down the wire, 
 
 And with the lightest element conspire, 
 
 To roll full floods of snowy light to thee, . 
 
 And I would warm my spirit in that pyre. 
 
 And all, that lives within my heart, should be 
 
 Devoted to thy will, Eternal Harmony ! 
 
 Are there not moments, when we fly from earth, 
 
 And dwell in ether ? Are there no bright hours 
 
 Along the dull of life? Is not the dearth 
 
 Of feeling quickened, and the dormant powers 
 
 Wakened, by living with the domes and towers 
 
 We fly to o'er the bounding sea? — O fane 
 
 Of Grecian wisdom ! that in ruin lours 
 
 Over the rage of ignorance, again (stain. 
 
 Thou shalt be bright, renewed, and pure from every 
 
percival's poems. 113 
 
 And I would go, and worship at thy door; 
 
 I dare not enter, where thy form doth rear 
 
 That beaming lance, which stilled the battle's roar, 
 
 And stopped the clang of sword, the hum of spear, 
 
 Cutting the murk air in its dark career. 
 
 And thirsting for the shouting warrior's blood; 
 
 I feel within my soul a holy fear 
 
 Forbidding me to enter thy abode, (trod. 
 
 Where none but grandest minds and purest hearts have 
 
 Wisdom enshrined in beauty — O ! how high 
 
 The order of that loveliness ; the blue 
 
 That rolls and flashes in thy full round eye, 
 
 Thy forehead arched with such a stainless hue, 
 
 As crowns the eternal mountains lifted through 
 
 The gathered night of clouds, the smile, the frown, 
 
 Blended in sweetness — all in thee can view 
 
 How mind and virtue linked, alone bring down (crown. 
 
 On mortal heads from Heaven the star-wreathed laurel 
 
 Would I might stand beneath thy temple's roof. 
 Closed from the entrance of all common light, 
 From all the sound and stir of man aloof. 
 Whose dark air makes thy eegis doubly bright, 
 As the broad flash glares through the cloud of night 
 With an intenser redness — could I stand 
 Beneath thy roof, and from thy pure lips write 
 The volume of all Truth, but no ! my hand 
 Will not — I am not one by whom thy lore is scanned. 
 
 15 
 
114 pekcival's poems. 
 
 No — I should rather fly among the bowers 
 
 That bloom aromid the Idalian dome, and take 
 
 From soft Sicilian plains the leaves and flowers. 
 
 Of which a coronal of love to make — 
 
 Better for me a seat beside the lake, 
 
 Where the enchanter erst his wild harp hung 
 
 To moulder in the birches — why not wake 
 
 Those witching notes again? Shall they be flung (strung? 
 
 To the wild mountain winds from chords so long un- 
 
 And now I turn me to the misty island, 
 
 Which rises with its white cliff's from the ocean, 
 
 I turn to where the storm broods on the highland. 
 
 And the sea lifts its waves in angry motion, 
 
 And there again I feel a new devotion 
 
 Come with a spell of power athwart me; light 
 
 Burns, blazes over Greece, but wild commotion 
 
 Heaves in the bosoms of the north ; their flight (night. 
 
 Is on the whirlwind's wing, their home the womb of 
 
 They follow nature, who hath girt their hills 
 
 With a dark belt of pines, whose fitful roar, 
 
 Far wafted on the wind, the stout heart fills 
 
 With its own wild sublimity; the shore 
 
 Breasts the rude shock of waves, that rush before 
 
 The north wind bursting from the icy pole; 
 
 Yon peaks, that lift their foreheads bald and hoar, 
 
 Where the long wreaths, that tell of tempest, roll, 
 
 Stamp mightily and deep their grandeur on the soul. 
 
percival's poems. 115 
 
 They love the "ock, whose dark brow beetles far 
 
 Into the wallowing ocean, whose white waves 
 
 Join round the thundering crag in mingled war, 
 
 Where in the hollow cavern echo raves, 
 
 Like the long groans that seem to come from graves, 
 
 When sheeted spectres burst their cerements; high 
 
 The gannet wheels and screams, then, stooping, braves 
 
 The fury of the surge that rushes by, 
 
 And then rolls dim and far to mingle with the sky. 
 
 Their home is on the mountain, where in mist 
 They darkly dwell, and when the hollow sound 
 Of the crushed woods comes on, they fondly list 
 To hear the winds wake up, and gather round, 
 Till from each rocky battlement they bound, 
 Mingling and deepening, like the waves in war. 
 Which on the mid-sea heave and strive around 
 The rock, that dares their madness; loud afar 
 Rolls on the foam-lit main the rush of Odin's car. 
 
 And when the night comes down, and deeper gloom 
 Falls on the cloud, that wraps the height in shade, 
 When the mist moves away, and opens room 
 To catch a glimpse of lakes in moon-light laid, 
 For all below is by the clear wind made 
 Serene in brightness, then the lone bard throws 
 A glance on distant beauty, and the maid. 
 White as the foam that on the lashed wave rose. 
 Sits lonely in her bower, and weeps her tender woes. 
 
116 percival's poems. 
 
 Their tenderness is dark ; it hath the hue 
 
 Of their own watery skies, and thence they bear 
 
 Its tints of paleness, for the light sent through 
 
 The floating veil of mist, that dims the air, 
 
 Sheds a faint glimmering on the landscape there, 
 
 So that the earth seems weeping; when they mourn 
 
 Their tones are wild but soft ; they do not tear 
 
 With a new pang the heart already torn, 
 
 That finds in the still look, what kills, yet must be borne. 
 
 The soaring of their heights uplifts the soul, 
 
 And gives their heaven-ward daring to the heart, 
 
 And the tossed waves, that midway round them roU^ 
 
 Seeming below, as if they were a part 
 
 Of a new ocean raging there, will dart 
 
 Their sternness on the eye, that loves to rise 
 
 From the low vale, and as it gazes start 
 
 To see above them floating in the skies 
 
 Peaks white with eldest snow, and gilt with sunset dies. 
 
 Dofra, thy brow is in that upper air. 
 
 No cloud e'er went as high, the eagle's wing 
 
 Has been thy oiily visitant, thy bare 
 
 And pillared cone is such a glorious thing 
 
 To the far-gazing Norseman, when the sting 
 
 Of a fond love of country prompts him on 
 
 To worship at thy base, and upward spring 
 
 To thy eternal walls, which in the sun 
 
 Flash far and purely forth, when the long day is done. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 117 
 
 Far round thy fir-shagged base the torrent winds, 
 Hoarse as the voice of Liberty, who bears 
 With open breast the tempest, when it binds 
 Seas in its chain of frost, whose brow still wears 
 Part of its once deep frown, the will that dares 
 All, when invasion threats — that torrent leaps 
 Down the dark gulf, and with its dashing tears 
 The rock in deeper rents, and ever keeps 
 Wild music in the wood, that o'er it bends and weeps ; 
 
 The roar of waters, and the rush of winds (throw 
 
 Through the blacjt boughs, whose tangled branches 
 Night o'er the rift, ^here the dashed vapour blinds, 
 And distant down the gushing waters glow 
 In their intense convulsion, as they go 
 Plunging and lifting high their frothy swell j 
 Then, as a new-sprung arrow, on they flow, 
 Roaring along a pit that seems a hell, 
 Where the shook caverns ring their echoes like a knell. 
 
 So Mind takes colour from the cloud, the storm, 
 The ocean, and the torrent: where clear skies 
 Brighten and purple o'er an earth, whose form 
 In the sweet dress of southern summer lies, 
 Man drinks the beauty with his gladdened eyes, 
 And sends it out in music — where the strand 
 Sounds with the surging waves, that proudly rise 
 To meet the frowning clouds, the soul is manned 
 To mingle in their wrath, and be as darkly grand. 
 
118 percival's poems. 
 
 Nature ! when looking on thee, I become 
 
 Renewed to my first being, and am pure, 
 
 As thou art bright and lovely ; from the hum 
 
 Of cities, where men linger and endure 
 
 That wasting death, which kills them with a sure 
 
 But long-felt torture, I now haste away 
 
 To climb thy rugged rocks, and find the cure 
 
 Of all my evils, and again be gay 
 
 In the clear sun, that gilds the fair autumnal day. 
 
 I cannot look upon those cloudless skies 
 
 And not be lifted, for they seem to spread 
 
 With an unbounded vastness, and 'they rise 
 
 Beyond the height, where early fancy, led 
 
 By its own grand aspirings, which were fed 
 
 On hopes nursed in their shrines below, had given 
 
 To the first Powers their throne ; so, o'er my head^ 
 
 As by an ever-moving hand still driven. 
 
 Wider and wider spreads the azure deep of Heaven. 
 
 I gaze and I am vaster — thought takes wing 
 
 From off the rock I stand on, and goes far 
 
 Into the pure blue gulf, and there I bring 
 
 The myriad bands of night, and set each star 
 
 In its peculiar station, till they wear 
 
 All forms of brightness, and a magic train. 
 
 Show all the fabled world in picture there, 
 
 And then I seem to range them o'er again. 
 
 Like him who read them first on the Chaldean plain. 
 
f'ERCIVAL's POEMS. 119 
 
 But Nature ! thou hast more beneath me bright 
 
 In their rich autumn tints, than all I throw 
 
 Over the crystal arch, whose tranquil light 
 
 Takes every hue of mellowness below ; 
 
 It kindles in the orchard's ruddy glow, 
 
 And on the coloured woods, whose dying shade 
 
 Crowns the tall mountain with a wreath, whose flow, 
 
 Softly descending to the silent glade, 
 
 Seems like the evening cloud in airy tints arrayed. 
 
 And where the river winds along the vale, 
 
 Bending through sloping hills, which o'er it lift 
 
 Oaks faintly yielding to the rudest gale, 
 
 And clinging with close twining to the rift 
 
 Of the steep rocks, which, as the wild winds drift 
 
 The rain-clouds o'er their quivering tops, still rise 
 
 Contending with the gust, whose flight is swift. 
 
 Scouring with stormy wing the cold dun skies. 
 
 On which the flock look up with faint imploring eyes. 
 
 Through that low watered vale a sanguine stream 
 Winds, where the maple gives its leaf a hue 
 Of deepest carmine, and those wreathed boughs* teem 
 With the same tint of blood and berries blue; 
 Deeper their contrast, as they meet us through 
 The oak's dark russet and the walnut's brown; 
 There we might weave of falling leaves a new 
 And brighter wreath than earth e'er gave, to crown 
 The sun of lower life, before its light went down. 
 * Tupele. 
 
120 percival's poems. 
 
 There is a pensive spirit in those woods, 
 The sighing of the lone wind in their leaves 
 Has much to soften; there the sunk heart broods 
 Intenser o'er its many wrongs, and grieves 
 With a far purer sorrow ; it believes, 
 With fond illusion, that a form is there 
 Who hath her sorrows too; and then he weaves, 
 Of the pale-tinted flowers, a wreath, to bear 
 On his dishevelled locks, the garland of despair. 
 
 To look upon thy form, thou dying year. 
 
 To see thy brightest honours thickly shed. 
 
 As withered flowers are scattered on a bier 
 
 By pious hands, who mourn a loved one dead; 
 
 To think how all, that spring and summer spread 
 
 Of freshness and maturity, are torn 
 
 By the rude winds; how coldly in their stead 
 
 The crusted frost hangs glimmering on the thorn. 
 
 And bends the widowed boughs, that stoop as if forlorn : 
 
 To think on this, and on the breathing hues. 
 
 That wreathed the same earth in its fairest prime^ 
 
 When the glad season with its life imbues 
 
 The very clods, and wakens from the slime 
 
 Of the low marsh, new forms, that spread a time 
 
 A pictured mantle o'er it ; when it blows. 
 
 Mocking the beauty of a tropic clime, 
 
 Where one eternal round of flowering throws (glows : 
 
 New bloom to crown the fruit, that swells and ripening 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 121 
 
 To think on infancy, and then on death, 
 
 In the wild herb, or those fair forms we bind 
 
 Close to our hearts, as if their life and breath 
 
 Were portion of our being, where the mind 
 
 Is heightened, and all sympathies refined 
 
 To that high state, where we are not our own. 
 
 To think on death — to leave the looks, that wind 
 
 Round all our thoughts their tenderness — alone 
 
 To sit and hear the winds make sad and solemn moan 
 
 Through the dark pines, whose foliage, in the sway 
 Of fitful gusts, waves mournfully, and throws 
 From its fine threads a sound, that sinks away 
 Faintly and sweetly, to a dying close. 
 Like a soft air to which the boatman rows. 
 Over the moon-lit lake his gliding keel. 
 Which comes more calmly, for the still wind blows 
 So meekly through the summer night, we feel 
 Scarce on our wakeful ear the whispered echo steal j 
 
 To think on death, and how it rends the links 
 Of long and close communion, how it tears 
 One and another chord, till the heart sinks 
 Without one friend, on whom to lay its cares, 
 And take his in return; — the spirit bears 
 Better a loved one's woes, than those it feels 
 Spring in its own lost hopes; — the heart that shares 
 With a long bosom friend his burdens, heals 
 Its wounds, and still is soft; — alone, their closing steels : 
 16 
 
122 pekcival's poems. 
 
 'T is good to think on death — it bends the will 
 From that stern purpose, which no man can hold 
 And yet be happy; — we must go and fill 
 Thought with afl'ection, where pale mourners fold 
 The shroud around those chill limbs, whose fair mould 
 Imaged unearthly beauty. Why not blend 
 With tears awhile, and leave that stern, that cold 
 Contempt of all that waits us, when we end 
 Our proud career in death, where all, hope lifted, bend» 
 
 'T is good to hold communion with the dead, 
 
 To walk the lane, where bending willows throw 
 
 Gloom o'er the dark green turf, ere day is fled,^ 
 
 And cast deep shadow on the tomb below; 
 
 For, as we muse thus silently, we know 
 
 The worth of all our longings, and we pay 
 
 New worship unto purity, and so 
 
 We gather strength to take our toilsome way. 
 
 Which must be meekly borne, or life be thrown away. 
 
 Better live long and tranquilly, if pure, 
 Than rush into the madness of a crowd. 
 Where all are eager for the prize, none sure ; 
 Where busy voices clamour long and loud, 
 And man, shows in the strife, how feebly proud 
 Are his best aims to raise himself, and cast 
 His fellows in his rear — how keen, when bowed 
 Beneath a firmer heel, he finds at last, (past. 
 
 Are the condemning thoughts, that mock him, of the 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 123 
 
 But I must turn again to higher themes, 
 
 And, from the lifted summit where I stand, 
 
 Casting a rapid glance o'er hills and streams. 
 
 That chequer with their light a happy land, 
 
 Must find again my better powers expand 
 
 To a fit harmony with earth and sky, 
 
 Which spread before me, with so vast a hand, 
 
 Those forms that seem to bear eternity 
 
 Stamped on their iron brows, where age will ever be : 
 
 The gray rocks, and the mountains wrapped in blue, 
 Towering far distant through the silent air. 
 That sleeps in noon-light, but in morning blew 
 Fresh o'er the russet plain, and scattered there 
 Shadows from flitting clouds, that earth seemed fair 
 Rob'd in a sheet of light, and then grew dim ; — 
 Far distant through the haze, those mountains bear 
 Sky-lifted walls, that frown along the brim 
 Of earth, and as I gaze, in vapour seem to swim. 
 
 They rise with twofold vastness through the dun 
 And quivering air, that broods along the heath. 
 Which gilds its dark waste with the reddening sun, 
 Whose sinking light seems ominous of death ; 
 Air now is hushed, and not a whispered breath, 
 Bears from the cedar woods one sound away 
 To speak of life ; a lightly curling wreath 
 O'er the far lake alone is seen to play. 
 And give one fairy hue to the departing day. 
 
124 percival's poems. 
 
 'T is the fit hour of high and solemn thought ; 
 
 The sun sinks lower, and a wave of flame 
 
 Burns on the distant peaks ; I feel my lot 
 
 Too scanty for those inner powers, that frame 
 
 Visions of glory, which no want should tame 
 
 To the poor level of our common days ; 
 
 I would be with the heights, which stand the same, 
 
 Catching through countless years the dying rays, 
 
 That every evening crown the rocks in one full blaze. 
 
 And here shall be my temple, where I pay 
 Devotion unto Nature, here the throne 
 On which my soul shall sit, and pass away 
 Beyond where ever wing of air has flown, 
 Or first-created beam of morning shone, 
 Through the void infinite, the far expanse. 
 Spread out beyond all life, by thought alone 
 Pervaded, where no atoms in their dance, (chance. 
 Ere sun and star came forth, rolled on the waves of 
 
 To think is to exist, and when we go 
 Far in the range of intellect, we seem 
 Heightened in our existence: brute below 
 Move the dull crowd, a slow and sluggish stream, 
 Who think us madmen, who on mountains deem 
 There are more lofty musings, and new force 
 Caught from the purer air and clearer beam ; 
 They know no upward hours, and as their source 
 Of life is in the dust, such is their being's course. 
 
percival's poems. -125 
 
 They are the pillars on which nations rest, 
 
 Useful, but rude. All beauty took its birth 
 
 In the rank mould — now worshipped and caressed, 
 
 It once lay buried in its parent earth ; 
 
 And thus the mean and sordid have their worth, 
 
 To bear aloft the finer form, and rear 
 
 The prouder seat of soul, that sallies forth 
 
 High in a purer element, to hear 
 
 The lore of minds who dwell in a celestial sphere; 
 
 Who have been in the common herd, but long 
 
 Have found a home more genial, and have grown 
 
 From this our infancy of reason, strong 
 
 In all that gives to intellect the tone 
 
 Of an exalted essence, such as shone 
 
 Faint in the bard and sage of ancient days ; 
 
 Earth was around them — now, they would not own 
 
 Those visions, where they wandered in a maze 
 
 Of dreams, that were sublime, and dazzle all who gaze. 
 
 But these were dreams of infancy ; they broke 
 
 The chain of earthly appetite — the will 
 
 To be all greatness burst the binding j'^oke 
 
 That ever bore their spirit downward, till 
 
 They leaped on a free pinion to fulfil 
 
 The grandeur they had purposed — then the sky 
 
 Received them in its bosom, where they still 
 
 Haste on in eager hopes that never die, 
 
 To read all things that are, with jin unsated eye. 
 
126 percival's poems. 
 
 Space is to them an ocean, where they rush 
 
 Voyaging in an endles circle; light 
 
 Comes from within, and as the mountains flush, 
 
 When morning sails athwart them, so their flight 
 
 Kindles all things, they pass by, with so bright 
 
 And searching glance, they read them in their core: 
 
 Like a quick meteor hasting on in night. 
 
 They wander through a sea without a shore, 
 
 Which still hath something new to gather to their store. 
 
 And they too have a centre, where they tend; 
 The Universe rolls round it; there all power 
 Comes and goes forth; though lesser beings end 
 Wasting, and born, and dying every hour, 
 Yet like the fabled amaranthine flower, 
 That ever held the same unfading glow. 
 Shedding its fragrance through the holy bower, 
 Where angels took their slumbers, in a flow 
 That bore a sense of Heaven to purer hearts below : 
 
 Yet like that never dying flower, the whole 
 Lives one unchanging round, and ever draws 
 New motion from the animating soul. 
 Which acts on matter with eternal laws, 
 And is to each event the one first cause. 
 From which all changes emanate; like rays, 
 All spirits point to this, and there they pause. 
 And when all worlds are passed, the soul there lays 
 Its separate life aside, and mingles in that blaze. 
 
percival's poems. 127 
 
 Here we have only moments, when we speed 
 
 Round the aerial ocean, o'er whose tides 
 
 The mind goes onward, like the breathless steed, 
 
 On which the wretch, who flies his ruin, rides; 
 
 But the base will to earth forever guides 
 
 The soaring pinion in its highest flight; 
 
 We cannot go where the free spirit glides 
 
 Serenely in a flowing wave of light ; 
 
 We may be bright awhile, but more of life is night. 
 
 'T is a vain toil to send our fancy on, 
 
 In quest of higher worlds than this we know; 
 
 Cold want will come, when all we sought is won, 
 
 And then our new-fledged wing must stoop below ; 
 
 I am not to the hope of Heaven a foe. 
 
 It comforts, lifts, and widens, all who share 
 
 In the pure streams that from its fountain flow; 
 
 We must be pure ourselves, if we would dare 
 
 Take of the holy fire that wells and gushes there. 
 
 'T is a weak madness, or a base deceit. 
 
 To talk of hope like this, when life is stained 
 
 With all rank reeking grossness when we meet. 
 
 In a fair life, a goodness all unfeigned. 
 
 Where one long love of purity hath reigned, 
 
 And the meek spirit charms us, like the rose 
 
 That in a thicket lurks, and there hath gained 
 
 Sweetness from all it fed on, till it throws 
 
 New fragrance on the wind — we give a Heaven to those. 
 
128 PERCIVAL'S POEMS. 
 
 They have a Heaven on earth ; it ever springs 
 
 In the calm round of tender feeling, shown 
 
 By the dear cares and toils which Nature wrings, 
 
 With a most gentle pressure, from the lone 
 
 But happy parent, who amid her own, 
 
 Smiling like first-blown flowers around her, feeds 
 
 Her spirit with their looks of love ; unknown 
 
 She lives within her shrine; her fond heart needs 
 
 No tongue to tell her worth, to gladden in her deeds. 
 
 They have their own reward: it is the law 
 
 Of our existence, that our hearts should cling 
 
 To those who from our life their being draw; 
 
 The favours that we render, ever bring 
 
 Closer the cherished, till they are a thing 
 
 We cannot sever from us, but they tear 
 
 Roots from our hearts ; the thankless child may sting. 
 
 Even as a serpent, but we meekly bear (there. 
 
 All wrongs, and when the storm beats on him, clasp him 
 
 The feeling of a parent never dies 
 But with our moral nature ; all in vain 
 The wretch, by cold and cruel spurning, tries 
 To change that love to hate : the sense of pain 
 Shoots keenly through a mother's heart, the chain 
 Wound through life's tender years twines closer so; 
 Feelings, that in our better hours had lain 
 Silent, are often waked by some deep throe. 
 And as the torture racks, our loves in tenser grow. 
 
percival's poems. 129 
 
 We send these fond endearments o'er the grave, 
 
 Heaven would be Hell, if loved ones were not there, 
 
 And any spot a Heaven, if we could save 
 
 From every stain of earth, and thither bear 
 
 The hearts that are to us our hope and care, 
 
 The soil, whereon our purest pleasures grow; 
 
 Around the quiet hearth we often share, 
 
 From the quick change of thought, the tender flow 
 
 Of fondness waked by smiles, the world we love, below. 
 
 But now I turn me to the setting sun. 
 
 Whose broad fire dips behind yon rock, a tower 
 
 Fit for the eagle's aerie; day is done. 
 
 And earth is hushed at evening's dewy hour; 
 
 Down the high wooded peak a golden shower 
 
 Flows through the twinkling leaves, that lightly play 
 
 In the cool wind, that wakens from its bower 
 
 Hung, where the curling river winds away (bay; 
 
 Through the green watered vale, to meet the sheeted 
 
 On which the moon, who long had watched the set 
 Of the bright lord who gives her light, but dims 
 Her brightness, when they two in Heaven are met, 
 Casts her pale shadow, which as softly swims. 
 As nymphs, who cleave the wave with snowy limbs, 
 Like lilies floating on a falling stream, 
 Whose incense-breathing cup now lightly skims 
 The crinkling sheet, and now with opal gleam 
 Dips in the brook, and takes from air a brighter beam^ 
 
 17 
 
130 percival's poems. 
 
 Which is condensed, and parted into hues 
 That charm us in the rainbow; each waved tip 
 Of the glossed petals, in that light imbues 
 Its paleness with an iris fringe; the lip 
 Thus takes a sweeter beauty, when we sip 
 The infant stream of life, from some bright bowl 
 Fretted with eastern flowers; and as they drip 
 From the new rose, the pearls of morning roll 
 Such tints upon the eye, they pass into the soul. 
 
 Sunlight and moonlight now are met in Heaven; 
 This, like a furnace blazing, in the west 
 Lifts a wide flame, that, as a banner driven. 
 Glows where the mountain lake unfolds its breast; 
 And every tree in amber locks is tressed, 
 Flowing in waved fire down the green hill-side; 
 Round the far eastern sky the blue is dressed 
 With blushes, like a sweet Circassian bride, 
 Who looks with melting eye on Helle's rolling tide. 
 
 The vast arch lifts a darker canopy, 
 
 The perfect dome of nature, reared aloft 
 
 Above the columned rocks, that send it high, 
 
 Like a round temple roof, which rises soft 
 
 Melting in evening air, where sunbeams waft 
 
 Flashes, that tip with gold the pointed spire, 
 
 And crown the statue there, and gem the haft 
 
 Of the bent sword, that, like a stream of fire, 
 
 Waves o'er the startled crowd, the sign of God's first ire. 
 
percival's poems. 131 
 
 But as I turn me to the silent sea, 
 
 Where not a wind is breathing, no calm swell 
 
 Creeps slowly whispering on; where in his lee, 
 
 Through the far deep, the sailor-boy can tell, 
 
 On the white bed of sand, each twisted shell, 
 
 That lies, where never waves in tempest sweep; — 
 
 I look, and as I hear the vesper bell 
 
 Swing solemnly afar, the moon beams keep 
 
 Watch o'er the silver tide, that now is hushed in sleep. 
 
 Day fades, and night grows brighter in her orb, 
 
 Which walks the blue air with a queen-like smile, 
 
 And seems with a soft gladness to absorb 
 
 All the deep blaze, that lit yon rocky pile. 
 
 Where the sun took his farewell glance, the while 
 
 He rested on the throne of parting day, 
 
 Which is his royal seat; — as a far isle 
 
 Rolling amid the upper deep its way. 
 
 The moon glides on, as glides her shadow on the bay. 
 
 Beauty is doubled here, and both are fair, 
 
 But the reflection hath a paler tint, 
 
 As when from out a calm and hazy air 
 
 The first wan rays in frosted autumn glint; 
 
 The moon aloft comes freshly from the mint, 
 
 Where first she took her loveliness ; the bright 
 
 And dark she bears, like bosses, by the dint 
 
 Of a deep die, give changes to her light. 
 
 As if a snowy veil with glittering pearls were dight. 
 
i32 fercival's poems. 
 
 Night steals apace, and brings the hour of stars, 
 
 Which come emerging from Heaven's azure flowj 
 
 First in the west the loving planet bears 
 
 The charm of light, that hath a power to throw 
 
 Hope on the impassioned heart, who in her glow 
 
 Reads the fond omen of his happy flame; 
 
 She leads the way; then thicker splendours go, 
 
 Each to his seat, as when at once they came 
 
 Obedient to the voice, whose word all power can tame. 
 
 And now the night is full ; unnumbered eyes 
 
 Look on us from infinitude; the dome. 
 
 Whereon they hang, in darker azure lies 
 
 Romid their intenser light; as when the foam 
 
 Crests the green wave, when barks are hurrying home 
 
 From the wild cloud, that skirts the brooding sky, 
 
 And gives the sea a frown, before it come 
 
 To plow the surge in wrath, and roll it by 
 
 The rock, which in that rush still lifts its forehead high. 
 
 They gather on the far expanded arch, 
 
 Each in their separate orders, and go on 
 
 Sweeping the long dark vault in silent march. 
 
 Until at last the western goal is won, 
 
 Or on the orient hill the morning sun 
 
 Come forth and quench their lesser light; yon plain 
 
 Is a wide list, where higher souls may run 
 
 In the bright form of star, and grandly gain 
 
 The only good reward, which here we seek in vain. 
 
percival's poems. 133 
 
 No wonder nations worshipped here, and bowed 
 Their foreheads in the dust before the fires 
 That watch o'er earth, and seem to speak aloud 
 The deeds of unborn ages; — man aspires 
 To the high seat of gods, and never tires 
 To read the infinite, the past, and throw 
 Looks full of hope before him ; so those fires, 
 Which are so high, and look so far, must know 
 All that is big with fate, and will have birth below. 
 
 Faith centres in the sky ; — 't is there we turn. 
 
 When earth is only darkness, there we send 
 
 Our vows to those we fear, and there we burn, 
 
 When the last pulse beats low, to find the end 
 
 Of all we hate, and thus in hope we tend 
 
 To the high dwelling of the stars ; — bright souls 
 
 Love with the purer elements to blend, 
 
 And so, when the deep knell its parting tolls, 
 
 They gaze on the pure light that ever round us rolls : 
 
 So those, who have been gifted with the flame 
 
 Of an ascending intellect, whose light 
 
 Kindled as death drew near, and seemed the same, 
 
 Or fairer on the verge of being's night; — 
 
 So they have fixed their last look on the bright 
 
 Clear sky, as if awhile insphered and bound 
 
 In a full sense of glory ; — their delight 
 
 Was too intensely keen to have a sound; 
 
 It spake in the long smile they cast so calmly roimd. 
 
134 pekcival's poems. 
 
 The sun was setting when the Guebre drew 
 His parting breath ; he gazed in worship there, 
 Life seemed concentred in that ardent view, 
 His spirit wandered into worlds of air, 
 To mingle with his god, and dying share 
 In the last flash of day ; — the cold dim glaze 
 Fell on his eye, but yet he oft would bear 
 A fond look to the cloud, that drank the rays, 
 And then he calmly died, as one who only pays 
 
 Devotion on his pillow, ere he draw 
 
 His curtain round, and close his eye in sleep ; 
 
 That fond idolater in dying saw. 
 
 As the day sank in glory in the deep. 
 
 That rolled in gilt waves o'er it with the sweep 
 
 Of a far-flashing brightness, there his eye 
 
 Beheld his god enshrined ; — his soul could leap, 
 
 At such a calm and holy hour, to lie 
 
 Serenely on his couch, and with his loved lord die. 
 
 Centre of light and energy ! thy way 
 
 Is through the unknown void; thou has thy throne, 
 
 Morning, and evening, and at noon of day. 
 
 Far in the blue, untended and alone; 
 
 Ere the first-wakened airs of earth had blown, 
 
 On thou didst march, triumphant in thy light; 
 
 Then thou didst send thy glance, which still hath flown 
 
 Wide through the never-ending worlds of night. 
 
 And yet thy full orb burns with flash as keen and bright. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 135 
 
 We call thee Lord of day — and thou dost give 
 To Earth the fire that animates her crust, 
 And wakens all the forms that move and live, 
 From the fine viewless mould, which lurks in dust, 
 To him who looks to Heaven, and on his bust 
 Bears stamped the seal of God, who gathers there 
 Lines of deep thought, high feeling, daring trust 
 In his own centred powers, who aims to share 
 In all his soul can frame of wide, and great, and fair. 
 
 Thy path is high in Heaven; — we cannot gaze 
 
 On the intense of light that girds thy car ; 
 
 There is a crown of glory in thy rays, 
 
 Which bear, thy pure divinity afar, 
 
 To mingle with the equal light of star, 
 
 For thou, so vast to us, art in the whole 
 
 One of the sparks of night, that fire the air, 
 
 And as around thy centre planets roll. 
 
 So thou too hast thy path around the central soul. 
 
 I am no fond idolater to thee. 
 
 One of the countless multitude, who burn, 
 
 As lamps, aromid the one Eternity, 
 
 In whose contending forces systems turn 
 
 Their circles round that seat of life, the urn 
 
 Where all must sleep, if matter ever dies : — 
 
 Sight fails me here, but fancy can discern 
 
 With the wide glance of her all-seeing eyes, 
 
 Where, in the heart of worlds, the ruling Spirit lies. 
 
126' percival's poems. 
 
 And thon too hast thy world, and unto thee 
 
 We are as nothing; — thou goest forth alone, 
 
 And movest through the wide aerial sea, 
 
 Glad as a conqueror resting on his throne 
 
 From a new victory, where he late had shown 
 
 Wider his power to nations; — so thy light 
 
 Comes with new pomp, as if thy strength had grown 
 
 With each revolving day, or thou at night 
 
 Had lit again thy fires, and thus renewed thy might. 
 
 Age o'er thee has no power; — thou bringst the same 
 Light to renew the morning, as when first, 
 If not eternal, thou, with front of flame, 
 On the dark face of earth in glory burst, 
 And warmed the seas, and in their bosom nursed 
 The earliest things of life, the worm and shell; 
 Till through the sinking ocean mountains pierced, 
 And then came forth the land whereon we dwell, 
 Reared like a magic fane above the watery swell. 
 
 And there thy searching heat awoke the seeds 
 
 Of all that gives a charm to earth, and lends 
 
 An energy to nature; all that feeds 
 
 On the rich mould, and then in bearing bends 
 
 Its fruit again to earth, wherein it blends 
 
 The last and first of life ; of all who bear 
 
 Their forms in motion, where the spirit tends 
 
 Instinctive, in their common good to share, (there. 
 
 Which lies in things that breathe, or late were living 
 
 ^ ^ 
 
percival's poems. 137 
 
 They live in thee; without thee all were dead 
 And dark, no beam had lighted on the waste. 
 But one eternal night around had spread 
 Funereal gloom, and coldly thus defaced 
 This Eden, which thy fairy hand had graced 
 With such uncounted beauty — all that blows 
 In the fresh air of Spring, and growing braced 
 Its form to manhood, when it stands and glows 
 In the full-tempered beam, that gladdens as it goes. 
 
 Thou lookest on the Earth, and then it smiles; 
 Thy light is hid, and all things droop and mourn; 
 Laughs the wide sea around her budding isles, 
 When through their heaven thy changing car is borne; 
 Thou wheelst away thy flight, the woods are shorn 
 Of all their waving locks, and storms awake ; 
 All, that was once so beautiful, is torn 
 By the wild winds which plough the lonely lake. 
 And in their maddening rush the crested mountains shake. 
 
 The Earth lies buried in a shroud of snow ; 
 
 Life lingers, and would die, but thy return 
 
 Gives to their gladdened hearts an overflow 
 
 Of all the power, that brooded in the urn 
 
 Of their chilled frames, and then they proudly spurn 
 
 All bands that would confine, and give to air 
 
 Hues, fragrance, shapes of beauty, till they burn, 
 
 When on a dewy morn thou dartest there 
 
 Rich waves of gold to wreath with fairer light the fair. 
 
 18 
 
133 percival's poems. 
 
 The vales are thine ; and when the touch of Spring 
 
 Thrills them, and gives them gladness, in thy light 
 
 They glitter, as the glancing swallow's wing 
 
 Dashes the water in his winding flight, 
 
 And leaves behind a wave, that crinkles bright, 
 
 And widens outward to the pebbled shore — 
 
 The vales are thine, and when they wake from night, 
 
 The dews, that bend the grass tips, twinkling o'er 
 
 Their soft and oozy beds, look upward and adore. 
 
 The hills are thine — they catch thy newest beam, 
 
 And gladden in thy parting, where the wood 
 
 Flames out in every leaf, and drinks the stream 
 
 That flows from out thy fulness, as a flood 
 
 Bursts from an unknown land, and rolls the food 
 
 Of nations in its waters — so thy rays 
 
 Flow and give brighter tints, than ever bud, 
 
 When a clear sheet of ice reflects a blaze 
 
 Of many twinkling gems, as every glossed bough plays. 
 
 Thine are the mountains, where they purely lift 
 
 Snows that have never wasted, in a sky 
 
 Which hath no stain; below the storm may drift 
 
 Its darkness, and the thunder-gust roar by. 
 
 Aloft in thy eternal smile they lie 
 
 Dazzling but cold ; thy farewell glance looks there, 
 
 And when below thy hues of beauty die 
 
 Girt round them as a rosy belt, they bear 
 
 Into the high dark vault a brow that still is fair. 
 
percival's poems. 139 
 
 The clouds are thine, and all their magic hues 
 Are penciled by thee ; when thou bendest low, 
 Or comest in thy strength, thy hand imbues 
 Their waving fold with such a perfect glow 
 Of all pure tints, the fairy pictures throw 
 Shame on the proudest art; the tender stain 
 Hung round the verge of Heaven, that as a bow 
 Girds the wide world, and in their blended chain 
 All tints to the deep gold, that flashes in thy train j 
 
 These are thy trophies, and thou bendst thy arch, 
 
 The sign of triumph, in a seven-fold twine, 
 
 Where the spent storm is hasting on its march; 
 
 And there the glories of thy light combine, 
 
 And form with perfect curve a lifted line, 
 
 Striding the earth and air; — man looks and tells 
 
 How Peace and Mercy in its beauty shine. 
 
 And how the heavenly messenger Impels 
 
 Her glad wings on the path, that thus in ether swells. 
 
 The ocean is thy vassal ; thou dost sway 
 
 His waves to thy dominion, and they go. 
 
 Where thou in Heaven dost guide them on their way, 
 
 Rising and falling in eternal flow; 
 
 Thou lookest on the waters, and they glow. 
 
 They take them wings and spring aloft in air. 
 
 And change to clouds, and then, dissolving, throw 
 
 Their treasures back to earth, and, rushing, tear 
 
 The mountain and the vale, as proudly on they bear. 
 
140 percival's poems. 
 
 I too have been upon thy rolling breast, 
 
 Widest of waters ! I have seen thee lie 
 
 Calm, as an infant pillowed in its rest 
 
 On a fond mother's bosom, when the sky, 
 
 Not smoother, gave the deep its azure die, 
 
 Till a new Heaven was arched and glassed below, 
 
 And then the clouds, that gay in sunset fly, 
 
 Cast on it such a stain, it kindled so. 
 
 As in the cheek of youth the living roses grow. 
 
 I too have seen thee on thy surging path, 
 
 When the night tempest met thee; thou didst dash 
 
 Thy white arms high in Heaven, as if in wrath 
 
 Threatening the angry sky; thy waves did lash 
 
 The labouring vessel, and with deadening crash 
 
 Rush madly forth to scourge its groaning sides; 
 
 Onward thy billows came to meet and clash 
 
 In a wild warfare, till the lifted tides (rides. 
 
 Mingled their yesty tops, where the dark storm-cloud 
 
 In thee, first light, the bounding ocean smiles. 
 
 When the quick winds uprear it in a swell. 
 
 That rolls in glittering green around the isles. 
 
 Where ever-springing fruits and blossoms dwell; 
 
 O ! with a joy no gifted tongue can tell, 
 
 I hurry o'er the waters, when the sail 
 
 Swells tensely, and the light keel glances well 
 
 Over the curling billow, and the gale 
 
 Comes off from spicy groves to tell its winning tale. 
 
percival's poems. 141 
 
 The soul is thine ; of old thou wert the Power 
 
 Who gave the Poet life, and I in thee 
 
 Feel raj heart gladden, at the holy hour, 
 
 When thou art sinking in the silent sea ; 
 
 Or when I climb the height, and wander free 
 
 In thy meridian glory, for the air 
 
 Sparkles and burns in thy intensity; 
 
 I feel thy light within me, and I share 
 
 In the full glow of soul thy spirit kindles there. 
 
 All have their moments, when the world looks dark 
 Behind, around, before them: Some have steeled 
 Their hearts to hope, and put out every spark 
 Faith lends the future — minds, who will not yield 
 To aught but sense, who lurk beneath a shield 
 That bears unshocked the rudest brunt of fate ; 
 They boast of their fixed hardness — they have healed 
 All the heart's wounds by searing — love and hate 
 Have died alike — unmoved they sit, and sternly wait 
 
 Death, which hath lost all terrors, in the cold 
 
 t 
 Stifling of every passion and desire ; 
 
 'T is the same sound, whether the bell has tolled, 
 
 Or the flute warbled out the lover's fire; 
 
 They laugh at Heaven and all who there aspire. 
 
 Who lowly crouch and bend to fear, they mock ; 
 
 They strive, while they have vigour; when they tire 
 
 They sit and muse, like Marius on a rock. 
 
 And thus in calm deep thought the Book of Life unlock : 
 
142 percivat/s poems. 
 
 " It came, is gone, whence, whither, none can know: 
 
 Darkness behind, as deep a gloom before : 
 
 Wave after wave our generations go 
 
 Rolhng to break upon an unknown shore ; 
 
 Awhile we toss and sparkle, then no more 
 
 The eye beholds our being, we are fled, 
 
 And they who moved alone, and they who bore 
 
 Navies and convoys, soon, as quickly sped, 
 
 Have vanished in the waste dark vacuum of the dead. 
 
 *' Graves tell no tales, but silence dread and deep 
 
 Broods over them forever; one long night 
 
 Wraps all that enter their domain in sleep, 
 
 On which no day hath ever poured its light; 
 
 But Time, as it advances, still doth write 
 
 Eternity above their dark repose; 
 
 Ages have wheeled away in silent flight, 
 
 Man ever to his long oblivion goes; 
 
 What if he hath new life? Who hath it only knows. 
 
 " We stand the centre of Eternity, 
 
 Infinity around us ; but we cling 
 
 To the few sands of life, that soon will be 
 
 Lost in the common mass, when Death shall fling 
 
 His clay-cold hand athwart us, and shall wring 
 
 The spirit from our forms ; then dust to dust 
 
 Shall meanly moulder; we shall be a thing 
 
 For worms to feast on; do we rightly trust. 
 
 We shall be then all mind, or is it a vain lustf 
 
feiicival's poems. 143 
 
 " So Man has questioned, since his being came 
 
 Forth from the womb of Nature ; he has found 
 
 This dull life for his inner powers too tame, 
 
 And therefore he hath cast his view around, 
 
 And wandered far away, beyond the bound 
 
 Of the seen universe, to find a home 
 
 For his high soul to dwell in ; though the ground 
 
 Receive the wasted corpse, yet he may roam. 
 
 On a swift airy wing, beneath Heaven's proudest dome. 
 
 "' There is a lifting grandeur in the thought ; 
 'T is the extreme of ecstacy to rear 
 Our now base life above its sordid lot, 
 And kindle in a holy happy sphere. 
 Where all that is of intellect is near. 
 And all pure feeling finds eternal food: 
 No wonder better souls have rested here 
 Intensely, as the sparrow guards her brood; 
 And it attracts the more, the more it is pursued. 
 
 " They live in holy musing — mind is drawn 
 From all external being — calm repose 
 In the one chiefest essence, as the dawn 
 Sleeps on the silent valley, when the rose 
 Drips with its seeded dew, that slowly flows 
 From the still leaves, all are so hushed and calm, 
 When the blue flowers of day their leaves unclose, 
 And wake their azure eyes, and breathe their balm, 
 And the green linnet sucks the honey of the Palm, 
 
144 percival's poems. 
 
 " Whose broad leaves hang unruffled by the sway 
 
 Of the cool air, that from the ocean steals 
 
 With breath so faint, that scarce the silk-tufts play 
 
 Round the green cane, when the night beauty seals 
 
 Her golden eye in slumber, but reveals 
 
 In tender lines of light the fringed lid ; 
 
 When all that hath a life, in silence feels 
 
 The moving of that Power, whose ways are hid 
 
 Deep in the core of things, miresting, and amid 
 
 " Myriads of viewless instruments, the springs 
 
 By which the eternal round of life goes on, 
 
 Whose sleep is in the tomb, when spirit flings 
 
 Its faded slough aside, again to run 
 
 In a fresh-glowing spoil, that gives the sun 
 
 Its light in burnished beauty. Do we fly. 
 
 Thus parted, Earth forever? or does one 
 
 Take from another life, wherewith to ply 
 
 Awhile on gladdened wings, and then grow old and die ? 
 
 " Nature is one eternal circle: Life 
 
 Floats through the void, and is attracted, where 
 
 The elements, in their collected strife. 
 
 From Chaos raise a world in order fair. 
 
 To float through space, and on its bosom bear 
 
 Forms, that are fashioned with unnumbered wheels 
 
 To walk, or swim, or on the buoyant air, 
 
 Float in the calm of motion — Life there steals. 
 
 And finds its home prepared j it enters, Matter feels^ 
 
percival's poems. 145 
 
 " And all awakes to energy, the blood 
 
 Courses the winding: arteries, which convey 
 
 Spirit and heat in its air-kindled flood, 
 
 And send to all, the atoms which array 
 
 The form in rounded beauty, and their play 
 
 Paints on the new-born cheek the one full rose. 
 
 Which is the flower of love ; we all obey, 
 
 Uncheated of our due, this charm, that glows, 
 
 And then turns sweetly pale, as passion ebbs and flows. 
 
 " Above the temple, where the Godhead sits, 
 
 Reason, the Deity and guide of man, 
 
 In the most lofty seat, as well befits 
 
 The Power, whose sacred office is to span 
 
 All that is working round us, or that can 
 
 Meet us to please, to harm us, or destroy; 
 
 Who hath his band of feelings, who may scan 
 
 All that would seek an entrance; who, as joy (annoy. 
 
 Draws, or pain frights, seeks, shuns, what charm us or 
 
 " There sits the Power upon his higher throne. 
 In a fair palace wrought, when life at first 
 In the grand form, where mind alone is shown. 
 The elements of thought and feeling nurst 
 From the blank infant state, till Genius burst 
 All earthly barriers, and aspired to Heaven — 
 He sought to grasp its fire, and he was curst 
 By his own daring; now by fancy driven, 
 The victim of belief, he finds a longing given 
 
 19 
 
146 pekcival's roEMS. 
 
 " To dwell with angels, and to fashion dreams 
 
 Of glory, goodness, perfect mind, pure love, 
 
 Consummate beauty, in whose gladdening beams 
 
 We seem exalted to a sense above 
 
 The common life, that chills us ; but we prove. 
 
 In all this ecstacy, the torturing fire 
 
 Of a keen thirst, whose fountain doth remove 
 
 Farther, the more we seek it — such desire (drier. 
 
 Burns the lost wretch, who finds, each step, the desert 
 
 " Man, in the temperate use of all his powers, 
 Is happy: with the simple fruit and stream, 
 Labour and rest in their alternate hours, 
 His life is golden, as fond poets dream 
 Of the first age, the Paradise, the theme, 
 Where the rapt spirit gladdens, and runs wild 
 Through citron shades, whose fruitage woos the bean, 
 To harden in its rind, through all that smiled 
 In the Elysian isles, where air was ever mild, 
 
 " Brushing the light leaves on its jocund way, 
 
 Borne from the breast of ocean without cloud, 
 
 Save such light streaks, as give the setting day 
 
 Its gilded glory, where the year was bowed 
 
 With an eternal harvest, in whose shroud 
 
 Earth seemed a Heaven for Gods, not home for men; 
 
 They dreamed of all these phantoms, and were proud 
 
 Of their creations, but cold winter then 
 
 Shut them to gnaw their hearts, and grovel in their den. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 147 
 
 " Rapture is not the aim of Man ; in flowers 
 
 The serpent hides his venom, and the sting 
 
 Of the dread insect lurks in fairest bowers : 
 
 We were not made to wander on the wing, 
 
 But if we would be happy, we must bring 
 
 Our buoyed hearts to a plain and simple school ; 
 
 We may, as the wild-vines their tendrils fling, 
 
 And waste their barren life, o'erleap all rule, 
 
 And grasp all light, till age our fruitless ardour cool. 
 
 " We would be Gods, and we would know all things, 
 
 And therefore we know nothing well ; our thought 
 
 Would lift itself upon an eagle's wings. 
 
 And speed through all that Deity hath wrought 
 
 And fashioned by his fiat, until nought 
 
 Should be untravelled ; but the aspiring flame 
 
 Consumes the active mind, and all it sought 
 
 Becomes its torment, for the breath of fame, 
 
 Like a Sirocco's blast, will sear and scorch our frame. 
 
 " We seek the fountain-head, whence Genius flowed 
 
 Pure from the breast of Nature, where her stream 
 
 Was sparkling as the crystal, and it showed 
 
 The bright reflection of the solar beam, 
 
 Which from the Sun of mind, the high supreme 
 
 Of moral grace and beauty, and the throne 
 
 Of majesty unbounded, took its theme, 
 
 And in the Muse's morning splendour shone, (cone : 
 
 As in the dawn of light some snow-capped mountain's 
 
148 I'ercival's poems. 
 
 " And we go down the stream of ages, borne 
 Through cuhured fields and deserts, and we take 
 All that is poured from Plenty's brimming horn 
 Of mind's collected treasures; there we slake 
 Our growing thirst, and thus by quenching make 
 Burning and wasting our intense desire ; 
 We gather burdens, till our spirits ache 
 Beneath the weight of our attainments ; higher, (pire : 
 Even on the grave's close brink, our mounting souls as- 
 
 " And then Death comes, which we have hurried on. 
 By our own longing to escape it; still 
 Hope points the temple we had almost won, 
 Its Doric columns crown the lifted hill. 
 And the departed great its porches fill. 
 And all the springs of Truth at last unlock ; 
 Onward we leap to join them, with a will 
 That dies in effort — so from the doomed rock 
 Prometheus saw the sea roll near, his torture's mock. 
 
 " We are the slaves of Nature — Sun and cloud 
 Brighten and darken — cold and heat compel 
 The spirit to tlieir rule ; we may be proud 
 That we are Lords of Earth, and greatly tell 
 How elements, obedient to the spell 
 Of our high reason, follow where we go : 
 'T is a vain pride ; for Glory's upward swell. 
 Lifting its tides, like Oceans in their flow. 
 Finds in the meanest check full oft its overthrow. 
 
percival's poems 149 
 
 " A breath may quell the tempest of a soul, 
 Whose gusts blow o'er a continent, and pour 
 Madness through nations; who, as wild seas roll. 
 When wind and earthquake dash them on the shore, 
 To bury thousands in their rush and roar, 
 Where ages had been calm and happy, send 
 One host to sweep a feebler host before 
 Its brute and causeless rage — that life may end 
 By the dark stagnant air, whose poison doth defend 
 
 " With a securer bulwark, than the rock 
 
 Crowned with its iron jaws of death, which speak 
 
 Defiance to the invading wave, and mock 
 
 All, who, in their insatiate longing, seek 
 
 Wider and richer regions, where to wreak 
 
 The lust of a false greatness : in his snows 
 
 The Switzer finds his safeguard; winds are bleak, 
 
 And earth is barren, but his bosom shows 
 
 How hard and firmly nerved to bear and to oppose : 
 
 " And in his damp close woods the Carib dwells 
 Free, for the pestilence forever spreads 
 Its purple folds around him, till it swells 
 Dire as a Hydra with its hundred heads; 
 Where snakes and reptiles batten in their beds, 
 And round the boughs their bloated circles twine; 
 Where the dull air its fatal influence sheds 
 In one eternal mist — no pure beams shine. 
 But all that sleeps below is rayless as the mine. 
 
150 percival's poems. 
 
 " Man would be free, but is his own worst slave; 
 
 His tyrant is his appetite; he lives 
 
 Calmly in bondage, if he thus can save 
 
 The lust he long hath cherished; then he gives 
 
 His birthright to the pander, and believes 
 
 He hath his surest safety in that power; 
 
 He rests in quiet sloth ; he never grieves 
 
 For the high glories of that ancient hour, (dower. 
 
 When liberty sprang forth, and fiercely claimed her 
 
 " Base passions are our lords; and thus we bend 
 
 So silently to those, who let us feed 
 
 On the rank garbage of low joys; we send 
 
 Rarely, if ever, to the hopes that breed 
 
 Strength in the heart, and give the mind the speed 
 
 Of a young courser, on its upward way ; 
 
 The strong and lofty love the daring deed — 
 
 Free in their own wide circuit, they obey (pi'sy. 
 
 No power but -their own might — the weak too are their 
 
 " Weakness is vice : man first was bold and strong, 
 
 Prompt to repel all force, to spurn all rule; 
 
 He felt his wants, he knew his rights; that throng 
 
 Of prurient, pampered appetites, which fool 
 
 The soul of its true being, in the school 
 
 Of reeking cities taught, he had not known ; 
 
 And therefore he was not the flatterer's tool, 
 
 Who gives the cup of Circe, but alone 
 
 He walked erect, a god, and made the earth his own. 
 
percival's poems. 151 
 
 " We tell of meekness — 't is the very curse 
 
 Of our degraded nature ; we are driven 
 
 Close in a crowd, where all mean feelings nurse 
 
 Their blackness, and the feebler thus in Heaven, 
 
 Look for the help that here they find not given, 
 
 And patiently submit to those who crush ; 
 
 Fetters so galling had been sternly riven 
 
 By the first upward race ; they would not hush 
 
 Wild nature in their hearts, but spend it in the rush 
 
 " Of a determined will ; though now firm laws 
 
 Rear iron walls to hem us darkly in, 
 
 We can be just, and ever in the cause 
 
 Of the first liberty speak in the din 
 
 Of prating slaves, who strive, and only win 
 
 New shackles by their toil; the few will hate 
 
 The tyrant, and be nobly free within; 
 
 They live in their own world; the mean will wait 
 
 Fawning around a lord — such is the doom of fate. 
 
 " It is our pride to conquer Nature: — Mind 
 
 Is an internal force, that oft can sway 
 
 Things to its great dominion ; 't is designed 
 
 As the one balance, which at least can stay 
 
 Awhile the haste of causes, which convey 
 
 All in their downward flood, to where they mix 
 
 Again in that great furnace, where the play 
 
 Of first attractions ever will unfix 
 
 The binding links of life, and send us o'er the Styx, 
 
152 percival's poems. 
 
 " To wander through ten thousand changes, where 
 
 All first is gross and hateful, till we rise 
 
 From the rank putrid, heap, to spread in air 
 
 New forms, that veil at first their energies; 
 
 But as the tireless wing of Being flies, 
 
 Hasting forever onward, they grow pure, 
 
 And spread new beauty to the admiring eyes 
 
 Of the pleased Earth, and silently allure 
 
 To taste their fleeting charms, too lovely to endure. 
 
 " Why was the sense of Beauty lent to Man, 
 The feeling of fine forms, the taste of soul, 
 That speaks from eye and lip, and thus will fan 
 Love in the yoimg beholder .'' Why the whole 
 Waste of creation sweetly can control 
 The fixed heart to devotion? Why hath Night 
 So many golden eyes? Why is the roll 
 Of Nature so accordant, when a blight 
 Withers our very lives, and poisons all delight.^ 
 
 " Why are we not like Nature, ever new. 
 
 Freshening with every season ? It is pain 
 
 To gaze, when sick and wasted, on the blue 
 
 Arching as purely o'er us, and the stain 
 
 Of the curled clouds, that gather in the train. 
 
 Which the low Sun makes glorious with his smile: 
 
 To see the light Spring weave her rosy chain. 
 
 And sow her pearls, no longer can beguile, 
 
 When age, and want, and sin, our sinking hearts defile. 
 
percival's poems. 153 
 
 " Youth is the season, when we must enjoy, 
 If we would know the sweets of hfe ; the mind 
 Is then pure feeling, for no base alloy 
 Of gain hath blended with the ore refined 
 By the wise hand of Nature, who designed 
 The beautiful years to be alone the time, 
 When we can fondly love, and loving find 
 In the adored the same glad passion chime, 
 As if two spirits met in one most tuneful rhyme. 
 
 " O! there are eyes that have a language — sweet 
 
 Comes their soft music round us, till the air 
 
 Is one intensest melody — we beat 
 
 Through every pulse, as if a spring were there 
 
 To buoy us into upper worlds, and bear 
 
 Our fond hearts with linked arms, on whitest wings, 
 
 To a far island, where we two may share 
 
 Eternal looks, such as the live eye flings. 
 
 When it collects all fire, and as it blesses, stings. 
 
 " O ! could we stop, at this glad hour, the wheels 
 Of Time, and make this point Eternity; 
 Could check that onward flight, which ever steals 
 Hues, forms, and soul, as the twined colours flee, 
 Which are above the seven-fold Harmony, 
 Whose perfect concord meets in the soft light, 
 That sits upon a wave of clouds — a sea 
 Of rolling vapour, pearled and purely white, 
 That as a curtain hangs the pale-lit throne of Night: 
 
 20 
 
1-54 I'EKCIVAl's P0£MS. 
 
 " O ! could we dwell in rapture thus forever, 
 Hearts burning with a high empyreal flame, 
 Whose blended cones no reckless storm could sever, 
 But they should tremble upward till the same 
 Fine point of centred heat should ever aim 
 Higher and higher to the perfect glow; 
 As Dante saw from that celestial Dame, (flow, 
 
 Once loved, now worshipped, Heaven's own splendors 
 And gather in her smile, that looked so calm below. 
 
 " It is not in us; we were fashioned here 
 
 For* a more tranquil feeling, such as home 
 
 Sheds on two hearts, whose true and lasting sphere 
 
 Is round the holy hearth ; hearts do not roam. 
 
 When they are pledged by the young shoots, that come, 
 
 Like the green root-twigs, sweetly to renew 
 
 Our life in their dear lives, which are the sum 
 
 Of all our after being, where we view (througlj. 
 
 Heaven, as the soul's fond smile those rose-lips trembles 
 
 " O! had I one on whom to fix my heart. 
 
 To sit beside me when my thoughts are sad, 
 
 And with her tender playfulness impart 
 
 Some of her pure joy to me, in whose glad 
 
 Up-gazing eyes, the love, that once I had, 
 
 Might find its lesser image formed complete 
 
 In all its mellow mildness; we grow mad 
 
 In dwelling on ideal woes — we meet (seat. 
 
 Those loved looks in their smile, and mind regains its 
 
percival's poems. 155 
 
 " And as those blue eyes on the canvass throw 
 
 Their watery glances to me. where the tear 
 
 Seems gathering to a starry drop, to flow 
 
 Down the soft damask of her cheek, I hear 
 
 From her moved lips, a voice salute my ear, 
 
 That was so kind and so confiding; pain, 
 
 Which once did throb within me, now doth veer 
 
 To a calm stillness; the delirious brain 
 
 Seems by cool drops renewed to life's young bliss again. 
 
 " And I would then that pictured form could talk 
 
 Of hours, that once were happy in the round 
 
 Of thought still growing, as at each new walk, 
 
 With deeper hue the early bud is found. 
 
 Till it unfold its leaves, and scatter round 
 
 Its purest incense; — so our life steals by 
 
 Catching new loves and hopes, which, closely wound 
 
 With every blended thought and wish, will try 
 
 The heart to its last throb, when loved ones leave or die. 
 
 " But there is one affection, which no stain 
 
 Of earth can ever darken, when two find. 
 
 The softer and the manlier, that a chain 
 
 Of kindred taste hath fastened mind to mind ;— 
 
 'T is an attraction from all sense refined. 
 
 Not purer shone the sky-born vestal fire; 
 
 The good can only know it; 'tis not blind, 
 
 As love is, unto baseness; its desire 
 
 Is, but with hands intwined, to lift our being higher. 
 
156 percival's poems. 
 
 " 'T is like the twine of hearts from infancy 
 
 Beneath the same roof, who have kindly shown 
 
 All the fond aids of childhood ; — such we see 
 
 In minds, that have one sympathy, alone, 
 
 That answer to each other, as the tone 
 
 Of woman's voice to the deep sounds, that flow 
 
 From the fit organ tubes more grandly blown; 
 
 "With a dissolving concord blended so, 
 
 On through the waste of life those happy spirits go. 
 
 " Life is to them in its revolving years 
 
 One round of fragrance, one parterre of flowers ; 
 
 There is a very blessing in their tears. 
 
 They are, as to the Earth the first Spring showers, 
 
 When wakened by the music of the hours, 
 
 All loose their wintery bonds, and leap in air, 
 
 When up the mountain, which a forest towers, 
 
 The busy hands of life their colours bear 
 
 Darkening the yellow tint, till one deep green is there. 
 
 " There is a very blessing in their tears, 
 
 Their fountain is in purity, they well 
 
 In a clean heart, whose fondness more endears, 
 
 Than all the forms and blended tints, that dwell 
 
 On a first master's canvass, and compel 
 
 Worship unto that miracle of skill. 
 
 Which can at once create, as with a spell, 
 
 On the blank sheet, such things of life, as fill 
 
 The gazer wih mute awe, and bend the sterner wilj. 
 
percival's poems. 157 
 
 " There is a very blessing in their tears, 
 
 For while they flow in happiness, they heal 
 
 Wounds that bleed deep in other hearts ; — Grief hears, 
 
 With a sweet sense of gladness, tones that feel 
 
 The sorrow they would comfort; we may steel, 
 
 In our despair, our hearts to all, who lend 
 
 Kindness to those who sufler; but the seal 
 
 Of our shut tears is broken, when a friend 
 
 Weeps with us all our woes, and then our sorrows end. 
 
 / " And we weep on and smile; the cloud gives way, 
 And a new light comes trembling through its shade; 
 We weep till all our grief is gone, and day 
 Again is pure above us; — thus we aid 
 One in another's evils, which were made 
 Partly to bind more feelingly the chain. 
 That links existence; — we are doubly paid 
 By our own calm from tears, and by the pain. 
 Which we have gently healed, and made it bliss again. 
 
 " I turn me back, and find a barren waste 
 
 Joyless and rayless ; a few spots are there, 
 
 Where briefly it was granted me to taste 
 
 The tenderness of youthful love, and share 
 
 In the fond mutual sympathy, the care 
 
 Of those on whom our full afiections rest : 
 
 I dreamed, or it was real ; but in air 
 
 The charm was broken ; it was mine to test 
 
 With a long pang how dark and cold the rifled breast. 
 
158 pekcival's poems. 
 
 " There was a madness in the feeling; fire 
 
 Seemed to rush through my whirling brain ; one stream 
 
 Bathed it in torture : thought could never tire 
 
 In painting all, that I could shape or dream 
 
 Of years of mingled joys, till one supreme 
 
 And perfect sense of glory filled me : light 
 
 Was in my life — a moment; then the beam 
 
 Sunk, and a sudden rush of tenfold night (blight. 
 
 Chilled me to my heart's core; all being seemed one 
 
 " And then that deep intensity of pain; — 
 I could have pressed my forehead with the weight 
 Of a whole world, and yet my throbbing brain 
 Bounded beneath my strained hand : all seemed hate 
 And leering scorn around me, tyrant fate 
 Methought had stamped me for eternal woe; 
 There was no cool soft dew shed to abate 
 The fever of despair ; — tears could not flow, 
 But with another's tears, and then I melted so, 
 
 *' As the doomed wretch, who on the scaffold hears 
 Pardon : — at first he gazes wildly romid, 
 And mocks the offer; hope is lost in fears. 
 But as he drinks renewed the silver sound, 
 With such intensest joy bis heart strings bound, 
 It is too keen, too deadening: — tears first start 
 Few to his swimming eyes, but he has found 
 Freshness in those scant drops, and then his heart 
 Flows, and his melting frame in every gush takes part. 
 
percival's poems. 159 
 
 " 1 wept and I was calm ; as when at night, 
 
 After a stormy day, the sky turns clear, 
 
 And all the world of stars are doubly bright, 
 
 As the cloud sails away, and the wide sphere 
 
 Swells darkly pure behind it, till it near 
 
 The orb, that rules the still hours, then its fold 
 
 Whitens and shines impearled, and then we hear 
 
 The cock crow, as the silver planet rolled (cold. 
 
 On the imshaded Heaven, makes all things bright, but 
 
 " The earth, that sleeps below in silence, seems 
 Sprinkled with light, for each clear drop of rain, (teems 
 That bends the leaves, and grass, and closed flowers. 
 With her mild lustre; — now she casts a stain 
 On the white clouds behind her, not in vain, 
 Bending athwart their curls the breded bow ; 
 And as the north-wind whispers o'er the plain, 
 The drops, that fell with such a silent flow. 
 Hardened to fretted frost, and whiten all below. 
 
 " It is one land of loveliness — but chill 
 
 Comes the pale landscape o'er me — not a tread 
 
 Disturbs the calm — the lone tree on the hill 
 
 Waves in its frosted foliage — fountains fed 
 
 From earth's warm bosom, as they kiss it, shed 
 
 A fresh green o'er the meadow-grass, alone 
 
 Living amid a world, that lies as dead 
 
 In a pale corpse-like beauty, while a zone 
 
 Of a most tender tint, round all that is seems thrown. 
 
160 percival's poems. 
 
 *' Such was calm, that brooded o'er my heart, 
 Silent but cold ; — I wondered, and I grew 
 Tranquil, though but a moment; as a dart 
 Leaps on the lurking deer, who wildly flew, 
 Seeking the woodland covert, as they blew 
 The maddening horn behind him, so there came, 
 Through my hot brain, to madden me anew, 
 The same wild thoughts, which soon were blown to flame. 
 Till one convulsive throb ran quivering through my frame. 
 
 " And then I thought of death, I sternly rushed 
 
 To the steep brink, and eyed the depth below; 
 
 I stood poised for the plunge, my forehead flushed 
 
 With the hot pain within me, seemed to glow 
 
 On the cool wave ; — with a last parting throe 
 
 I yielded up my being, but a thought 
 
 Checked me, I might not perish — some sure blow, 
 
 That would end all at once, such death I sought, 
 
 To wither in one breath, then go where all is nought. 
 
 " Again I steeled me, and the flashing tip 
 
 Of a sharp dagger met my bounding breast ; 
 
 It seemed with drops of living blood to drip, 
 
 Already on the seat of life 't was prest. 
 
 And I was sinking to eternal rest, 
 
 When a loud voice seemed yelling, " Madman, stay! 
 
 Bear with a sterner will the stern behest 
 
 Of fate ;" I threw the shining dirk away. 
 
 And with a deep wild groan I hasted to obey. 
 
percival's poems. 161 
 
 " My heart seemed hardened from that very liour — 
 
 Feehng was deadened in it — smiles and tears 
 
 Were gone forever — friendship had no power 
 
 To give me comfort — all that so endears 
 
 In the fair face of woman, hopes and fears 
 
 That have in her their fountain, all had fled ; 
 
 But life had grown eternal, countless years 
 
 At once had flown, a wider being spread 
 
 Dark, silent, dim around — i wandered with the dead, 
 
 " And coldly I live on, and will live on, 
 Till life hath ceased to torture, and the grave 
 Hides me from man, and that long home is won, 
 Which welcomes us to quench us, or to save 
 From all that sinks us here. O ! I could brave 
 Hell and its fires, if with it strength would grow ; 
 There is no pain like weakness — Justice gave 
 No keener rack than this, to live and know, (overthrow. 
 Weak, scorned, that our own hand had wrought our 
 
 " Well, let the world pass on ; I stand unmoved 
 In all its uproar — all, it hath of good, 
 Is now turned poison — those I fondly loved, 
 Have died, or hate me — as the tempter stood 
 In Eden, nursing in his heart a brood 
 Of all dark passions, so I look on life ; 
 I find no charm without, my only food 
 Of thought is in the keen and quenchless strife — ■- 
 I wrestle with despair, where all of ill is rife. 
 21 
 
16iS peiicival's poems. 
 
 But evil is my good — I cannot turn 
 
 Back to renew the freshness of young days. 
 
 Talk not to me of penitence — I spurn 
 
 The weakness of the stooping wretch, who pays 
 
 Awe to the hand that crushes him, and lays 
 
 The weight of such existence on his soul ; 
 
 I asked not have being, nor to raise 
 
 My life from out the brute and senseless whole, 
 
 Which ever sleeps the same, though years and ages roll. 
 
 We must submit or die : — If all would end 
 With the last twinkling of this lanap — why, well. 
 I could bear on — but thought will sometimes send 
 Questions across the dark dread gulf, where dwell 
 All wild and formless visions — 't is the hell 
 That kindles with its fires the doubting brain ; 
 It may be — and those few short words will tell 
 Racks to the lingering heart, that longs in vain 
 To find some calm retreat to quell its raging pain. 
 
 There is, they say, a bending form of love. 
 Who spreads his dove-wings over us, and bears 
 The wearied in his gentle arms above 
 All earth has to assail us, sorrows, cares, 
 Toil, and disease, and want, till cool sweet airs 
 Breathe odours from the never-fading flowers 
 That grow in Heaven, where peace eternal wears 
 The same undying smile, and as the hours 
 Steal silently along, descends in balmy showers. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 163 
 
 'Tis a fond fancy — some may find it sweet, 
 
 Full of all happy visions — life will seem 
 
 Bliss in their upward longings — there they meet 
 
 All their once loved ones heightened — such a dream 
 
 Heals many a broken heart, and then they deem 
 
 All is one light around them : let them bend 
 
 Deep o'er their long devotion — let the theme 
 
 Of all their words be, of the one Great Friend, 
 
 Who saves them from all pain, and bids all sorrows end. 
 
 " 'Tis not for me — I am of sterner mould; 
 
 I must live on in my own heart, and find 
 
 Strength to sustain — by thought; my only hold 
 
 Is on that unbent energy of mind, 
 
 Which, as the storm beats harder on, will bind >- 
 
 Closer its will around it, and endure; 
 
 Which shuns all concord with its own base kind, 
 
 Where it forever totters, but grows pure 
 
 And firm in solitude, which is its only cure. 
 
 " I will not look on Nature — 't is too fair, 
 And hath too much of beauty, when it lies 
 Spread in the sunlight ; — we must hate, or share 
 In the same being; — when the clouded skies 
 In one black front of coming tempest rise. 
 And bear their rolling waves in torrents on, 
 Then I can wander forth, and lift my eyes 
 With a wild sense of power — the hollow moan 
 Of the far mountain winds hath music in its tone. 
 
164 pekcival's poems. 
 
 " I must make home in darkness — I can sit 
 
 Days on the sunward rocks, that crown the peak 
 
 Of a long Alpine wave — such things befit 
 
 The soul collected in its might to seek 
 
 Food in the desert : as the raven's beak 
 
 Bore life unto the lonely man, so 1 , 
 
 Feed on the darkest forms, and proudly wreak 
 
 My wrath on Nature, who hath bent the sky 
 
 So glorious and so vast, round such as crawl and die. 
 
 " The sense of fair and lofty — this will wring 
 The form, that finds itself in cold decay, 
 Hateful to those we loved, and thus we fling 
 The wooing Beauty from us, and array 
 All in a shroud : we cast all hope away, 
 As a fond thing to cheat the infant ; pride 
 Comes where ambition fled, and when the gay 
 And lovely from our dark looks turn aside, 
 Abhorrent and in fear, our part is to deride. 
 
 " We have gone through the dusk of death, and known 
 
 All the grave hath of horrors ; we have seen 
 
 Each separate form of pain, have heard the groan, 
 
 And the loud maniac laugh; we too have been 
 
 Partakers in these torments, and have then 
 
 Come out to be the scorner, and to wear 
 
 One broad cold sneer; — we have no part with men, 
 
 But like a leering devil we must bear 
 
 Proud on our upcurled lips, the scofi" that trembles there. 
 
percival's poems. 165 
 
 *' We now can smile, and feel at heart a hell — 
 'T is a blue meteor on a cloud, that brings 
 Plague o'er a sleeping earth, and tolls the knell 
 Of a lost land, and scatters from its wings 
 Big drops of venom ; — such the smile, hate wrings 
 From the crushed heart, that hardened as it bore; 
 So I must live, and look on men as things 
 That are my bane — so hide in my heart's core 
 The grief I cannot tell, till life's poor dream is o'er. 
 
 " Then be my spirit firm : the storm may rush 
 In all its rage around me — clouds may rend 
 Their gloom in one broad flash, and in one gush 
 Pour their wide deluge o'er me — Earth may send 
 Swarms of all ills and plagues — they shall not bend 
 My soul from its fixed bearing: here on high. 
 Where the rude rocks, and snows eternal, lend 
 Bulwarks to my retreat, and the clear sky 
 Lifts over me its roof — I sternly sit and die." 
 
 'T is the wild rage of madness, thus to send 
 Defiance unto nature, thus to build 
 A wall of scorpions, cherishing a fiend 
 Within a human bosom, sternly willed 
 To be the common foe, and darkly filled 
 With all that form the worst of passions — hate. 
 Till every warning voice within is stilled. 
 And all is nerved to meet the doom of fate, 
 As if man stood alone without a lord or mate ; 
 
166 tercival's poems. 
 
 As if these feeble bodies had the power 
 
 To battle with the elements, to stand 
 
 Sole, as an oak, to whom the wintry shower 
 
 And summer dew fall like : no heart is manned. 
 
 Or fenced in iron, that the icy hand 
 
 Of want may not subdue it, and compel 
 
 The boldest daring to its stern command; 
 
 'T is the relentless tyrant of a hell, 
 
 In whose cold sordid dens the heart turns hard and fell. 
 
 Man is a very infant, when alone ; — 
 The desert, and the forest, and the sea 
 Lifting its boundless brine, and with a zone 
 Of azure clasping earth — Man cannot be, 
 Lost in their barren silence, firm and fi-ee — 
 Nature will lift her voice, and bend him low; 
 Thirst, hunger, fear, and madness, like the tree 
 Whose dew is death, a chilling shade will throw. 
 Where the heart kindles not with a fond social glow. 
 
 Then farewell Solitude ! where hate is nursed, 
 And doubt is cherished; I would rend away 
 The links that bind my spirit there, and burst 
 From my dark cell of silence into day, 
 And climb with tireless hand my upward way, 
 Where all, who wield the hearts of men, have trod ; 
 Honour and love are there, and these repay 
 For the dull cares and toils, wherein we plod — 
 They have a spell to charm the slave, who turns the clod. 
 
percival's poems. 167 
 
 Why mount the higher track, that leads to fame? 
 Why seek to twine a halo round thy brow? 
 Can the wide echo of a bruited name 
 Stifle the cry of vulgar want, when thou 
 Art in the ruder conflict forced to bow 
 To the hard insolence of common men? 
 Better have dug the earth, or steered the prow, 
 Than gain the heights which few can gain, and then 
 Drudge in the sordid path, where meaner minds have been . 
 
 And wherefore doubt ? Belief is doubly dear, 
 
 When truth has never drawn aside the veil, 
 
 That hides the laws of nature. All who fear. 
 
 Will find a hope — one voice can ill avail 
 
 Amid the cry of thousands — we must quail 
 
 Submissive to the common creed, or die, 
 
 Should fortune waft not with a flattering gale, 
 
 And send the gilded bark in triumph by — 
 
 They can do all, who daze with pomp the vulgar eye. 
 
 My work is ended — I have gained the shore. 
 
 Whose flowers are fanc}', and whose fruits deceit; 
 
 And I have furled my sail to try no more 
 
 The gentle breath of favour, nor to beat 
 
 With adverse gales, nor where the wild winds meet 
 
 On the contending waters : Youth's quick swell 
 
 Is sunk to manhood's calm, and now my feet 
 
 Must take a weary pilgrimage, and tell. 
 
 On through the waste of age, to all I loved — farewell. 
 
THE SUICIDE. 
 
 'T WAS where a granite cliff high-beetling towered 
 Above the billows of the western main, 
 Deep in a grot, by sable yews imbowered, 
 A youth retired to ponder and complain. 
 
 'T was near the night-fall of a winter's day, 
 The sun was hid in clouds of dunnest gloom ; 
 Before the north wind rose the whitening spray, 
 And the loud breakers roared the sailor's doom. 
 
 Dark, sullen, gloomy as the scene around. 
 The soul that harboured in that youthful breast; 
 To him the wild roar was a soothing sound, 
 The only one, could hush his woes to rest. 
 
 His was a soul that once was warm and kind — 
 That once could love with gentlest, purest flame j 
 So mild, so lovely was his infant mind, 
 His cheek ne'er reddened with the blush of shame. 
 
percival's poems. 160 
 
 But never could he brook the frown of pride — 
 This was the killinjO^ stroke that smote his heart ; 
 All other wounds of fortune he defied — 
 This — this to him was death's envenomed dart. 
 
 He felt himself too e-ood to crouch and bend 
 Before the man whose only boast was birth; 
 O! he would sooner bis own bosom rend, 
 Than bow before the haughtiest lord of earth. 
 
 There was a savage sternness in his breast; 
 No half-way passion could his bosom move, 
 None e'er bv him were scorned and then caressed; 
 His was all gloomy hate, or glowing love. 
 
 Those, whom he scorned, he passed unheeded by-^ 
 
 He never lured a foe with artful wile, 
 
 But when a friend or lover met his eve, 
 
 Each word was sweetness, and each look a smile. 
 
 He once could love, but Oh ! that time was o'erj 
 His heart was now the seat of hate alone, 
 As peaceful — is the wintry tempest's roar, 
 As cheerful — torture's agonizing groan. 
 
 He would have loved, had not his frozen heart 
 Suspected every form, though e'er so fair; 
 How could he love, when racked by every smart^ 
 And all the gloomy horrors of despair? 
 
 22 
 
170 percival's poems. 
 
 Insult him — he was wilder than the storm — 
 His blood in boiling vengeance through him rushed. 
 And those who thought they trampled on a worm, 
 Soon found ah adder in the form they crushed. 
 
 In dissipation he had revelled long, 
 Had known the wildest paths that vice e'er trod ; 
 He roamed, seduced by pleasure's syren song, 
 Until he hated man, himself, and God. 
 
 He hated man, because he thought a foe 
 Smiled in each scene, and lurked in every path ; 
 He scorned himself, for he had sunk so low; 
 He hated God, because he feared his wrath. 
 
 So warm his passions, and so stern his will, 
 So wild, and yet so tender, was his eye. 
 So warped his heart to every thing that's ill. 
 He was not fit to live — much less to die. 
 
 The wind that whistled round the gloomy walls. 
 The billows roaring on the rocks below. 
 The trickling drop that freezes as it falls, 
 Seemed warm and cheerful as that child of woe. 
 
 Oft had I seen this youth pass heedless by, 
 All negligent his dress, and wild his mienj 
 The tear was always starting hi his eye, 
 A smile was never in his features seen. 
 
percival's poems. 171 
 
 With languid air, with eye by sorrow seared, 
 And downcast look he walked — then paused awhile. 
 And in the darkness of his gloom he feared 
 To raise his head, lest he should see a smile. 
 
 So much the victim of despair and fear, 
 He look'd more sadly when he heard one speak ; 
 And when he saw a smile — O ! then the tear 
 Streamed o'er the furrows of his woe-worn cheek. 
 
 So wan his cheek, his countenance so pale, 
 He seemed just sinking to an early tomb; 
 So tottering were his steps, his form so frail, 
 A ghost seemed wandering in the cavern's gloom. 
 
 He walked, then stopped; then started, stopped again; 
 Then raised to Heaven Ijis wild and impious eye; 
 Then gnashed his teeth, as in severest pain, 
 Or feebly groaned, or heaved a long drawn sigh^ 
 
 With hands in fury clenched, he beat his breast. 
 Then smote his forehead — stamped, and wildly raved; 
 It seemed, no soothing hand could give him rest, 
 He seemed too far abandoned to be saved. 
 
 " Are these the joys of life," he wildly cried, 
 " Are these the pleasures njan enjpys below ? 
 The syren voice that said ' be happy' lied, 
 It called me not to happiness— but woe. 
 
172 percival's poems. 
 
 " Life — 't is a pang that racks us for awhile, 
 Then like a bubble bursts and all is o'er; 
 Its highest joys, even woman's lovely smile, 
 To me are gloomy as yon billows' roar. 
 
 " I'll live no more — I know the world too well — ■ 
 I'll trust no longer to its soothing voice — 
 Let those who choose, in pain and sorrow dwell — 
 Death is ray fondest — death my only choice. 
 
 " Live — shall I live without the slightest meed, 
 Without one voice to dwell upon my name, 
 With hand too weak to do one noble deed, 
 Or pluck one leaflet from the wreath of fame — 
 
 " Live, while consumption, ghastly, gloomy, pale, 
 Even to a shadow wears my form away; 
 Shrink at the rustling of the gentlest gale, 
 And pine, to dark despondency a prey: 
 
 " Say, is this life.'' — how trifling, oh how vain, 
 To give one struggle for a world like this; 
 How cold, how heavy, pleasure's flowery chain, 
 How sickening, every cup of earthly bliss. 
 
 " I've drained the goblet, and I know how vile. 
 How mean and empty all terrestrial joys ; 
 Reason surveys them with a pitying smile. 
 And stamps with words of lightning ' infant toys.' 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 173 
 
 '' How easy, when depression sinks me low. 
 To leave this world and seek another shore; 
 Careless, if pleasure laugh — or all be woe. 
 If smooth the waves — or loud the billows roar, 
 
 " How easy, O ! how trifling, with the steel 
 To pierce a heart that loves no scene below, 
 To wound a breast too callous e'er to feel 
 A pang less cruel than a demon's woe. 
 
 *' Does not the smiling surface of the wave 
 Kindly invite to take my endless sleep? 
 How sweet to rest within a watery grave; 
 How soft those slumbers — that repose how deep^ 
 
 " The death-winged ball — can pierce my phrenzied brain, 
 The knife — can loose the shackles of my soul, 
 An opiate — that can ease my every pain, 
 Smiles, how inviting! — in the poisoned bowl. 
 
 " And thou, sweet drug ! — can'st shed the balmy dew 
 Of sleep eternal, o'er my wearied eyes, 
 And give repose, as calm to mortal view 
 As when the infant wrapt in slumber lies. 
 
 *' Still thou art slow though sure — ah ! can I wait 
 A single moment, ere I sink in death; 
 Perhaps I may lament it when too late, 
 And struggle to regain my fleeting breath. 
 
174 percival's poems. 
 
 " Give me the knife, the dagger, or the ball — - 
 O ! I can take them with a smile serene ; 
 Then like a flash of lightning I may fall. 
 And rush at once into the world unseen." 
 
 The withered leaves, that decked a beechen bough, 
 Rustled — he turned and gazed with frozen stare; 
 Such gloom, such horror, settled on his brow. 
 He seemed the very image of despair : 
 
 " Disturb me not — there's nought can give relief, 
 Heaven deigns no soothing comforter to send; 
 There is but one can sooth my gnawing grief. 
 It is the best of earthly good — a friend. 
 
 " A friend — I thought I once had friends — but No ! 
 Friendship, thou cherub ! ne'er wert to me given ; 
 Friendship is not a flower that blooms below — 
 If there is friendship it must be in Heaven : 
 
 '^ And when I've seen the pious widow's woe, 
 And viewed no christian friend or heaven-born fair 
 E'er deign to wipe away the tears that flow, 
 I've thought even friendship was not real there : 
 
 " And when no human form on me would roll 
 
 The glance that soothes, or beam the smiles that bless. 
 
 My dog, the only solace of my soul, 
 
 Even bit the hand extended to caress. 
 
percival's poems. 175 
 
 " What, if some female form should deign to smile, 
 And chase away the gloom that clouds my breast, 
 Could I be happy — could I stay awhile ? 
 Yes, woman's smile could make ttie cheerful — blessed. 
 
 " The heart — that's tortured with remorse is dead 
 To all the joys that woman's love can give ; 
 Affection does not smile where hope is fled j 
 Where conscience frowns, that charmer cannot live. 
 
 " Can Love, the sweetest cherub, ever deign 
 To live, where doubt, despair, distraction, dwell: 
 Ah ! no — this fond idea must be vain. 
 Love in my bosom is a saint in hell. 
 
 •' Let others boast their skill to charm the soul, 
 And proffer pleasure to the expecting eye, 
 To bid the glance with mimic sweetness roll, 
 And heave the bosom with an empty sigh ; 
 
 " Away such base deceivers from my sight. 
 Hide them, ye shades of midnight ! from my view ^ 
 Think you such flatteries can my soul delight! 
 Farewell such love, such hollow friends adieu. 
 
 " No smooth deceit e'er floated from my tongue, 
 By flattery's wiles these lips of mine ne'er moved j 
 On them — on them this truth has always hung, 
 ' I ever hated all, and nothing loved.' 
 
176 percival's poems. 
 
 " And what if man, or woman shun my form, 
 And view a tiger in the gloom I wear; 
 To me their smiles are blacker than the storm, 
 There seems a serpent ever lurking there. 
 
 "The charms of vice detained my soul too long: 
 What sounds of sweetness in her love-notes flow; 
 But misery's sigh is in her sweetest song, S. 
 And in her gayest smile the tear of woe. 
 
 " The eye that beams so fondly — ill conceals 
 Distraction's silent gaze and icy glare: 
 The lip that sniiles so sweetlv — still reveals 
 The paleness, and the quivering of despair. 
 
 " I drank her cup of promised bliss — I lay 
 In soft repose on beds of roses flung. 
 There heard her Ariel harp its wind-notes play, 
 And all the syren-music of her tongue — 
 
 " In slumber soft, I closed ray swimming eyes, 
 While sounds exstatic seemed around to flow: 
 I slept — no more in happiness to rise ; 
 I closed my eyes to bliss — I woke to woe. 
 
 " Look at my eye, and see the glare of pain ; 
 Look at my cheek, it is the hue of death ; 
 See there the softness of her flow'ry chain. 
 There mark the sweetness of her balmy breath. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 177 
 
 -' Shun, shun the road she points to — death is there; 
 Her sweetest voice is but a funeral knell, 
 Her e:ayest smile is but the gloom of care, 
 V And though she calls to heaven, she leads to hell. ■ 
 
 " What's earth, what's life, to space, eternity ? 
 'Tis but a flash, a glance — from birth to death; 
 And he, who ruled the world, would only be 
 Lord of a point — a creature of a breath ; 
 
 " And what is it to gain a hero's name, 
 Or build one's greatness on the rabble's roar? 
 'Tis but to light a feeble, flickering flame, 
 That shines a moment, and is seen no more. 
 
 " Once Caesar gained the summit of renown, 
 For him fame's trumpet blew its loudest peals; 
 But what to him is Glory's shining crown? 
 It heightens but the blackness it reveals. 
 
 " What is the greatness Science can display, 
 Or from the best tuned lyre what can we gain? 
 But that the fluttering insect of a day 
 May hum our praise, and all be still again. 
 
 " What if a Titian's tints, a Ruben's fire, 
 
 A Raphael's grandeur o'er my canvass glow? 
 
 These tints, that fire, that grandeur, soon expire. 
 
 And melt as quickly as the summer's snow. 
 23 
 
17S percival's poems. 
 
 " Let boastful Wealth his richest stores unfold^ 
 And Pride his pomp of ancestry display ; 
 A speck of yellow dust is all their gold, 
 An infant's rattle — all their proud array. 
 
 " What praise to shine in fashion's brighest ray, 
 What is that Fame by fops so dearly sought ? ) 
 'T is but the mere ephemeron of a day—* / 
 
 V 'T is but the very meanest part of nought, u 
 
 " And thou, proud monarch, frowning on thy throne \ 
 What is the space between thy power and me? 
 'T is but to sit above the crowd alone, 
 And lord it o'er a few poor worms like thee. 
 
 " Ah ! when I look on man, and see how low, 
 How vile has sunk the basely grovelling crowd, 
 I still can scarcely think this child of wo 
 Can have sufficient meanness to be proud. 
 
 " Depart, Renown, O ! hie thee far away ! 
 And Fortune, though in all thy splendour drest; 
 O ! from this world you've torn my only stay, 
 And left not even one motive in my breast. 
 
 " This world has now so dull and gloomy grown. 
 So sickening every sight where'er I range — 
 'Mid all life's bustle, I am still so lone, 
 I'd leave it, were it only for a change. 
 
percival's poems. 179 
 
 " What balm shall heal my wounds, or soothe my woes, 
 How shall I sink to my untimely grave, 
 Shall this sweet opiate lull me to repose. 
 Or shall I plunge beneath the roaring wave?- 
 
 *' Come, sweetest draught, I woo thee to my lips 
 With all the fondness of a lover's breast ; 
 No thirsty, weary pilgrim fondlier sips 
 The cooling fount, or lays him down to rest. 
 
 " Come, do thy work, and free my struggling soul, 
 Swift as the lightning — from life's heavy chain; 
 I care not if I reach Heaven's shining goal. 
 Or plunge beneath the waves of endless pain. 
 
 " You gave me life — take back the gift you gave, 
 Nor think I'd thank you for such trash as this; 
 Sweeter to me annihilation's grave, 
 O ! sweeter than the highest heaven of bliss. 
 
 *' Roll on the winds your most terrific storm. 
 And shade the skies with more than Egypt's gloom; 
 Then with your vengeful lightnings scathe my form. 
 And hurl me to my never-ending doom. 
 
 " I've plunged in guilt, till I can plunge no more, 
 I've been to man and God the fellest foe ; 
 On me — on me each cup of fury pour. 
 And whelm me in the deepest gulf of wo." 
 
180 tercival's poems. 
 
 But ere the sun had dipped his orb of light 
 Beneath the wave that swelled along the main^ 
 A momentary brilliance met the sight, 
 And shone reflected o'er the watery plain. 
 
 The trembling lustre glanced upon his eye — 
 There was a something, neither smile nor tear, 
 A sound, nor comfort's voice, nor sorrow's sigh, 
 Fell scarcely heard upon the listener's ear. 
 
 " Can there no ray like this of mercy shine, 
 To dissipate my soul's terrific gloom ? 
 Is there no beam from Heaven, no light divine, 
 Can gild the path that leads me to my tomb .'' 
 
 " Must all within be desolate and sad. 
 Must all seem frowning to the mental sight. 
 When the last sun-beam makes all nature glad. 
 And ushers in with smiles the shades of night ? 
 
 " May 1 not hope, although dark clouds of wo 
 Hang o'er my soul and sink it to the grave j 
 May 1 not hope for happiness below, 
 That Heaven will smile, and mercy deign to save.'' 
 
 " The light is gone, and all is dark again. 
 So tties the light that shone upon my soulj 
 Night's horrors thicken o'er the heaving main. 
 So, round my heart, despair, distraction roll. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 181 
 
 '"• What ! shall I catch at hope's illusive gleams, 
 That glance like meteors through my phrenzied brain? 
 What ! shall I trust to fancy's wildering dreams ? 
 No! death and ruin welcome once again. 
 
 *' No ! I can pierce the grave's tremendous gloom, 
 And through its dunnest shades unfaltering pry. 
 Can read with look unmoved my direst doom, 
 And view the world of wo with heedless eye — 
 
 " O ! 3^ou may tell me of the quenchless flame, 
 And gnawing worm that never, never dies, 
 Or read each furious devil name by name — 
 The hottest hell within my bosom lies. 
 
 '' Is this your kindness — you who made my soul, 
 
 And formed it to be sensible of wo, 
 
 Then bade a world of anguish o'er it roll. 
 
 And through my veins despair's dark currents flow .'* 
 
 " Why was I made for misery alone. 
 
 Why were my joys but preludes to my pain. 
 
 Why was my voice but formed to breathe the groan, 
 
 Or why my tongue but fashioned to complain ? 
 
 % 
 " You bade a thousand pleasures round me smile, 
 But mingled poison in their balmy breath; 
 Bade angel forms exert their every wile, 
 To lure me sweetly on to sin and death : 
 
182 percival's poems. 
 
 " In this your kindness — thus to charm my eyes^ 
 
 By what would certainly my soul undo ? 
 
 O ! is it not sufficient to chastise, 
 
 Must you allure me, and then punish too f 
 
 " O ! happy prospect ! for before my sight 
 
 Annihilation rises dark and drear: 
 
 Or to my vision glares hell's murky light, 
 
 And sighs, and groans, and gnashings, fill my car. 
 
 " What clouds around the grave's dark regions roll- 
 I'd give the wealth of worlds to pierce their gloom, 
 And read, imprinted on the eternal scroll, 
 " The awful words of flame that mark my doom. 
 
 " The thoughts of an hereafter wake my fear, 
 And fill my soul with agonizing throes ; 
 Methinks some accent whispers in my ear 
 And tells me — nothing will my pangs compose. 
 
 " Nothing! — there's something awful in that sound j 
 O! shall my all be crumbled into dust — ' 
 Shall mind — shall body rot beneath the ground, 
 Nor soul immortal from my cerement burst .'* 
 
 #' 
 " Nothing ! — away thou phantom from my brain, 
 Away thou deadlier fiend than ever rose 
 To rack the doubting soul with hellish pain. 
 Or fill it with a maniac fancy's woes. 
 
percival's poems. 1B3 
 
 *' Nothing ! — unreal shade of all that's ill, 
 Cease, cease thy clamours, nor disturb me more — 
 Hush ! let that demon voice of thine be still, 
 O ! hie thee to thy dark Tartarean shore. 
 
 *' What if I pry beyond the yawning grave; 
 Is there a light can point my wildered way. 
 Is there an arm of Mercy stretched to save ? 
 O ! help that arm, and guide me, genial ray. 
 
 " I look, but all is darker than the gloom 
 That hung, a sooty mist, o'er Egypt's land; 
 I listen, all is stiller than the tomb; 
 There is no ray — no Mercy's outstretched hand. 
 
 " Come, then, each busy devil to my breast, 
 Come every fiend of hell, and nestle there — 
 Rack me — Religion cannot give me rest; 
 If Mercy will not whisper — yell, despair ! 
 
 " My ear is open to thy piercing cry- 
 Pour it — to every suffering I'm resigned; 
 But hark! — methought I heard an angel fly 
 With downy pinions on the passing wind. 
 
 " No ! 'twas an idle fancy — mock no more, 
 Thou cheating spirit, thou art false though fair: 
 No ! 'twas the wave of ruin's sullen roar, 
 No ! 'twas the hollow voice of dark despair. 
 
184 percival's poems. 
 
 " Come, grisly Death! and whet thy bloody dart; 
 Come waft upon the breeze my dying knell ; 
 O ! misery and woe have filled my heart, 
 O ! hell to me is nothing — nothing's hell." 
 
 He said, and lifted high the poisoned draught ; 
 " This gives," he cried, " my body to the tomb — 
 To nothing — dreary nothing, it shall waft 
 My soul, or yield it to its endless doom. 
 
 " A doom, that strikes my shuddering soul with dread, 
 And almost drives my purpose from my breast; 
 Speak not those words — for every hope is fled; 
 In death, in darkness, is my only rest. 
 
 " Come to my lips," he spake, with features calm, 
 " Come to my lips — thou cordial of my woes ; 
 Pour in my wounded heart thy healing balm. 
 And in eternal sleep my eyelids close. 
 
 " Come, lovely draught! O! lovelier than the spring! 
 And sweeter than the morning's dewy breath ! 
 Come, to my soul oblivion's comforts bring." 
 He said, and calmly drank the cup of death. 
 
 When life was weak and faint, his ardent soul 
 Unfolded all the vigour of its powers ; 
 Then through the fields of lore he flew and stole, 
 With ceaseless toil, the honey of its flowers. 
 
percival's poems. 186 
 
 His heart expanded with his growing mind, 
 And love, and charity, and thirst of fame, 
 Unbending worth, ambition unconfined, 
 O ! these he wished, his bosom's only aim- 
 
 O ! he would think of these, mitil the glow 
 Brightened his cheek and kindled up his eye; 
 Then in a rushing flood his thoughts would flow. 
 And lift him to the all-o'erarching sky. 
 
 And yet his soul was tender — there was one 
 Who made his heart throb and his pulses beat; 
 She was his all, his only light, his Sun — 
 Her eye was brightest, and her voice most sweet. 
 
 The was to him an angel — he was young, 
 « The down of youth had just begun to grow ; 
 His eye forever on her image hung. 
 There would his centering thoughts forever flow. 
 
 O ! love how ill requited — could a soul. 
 Then soaring to perfection, blend with one, 
 Who only thought of transient sport, whose whole 
 Enjoyment ceased below, where his begun. 
 
 And then his fearfulness and shrinking eye — 
 She knew her power, and yet she could not know 
 The worth of him, who doated — with a sigh 
 Of grief and wounded pride he let her go. 
 
 24 
 
18(i percival's poems. 
 
 First love — with what a deep, strong, fixed impress. 
 It prints the yielding heart of childhood — gone, 
 No other eye the lone lost soul can bless, 
 Hope then is fled, the feelings are undone. 
 
 How all unequal were his mind and form — 
 
 This knew the blinking owls, that shunned his light: 
 
 To wound his bosom, and to raise the storm 
 
 He ill could master, seemed their sole delight. 
 
 Abused, neglected, fatherless, no hand 
 To guide or guard him, left alone to steer 
 His dangerous way — can youth securely stand. 
 When not a parent, friend, or hope, is near.'' 
 
 He conquered in intelligence, but those 
 
 Who felt his strength there, still his weakness knew; 
 
 They crushed his spirit first, and then to close 
 
 Their work — they made him like their grovelling crew. 
 
 The light of Heaven was gone — ambition still 
 Lurked with him to the last, but he was blind; 
 And genius struggled on through every ill. 
 But peace and innocence were left behind. 
 
 Years hurried by — ^but what a raging sea 
 Was that young heart — wild as a steed he ran, 
 Till he was swallowed in misanthropy, 
 And swore eternal enmity to man. 
 
percival's Poems. j87 
 
 And yet he could not hate — at every look, 
 That told the wounded bosom's throbbing swell, 
 His frame in sympathetic shivering shook, 
 His hand though raised in wrath, in pity fell. 
 
 He longed to cast his hateful chains away, 
 He longed to be all virtue, reason, soul ; 
 In vain he strove against the headlong sway 
 Of passion — till its gulf absorbed the whole. 
 
 Mid all his folly, weakness, guilt, one beam 
 Across the darkness of his being shone — 
 Most dastardly and shameful did he deem 
 To take one mite, that was not all his own. 
 
 She came — at last the kindred spirit came, 
 
 The same bright look, the same dissolving eye ; 
 
 Her bosom lit with that ethereal flame, 
 
 Which warmed him, when in youth his soul was high. 
 
 Informing and informed, their's was the pure 
 Delight of blended intellect — their way 
 Was strewed with reason's choicest pleasures, sure 
 To last with those whom guilt leads not astray. 
 
 Awhile his spirit kindled — hope, and love, 
 -And friendship, days of peace and joy arose, 
 And lifted all his ardent thoughts above 
 The memory of his follies and his woes. 
 
188 pkrcival's poems. 
 
 His way had been unequal — now he soared 
 On rushing wings, and now he sunk in night ; 
 But then he felt new life around him poured, 
 He aimed to heaven his strong untiring flight, 
 
 'T was but a moment — like the dying flash, 
 The soul's last sparkle, ere its lights are fled ; 
 Then folly came, his kindling hopes to dash, 
 And hide his spirit with the moral dead 
 
 Too late — too late — thou couldst not call him back, 
 With all thy charms thou couldst not — guilt, despair, 
 So long had dogged him in his wayward track, 
 They quenched the light that once shone brightly there. 
 
 An outcast, self-condemned, he takes his way, 
 He knows and cares not whither; he can weep 
 No more — his only wish his head to lay 
 In endless death and everlasting sleep. 
 
 Ah ! who can bear the self-abhorring thought 
 Of time, chance, talent, wasted — who can think 
 Of friendship, love, fame, science, gone to nought, 
 And not in hopeless desperation sink. 
 
 Behind are summits, lofty, pure and bright, 
 Where blow the life-reviving gales of heaven j 
 Below expand the jaws of deepest night. 
 And there he falls, by power resistless driven. 
 
percival's poems. 189 
 
 The links that bind to life are torn away; 
 The hope, the assuring hope of better days, 
 Friendship, that warms us with a genial ray. 
 And love, that kindles with an ardent blaze. 
 
 These he has left, and books have lost their charm j 
 The brightest sky is but a veil of gloom, 
 His mind, hand useless, where can be the harm, 
 In drawing to his only couch, the tomb. 
 
 Ye who abused, neglected, rent, and stained 
 That heart, when pure and tender, come and dwell 
 On these dark ruins, and by heaven arraigned, 
 Feel, as you look, the scorpion stings of hell. 
 
 But no — your cold, black bosoms cannot feel ; 
 Amid the rank weeds, flowers, can never blow; 
 Your hearts, encrusted in their case of steel. 
 No feelings of remorse or pity know. 
 
 Yes, you will say, poor, weak and childish boy, 
 Infirm of purpose, shook by every sigh, 
 A thing of air, a light fantastic toy — 
 What reck we, if such shadows live or die. 
 
 But no — my life's blood calls aloud to Heaven, 
 
 The arm of justice cannot, will not sleep, 
 
 A perfect retribution shall be given. 
 
 And vengeance on your heads her coals shall heap. 
 
190 I'ERCIVAJL. S l-OEAlrf. 
 
 Where minds like this are ruined guilt must be. 
 And where guilt is, remorse will gnaw the soul, 
 And every moment teem with agony, 
 And sleepless thoughts in burning torrents roll. 
 
 And thou — arch moral-murderer ! hear my curse- 
 Go — gorge and wallow in thy priestly sty, 
 Than what thou art, I cannot wish thee worse, 
 There with thy kindred reptiles crawl and die. 
 
POETRY. 
 
 i consider Poetry in a two-fold view, as a spirit, and a manifestation . 
 Perhaps the poetic spirit has never been more justly defined, than 
 by Byron in his Prophecy of Dante, a creation 
 
 " From overfeeling good or ill, an aim 
 At an external life beyond our fate." 
 This spirit may be manifested by language, metrical or prose, by 
 declamation, by musical sounds, by expression, by gesture, by mo- 
 tion, and by imitating forms, colours, and shades ; so that literature; 
 oratory, music, physiognomy, acting, and the arts of painting and 
 sculpture, may all have their poetry ; but that peculiar spirit, which 
 alone gives the great life and charm to all the efforts of geniusj is 
 as distinct from the measure and rhyme of poetical composition, as 
 from the scientific principles of drawing and perspective. 
 
 THE world is full of Poetry — the air 
 Is living with its spirit; and the waves 
 Dance to the music of its melodies, 
 And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled, 
 And mantled with its beauty; and the walls. 
 That close the universe, with crystal, in, 
 Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim 
 The unseen glories of immensity, 
 
192 percival's poems. 
 
 In harmonies, too perfect, and too high, 
 For aught but beings of celestial mould, 
 And speak to man in one eternal hymn. 
 Unfading beauty, and unyielding power. 
 
 The year leads round the seasons, in a choir 
 For ever charming, and for ever new, 
 Blending the grand, the beautiful, the gay. 
 The mournful, and the tender, in one strain, 
 Which steals into the heart, like sounds, that rise 
 Far off, in moonlight evenings, on the shore 
 Of the wide ocean resting after storms ; 
 Or tones, that wind around the vaulted roof. 
 And pointed arches, and retiring aisles 
 Of some old, lonely minster, where the hand. 
 Skilful, and moved, with passionate love of art, 
 Plays o'er the higher keys, and bears aloft 
 The peal of bursting thunder, and then calls, 
 By mellow touches, from the softer tubes. 
 Voices of melting tenderness, that blend 
 With pure and gentle musings, till the soul, 
 Commingling with the melody, is borne. 
 Rapt, and dissolved in ecstasy, to Heaven. 
 
 *T is not the chime and flow of words, that move 
 In measured file, and metricni array ; 
 'Tis not the union of returning sounds. 
 Nor all the pleasing artifice of rhyme, 
 
. percival's poems. 193 
 
 And quantity, and accent, that can give 
 
 This all-pervading spirit to the ear, 
 
 Or blend it with the movings of the soul. 
 
 'Tis a mysterious feeling, which combines 
 
 Man with the world around him, in a chain 
 
 Woven of flowers, and dipped in sweetness, till 
 
 He taste the high communion of his thoughts, 
 
 With all existences, in earth and heaven, 
 
 That meet him in the charm of grace and power. 
 
 'T is not the noisy babbler, who displays, 
 
 In studied phrase, and ornate epithet. 
 
 And rounded period, poor and vapid thoughts, 
 
 Which peep from out the cumbrous ornaments. 
 
 That overload their littleness. Its words 
 
 Are few, but deep and solemn ; and they break 
 
 Fresh from the fount of feeling, and are full 
 
 Of all that passion, which, on Carmel, fired 
 
 The holy prophet, when his lips were coals, 
 
 His language winged with terror, as when bolts 
 
 Leap from the brooding tempest, armed with wrath. 
 
 Commissioned to affright us, and destroy. 
 
 Passion, when deep, is still — the glaring eye 
 That reads its enemy with glance of fire. 
 The lip, that curls and writhes in bitterness, 
 The brow contracted, till its wrinkles hide 
 The keen, fixed orbs, that burn and flash below, 
 The hand firm clenched and quivering, and the foot f 
 
 25 
 
194 * percival's poems. 
 
 Planted in attitude to spring, and dart 
 
 Its vengeance, are the language it employs. 
 
 So the poetic feeling needs no words ^ 
 
 To give it utterance; but it swells, and glows, 
 
 And revels in the ecstasies of soul. 
 
 And sits at banquet with celestial forms, 
 
 The beings of its own creation, fair, 
 
 And lovely, as e'er haimted wood and wave, 
 
 When earth was peopled, in its solitudes, 
 
 With nymph and naiad — mighty, as the gods, 
 
 Whose palace was Olympus, and the clouds, 
 
 That hung, in gold and flame, around its brow; 
 
 Who bore, upon their features, all that grand 
 
 And awful dignity of front, which bows 
 
 The eye that gazes on the marble Jove, 
 
 Who hurls, in wrath, his thunder, and the god, 
 
 The imaere of a beauty, so divine. 
 
 So masculine, so artless, that we seem 
 
 To share in his intensity of joy, 
 
 When, sure as fate, the bounding arrow sped, 
 
 And darted to the scaly monster's heart. 
 
 This spirit is the breath of Nature, blown 
 Over the sleeping forms of clay, who else 
 Doze on through life in blank stupidity, 
 Till by its blast, as by a touch of fire. 
 They rouse to lofty purpose, and send out, 
 In deeds of energy, the rage within. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 195 
 
 Its seat is deeper in the savage breast, 
 Than in the man of cities ; in the child, 
 Than in maturer bosoms. Art may prune 
 Its rank and wild luxuriance, and may train 
 Its strong out-breakings, and its vehement gusts 
 To soft refinement, and amenity; 
 But all its energy has vanished, all 
 Its maddening, and commanding spirit gone, 
 And all its tender touches, and its tones 
 Of soul-dissolving pathos, lost and hid 
 Among the measured notes, that move as dead 
 And Heartless, as the puppets in a show. 
 
 Well I remember, in my boyish days, 
 How deep the feeling, when my eye looked forth 
 On Nature, in her loveliness, and storms. 
 How my heart gladdened, as the light of spring- 
 Came from the sun, with zephyrs, and with showers. 
 Waking the earth to beauty, and the woods 
 To music, and the atmosphere to blow. 
 Sweetly and calmy, with its breath of balm. 
 O ! how I gazed upon the dazzling blue 
 Of summer's Heaven of glory, and the waves. 
 That rolled, in bending gold, o'er hill and plain j 
 And on the tempest, when it issued forth, 
 In folds of blackness, from the northern sky, 
 And stood above the mountains, silent, dark, 
 Frowning, and terrible j then sent abroad 
 
196 percival's poems. 
 
 The lightning, as its herald, and the peal, 
 That rolled in deep, deep volleys, round the hills. 
 The warning of its coming, and the sound, 
 That ushered in its elemental war. 
 And, O ! I stood, in breathless longing fixed. 
 Trembling, and yet not fearful, as the clouds 
 Heaved their dark billows on the roaring winds, 
 That sent, from mountain top, and bending wood, 
 A long hoarse murmur, like the rush of waves, 
 That burst, in foam and fury, on the shore. 
 
 Nor less the swelling of my heart, when high 
 
 Rose the blue arch of autumn, cloudless, pure 
 
 As nature, at her dawning, when she sprang 
 
 Fresh from the hand that wrought her ; where the eye 
 
 Caught not a speck upon the soft serene, 
 
 To stam its deep cerulean, but the cloud. 
 
 That floated, like a lonely spirit, there, 
 
 White, as the snow of Zemla, or the foam, 
 
 That on the mid-sea tosses, cinctured round, 
 
 In easy imdulations, with a belt 
 
 Woven of bright Apollo's golden hair. 
 
 Nor, when that arch, in winter's clearest night. 
 
 Mantled in ebon darkness, strowed with stars 
 
 Its canopy, that seemed to swell, and swell 
 
 The higher, as I gazed upon it, till. 
 
 Sphere after sphere, evolving, on the height 
 
 Of Heaven, the everlasting throne shone through, 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 197 
 
 In glory's effulgence, and a wave, 
 
 Intensely bright, rolled, like a fountain, forth 
 
 Beneath its sapphire pedestal, and streamed 
 
 Down the long galaxy, a flood of snow. 
 
 Bathing the heavens in light, the spring, that gushed, 
 
 In overflowing richness, from the breast 
 
 Of all-maternal nature. These I saw, 
 
 And felt to madness ; but my full heart gave 
 
 No utterance to the inefi'able within. 
 
 Words were too weak ; they were unknown ; but still 
 
 The feeling was most poignant : it has gone ; 
 
 And all the deepest flow of sounds, that e'er 
 
 Poured, in a torrent fulness, from the tongue 
 
 Rich with the wealth of ancient bards, and stored 
 
 With all the patriarchs of British song 
 
 Hallowed and rendered glorious, cannot tell 
 
 Those feelings, which have died, to live no more. 
 
 LOVE OF STUDY. 
 
 There are many youths, and some men, who most earnestly devote 
 themselves to solitary studies, fiom the mere love of the pursuit. 1 
 have here attempted to give some of the causes of a devotion, 
 which appears so unaccountable to the stirring world 
 
 AND wherefore does the student trim his lamp, 
 And watch his lonely taper, when the stars 
 Are holding their high festival in Heaven, 
 ^.nd worshipping around the midnight throne ? 
 
198 percival's poems. 
 
 And wherefore does he spend so patiently, 
 In deep and voiceless thought, the blooming hours 
 Of youth and joyance, when the blood is warm, 
 And the heart full of buoyancy and fire ? 
 
 The sun is on the waters, and the air 
 
 Breathes with a stirring energy; the plants 
 
 Expand their leaves, and swell their buds, and blow, 
 
 Wooing the eye, and stealing on the soul 
 
 With perfume and with beauty — Life awakes ; 
 
 Its wings are waving, and its fins at play 
 
 G'ancing from out the streamlets, and the voice 
 
 Of love and joy is warbled in the grove ; 
 
 And children sport upon the springing turf, 
 
 With shouts of innocent glee, and youth is fired 
 
 With a diviner passion, and the eye 
 
 Speaks deeper meaning, and the cheek is filled, 
 
 At every tender motion of the heart, 
 
 With purer flushings; for the boundless power, 
 
 That rules all living creatures, now has sway; 
 
 In man refined to holiness, a flame. 
 
 That purifies the heart it feeds upon : 
 
 And yet the searching spirit will not blend 
 
 With this rejoicing, these attractive charms 
 
 Of the glad season ; but, at wisdom's shrine, 
 
 Will draw pure draughts from her unfathomed welL 
 
 And nurse the never-dying lamp, that burns 
 
 Brighter and brighter on, as ages roll. 
 
percival's poems. 199 
 
 He has his pleasure? — he has his reward : 
 For there is in the company of books, 
 Tlie living souls of the departed sage, 
 And bard, and hero; there is in the roll 
 Of eloquence and history, which speak 
 The deeds of early and of better days; 
 In these, and in the visions that arise 
 Sublime in midnight musings, and array 
 Conceptions of the mighty and the good, 
 There is an elevating influence, 
 That snatches us awhile from earth, and lifts 
 The spirit in its strong aspirings, where 
 Superior beings fill the court of Heaven. 
 And thus his fancy wanders, and has talk 
 With high imaginings, and pictures out 
 Communion with the worthies of old time : 
 And then he listens in his passionate dreams, 
 To voices in the silent gloom of night, 
 As of the blind Meonian, when he struck 
 Wonder from out his harp-strings, and rolled on 
 From rhapsody to rhapsody, deep sounds, 
 That imitate the ocean's boundless roar; 
 Or tones of horror, which the drama spake, 
 Reverberated through the hollow mask. 
 Like sounds which rend the sepulchres of kings, 
 And tell of deeds of darkness, which the grave 
 Would burst its marble portals to reveal; 
 Or his, who latest in the holy cause 
 
200 percival's poems. 
 
 Of freedom, lifted to the heavens his voice, 
 Commanding, and beseeching, and, with all 
 The fervour of his spirit poured abroad, 
 Urging the sluggish souls of self-made slaves 
 To emulate their fathers, and be free; 
 Or those, which in the still and solemn shades 
 Of Academus, from the wooing tongue 
 Of Plato, charmed the youth, the man, the sage, 
 Discoursing of the perfect and, the pvire, 
 The beautiful and holy, till the sound, 
 That played around his eloquent lips, became 
 The honey of persuasion, and was heard, 
 As oracles amid Dodona's groves. 
 With eye upturned, watching the many stars, 
 And ear in deep attention fixed, he sits, 
 Communing with himself, and with the world, 
 The universe around him, and with all 
 The beings of his memory and his hopes j 
 Till past becomes reality, and joys, 
 That beckon in the future, nearer draw. 
 And ask fruition — O ! there is a pure, 
 A hallowed feeling in these midnight dreams; 
 They have the light of heaven around them, breathe 
 The odour of its sanctity, and are 
 Those moments taken from the sands of life. 
 Where guilt makes no intrusion, but they bloom- 
 Like islands flowering on Arabia's wild. 
 And there is pleasure in the utterance 
 
percival's poems. 201 
 
 Of pleasant images in pleasant words, 
 Melting like melody into the ear, 
 And stealing on in one continual flow, 
 Unruffled and unbroken. It is joy 
 Ineflable to dwell upon the lines 
 That register our feelings, and portray. 
 In colours always fresh and ever new, 
 Emotions that were sanctified, and loved, 
 As something far too tender, and too pure, 
 For forms so frail and fading. I have sat, 
 In days, when sensibility was young, 
 And the heart beat responsive to the sight, 
 The touch, and music of the lovely one ; 
 Yes, T have sat entranced, enraptured, till 
 The spirit would have utterance, and words 
 Flowed full of hope, and love, and melody, 
 The sfushings of an overburdened heart 
 Drunk with enchantment, bursting freely forth, 
 Like fountains in the early days of spring. 
 
 HEAVEN. 
 
 The following effusion may serve to explain one of the mysteries of 
 mythology — the location of heaven above us. 
 
 I HAD been sitting at a feast of souls, 
 A banquet of pure spirits, where the thought 
 Spoke on the eloquent tongue, and in the eye'g 
 
 36 
 
202 percival's poems. 
 
 Gay sparkle, and the ever-changing play 
 
 Of feature, like the twinkling glance of waves 
 
 Beneath the summer moonlight. I walked forth; 
 
 It was a night in autumn, and the moon 
 
 Was visible through clouds of opal, laced 
 
 With gold and carmine — such a silent night 
 
 As fairies love to dance and revel in. 
 
 When winds are hushed, and leaves are still, and waves 
 
 Are sleeping on the waters, and the hum 
 
 And stir of life reposing. There was spread 
 
 Before my sight a smooth and glossy bay, 
 
 Mirrored in silver brightness, and the chime 
 
 Of rippling waters on its pebbles, broke 
 
 Alone the quietude that filled the air : 
 
 But when the tremulous heaving of the deep, 
 
 Far off, along its sandy barriers, rose 
 
 And faintly echoed, as the fitful gust 
 
 Ruffled the placid surface glassed below; 
 
 Or, at the call of night-birds, where they flew 
 
 And sported in the sedges, low and sweet, 
 
 Like swallows twittering, or the cooing voice 
 
 Of ring-doves, when they brood their callow young. 
 
 I looked abroad on sea and mountain, wild 
 
 And cultured field, and garden, and they lay, 
 
 Amid the stillness of the elements. 
 
 Silent, and motionless, and beautiful. 
 
 For mist and moonlight softened down their formSj 
 
 And covered them with dim transparency. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 20i 
 
 ' Like beauty melting through her Coan veil ; 
 A wind rose from the ocean, as it rolled 
 Blue in the boundless distance, and it swept 
 The curtained clouds athwart the moon, and gave 
 The undimmed azure of the sky to light 
 And full expansion. There ray eyes were turned, 
 And there they fomid the magic influence, 
 Which bound them, like enchantment, in a trance 
 Of most exalted feeling, and the soul 
 Was lifted from the body, and became 
 A portion of the purity and light 
 And loveliness of that cerulean dome : 
 And it imagined on the mountain top, 
 Now silvered with the milder beam of night, 
 On the blue arch, and on the rolling moon, 
 Careering through the host of stars, who seemed 
 To worship at her coming, and put out 
 The brightness of their twinkling, when she moved 
 Serenely and majestically by — 
 On these, and on the snowy clouds, that hung 
 Their curtains round the border of the sky, 
 Like folds of silken tapestry, it laid 
 A world of tenderness and purity. 
 The quiet habitation of the heart, 
 The resting-place of those impassioned souls, 
 Who draw their inspiration at the founts 
 Of nature, flowing from that theatre, 
 Whose scene is ever shifting with the play 
 
i04 perciv/vl's poems. 
 
 Of seasons, as the year steals swiftly on, 
 And bears us, with its silent foot, away 
 To dissolution; ardent souls, who love 
 The rude rock and the frowning precipice, 
 The winding valley, where it lies in green 
 Along the bubbling riv'let, and the plain, 
 Parted in field and meadow, redolent 
 Of roses in the flowery days of spring ; 
 And in the nights of autumn, of the breath 
 Of frosted clusters, hung along the vines 
 In blue and gushnig festoons, in whose rind 
 The drmk of souls, the nectar of the gods, 
 Ripens beneath the warm unclouded sky. 
 
 I looked upon this loveliness, until 
 
 A dream came o'er me, and the firmament 
 
 Was anhiiate, and spirits filled the air. 
 
 Floating on snowy wings, and rustled by, 
 
 Fanning the wmd to coolness; and they came 
 
 On messages of kindness, and they sought 
 
 The pillow of o'er-wearied toil, and shook 
 
 The dews of Lethe from their dripping plumes 
 
 Around his temples, till his mind forgot 
 
 Its sad realities, and happy dreams 
 
 Rose fair and sweet around him, and restored 
 
 Awhile the spotless hours of infancy, 
 
 When life is one enchantment! Then I seemed 
 
 Rapt in a trance of ecstasy, and forms 
 
percival's poems. 206 
 
 Stood thronging round supremely beautiful, 
 
 Whose looks were full of tenderness, whose words 
 
 Were glances, and whose melodies were smiles; 
 
 Wlio uttered forth the feelings of the soul 
 
 In that expressive dialect, whose tones 
 
 No tongue can syllable, the unseen chain, 
 
 Which links those hearts that beat in unison. 
 
 It was that perfect meeting, whither tend 
 
 Our spirits in their better hours, and find 
 
 The balm of wounded bosoms, where they dream 
 
 The eye of mercy ever smiles, and peace 
 
 For ever broods — they call the vision Heaven. 
 
 And thus hath man imagined he can find 
 
 The region of his angels, and his gods. 
 
 And blessed spirits, somewhere in the sky; 
 
 Or in the moon, to which the Indian turns, 
 
 And dreams it is a cool and quiet land, 
 
 Where insect cannot sting, nor tiger prowl; 
 
 Or on the cone of mountains, where the snow. 
 
 Purest of all material things, is laid 
 
 Upon a cloudy pillow, wreathed around 
 
 The midway height, and parting from this world 
 
 Olympus and the Swerga's holy bowers. 
 
A PICTURE. 
 
 THERE is a ibuntaiii of the purest wave — 
 It ever floweth full and freshly on, 
 Laughing beneath the fairest light of heaven, 
 And chiming, like the tender voice of birds, 
 Within a dewy thicket, when the morn 
 Comes forth in beauty, and the winds awake 
 To sip the moisture in the lily's.J3ell. 
 
 The spring is hidden in a silent cave, 
 The shrine of darkness, and of loneliness, 
 And then it stealeth out to meet the sun. 
 And shine beneath his brightness, and reveal 
 The crystal of its purity, and play, 
 In dove-like undulations, with the airs 
 That gently come and kiss it, with a breath 
 Perfumed among the roses, till they lend 
 A sweetness to the waters, like the rills 
 That spout from marble wells in Asian bowers. 
 
 And where it cometh for^i to meet the light,, 
 The rock is tapestried in mossy green, 
 
percival's poems. 207 
 
 For ever freshenins^ with the sprinkled dews, 
 
 And always youner in verdure, as when Spring 
 
 Throws her new mantle o'er the turf, until 
 
 The eye reposes on it, as a balm, 
 
 That, with its tender soothinQ;s, wins the heart 
 
 To thoughts of purity and {gentleness ; 
 
 For there is in the sight of fairy forms, 
 
 And mellow tinctures, and dissolving shades, 
 
 And in the sound of rustling leaves, and waves. 
 
 That murmur into slumber, and of birds 
 
 Saluting, with their cheery notes, the dawn, 
 
 And pouring out the loneliness of heart, 
 
 A rifled mother feels, when o'er her rfest 
 
 She sits, and sees her young ones stolen away — 
 
 And in the scent of gardens, and young vines, 
 
 And violet beds along the meadow brooks. 
 
 There is a sweet attraction, which doth blend 
 
 The spirit with the life of outward things, 
 
 And it partaketh then in all the joy 
 
 Of Nature, when she riseth from her sleep. 
 
 And throweth out her vigour to the winds. 
 
 And boundeth in her ecstasy, as fawns 
 
 Leap in the very wantonness of heart, 
 
 When life is all exuberance and fire. 
 
 It floweth on embanked in freshest turf, 
 Bending its margin low to meet the clear, 
 Cool element, and slake its thirst therein. 
 And bathe its roots, like silken threads, that play 
 
-Ob pekcival's poems. 
 
 Waving and streaming with the current's fall. 
 Its flow is over pebbles and bright sands, 
 Which, from the curling waters flashing out, 
 Inlay the channel with mosaic, where 
 The white flint shines like pearl, the agate glows 
 With playful tints, dove-like or pavonine, 
 Catching new splendour from the wave ; the while 
 Smooth-rounded stones, deep blue and ebony, 
 And slaty flakes of red and russet-brown, 
 Lie darker in their brightness, as when gems 
 Sparkle from out the chilly night of caves. 
 
 Above it elms and poplars — trees that love 
 The bank of meaSow brooks : those with their limbs 
 Light-arching in a platted canopy ; 
 These rising in a pyramid of boughs, 
 And Qjlancing with their many twinkling leaves, 
 Bright in their varnished verdure, when they drink 
 The pure lie:ht in their stillness : when at play, 
 Chequered with freshest green and snowy down 
 Beside them willows droop to kiss the wave, 
 That calmly crinkles by them, and they dip 
 Their waving twigs, so that their silken leaves 
 Ruffle the water to a circling curl, 
 Widening and lessening to the turfy shore. 
 From out its bosom islets lift their tufts 
 Of alder and of sedges, where the wind 
 Plays through the pointed blades, and murmuring lulls 
 The dreamer, who reposes on the brink, 
 
 S 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 209 
 
 And pj-azes on the ever-changing play 
 
 Of bubble and of ripple, of light plumes 
 
 Moving like pigmy vessels, as the breath 
 
 Of summer fills their fan-like sail, and throws 
 
 A sudden dimple o'er the mirror'd stream. 
 
 Flowers too are on its borders ; flags in blue 
 
 Carpet the hollow, roses on the knoll 
 
 Open their clustered crimson, cardinals 
 
 Lift, on the shady margin, spikes of fire, 
 
 And one,* whose feathered stem, and starry bloom 
 
 Of glossy yellow, wafted in the flow. 
 
 Floats, like a sleeping Naiad, on the wave. 
 
 MENTAL BEAUTY. 
 
 be.llezze 
 
 Fill ch'n guisa mortal soavi e litie. Petrarca. 
 
 BEAUTY has gone, but yet her mind is still 
 As beautiful as ever ; still the play 
 Of light around her lips has every charm 
 Of childhood in its freshness : Love has there 
 Stamped his unfading impress, and the hues' 
 Of fancy shine around her, as the Sun 
 Gilds at his setting some decaying tower, 
 With feathered moss and ivy overgrown. 
 I knew her in the dawning of her charms.; 
 
 * Ranunculus fluitans. 
 
 27 
 
310 percival's poems. 
 
 When the new rose first opened, and its sweets 
 
 No wind had wasted. She was of those forms 
 
 Apelles might have painted for the Queen 
 
 Of loveliness and love — light as the fays 
 
 Dancing on glimmering dew-drops, when the moon 
 
 Rides in her silver softness, and the world 
 
 Is calm and brightly beautiful below. 
 
 She was all mildness, and the melting tone 
 
 Of her sweet voice thrilled me, and seemed to flow 
 
 Into my soul, a stream of melody, 
 
 Delicious in its mellowness ; it spake 
 
 A heart at ease — and then the quiet smile 
 
 Sat playing on her lips, that pouting, spread, 
 
 Their vermil freshness forth, as if to ask 
 
 The kiss of him she smiled on. In her eye 
 
 Gentleness had its dwelling, and light Mirth 
 
 Glanced out in sudden flashes, and keen Wit 
 
 Shot arrows which delighted, while they stung. 
 
 She was a young Medusa, ere she knew 
 
 The evil of a world that watched to blast 
 
 Her loveliness, and make it terrible ; 
 
 Striking a dead cold horror on the heart 
 
 Of him, who saw the fairest of all things, 
 
 A lovely woman, made the common prey 
 
 Of lawless passion — but it touched not her : 
 
 No mist breathed o'er her brightness ; but the pure 
 
 Full light of virtue rested there, and shed 
 
 New lustre on the light that ever came 
 
percival's poems. 211 
 
 Through her transparent features, and revealed 
 Each movement of the soul that swelled within : 
 And they were all of Heaven — such high desires 
 As angels had been proud of — pure as light 
 In its primeval fountain, ere it flowed 
 To mingle with the elements, and lose 
 Its perfect clearness. She was as a flower 
 New opened in a valley, where no foot 
 Had trodden, and no living thing had left 
 Print of the world's pollution : there she blew 
 Fragrant and lovely, and a parent's hand 
 Shielded her from the winds that blast, or bring 
 Poison upon their wings, and taint the heart 
 Left open to their influence. Shielded there 
 She ripened all her treasures, and became 
 Full-blown and rich in her maturity — 
 The dwelling of a spirit, not of earth, 
 But ever mingling with the pure and high 
 Conceptions of a soul that spreads its wings 
 To fly where Mind, when boldest, dared to soar. 
 And though the form has withered, and the bloom 
 Has faded, she is lovely ; for the sounds 
 That issue from her lips, and flow around 
 In liquid eloquence, are oracles 
 Of more than ancient wisdom, or they speak 
 Portions of that full hymn of Poesy, 
 Which ever rises when a mind on fire 
 Blends with the majesty of outward things j 
 
212 percival's poems. 
 
 And with the glories of a boundless Heaven, 
 And a rich earth, and ever-rolling sea 
 Communing, swells to that ineffable 
 Fruition, which in hope will never end. 
 
 MENTAL HARMONY. 
 
 Animee dimidium meet Horat> 
 
 WE have had pleasant hours, but they are gone ; 
 
 And we shall never meet again, to spend 
 
 Glad moments in the kindly intercourse 
 
 Of blended thought and feeling ; they are gone. 
 
 Those festivals of fancy and of hope, 
 
 Those may-days of the spirit, when the voice 
 
 Of nature had a sweetness wholly new 
 
 And most delightful to me, and the form 
 
 And fashion of all creatures took a tint 
 
 From the fair light within me; when we gave 
 
 Days to such higher thoughts, as lend to life 
 
 A swifter pinion, that the flow of hours 
 
 Be as the falling of a quiet stream. 
 
 Whose current has no sound or sign to tell 
 
 It hath an onward motion, and the sun 
 
 Go to his setting, and we know it not, 
 
 Time steals on such a silent wing away. 
 
 There is a holy feeling in the trance 
 Of thought; it is a calm and quiet sense 
 
percival's poems. 213 
 
 Of purer being ; we have known such hours, 
 
 And they shall be remembered. Who would lose 
 
 The memory of our blessings, and the light, 
 
 The recollection of departed days 
 
 Of a serener pleasure, and a deep 
 
 And happy friendship, tranquillized and raised 
 
 To more exalted union, such as bound 
 
 Two intellects in elder time, who loved 
 
 To meet in fond endearment, and to lend 
 
 In mutual talk their fullest thoughts — the light. 
 
 Such recollection pours into the heart, 
 
 Till we are circled with a hallowed sphere 
 
 Of bright emotions, who would lose, one day, 
 
 Remembrances so gracious, for the wild 
 
 Mad tempest of ambition, or the gay 
 
 And glittering dance of pleasure, or the pomp 
 
 The rich man piles around him. I could walk. 
 
 At the pale hour of twilight, on the path 
 
 The willow-tree o'ershadows, by the brink 
 
 Of a small run of water, and be wrapped 
 
 In a deep loneliness, and yet find more 
 
 That has in it an ecstasy, in thoughts 
 
 Cast back upon the quick hours we have known 
 
 In our long woodland wanderings, and the sighf? 
 
 That we have mutely gazed on, spread o'er hill. 
 
 And plain, and sheeted ocean, than in all 
 
 Hope ever promised to my ardent youtk 
 
 III the bright path of honour, or the way 
 
214 percival's poems. 
 
 That winds through roses, sweetly leading on 
 Its eager victim to the Bower of Love. 
 
 Nature hath lent us with a bounteous hand, 
 Wherewith to make us happy, and if we 
 Take not the kindly offer, 't is the fault 
 Of our perverted hearts, which cannot find 
 Beaut}' is what is open unto all. 
 I have resolved within me, that the still 
 And pure possession of my own free thoughts 
 Surpasses earthly treasures, and is life 
 Heightened to a superior essence ; hence 
 The wild woods are my chosen haunt, and there 
 I read a fairer tome, a richer page, 
 Than pen of man has traced with characters 
 Of reason or of fancy. I become, 
 In the society of untaught things. 
 Drawn from my duller and my grosser sense, 
 And lifted in my longings, and I learn 
 How little there is great in the pursuit 
 Of riches or of honour, how the mind. 
 Let in the channel of heroic thought 
 To flow in freedom onward, and pervade 
 The purer regions of philosophy, 
 And tasteful and impassioned poesy — 
 How mind alone is the true worth of man, 
 And that which raises him above the sense 
 Of meaner creatures, and permits a hope 
 Of luiembodied being, in a high 
 
pekcival's poems. 215 
 
 And holy dwelling, lifted far above 
 Tlie reach of tempest, with essential light 
 Encircled, and with fairest wings of love 
 O'ershadowed, the reward and resting place 
 Of such as hold their journey patiently, 
 And pause and faint not on their weary way. 
 
 The recollection of one upward hour 
 Hath more in it to tranquillize and cheer 
 The darkness of despondency, than years 
 Of gaiety and pleasure. Then, alone 
 We wander not in solitude, but find 
 Friends in all things around us, for the heart 
 Sinks not, and in its sinking bends the mind 
 From its true lofty region, where it lives 
 Rejoicing in bright energy ; and so 
 All things are open to the searching eye 
 Of an unclouded intellect, and bring 
 Their several treasures to it, and unfold 
 Their fabric to its scrutiny. All life, 
 And all inferior orders, in the waste 
 Of being spread before us, are to him, 
 Who lives in meditation, and the search 
 Of wisdom and of beauty, open books, 
 Wherein he reads the Godhead, and the ways 
 He works through his creation, and the links 
 That fasten us to all things, with a sense 
 Of fellowship and feehng, so that we 
 Look not upon a cloud, or falling leaf, 
 
J16 pekcival's poems. 
 
 Or flower new blown, or human face divine^ 
 But we have caught new life, and wider thrown 
 The door of reason open, and have stored 
 In memory's secret chamber, for dark years 
 Of age and weariness, the food of thought. 
 And thus extended mind, and made it young, 
 When the thin hair turns gray, and feeling dies. 
 
 But this communion with inferior things 
 Still leaves a void behind it, and we seek 
 The kindred thoughts of other men, and bend 
 Attentive o'er their written souls, wherein 
 We see their better moments, when they cast 
 The slough of earth aside, and tried a flight 
 On an ascending pinion, and renewed 
 Their purer being, as the insect bursts 
 The walls that bound it in its second state — 
 It might be a gilded prison-house; 
 But yet it was a prison : When its wing 
 Unfolded, and it knew the bliss of air, 
 And free and rapid motion, it had life, 
 And floated as a spirit floats away, 
 And wandered gayly on from flower to flower, 
 And was so light aud so ethereal, Man 
 Selected it the symbol of the soul. 
 And its free flight through ether on a wing- 
 That, moving through eternity, will ever 
 Be active and unwearied, and as bright 
 In its unrufiled plumage, after years 
 
percival's poems. 217 
 
 Have e:athered into ages, and have gone 
 
 Beyond the eldest memory of time. 
 
 But yet the pen of Genius cannot cheer 
 
 And heighten, like the spirit-speaking eye j 
 
 And so we seek the living, and we find 
 
 That there are spirits that commune with ours, 
 
 As if they were our kindred, and were formed 
 
 In the same mould ; and when we meet with them, 
 
 We cling with child-like fondness, as if life 
 
 Had not a charm without them, and the sky 
 
 With its ethereal beauty, and the earth 
 
 Flowering or fading, and the fairest flow 
 
 Of pure and tranquil waters, and the words 
 
 Of the departed with their might of thought, 
 
 Could be to us no solace, and have power 
 
 To lend no high conception, nor subdue 
 
 The spirit unto meekness ; so we lean 
 
 On an accordant bosom, and we love 
 
 The beating of a heart, that beats as ours, 
 
 The speaking of an eye, that tells us thoughts 
 
 Which harmonize with what we feel, and all 
 
 The light of beauty, passion, tenderness. 
 
 And purity, and love of great, and fair, 
 
 And fitly fashioned things, until we deem 
 
 A sole existence is a wilderness, 
 
 That yieldeth only terror, and a curse. 
 
 We two have met a little while, and known 
 
 How time may glide unnoticed, in the flow 
 
 28 
 
218 percival's poems. 
 
 Of thoughts that have a sympathy; we part, 
 But this shall be a token, thou hast been 
 A friend to him who traced these hurried lines, 
 And gave them as a tribute to a friend, 
 And a remembrance of the few kind hours 
 Which lightened on the darkness of my path, 
 And gave a pleasantness to some bright days, 
 Bright in the light thou gavest them, and warmed 
 Feelings, that sank in chilliness, and waked 
 My fancy from its slumber, and thus drew 
 One volume from its treasures, into day. 
 
 RUINS. 
 
 Tempus edax rerum, tvqut, invidiosa vetustar, 
 Omnia destrmtis :- Ovid. 
 
 EARTH is a waste of ruins ; so I deemed, 
 When the broad sun was sinking in the sea 
 Of sand, that rolled around Palmyra. Night 
 Shared with the dying day a lonely sky, 
 The canopy of regions void of life. 
 And still as one interminable tomb. 
 The shadows gathered on the desert, dark 
 And darker, till alone one purple arch 
 Marked the far place of setting. All above 
 Was purely azure, for no moon in heaven 
 Walked in her brightness, and with snowy light 
 Softened the deep intensity, that gave 
 
PERCIVAL's P03MS. 219 
 
 Such awe unto the blue serenity 
 
 Of the high throne of gods, the dwelling-place 
 
 Of suns and stars, which are to us as gods. 
 
 The fountains of existence and the seat 
 
 Of all we dream of glory. Dim and vast 
 
 The ruins stood around me — temples, fanes, 
 
 Where the bright sun was worshipped, where they gave 
 
 Homage to him, who frowns in storms, and rolls 
 
 The desert like an ocean, where they bowed 
 
 Unto the queen of beauty, she in heaven, 
 
 Who gives the night its loveliness, and smiles 
 
 Serenely on the drifted waste, and lends 
 
 A silver softness to the ridgy wave, 
 
 Where the dark Arab sojourns, and with tales 
 
 Of love and beauty wears the tranquil night 
 
 In poetry away ; her light the while 
 
 Falling upon him, as a spirit falls, 
 
 Dove-like or curling down in flame, a star 
 
 Sparkling amid his flowing locks, or dews 
 
 That melt in gold, and steal into the heart, 
 
 Making it one enthusiastic glow, 
 
 As if the God were present, and his voice 
 
 Spake on the eloquent lips, that pour abroad 
 
 A gush of inspiration — bright as waves 
 
 Swelling around Aurora's car, intense 
 
 With passion as the fire that ever flows 
 
 In fountains on the Caspian shore, and full 
 
 As the wide-rolling majesty of Nile. 
 
220 pergival's poems. 
 
 Over these temples of an age of wild 
 And dark belief, and yet magnificent 
 In all that strikes the senses — beautiful 
 In the fair forms they knelt to, and the domeg 
 And pillars which upreared them — full of life 
 In their poetic festivals, when youth 
 Gave loose to all its energy, in dance, 
 And song, and every charm the fancy weaves 
 In the soft twine of cultur'd speech, attuned 
 In perfect concord to the full-toned lyre : 
 When nations gathered to behold the pomp 
 That issued from the hallowed shrine in choirs 
 Of youths, who bounded to the minstrelsy 
 Of tender voices, and all instruments 
 Of ancient harmony, in solemn trains 
 Bearing the votive offerings, flowing horns 
 Of plenty wreathed with flowers, and gushing o'er 
 With the ripe clusters of the purple vine, 
 The violet of the fig, the scarlet flush 
 Of granates peeping from the parted rind, 
 The citron shining through its glossy leaves 
 In burnished gold, the carmine veiled in down, 
 Like mountain snow, on which the living stream 
 Flowed from Astarte's minion, all that hang 
 In eastern gardens blended — while the sheaf 
 Nods with its loaded ears, and brimming bowls 
 Foam with the kindling element, the joy 
 Of banquet, and the nectar that inspires 
 
f , percival's poems. 221 
 
 Man with the glories of a heightened power 
 To feel the touch of beauty, and combine 
 The scattered forms of elegance, till high 
 Rises a magic vision, blending all 
 That we have seen of glory, such as drew 
 Assembled Greece to worship, when the form, 
 Who gathered all its loveliness, arose 
 Dewy and blushing from the parent foam, 
 Than which her tint was fairer, and with hand 
 That seemed of living marble, parted back 
 Her raven locks, and upward looked to Heaven, 
 Smiling to see all Nature bright and calm. 
 Over these temples, whose long colonnades 
 Are parted by the hand of time, and fall 
 Pillar by pillar, block by block, and strow 
 The ground in shapeless ruin, night descends 
 Unmingled, and the many stars shoot through 
 The gaps of broken walls, and glance between 
 The shafts of tottering columns, marking out 
 Obscurely, on the dark blue sky, the form 
 Of Desolation, who hath made these piles 
 Her home, and sitting with her folded wings, 
 Wraps in her dusty robe the skeletons 
 Of a once countless multitude, whose toil 
 Reared palaces and theatres, and brought 
 All the fair forms of Grecian art, to give 
 Glory unto an island, girt with sands 
 As barren as the ocean, where the grave 
 
222 PEKCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 And stately Doric mark^ed the solemn fane 
 Where wisdom dwelt, and on the fairer shrine 
 Of beauty sprang the light Ionian wreathed 
 With a soft volute, whose siajplicity 
 Becomes the deity of loveliness, 
 Who with her snowy mantle, and her zone 
 Woven with all attractions, and her locks 
 Flowing as Nature bade them flow, compels 
 The sterner Powers to hang upon her smiles. 
 And there the grand Corinthian lifted high 
 Its flowery capital, to crown the porch. 
 Where sat the sovereign of their hierarchy, 
 The monarch armed with terror, whose curled locks 
 Shaded a brow of thought and firm resolve, 
 Whose eye, deep sunk, shot out its central fires, 
 To blast and wither all who dared confront 
 The gaze of highest power ; so sat their kings 
 Enshrined in palaces, and when they came 
 Thundering on their triumphal cars, all bright 
 With diadem of gold, and purple robe 
 Flashing with gems, before their rushing train 
 Moving in serried columns fenced in steel, 
 The herd of slaves obsequiotts sought the dust, 
 And gazed not as the mystic pomp rolled by. 
 Such were thy monarchs, Tadmor ! now thy streets 
 Are silent, and thy walls o'erthrown, no voice 
 Speaks through the long dim night of years, to tell 
 These were once peopled dwellings j I could dream 
 
percival's poems. 22o 
 
 Some sorcerer in his moon-light wanderings, reared 
 These wonders in an hour of sport, to mock 
 The stranger with the show of life, and send 
 Thought through the mist of ages, in the search 
 Of nations who are now no more, who lived 
 Erst in the pride of empire, ruled and swayed 
 Millions in their supremacy, and toiled 
 To pile these monuments of wealth and skill. 
 That here the wandering tribe might pitch its tents 
 Securer in their empty courts, and we. 
 Who have the sense of greatness, low might kneel 
 To ancient mind, and gather from the torn 
 And scattered fragments, visions of the power, 
 And splendour, and sublimity of old. 
 Mocking the grandest canopy of Heaven, 
 And imaging the pomp of Gods below. 
 
 MARIA, 
 
 THE VILLAGE GIRL. 
 
 Nahire is fine in love ; and where 7 is fine, 
 It sends some precious instance of itself 
 ^fter the thing it loves. Hamlet. 
 
 I KNEW a pleasant village, in a lone 
 And silent valley, on the southern side 
 Of a long line of mountains, whence a brook 
 Came gently down, and in its winding flow 
 
224 fercival's ^oems. 
 
 Stole through a pansied meadow, where a bank 
 
 Of beeches lifted up its tufted slope 
 
 To the warm sun of April, as it shone 
 
 Tenderly from a hemisphere of blue, 
 
 Purer, because the earth sent rarer forth 
 
 Its dimming exhalations, on whose boughs 
 
 Yet hung the leaves of winter, with a low 
 
 And plaintive rustling, telling to the winds 
 
 A sweet ^olian tale, and shining out 
 
 In glossy twinkling, as they lightly turned 
 
 Their surface to the light, and then veered back 
 
 With a quick-glancing motion ; in a bend 
 
 Of that close thicket, where the mountain gust 
 
 Came not, but all was tranquil, and the turf 
 
 Was deeper greened, and the new opened flowers 
 
 Spread bolder out their tender leaves, and sent 
 
 Soft odours on the mellow air, that played 
 
 Silently in that hollow, where the quail 
 
 Sat often in the clear warm noon, and turned 
 
 Her red eye to the silver light, and shook 
 
 The dropped leaves in her playfulness ; one day, 
 
 When all was purely fair, and the chill winds 
 
 Were hushed aloft, and as I upwards gazed, 
 
 The frosted fir, the pendent pine, and all 
 
 The sable groves of cedar, stood as still. 
 
 As when a woojj of lances wait the breath 
 
 Of the shrill horn and braying clarion. 
 
 To sink upon the line of fight, and rush 
 
percival's poems. 22Si 
 
 Forward to meet in conflict — such a day, 
 When the young sod first quickens, and the pale 
 Blue eyes of weeping violets part their lids 
 To drink the first warm rays, I chanced to bend 
 My wandering foot along the grassy brink 
 Of the calm-flowing brooklet, pleased to take 
 With a quick eye its many turns, and dwell 
 On the clear dashing of its water-falls, 
 And the soft gliding of its molten gold, 
 Where the sun met it curving o'er a root 
 That grew across its channel, or the curls, 
 That like a pigeon's plumage waving played 
 Over the sandy shallow, or the still 
 And tranquil mirror where it rested deep 
 And dark beneath a willow — as I stood 
 Looking aside upon the velvet vest 
 Of the fresh-springing meadow, and above 
 Where the bent birches hung their tufted flowers. 
 New purpling like a silken shred, and faint 
 The scarlet maple buds put out, and fair 
 The downy willow catkins specked with gold 
 Their flaxen locks, when life awoke within 
 The leaf-buds of the forest, then I caught 
 In that still nook, a pale and lovely girl. 
 With a fair hand fondling a petted lamb. 
 That bounded light around her, and with long 
 And oft repeated fondness licked her hand, 
 And then renewed its gambols, though it took 
 
 29 
 
226 percival's poems. 
 
 Short turns, because a cord of braided blue, 
 
 The colour of a dove-wing, or the sky, 
 
 When a full moon shines over it, drew back 
 
 Her minion to a narrow circle, for 
 
 She thus had bound it in a silken chain, 
 
 As if it were a loved one, who would fly 
 
 To other lands, and leave her here to sing 
 
 Her sad notes to the evening wind, and tell 
 
 Her hours in weeping loneliness, and look 
 
 Where the far path came o'er the hill to catch 
 
 Her long departed lover, till the night 
 
 Hid the low vale in darkness, and her eye 
 
 Turned from the fruitless quest, and then she wept 
 
 Tenderly, and her sweet voice took a tone, 
 
 In which despair was uttered, till it smik * 
 
 Trembling and fainting, as the night wind falls 
 
 Softer along the harp strings, till a sound 
 
 Just whispers through the air, and all is stilL 
 
 There was a look of calmness in her thin 
 And delicate features, wasted to a shade, 
 Like a pure spirit musing on the dark 
 And sad afflictions of this life below, 
 And dwelling for a moment on the grief 
 And sickness of the better few, who trust 
 In their most hopeless hours, they yet shall find 
 A sunshine after darkness, and a calm 
 After the tempest ceaseth, when the eye 
 Of love shall rest forever on the friends 
 They late have seen departing on their long 
 
percival's poems. 227 
 
 And unreturning journey, whose cold lids 
 
 They closed with pious care, whose stiffened limbs 
 
 They laid in decent order, and composed 
 
 Their pale lips to a sweet and dying smile, 
 
 And shrouded all in whitest lawn, than which 
 
 No flaky snow falls purer, and no curl 
 
 Catches a softer tincture from the moon. 
 
 To throw a thin veil o'er the stars, and dim 
 
 Their brightness to a faint and mellow ray, 
 
 Like a lone taper through a curtain, when 
 
 Sleep broods above the hamlet, and the sound 
 
 Of life is hushed, and this alone, reveals 
 
 To him who walks in darkness, that two hearts 
 
 Are pouring out their fulness, or a voice, 
 
 In the low consecrated tone of prayer, 
 
 Is talking with the Universal soul. 
 
 And blending with the perfect purity 
 
 And majesty of Godhead, or an eye 
 
 Is watching o'er the page of lofty thought, 
 
 And catching inspiration at the shrine 
 
 Of intellect and fancy, till the heart. 
 
 Big with its high conceptions, overflows, 
 
 And then his lips pour out the eloquence 
 
 Of kindled spirit, and a purer stream 
 
 Of language, musical, and grand, and full 
 
 Of the quick life of mind, is sent abroad, 
 
 Than ever meets the anxious ear, when crowds 
 
 Drink io the rhetoric of master souls. 
 
228 percival's poems. 
 
 Her looks were purely Grecian, such as charm 
 Taste in an ancient statue, or a gem, 
 Of fair intaglio, where a perfect white, 
 Shaped to a nymph-like beauty, sparkles in 
 A ground of azure ; — it was such a face, 
 As had enamoured Raphael, or inspired 
 The pencil of Corregio to the birth 
 Of a blue-eyed Madonna, or a calm 
 And pensive Spirit looking up to Heaven, 
 Poised on a seraph's wing high in the dome 
 Of an Italian temple, where the God 
 Of charity is worshipped, and the form 
 Of Him who died on Calvary adored. 
 Her brow was softly arched, and it was pure 
 And pale as marble, and the dew of death 
 Seemed resting there, and gave a fearful tint 
 To its else perfect loveliness, and told 
 Thoughts were at work beneath it, which might still 
 Ere long the life within her, but are loved, 
 Although we know them fatal, as we cling 
 To the Circean bowl, and dying grasp 
 At its alluring poison, which conveys 
 V A madness to the brain that hath a touch 
 Of inspiration in its reveries, 
 And spreads around the spirit light and calm, 
 Till earth seems beautiful and life is heaven. 
 Her hair was of a sunny brown, and fine 
 As lines of light that stream across a cloud, 
 
percival's poems. 229 
 
 Ere the sun rises, or the scarlet tuft, 
 
 That floats beneath the green wave, where on rocks 
 
 The sea-pkune clings, and throws its feeling threads, 
 
 Like flowing silk around it. It was full, 
 
 And dropped in light profusion down her neck, 
 
 And o'er her bosom ; and it parted lay 
 
 In native ringlets round her brow, and shone 
 
 Deeper beside the snow it rested on, 
 
 And that came fairer through the curling shade 
 
 That waved above it, as the sighing wind 
 
 Sent a sweet-breathing air to shake the Icclves, 
 
 And crisp the sheeted water. As she hung 
 
 Her head in deepest sorrow, some few tears 
 
 Stole out and pearled her cheek, but these she brushed 
 
 With a light touch aside, and then renewed 
 
 A song, half sad, half playful, such as comes 
 
 From a crazed brain, that says, it knows not why, 
 
 A thousand things which are at first as gay 
 
 As wild mirth in a revel, and then fall 
 
 To a faint tone, in which despair alone 
 
 Can have a concord, and at last a sob 
 
 Closes it, and her glistening tears o'erflow. 
 
 She lifted up her head, and mutely gazed 
 Awhile upon the world above, and then 
 Her ashy lips were moving, but no sound 
 Came through their parting paleness, still it shone 
 With a faint hectic flush, like the last tint 
 The sun casts on a wreath of mists, and then 
 
'230 percival's poems. 
 
 A most intense cerulean veils it o'er, 
 
 So that the sky seems tintless. As she looked 
 
 Far in the silent atmosphere, methought 
 
 Her blue eye had a fixedness, and saw 
 
 A form distinctly featured, and she rose 
 
 Half from her seat of turf, and threw her arms, 
 
 As if to meet it in a fond embrace. 
 
 And a sweet smile broke on her lips, and tears 
 
 Stood glistening on her eyelids, such quick joy 
 
 Stirred in her heart, and one faint word alone 
 
 Escaped, it was Leoni : — then she dropped 
 
 Suddenly on her settle, and her head 
 
 Drooped languidly, and her long flowing locks 
 
 Showered their full ringlets o'er her, big round tears 
 
 Dropt thick and freshly through them, and her sobs 
 
 Shook her, they were so deep ; she pressed her brow 
 
 And wrung her hands, and then she cast them down 
 
 Clasped on the sod beside her, shook her head. 
 
 And with a sweet low voice sighed out, " no more." 
 
 She plucked the flowers that grew aroundj and kissed 
 Their purple and their yellow leaves, and long 
 Inhaled their perfume; then she opened wide 
 Her lips to the wild laugh, that tells despair, 
 And it rang terribly around, and oft 
 She uttered it still louder, and her eye 
 Kindled and flashed intensely, and the spot 
 Of death stood glowing like a ring of fire 
 On the blue paleness of her cheek, and full 
 
percival's poems. 231 
 
 The dark veins throbbed upon her brow, and shot 
 Their branches o'er her temples, and she waved 
 Her hand, that seemed a spirit's, where the light 
 Shone with a purple glimmer through, and then 
 She'outward turned her palm, and often pushed 
 Some hateful object from her, and a dark 
 Mysterious look of madness glazed her eye, 
 And her pearl teeth were set, and her frame shook 
 With an internal shuddering; then with slow 
 And broken sounds she muttered, ^^ false and foul, ''^ •. 
 
 Suddenly she sank down, and bending low 
 Hid her face in her mantle; one weak groan 
 Stole from her, like a dying wind at eve 
 Through a sere vine in autumn: then her lamb 
 Drew to her side, and looked with wistful eye 
 On her wild sorrow ; as her dim eye caught 
 The innocent eye that gazed so fondly, calm 
 She lifted up her forehead, and composed 
 Her scattered tresses, and held out her hand 
 To the compassionate creature, who wa's now 
 The only one she trusted in; — she smiled, 
 As mourners smile, and hanging o'er she spake 
 Few words of tenderness, " thou wilt not leave, . 
 Fair face of gentleness, thou wilt not leave, 
 Though the world leave me :" then she gathered flowers 
 And grass-blades, and she wove them in a wreath, 
 And bound it round her minion's neck, and clasped 
 Its soft limbs to her bosom, with a kiss 
 
232 percival's pokms. 
 
 Of sorrow and of love : her soul seemed calm, 
 
 And shone serenely through her clear blue eyes, 
 
 Which had in them a meek divinity, 
 
 All patience, and all hope, that as she gazed 
 
 Upward to the pure vault and the bright sun, 
 
 Methought her spirit parted, and took wing, 
 
 And angels came to welcome it, and bear 
 
 The weary stranger to a resting-place. 
 
 And lay her on a pillow which no thorn 
 
 Hath ever entered. Such a sacred calm 
 
 Was printed in her look, that she became 
 
 Sainted to all my feelings, and I stood 
 
 To see her spurn the earth, and soar away 
 
 To the pure air above the highest cone. 
 
 That still looked white behind me ; but she soon 
 
 Rose gently from her seat, and threw her hair 
 
 With a quick motion backward, closely drew 
 
 Her russet cloak, and twined her braided line 
 
 Around her marble fingers, then looked down. 
 
 And said, "we must go homeward, sweet one, night 
 
 Is coming in the far sky," and ere I 
 
 Coidd trace her, through the silent wood withdrew. 
 
A TALE. 
 
 SHE had been touched with grief, and on her cheek 
 Sorrow had left its impress in the pale 
 Soft tint of fading loveliness. She bore 
 Meekly the burden of her woes, and told 
 To none the secret of her heart. It preyed 
 Forever on her life, and blanched away 
 The roses which had bloomed so wooingly 
 And freshly on her laughing lips. Her smile 
 Grew fainter, and it only spread a line 
 Of a most tender carmine, where the snow 
 Scarce had a stain to mark it from the pure 
 And perfect whiteness of her cheek and brow-— 
 So pure, she seemed a living monument 
 Of Parian marble; and the flaxen curls 
 That waved around her forehead, and the arch 
 Darker and brighter bent above that eye, 
 Which through long lashes spoke in looks of fire, 
 And was the only eloquence she used — 
 These, and at times a gushing to her cheek, 
 Like the first flush of morning, or the faint 
 Fast-dying purple, when the twilight steals 
 
 .30 
 
234 percival's poems. 
 
 Into the depth of darkness — these were all 
 That told she yet was living, and was not 
 An image of the Graces, or the shade 
 Of a departed maiden, which at night 
 Visits the silent walks she loved, and hangs 
 Over the grave she watered, till she took 
 Her last repose beside it. 
 
 She had been 
 The gayest and the loveliest, and had moved 
 Through the light dance, and in the bending crowd 
 Of young admirers, like an infant queen 
 Proud of her innocent beauty. There was one 
 Who looked, but spake not; and when others took 
 Her hand to lead her through the merry hall, 
 In steps all grace and harmony, he stole 
 Aside, and wept in anguish. He was made 
 Not for the place of mirth, but for the still • 
 
 And peaceful shade- of feeling, and of thoughts, 
 Which have their home in higher souls, and are 
 Lone, and unfriended and unknown below. 
 His was a social nature; yet not made 
 To blend with crowds, but find in one alone, 
 One fairy minister of soft delights, 
 And pure as they are tender, that deep joy. 
 Which none has ever uttered. Long he sought 
 To win her to those calm retreats, and give 
 To her a spirit kindred to his own, 
 And lead her to the one and only love, 
 
percival's poems. 235 
 
 The harmony of thought, and wish, and life, 
 The union of all feelings, whence the deep 
 Exhaustless fountain of their blended hearts 
 Flows ever deeper, and has ever more 
 Of music in its flow, and more of light 
 And beauty in its fulness. Thus he dwelt 
 On her fresh loveliness, until his life 
 Was linked unto her image, and her form 
 Mingled with every thought, and every spot, 
 Where the new spring looked beautiful, was filled 
 With her pervading presence; but he dared 
 Speak only to the mountain-winds her name, 
 And only in a whisper. 
 
 She had marked 
 The silent youth, and with a beauty's eye 
 Knew well she was beloved, and though her light 
 And bounding spirit still was wild and gay, 
 And sporting in the revel, yet her hours 
 Of solitude were visited by him. 
 Who looked with such deep passion. She too loved, 
 And saw more in his melancholy eye. 
 And in the delicate form, and the still look, 
 And that high front of intellect, which crowned 
 Features that were all tenderness and love, 
 Like the fair shrine of poesy, where thoughts 
 Dwelt high and solemn, such as from their seat 
 Of glory visit none, but the great few, 
 Whose language is immortal — there she saw 
 
236 percival's poems* 
 
 More that had charms to win her, than in all 
 
 The light unmeaning swarm, who fawned, and dancedj 
 
 And played their tricks in envious rivalry, 
 
 Happy to draw from her one scornful smile. 
 
 She loved him with a true and early love, 
 And with her tenderness there was a sense 
 Of awe, when on those magic eyes she gazed, 
 Which seemed to look on spirits, not on men. 
 Still, in her innocent cheerfulness, she sought 
 To lead him from his solitary haunts, 
 And throw bright smiles upon that shaded brow, 
 And light that eye to rapture from its deep 
 And mute abstraction. So she laughed and sung, 
 And called him to the dance ; but with a gush 
 Of feeling irresistible, he stole 
 Aside and wept. Again he sought her ear. 
 And told her his fond tale. First she looked cold^ 
 And o'er her forehead curled a playful frown; 
 Then suddenly, and with a few light words. 
 She scornfully turned from him, and enjoyed 
 The moment of her triumph — it was short, 
 For with a firm, fixed look, in which were seen 
 More thoughts of grief than anger, he drew back, 
 And casting one proud farewell glance, that told 
 There was no after hope, he turned away, 
 And soon was gone, an exile, none knew where. 
 
 He wandered to another land, and found 
 New friends, who sought to cheer him ; but a weight 
 
percival's poems. 237 
 
 Hung on his heart, and would not be removed; 
 The feeling of regret an(^njury, 
 The love that will not perish, and the pride 
 That quenches love, but does not make it hate; 
 The fondness that will steal at times, and melt 
 The heart to tears, and then the sudden pang 
 Of long-remembered scorn, which freezes fast 
 The fomitain in its flow, and leaves the cold 
 Dim glare of one, whose only hope is death. 
 
 He was in happy regions, and the sky 
 Above him was most beautiful; its blue 
 Was higher and intenser, and it took 
 The spirit on a journey into Heaven, 
 And made it more than mortal : cool, soft gales 
 Stole from a peaceful ocean, whose bright waves 
 Rolled gently on to music, and they blew 
 Through woven trellices of all-sweet flowers, 
 And sported round long wreaths of festooned vines 
 Hung with the gayest blossoms, and o'er beds, 
 That breathed in mellowest airs of balm and myrrh. 
 Music was in those bowers, and Beauty there 
 Crowded in mystic dances, and their nights 
 Were consecrated to the skilful sounds 
 Of a most witching harmony, to choirs 
 Such as once moved in Athens to the voice 
 Of flutes and timbrels. Many an eye was bent 
 Full on the noble stranger, and they sought 
 To win his smile; but yet he would not smile, 
 
238 percival's poems. 
 
 For all his better thoughts were far away, 
 And when he looked upon tUfe lovely ones 
 Around him, it recalled with keener sense, 
 Her, who to him was lovelier, whom he loved. 
 But would not in his bitterness forgive. 
 
 When it was told her that the youth had fled, 
 And fled in anger, then her look was changed. 
 And never more her steps were in the dance. 
 Nor were the cheerful sounds of her sweet voice 
 Heard in the crowd of revellers. Alone 
 She wept the folly which had thrown away 
 The only treasure she had truly loved, 
 And left her in the fairest of her days. 
 The very spring-time of her loveliness. 
 Only to think of what had been, and grieve. 
 
 NIGHT WATCHING. 
 
 SHE sat beside her lover, and her hand 
 Rested upon his clay-cold forehead. Death 
 Was calmly stealing o'er him, and his life 
 Went out by silent flickerings, when his eye 
 Woke up from its dim lethargy, and cast 
 Bright looks of fondness on her. He was weak, 
 Too weak to utter all his heart. His eye 
 Was now his only language, and it spake 
 How much he felt her kindness, and the love 
 
percival's poems. 23^ 
 
 That sat, when all had fled, beside him. Night 
 Was far upon its watches, and the voice 
 Of Nature had no sound. The pure blue sky 
 Was fair and lovely, and the many stars 
 Looked down in tranquil beauty on an earth 
 That smiled in sweetest summer. She looked out 
 Through the raised window, and the sheeted bay 
 Lay in a quiet sleep below, and shone 
 With the pale beam of midnight — air was still, 
 And the white sail, that o'er the distant stream 
 Moved with so slow a pace, it seemed at rest. 
 Fixed in the glassy water, and with care 
 Shunned the dark den of pestilence, and stole 
 Fearfully from the tainted gale that breathed 
 Softly along the crisping wave — that sail 
 Hung loosely on its yard, and as it flapped, 
 Caught moving undulations from the light, 
 That silently came down, and gave the hills, 
 And spires, and walls, and roofs, a tint so pale, 
 Death seemed on all the landscape — but so still. 
 Who would have thought that any thing but peace 
 And beauty had a dwelling there ! The world 
 Had gone, and life was not within those walls, 
 Only a few, who lingered faintly on, 
 Waiting the moment of departure ; or 
 Sat tending at their pillows, with a love 
 So strong it mastered fear — and they were few, 
 And she was one — and in a lonely house, , 
 
^40 percival's poems. 
 
 Far from all sight and sound of living thing, 
 
 She watched the couch of him she loved, and drew 
 
 Contagion from the lips that were to her 
 
 Still beautiful as roses, though so pale 
 
 They seemed like a thin snow curl. All was still. 
 
 And even so deeply hushed, the low, faint breath 
 
 That trembling gasped away, came through the night 
 
 As a loud sound of awe. She passed her hand 
 
 Over those quivering lips, that ever grew 
 
 Paler and colder, as the only sign 
 
 To tell her life still lingered — it went out! 
 
 And her heart sank within her, when the last 
 
 Weak sigh of life was over, and the room 
 
 Seemed like a vaulted sepulchre, so lone 
 
 She dared not look around : and the light wind, 
 
 That played among the leaves and flowers that grew 
 
 Still freshly at her window, and waved back 
 
 The curtain with a rustling sound, to her, 
 
 In her intense abstraction, seemed the voice 
 
 Of a departed spirit. Then she heard. 
 
 At least in fancy heard, a whisper breathe 
 
 Close at her ear, and tell her all was done. 
 
 And her fbnd loves were ended. She had watched 
 
 Until her love grew manly, and she checked 
 
 The tears that came to flow, and nerved her heart 
 
 To the last solemn duty. With a hand 
 
 That trembled not, she closed the fallen lid, 
 
 And pressed the lips, and gave them one long kiss — 
 
 ,m^ 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 241 
 
 Then decently spread over all a shroud ; 
 And sitting with a look of lingering love 
 Intense in tearless passion, rose at length, 
 And pressing both her hands upon her brow, 
 Gave loose to all her gushing grief in showers, 
 Which, as a fountain sealed till it had swelled 
 To its last fulness, now gave way and flowed 
 In a deep stream of sorrow. She grew calm, 
 And parting back the curtains, looked abroad 
 Upon the moonlight loveliness, all sunk 
 In one unbroken silence, save the moan 
 From the lone room of death, or the dull sound 
 Of the slow-moving hearse. The homes of men 
 Were now all desolate, and darkness there, 
 And solitude and silence took their seat 
 In the deserted streets, as if the wing 
 Of a destroying angel had gone by, 
 And blasted all existence, and had changed 
 The gay, the busy, and the crowded mart 
 To one cold, speechless city of the dead ! 
 
 PLEASURES OF CHILDHOOD. 
 
 THERE is a middle place between the strong 
 And vigorous intellect a Newton had, 
 And the wild ravings of insanity ; 
 Where fancy sparkles with unwearied light, 
 
 31 
 
242 rKHClVAl/s I'OKMH. 
 
 When' iiKiiKn-y's scope is boundless, and the lire 
 
 or passion Kindles to :i wasting ilanic, 
 
 Bnl will is wi'ak, :nid indfj;nu'nt void of power. 
 
 Snch was tlie place I licld; tlic l)rifi:liter part 
 
 Shone ont, and <aiip:ht the wonder of the great 
 
 In t«'nrler ehildlntod, while the weaker half 
 
 Had :ill die fccbU'ness of Infancy. 
 
 A thousand wildering reveries led astray 
 
 My heUer reason, and my nnguarded soid 
 
 Danced like a featln'r on (he Inibid sea 
 
 OCils own wild and freakish phantasies. 
 
 At limes the historic page would calcli my eye, 
 
 And ii\el down my (InHights on ancient times, 
 
 And mix them with the demigods of old. 
 
 Again 1 girt my loins to cross the waste 
 
 C)l" Iturning Afric, and amid the « ilds 
 
 Of Abyssinia seek the modest springs, 
 
 Whence bubbh" out the waters of the l\ile, 
 
 The infancy of greatness — how I loved 
 
 To ascend the pyramids, and in their womb 
 
 Ca/.e on tlu' royal cenotJiph, to sit 
 
 llenealh thy riiinetl palaces and fanes, 
 
 IJalbec or princely Tadmor, though the one 
 
 Lurk like a hermit in the lonely vales 
 
 Of Ticbanon, and the waste wilderness 
 
 Embrace the other — scouring with the wind, 
 
 J swe|)t the desert on the Arab steed, 
 
 Or with the panting camel flew away. 
 
l'Knf:iV\I-'s POKM!*!. 343 
 
 Tliorp is nn rcstnry "> solilnilo, 
 
 Amid (lie hrokrii ini;iu,cs (iC power, 
 
 The serpent, owl uiid i;ick:il m;ikc llicir home, 
 
 Or ill the henrt ofoeenii, or the ssiihIs 
 
 or Arahy, or on the l)onH(lless plains 
 
 OfecMHral Asia, wlienre the savat-t; I Inn 
 
 And Mogol in devonrinfj;' torrents rushed. 
 
 Armed with the ride, tomahawk and how, 
 
 Ifow oft I wand«'red thront;h the solenni woods 
 
 And tan^le<l nKnasses of l^'lorida, 
 
 Or where the wave of Mississippi poms 
 
 Its yet unsidlied curnMil o'er (In- s(ei-p 
 
 ()(' Antony, and winds ainont;' the hills 
 
 Of v«;lvet ver«lnre silently and slow. 
 
 The philosophic |)af^'e was my delifjht, 
 To trace the w<nkin^s of a hand nnseeti, 
 In earth, in air, and ocean, and the world 
 Of wonders, which (he <-ano|)y o(" ni^lit 
 Discloses twinkling on its ehon ar<-h. 
 Thes«* were my pleasm-es, and the varied forms 
 Of animal and plant, the hird, who cnts 
 With glidinu^ wiiif^; the li(|nid air, the fly, 
 That flutters o'er its parent pool a day, 
 Tlnr polished shells that pave the sii(»wy hed 
 Of ocean, with their many hues in ^oft 
 Accordance hiended, like the ancient floor 
 Wrought in Mosaic, or tin; spri^ and flower, 
 That smile in vale and meadow bathed in ihw. 
 
244 percival's poems. 
 
 These were at times my pleasures, but at times 
 The childish part prevailed. Along the stream, 
 That flowed in summer's mildness o'er its bed 
 Of rounded pebbles, with its scanty wave 
 Encircling many an islet, and its banks 
 In bays and havens scooping, 1 would stray, 
 And, dreaming, rear an empire on its shores. 
 There cities rose, and palaces and towers 
 Caught the first light of morning, there the fleet 
 Lent all its snowy canvass to the wind. 
 And bore with awful front against the foe; 
 There armies marshalled their array, and joined 
 In mimic slaughter, there the conquered fled — 
 I followed their retreat, until secure 
 They found a refuge in their country's walls; 
 The triumphs of the conqueror were mine. 
 The bounds of empire widened, and the wealth 
 Torn from the helpless hands of humbled foes : 
 There many a childish hour was spent, the world, 
 Tliat moved and fretted round me, had no power 
 To draw me from my musings, but the dream 
 Enthralled me till it seemed reality ; 
 And when I woke, I wondered that a brook 
 Was babbling by, and a few rods of soil, 
 Covered with scant herbs, the arena where 
 Cities and empires, fleets and armies rose. 
 
VOYAGE OF LIFE. 
 
 I LAUNCHED my bark upon a waveless sea — 
 The morning glowed, the smi just risen shone 
 In dazzling light along the glassy plain, 
 That seemed a golden mirror, or as oft 
 A transient zephyr ruffled it, a flood 
 Of molten amber. How the purple sail, 
 And blue and crimson streamer wooed the wind. 
 At times the bellying bosom of the sheet 
 Received the rising gale, and onward bore 
 The white and glittering prow, as through the wave 
 [t ploughed and heaved- around the crested foam, 
 Like snow-wreaths resting on a ground of gold. 
 Again the rising zephyr died away, 
 The boundless air was still, the canvass flapped 
 And trembled on the yard, the streamers drooped, 
 And fluttering waved around the mast-head, sea 
 And air were motionless — the crystal flood 
 Opened its awful depths beneath — so clear. 
 The bark seemed hanging in the midway space 
 Between the sky above and earth below ; 
 So still the elements, the briny drop, 
 
246 percival's poems. 
 
 That trickled from the prow to meet the wave, 
 
 Was heard distinctly, and the rippling shoal 
 
 Of blue-finned mackerel, or* the whispering flight 
 
 Of the air-loving dweller of the deep, 
 
 Fell on my ear and woke me from my dream. 
 
 So passed the bark of life o'er childhood's sea. 
 
 But youth came on, and blustering winds arose; 
 
 Dark tempests gathered round, the howling blast 
 
 Roared through the cordage, every sail was rent, 
 
 The loosened helm gave way, and like the steed 
 
 Maddened with luxury, that flies the rein 
 
 And hurries on to ruin, so the bark 
 
 Ran wild before the tempest; now it rose 
 
 The billowy mountain, in the yawning gulph 
 
 Now headlong plunged ; the shriek was then unheard 
 
 Amid the vaster tumult; then the night 
 
 Of storms enwrapped me, by the bursting foam. 
 
 The sparkling fire of ocean, or the flash. 
 
 The harbinger of thunder, or the pale 
 
 And baleful meteor of sickly green, 
 
 That on the bowsprit led the way to death, 
 
 Alone illumined. What a deafening roar 
 
 From bursting billows, how the breaker's voice, 
 
 Conflicting with the sea-beat crag, arose 
 
 And bellowed through the gloom ; the sea-dog there^ 
 
 Mounted above his danger, howled and bayed; 
 
 The dying whale dashed on the splintery rock, 
 
 Groaned out his giant soul; the cormorant 
 
PERCIVAL S P0EM3. 247 
 
 Flapped his black wings around my head ; the loon, 
 
 Perched on the topmast, sent his baleful scream, 
 
 Like the mad meanings of a tortured man. 
 
 So raged the storm around me, till a light. 
 
 Dimly discovered through the darkness, showed 
 
 Where help might yet be found ; a secret hand 
 
 Then seemed to grasp the rudder, o'er the waves 
 
 The bark right onward held its steady course j 
 
 The tempest seemed to mitigate its rage. 
 
 The thunders ceased, the clouds spread out their veil 
 
 In thinner folds, and through a transient break 
 
 Sent a faint gleam of sunshine ; from behind 
 
 A gentle wind blew steady; in the west 
 
 The golden sky shone out, a larger curve 
 
 Of brightness every instant opened, till 
 
 The sun unveiled his face, and far away 
 
 The tempest hurried o'er the mountain waves : 
 
 It darkling flew, till on its bosom rose 
 
 The many-coloured bow ; serenity 
 
 Then filled the air, the white gull o'er me flew^ 
 
 And the blue halcyon came and on the wave 
 
 Alighted, hid its head beneath its wing, 
 
 And slept as on a pillow; still the sea 
 
 Lifted its broad green back, and seemed to rock 
 
 Its fury to repose; I neared the land, 
 
 Blue hills first smiled, then sandy shores, like snow 
 
 Bleached on the heaven-ward mountain, caught my eye, 
 
 The light-house next, that with its warning fire, 
 
248 percival's poems. 
 
 Calls from the deep the wanderer to his home. 
 The sun in cloudless majesty, as king 
 Of nature, kindled ocean with his rays, 
 And made the land more lovely ; on I sailed, 
 The haven spread its arms to call me in, 
 And clasp me in its bosom; there I steered, 
 And casting anchor, where no storm can rage, 
 Nor tempest rock me, on the peaceful breast 
 Of love eternal moored my bark forever. 
 
 A PICTURE. 
 
 Scene — The Valley of the Catskill River north of the Catskill 
 Mountains. 
 
 THE glories of a clouded moonlit night — 
 
 An union of wild mountains, and dark storms 
 
 Gathering around their summits, or in forms 
 
 Majestic, moving far away in light, 
 
 Like pillared snow, or spectres wreathed in flame — 
 
 Meanwhile, around the distant peaks a flow 
 
 Of moonlight settles, seeming from below, 
 
 Abov^e the mountain's rude gigantic frame, 
 
 An island of the heart, a home of bright, 
 
 Unsullied souls, who, clad in purest white, 
 
 Their bosoms stainless as their mantles, play 
 
 Around the gilded rocks, and snowy lawns. 
 
 And azure groves, in choirs like bounding fawns 
 
 Around the throne of some imperial fay — 
 
percival's poems. 249 
 
 Again the dark clouds brood below; their fold 
 A moment shrouds the mountain in dun shade, 
 Like midnight blackness from a crater rolled, 
 And flashing, as the glimmering of a blade 
 Amid the wreaths of war-smoke, lightnings quiver. 
 And crackling bolts the oak's bent branches shiver, 
 And rumbling echoes from the hollow glens 
 Roar, like the voice of lions in their dens 
 Awing the silent desert — then the cloud. 
 Careering on the whirlwind, lifts its shroud 
 From off yon soaring pinnacle, and sweet, 
 Soft moonlight there is sleeping, like the ray. 
 Whose flashes on a chequered fountain play 
 Light as the twinkling glance of fairies' feet. 
 Or brood in burnished brightness on the stream. 
 Or kiss the tufted bank of dewy flowers, 
 As if consoling, in his boyish dream, 
 Her shepherd through her own still magic hours — 
 Such is the brightness on those rocky towers j 
 And rising in an arch of double height. 
 Soaring away beyond that cone, the sky 
 Smiles to the harmonizing touch of light, 
 Like the blue iris of a joyous eye — 
 The moon is there in glory, and the stars 
 Shrink from her fuller splendour, and grow dim 
 Behind the veil of her efiulgence. Airs, 
 As if from Eden breathing, blow; clouds swim, 
 Foamlike and fleecy, round the landscape's brim; 
 
 33 
 
250 . percival's poems. 
 
 And heaving like a storni-swoln billow's crest, 
 
 Rolls the wild tempest in the darkened west, 
 
 Its flashes twinkling through the gloom, its peals 
 
 Bellowing amid the purple glens ; the rain. 
 
 Scudding along the forest, bears the bow 
 
 Wreathed round the flying storm-cloud, as it steals 
 
 Stiller and stiller through the night — the stain 
 
 Of braided colours, in a softer glow. 
 
 Bends o'er the foaming river its tall arch, 
 
 As if the spirits of the air might march 
 
 From mountain on to mountain, and look down, 
 
 In triumph, from the pictured circle's crown, 
 
 On hamlets wrapped in slumber, meadows green (bowed 
 
 And gemmed with rain-drops, woods, whose leaves are 
 
 With the dissolving richness of the cloud. 
 
 And brown brooks flashing down the hills, and pouring 
 
 Their tribute to the master stream, which wheels 
 
 Through the rude valley, foaming, tumbling, roaring, 
 
 Ai»d on the lonely wanderer, who steals 
 
 Abroad in silence to that echoing shore. 
 
 And gazing on the mad wave, and the sky, 
 
 Which arches o'er the universe on high, 
 
 And on the flying cohorts of the storm 
 
 Hiding their frowns behind a seraph's form, 
 
 With soul subdued, and awed, enchanted eye 
 
 Can only bow before them and adore. 
 
SPIRIT OF FREEDOM. 
 
 Spirit of Freedom ! who thy home hast made 
 In wilds and wastes, \»here wealth has never trod, 
 Nor bowed her coward head before her god, 
 The sordid deity of fraudful trade ; 
 Where power has never reared his iron brow, 
 And glared his glance of terror, nor has blown 
 The maddening trump of battle, nor has flown 
 His blood-thirst eagles; where no flatterers bow. 
 And kiss the foot that spurns them : where no throne. 
 Bright with the spoils from nations wrested, towers, 
 The idol of a slavish mob, who herd. 
 Where largess feeds their sloth with golden showers, 
 And thousands hang upon one tyrant's word — 
 
 Spirit of Freedom! thou, who dwellest alone, 
 Unblenched, unyielding, on the storm-beat shore. 
 And findest a stirring music in its roar. 
 And lookest abroad on earth and sea, thy own — 
 Far from the city's noxious hold, thy foot. 
 Fleet as the wild deer bounds, as if its breath 
 Were but the rankest, foulest steam of death ; 
 Its soil were but the dunghill, where the root 
 
252 percival's poejis. 
 
 Of every poisonous weed and baleful tree 
 
 Grew vigorously and deeply, till their shade 
 
 Had choked and killed each wholesome plant, and laid 
 
 In rottenness the flower of Liberty — 
 
 Thou flyest to the desert, and its sands 
 Become thy welcome shelter, where the pure 
 Wind gives its freshness to thy roving bands, 
 And languid weakness finds its only cure; 
 Where few their wants, and bounded their desires. 
 And life all spring and action, they display 
 Man's boldest flights, and highest, warmest fires, 
 And beauty wears her loveliest array — 
 Thou climbest the mountain's crag, and with the snows 
 Dwellest high above the slothful plains ; the rock 
 Thy iron bed; the avalanche's shock 
 Thou sternly breastest: hunger, cold and toil 
 Harden thy steeled nerves, till the frozen soil, 
 The gnarled oak, the torrent, as it flows 
 In thunder down its gulf, are not more rude. 
 More hardy, more resistless, than thy force, 
 When waked to madness in thy headlong course, 
 ,^Thou rushest from thy wintry solitude, 
 And sweepest frighted nations on thy path, 
 A whirlwind in the fury of thy wrath, 
 And with one curl of thy indignant frown, 
 Castest the pride of plumed warriors down. 
 And bearest them onward, like the storm-filled wave. 
 In mingled ruin to their bloody grave. 
 
percival's poems. 253 
 
 Spirit of Freedom ! I would with thee dwell, 
 Whether on Afric's sand, or Norway's crags, 
 Or Kansa's prairies, for thou lovest them well, 
 And there thy boldest daring never flags ; 
 Or I would launch with thee upon the deep. 
 And like the petrel make the wave my home, 
 And careless as the sportive sea-bird roam; 
 Or with the chamois on the Alp would leap. 
 And feel myself upon the snow-clad height, 
 A portion of that undimmed flow of light, 
 No mist nor cloud can darken — O ! with thee, 
 Spirit of Freedom! deserts, mountains, storms, 
 Would wear a glow of beauty, and their forms 
 Would soften into loveliness, and be 
 Dearest of earth, for there my soul is free. 
 
 HOME. 
 
 THERE is a spot, a quiet spot, which blooms 
 On earth's cold, heartless desert. It hath power 
 To give a sweetness to the darkest hour. 
 As in the starless midnight, from the rose, 
 Now dipped in dew, a sweeter perfume flows; 
 And suddenly the wanderer's heart assumes 
 New courage, and he keeps his course along. 
 Cheering the darkness with a whispered song : 
 At every step a purer, fresher air 
 Salutes him, and the winds of morning bear 
 
254 percival's poems. 
 
 Soft odours form the violet beds and vines ; 
 And thus he wanders, till the dawning shines 
 Above the misty mountains, and a hue 
 Of vermeil blushes on the cloudless blue, 
 Like health disporting on the downy cheek — 
 It is time's fairest moment — as a dove 
 Shading the earth with azure wings of love, 
 The sky broods o'er us, and the cool winds speak 
 The peace of nature, and the waters fall, 
 From leap to leap, more sweetly musical. 
 And, from the cloudy bosom of the vale, 
 Come, on the dripping pinions of the gale. 
 The simple melody of early birds 
 Wooing their mates to love, the low of herds, 
 And the faint bleating of the new-born lambs 
 Pursuing, with light bounding step, their damsj 
 Again the shepherd's whistle, and the bark. 
 That shrilly answers to his call; and hark! 
 As o'er the trees the golden rays appear. 
 Bursts the last jo3'ous song of chanticleer. 
 Who moves in stately pomp before his train. 
 Till, from his emerald neck, and burnished wings, 
 The playful light a dazzling beauty flings, 
 As if the stars had lit their fires again — 
 So sweetly to the wanderer o'er the plain. 
 The rose, the jessamine, and every flower, 
 That spreads its leafets in the dewy hour. 
 And catches in its bell, night's viewless rain, 
 
percival's poems. 255 
 
 In tempered balm their rich aroma shower; 
 
 And with this charm the morning on his eye, 
 
 Looks from her portals in the eastern sk}', 
 
 And throws her blushes o'er the sleeping earth. 
 
 And wakes it to a fresh and lovely birth — 
 
 O ! such a charm adorns that fairest spot, 
 
 Where nois^ and revelry disturb me not, 
 
 But all the spirits that console me, come, 
 
 And o'er me spread a peaceful canopy, 
 
 And stand with messages of kindness by. 
 
 And one sweet dove, with eyes that look me blessed, 
 
 Sits brooding all my treasures in her nest, 
 
 Without one slightest wish the world to roam, 
 
 Or leave me, and that quiet dwelling — home. 
 
 THE DESERTED WIFE. 
 
 HE comes not — I have watched the moon go down, 
 But yet he comes not — :Once it was not so. 
 He thinks not how these bitter tears do flow, 
 The while he holds his riot in that town. 
 Yet he will come, and chide, and I shall weep j 
 And he will wake my infant from its sleep, 
 To blend its feeble wailing with my tears. 
 O ! how I love a mother's watch to keep, 
 Over those sleeping eyes, that smile, which cheers 
 My heai't, though sunk in sorrow, fixed and deep. 
 
256 percival's poems. 
 
 I had a husband once, who loved me — now 
 He ever wears a frown upon his brow, 
 And feeds his passion on a wanton's lip, 
 As bees, from laurel flowers, a poison sip ; 
 But yet I cannot hate — O ! there were hours, 
 When I could hang forever on his eye, 
 And time, who stole with silent swiftness by, 
 Strewed, as he hurried on, his path with flowers. 
 I loved him then — he loved me too — My heart 
 Still finds its fondness kindle, if he smile ; 
 The memory of our loves will ne'er depart j 
 And though he often sting me with a dart, 
 Venomed and barbed, and waste upon the vile 
 Caresses, which his babe and mine should share j 
 Though he should spurn me, I will calmly bear 
 His madness — and should sickness come, and lay 
 Its paralyzing hand upon him, then 
 I would, with kindness, all my wrongs repay. 
 Until the penitent should weep, and say, 
 How injured, and how faithful I had been. 
 
 LOVE AT EVENING. 
 
 IT was the hour of moonlight — and the bells 
 Had rung their curfew tones, and they were still ; 
 The echo died around the distant hill, 
 Sinking in faint and fainter falls and swells. 
 
percival's poems 257 
 
 Accordant with the fitful wind, that blew 
 Over the new mown meadow, where the dew 
 Stood twinkling on the closely shaven stems, 
 Glittering as 'twere a carpet sown with gems ; 
 And from the winding river there arose 
 A mist, that curled in volumed folds, and gave 
 A snowy mantle to the stealing wave. 
 Like that which fancy, love-enchanted throws 
 Over the form it doats on with a feeling 
 Of most endeared fondness, blind to all, 
 That is not light and loveliness, concealing 
 The tints of weakness with a darkest pall : 
 •And as the moon descending on the cloud. 
 Gives it a rainbow livery, and hues 
 All softness and all beauty, so imbues 
 The fond eye of affection with all charms 
 The image of its awe : and he is proud, 
 Aye, prouder than the proudest, when his arms 
 Around that form of loveliness are flung. 
 And when those melting eyes are on him hung, 
 And when those lips are moving in sweet tones, 
 That tell, whate'er the words be, that she owns 
 No other for her love — and then the sigh 
 Struggles within her bosom, and her eye 
 Is wet with rising tears, and then the smile I 
 
 Plays sweetly on her parting lips awhile, '■ 
 
 And then she hangs upon his arm, and tells. 
 Her heart how happy — and that fond heart sw?ll« 
 
 f?3 
 
256 percival's poems. 
 
 To give its feelings utterance, and she sings 
 Sweetly, as when the lark at morning springs 
 From out a dewy thicket, and away 
 Winnows his easy flight to meet the day ; 
 'And thus their eyes are blended, and they gaze 
 A moment on each other, and then turn 
 To where the countless fires of ether burn, 
 And look from Heaven with soft and soothing rays; 
 A moment with uplifted brow they pour 
 The swelling current of devotion o'er, 
 And then descending from that upward flight, 
 Again their eyes in tender looks imite. 
 Again they speak in under tones, as still 
 As are the winds that rustle on the hill. 
 Then side by side in links of fondness prest 
 Steal silently unto their hallowed rest. 
 
 SILENT she stood before me, in the light 
 And majesty of beauty; and her eye 
 Was teeming with the visions of her soul — 
 She stood before me in a veil of white. 
 The image of her bosom's purity, 
 And loveliness enveloped her, as bright. 
 As when, at set of sun, the clouds unrol, 
 Paviiiotli?'^ the dusky throne of night. 
 
 
percival's poems, 259 
 
 There is a spirit in the kindling glance 
 Of pure and lofty beauty, which doth quell 
 Each darker passion; and, as heroes fell 
 Before the terror of Minerva's lance. 
 So beauty, armed with virtue, bows the soul 
 With a commanding, but a sweet control, 
 Making the heart all holiness and love, 
 And lifting it to worlds that shine above, 
 Until subdued, we humbly bend before 
 The idol of our worship to adore. 
 
 STAR of the pensive ! " melancholy Star," 
 That, from the bosom of the deep ascending. 
 Shines on the curling waves, like mourner bending 
 Over the ruins of the joys that werej 
 Or lone deserted mother sweetly tending 
 Her hushed babe in its cradle, often blending 
 Her plaintive song and sigh repressed — sweet star! 
 I love the eye that looks on me so far 
 From all this want, and wretchedness, and wo, 
 From out that home of pure serenity 
 Above the winds and clouds^When tempests blow, 
 The sailor through the darkness looks to thee — 
 Thou art the star of love, and fond hearts gaze 
 With feeling awe upon thy trembling rays, 
 
260 peecival's poems. 
 
 And dream that other eyes are resting there ; 
 And O! what light around the bosom plays, 
 When dwelling on the beautiful and fair, 
 We think that eyes beloved those beauties share. 
 
 " O ! there is a bliss in tears" — in tears, that flow 
 From out a heart, where tender feelings dwell. 
 That heaveth, with involuntary swell 
 Of joy or grief, for others' weal or wo — - 
 The highest pleasures fortune can bestow, 
 The proudest deeds that victory can tell. 
 The charms that beauty weaveth in her spell, 
 These holy, happy tears how far below: 
 Yes, 1 would steal me from life's gaudy show, 
 And seek a covert in a silent shade. 
 And where the cheating lights of being glow, 
 See glory after glory dimly fade. 
 And knowing all my brighter visions o'er, 
 Deep in my bosom's core my sorrows lay, 
 And thence the fountains of repentance pour. 
 Gush after gush, in purer streams away. 
 
VAUCLUSE. 
 
 THE laurel throws its locks around thy grave 
 As freshly, as when erst thou lingered there, 
 And plucked the early flowers to crown thy hair, 
 Or gathered cresses from the glassy wave. 
 That winds through hills of olive, vine, and grain, 
 Stealing away from Vaucluse' lonely dell. 
 Now murmuring scantily, now in the swell 
 Of April foaming onward to the plain — 
 Laura! Thy consecrated bough is bright. 
 As when thy Petrarch tuned his soft lute by, 
 And lit his torch in that dissolving light, 
 Which darted from his only Sun — thine eye; 
 Thy leaf is still as green, thy flower as gay, 
 Thy berry of as deep a tint, as when 
 Thou moved a Goddess in the walks of Men, 
 And o'er thy poet held unbounded sway — 
 Methinks I hear, as from the hills descend 
 The deepening shadows and the blue smoke curls, 
 And waving forests with the light winds bend, 
 And flows the brook in softer leaps and whirls — 
 Methinks I hear that voice of love complaining, 
 In faint and broken accents, of his hours 
 
262 percival's i'okms. 
 
 Of lonely sorrow, and of thy disdaining 
 
 And half averted glances, till the bowers 
 
 Are pregnant with the hymn, and every rose 
 
 With fresher dew, as if in weeping flows. 
 
 And every lily seems to wear a hue 
 
 Of paler tenderness, and deeper glows 
 
 The pink's carnation, and a purer blue 
 
 Melts on the modest rosemary, the wind 
 
 Whispers a sweeter echo, and the stream 
 
 Spouts stiller from its well ; while from behind 
 
 The snow-clad alpine summits rolls the moon, 
 
 Careering onward to her cloudless noon, 
 
 In fullest orb of silver, and her beam 
 
 Casts o'er the vale long shadows from the pine. 
 
 The rock, the spire, the castle, and away, 
 
 Beyond thy towers, Avignon ! proudly shine 
 
 The broad Rhone's foaming channels, in their play 
 
 Through green and willowed islands, while they sweep» 
 
 Descending on their bold, resistless way. 
 
 And heaving high their crest in wild array. 
 
 With all a torrent's grandeur to the deep. 
 
 LIGHT OF LOVE. 
 
 FAIR, as the first blown rose — but O ! as fleeting, 
 Soft, as the down upon a cygnet's breast. 
 Sweet, as the air, when gales and flowers are meeting^ 
 Bright, as the jewel on a sultan's vest,, 
 
pkrcival's poems. 26? 
 
 Dear, as the infant smiling when caressed, 
 Mild, as the wind, at dawn in April, blowing, 
 Calm, as the innocent heart — and O ! as blest. 
 Pure, as the spring from mountain granite flowing, 
 Gay, as the tulip in its starred bed glowing. 
 As clouds, that curtain round the west at even, 
 O'er earth a canopy of glory throwing. 
 And heralding the radiant path to heaven. 
 
 Sweet, as the sound, when waves, in calm, retreating, 
 Roll back, in gurgling ripples from the shore, 
 When in the curling well still waters meeting. 
 Clear, from the spout, the molten crystal pour; 
 Sweet, as at distance heard the cascade's roar, 
 Or ocean on the lone rock faintly dashing, 
 Or dying thunders, when the storm is o'er, 
 And dim seen lightnings far away are flashing; 
 Sweet, as when spring is garlanding the trees, 
 The birds in all the flush of life are singing. 
 And as the light leaves twinkle in the breeze, 
 The woods with melody and joy are ringing. 
 When beds of mint and flowering fields of clover 
 Are redolent of nature's balmiest store, 
 And the cool wind, from rivers, hr.rries over 
 And gathers sweets, that Hybla never bore. 
 
 Fair, as the cloudless moon o'er night presiding. 
 When earth, and sea, and air are hushed and still, 
 
264 percival's poems. 
 
 Along the burning dome of nature riding, 
 Crowning with Hquid lustre rock and hill. 
 Pencilling with her silver beam the rill, 
 That o'er the wave-worn marble falling plays, 
 Sheeting with light the cascade at the mill, 
 And paving ocean with her tremulous rays. 
 Through the closed lids of dewy violets stealing, 
 And gemming, with clear drops, the mead and grove 
 Such is the light, the native heart of feeling 
 Throws round the stainless object of his love. 
 
 FLOWER OF A SOUTHERN GARDEN. 
 
 FLOWER of a southern garden newly blowing, 
 Fair as a lily bending on its stem. 
 Whose curled and yellow locks, in ringlets flowing. 
 Need not the lustre of a diadem ; 
 Than all the wealth of Ind, a brighter gem ; 
 Than all the pearls, that bud in Oman's sea, 
 Than all the corals waving over them. 
 Purer the living light that circles thee; 
 And through thy tender cheek's transparency 
 The vermeil tint of life is lightly flushing. 
 Or, at the faintest, touch of modesty. 
 In one deep crimson tide is wildly rushing; 
 Like rose leaves, when the morning's breath is brushing 
 Away the seeds of pearl the night-cloud shed, 
 
percival's poems. 265 
 
 So thy twin opening lips are purely blushing, 
 Ripe with the softest dew and clearest red; 
 Purer than crystal in its virgin bed, 
 Than fountains bubbling in a granite cave, 
 Than sheeted snow, that wraps a mountain's head, 
 Or lilies glancing through a stainless wave. 
 Purer the snow, that mantles o'er thy breast, 
 And rests upon thy forehead — O ! with thee 
 The hours might flit away so sweetly blest. 
 That time would melt into eternity. 
 
 Go with me to the desert loneliness 
 
 Of forest and of mountain — we will share 
 
 The joys, that only purify and bless. 
 
 And make a paradise of feeling there ; 
 
 And daily thou shall be more sweet and fair, 
 
 And still shalt take a more celestial hue, 
 
 Like spirits melting in the midway air, 
 
 Till lost and blended in the arch of blue : 
 
 Alone, not lonely, we will wander through 
 
 Thickets of blooming shrubs and mantling vines, 
 
 Happy as bees amid the summer dew. 
 
 Or song-birds, when the fresh spring morning shines } 
 
 And when departing light shall wing its flight, 
 
 And render back the gift that God has given. 
 
 Be then to me a seraph form of light, 
 
 And bear my fleeting soul away to Heaven. 
 
 34 
 
JIOSE OF MY HEART. 
 
 ROSE of my heart ! I've raised for thee a bower, 
 For thee have bent the pliant osier round, 
 For thee have carpeted with turf the ground, 
 And trained a canopy to shield thy flower, 
 So that the warmest sun can have no power 
 To dry the dew from off thy leaf, and pale 
 Thy living carmine, but a woven veil 
 Of full-green vines shall guard from heat and shower- 
 Rose of my heart ! here, in this dim alcove, 
 No worm shall nestle, and no wandering bee 
 Shall suck thy sweets, no blight shall wither thee, 
 But thou shalt show the freshest hue of love. 
 Like the red stream, that from Adonis flowed. 
 And made the snow carnation, thou shalt blush, 
 And fays shall wander from their bright abode 
 To flit enchanted round thy loaded bush. 
 Bowed with thy fragrant burden, thou shalt bend 
 Thy slender twigs and thorny branches low : 
 Vermilion and the purest foam shall blend ; 
 These shall be pale, and those in youth's first glow : 
 Their tints shall form one sweetest harmony, 
 
percival's poems. 267 
 
 And on some leaves the damask shall prevail. 
 Whose colours melt, like the soft symphony 
 Of flutes and voices in the distant dale. 
 The bosom of that flower shall be as white, 
 As hearts that love, and love alone, are pure, 
 Its tip shall blush, as beautiful and bright. 
 As are the gayest streaks of dawning light, 
 Or rubies set within a brimming ewer — 
 Rose of my heart ! there thou shalt ever bloom. 
 Safe in the shelter of my perfect love. 
 And when they lay thee in the dark cold tomb, 
 I'll find thee out a better bower above. 
 
 THE QUEEN OF FLOWERS. 
 
 I AM the light fantastic queen of flowers j 
 I call the wind-rose from its bed of snow, 
 I pour upon the springing turf soft showers, 
 I paint the buds of jasmine, when they blow, 
 I give the violet leaf its tender blue, 
 I dip its cup in night's unsullied tears. 
 So that it shines with richer glances through, 
 Like beauty heightened by a maiden's fears; 
 Around the elm's green arch I freely twine 
 The wooing tendrils of the clasping vine, 
 And when the vernal air is fresh with dew, 
 And the new sward with drops bedighted o'er. 
 
268 percival's poems. 
 
 I lend the butter-cup its golden hue, 
 
 That glitters like a leaf of molten ore ; 
 
 I dress the lily in its veil of lawn 
 
 Whiter than foam upon the crested wave, 
 
 Pure as the spirit parted from its grave, 
 
 When every stain, that earth had left, is gone, 
 
 Shining beneath the mellow sun of May, 
 
 Like pearls fresh-gathered from their glossy shells. 
 
 Or tints, that on the pigeon's plumage play. 
 
 When filled with love his tender bosom swells j 
 
 I throw Aurora o'er the cup of gold, 
 
 The tulip lifts to catch the tears of Heaven, 
 
 Gay as the cloud, whose ever-changing fold 
 
 Heralds the dawn, and proudly curtains even; 
 
 I take the rainbow, as it glides away 
 
 To mingle with the pure unshaded sky. 
 
 And melting in one drop its bright array, 
 
 I pour it in the crown-imperial's eye; 
 
 1 weave the silken fringe, that, as a vest, 
 
 Mantles ihefleiir de lys in glossy down, 
 
 I scatter gold spots on its open breast, 
 
 And lift in slender points of blue its crown : 
 
 I am the light fantastic queen of flowers. 
 
 My bed is in the bosom of a rose, 
 
 And there I sweetl}' dream the moon-light hours. 
 
 While vermeil curtains round my pillow close. 
 
THE SPIRIT OF THE AIR. 
 
 I AM the spirit of the viewless air, 
 Upon the rolling clouds I plant my throne, 
 I move serenely, when the fleet winds bear 
 My palace in its flight, from zone to zone; 
 High on the mountain top I sit alone, 
 Shrouding behind a veil of night my form, 
 And when the trumpet of assault has blown, 
 Career upon the pinions of the storm; 
 By me the gales of morning sweetly blow. 
 Waving, along the bank, the bending flowers; 
 'T is at my touch, the clouds dissolving flow. 
 When flitting o'er the sky, in silent showers; 
 I send the breeze to play among the bowers, 
 And curl the light-green ripples on the lake; 
 I call the sea-wind in the sultry hours. 
 And all his train of gentle airs awake ; 
 I lead the zephyr on the dewy lawn 
 To gather up the pearls that speck it o'er, 
 And when the coolness of the night has gone, 
 I send it, where the willows crown the shore ; 
 
270 percival's poems. 
 
 I sit within the circle of the moon, 
 
 When the fair planet smiles, and brightly throws 
 
 Around the radiance of her clearest noon, 
 
 Till every cloud, that passes by her, glows, 
 
 When folds of fleecy vapour hang the sky, 
 
 Borne on the night-wind through the silent air, 
 
 And as they float, the stars seem rushing by, 
 
 And the moon glides away in glory there; 
 
 I lead the wild fowl, when his untried wing 
 
 Bi^idly ascends the vernal arch of blue, 
 
 Before him on his airy path I fling 
 
 A magic light, that safely guides him through; 
 
 When lost in distant haze, I send his cry. 
 
 Floating in mellow tones along the wind. 
 
 Then like a speck of light he hurries by. 
 
 And hills, and woods, and lakes are left behind : 
 
 When clouds are gathering, or when whirlwinds blow, 
 
 When Heaven is dark with storms, or brightly fair, 
 
 Where'er the viewless waves of ether flow. 
 
 Calm, or in tempest rolling, I am there. 
 
 CATANIA. 
 
 CATANIA ! on thy famed and classic shore 
 I long to plant my foot, and stand between 
 A paradise, all blooming, gay and green, 
 And thy earth-circled ocean's gentle roar. 
 Along whose peaceful waves the sun-beams pour, 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 271 
 
 From stainless skies, deep amber, and imbue 
 
 The ruffled waters with an iris hue, 
 
 Like torch-light sparkling in a vault of ore — 
 
 And turning I behold thy fields of grain 
 
 Waving in yellow floods o'er vale and plain, 
 
 And meadows mantled in a waste of flowers. 
 
 And hills whereon the golden orange glows, 
 
 And purpling with the ripe vines nectared bowers, 
 
 And breathing with the myrtle and the rose ; 
 
 And higher still, flame-crested Etna towering, 
 
 A belt of giant oak and chesnut waves 
 
 In gloomy verdure, like the cypress louring 
 
 With shade of solemn night o'er eastern graves ; 
 
 And loftier, in its virgin robe of white. 
 
 The snow-cap, pillowed on the cloudless sky, 
 
 Seems like a floating column of pure light. 
 
 And round its pointed cone dark volumes lie 
 
 Rolled from the volcan's jaws, and sheets of flame 
 
 Dart on their path to Heaven, and flowing o'er 
 
 The glowing torrent rolls its flashing stream. 
 
 And from the mountain's womb comes forth a sullen roar. 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 I STAND upon the mountains, 'mid a sea 
 Of rocks, and woods, and waters, vales and plains, 
 Where smiling freedom clad in russet reigns, 
 Beneath a cloudless, deep-blue canopy, 
 Whereon, in sovereign pomp and majesty. 
 The lord of day ascends his noontide throne. 
 And looks o'er all, himself unviewed alone. 
 Such is the burning brightness of his eye ; 
 And here with upward breast, and daring wing, 
 And glance, that dwells undazzled on the blaze, 
 And finds its home in those unclouded rays, 
 From off these rocky battlements I spring, 
 And soaring to a more etherial height. 
 My pinions lift me on to Heaven's own world of light. 
 
 MONARCH of mountains ! whose serenest brovr, 
 O'er clouds and storms uplifted, courts the sky, 
 And gazes on the all-pervading eye. 
 To which, in heartfelt awe, wide nations bow, 
 
percival's poems. 273 
 
 As Him, from whom their life and being flow — 
 
 Monarch of mountains ! at thy feet I lay 
 
 The tribute of my wonder, and there pay 
 
 The homage of a soul, to whom the bow 
 
 Of glory, that encircles thee, when night 
 
 Comes on in iris-splendour, and thy height 
 
 Glows with unnumbered hues and seems on fire, 
 
 And o'er thy pure snows rolls a wave of light — 
 
 To whom these glories are a high delight, 
 
 An inspiration and a deep desire, 
 
 And would be Heaven, could I but hear an angel's lyre. 
 
 MY country — at the sound of that dear name 
 The wanderer's heart awakens, nerved and bold ; 
 Before him stand the deeds and days of old, 
 The tombs of ages, and the rolls of fame 
 Sculptured on columns, where the living flame 
 Of Freedom lights anew its fading ray, 
 And glows in emulation of that day. 
 When on their foes they stamped the brand of shame; 
 Yes, at the thought of these bright trophies leaps 
 The spirit in his bosom, and he turns 
 His longing eye to where his parent sleeps, 
 And high on rocks his country's beacon burns ; 
 And though the world be gayest, and sweet forms 
 
 35 
 
274 pekcival's poems. 
 
 Of love and beauty call him, he would fly, 
 And walk delighted in her mountain storms, 
 And man his soul with valour at her cry, 
 And in the fiercest shock of battle die. 
 
 NOW to my task — be firm — the work requires 
 Cool reason, deep reflection — and the glow 
 Of heart, that pours itself in restless flow. 
 Must sleep, and fancy quench her beaming fires. 
 And all my longings, hopes, and wild desires 
 Must seek their slumberous pillow and be still ; 
 But energy must mantle o'er my will. 
 And give the patient toil that never tires : 
 For Nature stands before me, and invites 
 My spirit to her sanctuary, and draws 
 Aside her pictured veil, from where she writes 
 In living letters her eternal laws ; 
 And as I stand amid the countless wheels, 
 That roll the car of being on its way, 
 A deep serene my silent bosom feels, 
 I seem a portion of the viewless ray. 
 And o'er me flows the light of pure, unfading day. 
 
percival's poems. 275 
 
 COME forth, fair waters, from the classic spring. 
 And let me quaff your nectar, that my soul 
 May lift itself upon a bolder wing. 
 And spurn awhile this being's base control. 
 How many a cup of inspiration stole 
 The bards from out thy sparkling well, and sung 
 Strains high, and worthy of the kindling bowl, 
 Till all Aonia and Hesperia rung. — 
 And on the green isles of the ocean sprung 
 A wilder race of minstrels, like the storm, 
 Which beats their rocky bulwarks; there they strung 
 A louder harp, and showed a prouder form; 
 And sending o'er the sea their song, our shore 
 Shall catch the sound, and silent sleep no more. 
 
 FAREWELL, sad flowers, that on a desert blow, 
 Farewell ! I plucked you from the Muses' bower, 
 And wove you in a garland, which an hour 
 Might on my aching eye enchantment throw — 
 Your leaves are pale and withered, and your flow 
 Of perfume wasted, your alluring power 
 Has vanished like the fleeting April shower; 
 Too lovely flowers to spread your leaves below — 
 Sweet flowers ! though withered, all the joy 1 know, 
 
276 percival's poems. 
 
 Is, when I breathe your balm, your wreathe intwine; 
 And earth can only this delight bestow, 
 That sometimes all your loveliness is mine; 
 And then my frozen heart awhile will glow, 
 And life have moments, in its path, divine! 
 
 WOULD I were but a spirit, veiled in light, 
 Wafied by winds of Heaven, from flower to flower, 
 Catching, from bendmg blades, the crystal shower, 
 When earth, impearled, awakened new and bright; 
 Would i were set to guide some rolling sphere. 
 Amid the glories of eternal day. 
 Hymning aloud a sweet celestial lay. 
 That immortality alone can hear; 
 Would 1 were but the messenger of love. 
 To bear, from soul to kindred soul, the sigh. 
 To kiss the tears that fall from beauty's eye. 
 And watch the ring-dove in the lonely grove; 
 Then sounds of melody might ever flow 
 From lips, that with the fire of feeling glow. 
 
AN ODE TO MUSIC. 
 
 Iliad, B. 2. 
 
 DESCEND, and with thy breath inspire my soul; 
 Descend, and o'er my lyre 
 Diffuse thy living fire; 
 
 Oh ! bid its chords a strain of grandeur roll : 
 Touched by thy hand their trembling accents ring ; 
 Borne on thy sounding pinions through the sky, 
 To Heaven the notes in burning ardour spring, 
 And as the tones in softened whispers die. 
 Love seems to flutter round on his Aurora-wing. 
 
 II. 
 Oh ! Muse, who erst in Tempe's flowery vale 
 Wert wont to tune thy harp and breathe thy soul, 
 And o'er Peneus pour thy dying wail ; 
 Who, when loud roaring thunders rocked the pole. 
 Burst from the dell and 'mid the growling storm 
 Involved in lurid gloom thy shining form ; 
 And while the tempest o'er Olj'mpus frowned, 
 And lightnings glittered round the throne of Jove, 
 Thy lyre, with hurried notes and awful sound, (grove. 
 Seemed like the voice that rung through dark Dodona'6 
 
278 PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 III. 
 
 Reclined amid the woods that waved around 
 Castdlia's crystal fount and murmuring stream, 
 While ever blooming flowerets decked the ground, 
 And brightened in the summer's softened beam, 
 Thy virgins nine, with lyres of burnished gold, 
 Around thy Sylvan throne their descant rolled. 
 And through the mountain glen — the pensive shade, 
 A mellow echo would the strain prolong, 
 And as around the hollow clifis it played, (song. 
 
 A thousand heavenly harps seemed answering to the 
 
 IV. 
 Urania, o'er her star-bespangled lyre. 
 With touch of majesty diffused her soul; 
 A thousand tones, that in the breast inspire 
 Exalted feelings, o'er the wires 'gan roll — 
 She sang of night that clothed the infant world, 
 In strains as solemn as its dark profound — 
 How at the call of Jove the mist unfurled. 
 And o'er the swelling vault — the glowing sky. 
 The new-born stars hung out their lamps on high. 
 And rolled their mighty orbs to music's sweetest sound. 
 
 V. 
 Majestic Clio touched her silver wire, 
 And through time's lengthened vista moved a train, 
 In dignity sublime ; — the patriot's fire 
 Kindled its torch in heaven's resplendent ray. 
 And 'mid contention rose to Heaven again. 
 
1'ercival's poems. 279 
 
 In brightness glowing like the orb of day, 
 The warrior drove his chariot o'er the slain, 
 And dyed its wheels in gore ; — the battle's yell, 
 The dying groan, the shout of victory — 
 Now like the tempest-gust in horror swell, 
 Now like the sighing breeze in silence melt away. 
 
 VI. 
 But when Erato brushed her flowery lute, 
 What strains of sweetness whispered in the wind ! 
 Soft as at evening v/hen the shepherd's flute 
 To tones of melting love alone resigned, 
 Breathes through the windings of the silent vale; 
 Complaining accents tremble on the gale, 
 Or notes of ecstacy serenely roll. $ 
 
 So when the smiling muse of Cupid sung, 
 Her melody sighed out the sorrowing soul. 
 Or o'er her silken chords sweet notes of gladness rung. 
 
 VII. 
 But oh Melpomene ! thy lyre of wo — 
 To what a mournful pitch its keys were strung, 
 And when thou badest its tones of sorrow flow, 
 Each weeping Muse, enamoured, o'er thee hung: 
 How sweet — how heavenly sweet, when faintly rose 
 The song of grief, and at its dying close 
 The soul seemed melting in the trembling breast ; 
 The eye in dews of pity flowed away. 
 And every heart, by sorrow's load opprest, 
 To infant softness sunk, as breathed thy mournful lay. 
 
280 percival's poems. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 But when, Calliope, thy loud harp rang — 
 In Epic grandeur rose the lofty strain ; 
 The clash of arms, the trumpet's awful clang 
 Mixed with the roar of conflict on the plain ; 
 The ardent warrior bade his coursers wheel, 
 Trampling in dust the feeble and the brave, 
 Destruction flashed upon his glittering steel, 
 While round his brow encrimsoned laurels waved, 
 And o'er him shrilly shrieked the demon of the grave. 
 
 IX. 
 Euterpe glanced her fingers o'er her lute. 
 And lightly waked it to a cheerful strain, 
 Then laid ft by, and took the mellow flute, 
 Whose softly flowing warble filled the plain ; 
 It was a lay that roused the drooping soul, 
 And bade the tear of sorrow cease to flow ; 
 From_ shady woods the Nymphs enchanted stole, 
 While laughing Cupids bent the silver bow. 
 Fluttering like fays that flit in Luna's softened glow. 
 
 X. 
 The rage of Pindar filled the sounding air, 
 As Polyhymnia tried her skill divine ; 
 The shaggy lion roused him from his lair, 
 And bade his blood-stained eyes in fury shine 5 
 The famished eagle poised his waving wings, 
 Whetting his thirsty beak — while murder rose. 
 With hand that grasps a dirk, with eye that glows 
 
percival's poems* 281 
 
 In gloomy madness o'er the throne of kings, 
 
 And, as she bade her tones of horror swell, 
 
 The demon shook his steel with wild exulting yell. 
 
 XL 
 How light the strain when, decked in vernal bloom, 
 Thalia tuned her lyre of melody, 
 And when Terpsichore, with iris-plume, 
 Bade o'er her lute her rosy fingers fly ; 
 'T was pleasure all — the fawns in mingled choirs, 
 Glanced on the willing nymphs their wanton fires, 
 Joy shook his glittering pinions as he flew ; 
 The shout of rapture and the song of bliss, 
 The sportive titter and the melting kiss. 
 All blended with the smile, that shone like early dew. 
 
 XII. 
 Their music ceased — and rising from thy throne, 
 Thou took'st thy harp that on the laurel hung. 
 And bending o'er its chords to try their tone, 
 A faintly trembling murmur o'er them rung : 
 At each sweet sound that broke upon the ear. 
 Started the listening throng, and gazed and smiled ; 
 The satyr leaning on his ivy spear. 
 Peeped forth delighted from the flowery wild, 
 And, while thou tunedst the keys, the raptured soul 
 Hung o'er the flying tones that on the zephyrs stole. 
 
 XIII. 
 This prelude o'er, a solemn strain arose. 
 As strayed thy fingers slowly o'er the wire ; 
 
 36 
 
282 yercival's poems. 
 
 How grand the diapason — and its close, 
 As when to Heaven the organ notes aspire, 
 And through the gloomy aisle, the lofty nave, 
 Swell out the anthem pealing o'er the grave — 
 Low muttering thunders seemed to roar around, 
 And rising whirlwinds whispered in the ear; 
 The warrior started at the solemn sound, 
 Half drew his sword and slowly shook his spear ; 
 The tiger couched and gazed with burning eye, 
 In horror growled, and lashed his waving tail ; 
 The serpent rustled like the dying gale, 
 And bade his tongue in purple ardour fly. 
 Quivering like lurid flames beneath the midnight sky. 
 
 XIV. 
 The fury of the storm is howling by, 
 The whirlwinds rush, the bursting thunders roll, 
 Grim horror settles o'er the lowering sky. 
 And ruin flashes on the shuddering soul : 
 So burst with sudden swell thy awful strain, 
 And every blast of war was on the gale ; 
 The maddening warriors mingled on the plain, 
 Loud rose the yell, and rang the clanging mail ; 
 The victor's dripping chariot crushed the slain; 
 The raging tiger with terrific roar 
 Sprang on his prey, and dyed his claws in gore ; 
 Rising on spires that shone with varied hue — 
 Bright crimson, burnished gold, and livid blue. 
 The serpent hissing in his burning ire, 
 Glanced on his flying foe, and fixed his tooth of fire. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 283 
 
 XV. 
 
 Struck by thy bounding quill, a mellow lay 
 
 Rang o'ei* the harp and softly died away : 
 
 As poured the descant in the warrior's ear, 
 
 The roar of conflict ceased along the plain. 
 
 The foes exulting trampled on the slain. 
 
 And shook in mingled dance the glimmering spear ; 
 
 In listless ease reclined, the tiger lay. 
 
 And fondly sported with his bleeding prey ; 
 
 At times the serpent waved his quivering tail, 
 
 Then coiled his folds and all to peace resigned, 
 
 Listened the strain that sported in the wind. 
 
 And hissed his pleasure, shrill as sounds the infant's wail. 
 
 XVI. 
 At last a murmur trembled on the lyre, 
 Soft as the dirge that echoes o'er the bier ; 
 Robbed of his spirit bold, his daring fire — 
 The vanquished warrior dropped a tender tear. 
 Leant on his bloody sword and breathed a sigh ; 
 And as the tiger spread his claws of gold. 
 Fawned round thy form and purred his ecstacy — 
 His emerald eyes in languid softness rolled j 
 The serpent falling gently from his spire, 
 Glided with easy sweep along the plain, 
 In graceful windings wantoned round thy lyre, 
 And kissed the trembling chord that breathed the sooth- 
 ing strain. 
 
THE JUDGMENT 
 
 HARK ! the Judgment trump has blown ! 
 How it rolls along the air ! 
 Time and Hope forever flown, 
 Sinners for your doom prepare. 
 
 Slowly o'er the lurid sky 
 Rolls a dark terrific storm, 
 Showing to the startled eye 
 On its skirts a giant form. 
 
 Hark ! the rattling hail descends. 
 See! the forky lightnings glow, 
 As that form in anger bends. 
 Frowning on the world below. 
 
 Riding on the whirlwind's wing, 
 Canopied in clouds he flies ; 
 With his voice the mountains ring, 
 With his presence glow the skies. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Earthquakes roar and rock the ground, 
 Tyrants bow before his rod, 
 Nations tremble at the sound, 
 When they hear the voice of God. 
 
 Lo ! the God he comes in wrath — 
 
 Vengeance drives his iron car, 
 Lightnings pave his flaming path, 
 As he hurries to the war. 
 
 " I have waited long and spared 
 Ingrates, on my bounty fed — 
 Now my red right arm is barbed, 
 Now your day of hope is fled. 
 
 I have bid my sun to shine, 
 I have bid my dews to fall, 
 I have sent my love divine — 
 You have spurned and wasted all. 
 
 Now the day of trial o'er, 
 I my fatal shaft let fly; 
 Mercy can endure no more — 
 Time must end and you must die." 
 
 Ripe with sin the harvest bends — ■ 
 See ! the mighty reaper stand, 
 There his burning scythe he sends 
 And with fury sweeps the land. 
 
286 percival's poems. 
 
 See! the fields and forests glow. 
 See! the mounting flame aspire, 
 Hark! the sinner's yell of wo, 
 Gasping in a world of fire. 
 
 Helpless wretches! whither fly? 
 In what den a shelter find ? 
 See ! the blasting bolt is nigh. 
 Flame before, and wrath behind. 
 
 Like the chaff" by whirlwinds driven, 
 Like the earthquake-shattered rock, 
 Like the oak by tempest riven, 
 Torn and splintered with the shock; 
 
 So they fly, a quivering throng, 
 Urged, by shame, despair and fear; 
 Hurried by the sword along, 
 Flashing, falling on their rear. 
 
 Hear the crackling whirlwind roar ; 
 Sheets of flame ascend the sky ; 
 Now the feeble cry is o'er. 
 Quenched in dark eternity. 
 
 Now the hills and mountains melt, 
 Rocks in flashing torrents run. 
 To earth's heart the rage is felt — 
 Now the work of wrath is done. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 287 
 
 Curling like a lettered scroll, 
 Crisped and crackling in the flame, 
 Now Heaven's vaulted arches roll; 
 Falls the universal frame. 
 
 Now the circling blue has fled, 
 Suns wax faint and stars grow dim, 
 Heaven and earth away have sped, 
 Time's last trump their dying hymn. 
 
 Matter now has ceased to be. 
 
 All is pure ethereal light; 
 
 Saints, from all that bound them free, 
 
 To the empyrean wing their flight. 
 
 In that fount their beings blend. 
 
 All their thoughts their views the same ; 
 
 See! creation's essence end 
 
 In one flood of viewless flame. 
 
 A TRIBUTE TO THE BRAVE. 
 
 THOUGH furled be the banner of blood on the plain^ 
 And rusted the sabre once crimsoned with gore; 
 Though hushed be the ravens that croaked o'er the slain. 
 And calmed into silenc^ the battle's loud roar; 
 Though Peace with her rosy smile gladden the vales, 
 And commerce unshackled dance over the wave; 
 
288 percival's poems. 
 
 Though music and song may enliven the gales, 
 And Joy crown with roses and myrtle the brave ^ 
 Like spirits that start from the sleep of the dead, 
 Our heroes shall rouse — when the larum sliall blow; 
 Then Freedom's broad flag on the wind shall be spread, 
 And Valour's sword flash in the face, of the foe. 
 Our Eagle shall rise 'mid the whirlwinds of war, 
 And dart through the dun-cloud of battle his eye — 
 Shall spread his wide wings on the tempest afar 
 O'er spirits of valour that conquer or die. 
 And ne'er shall the rage of the conflict be o'er. 
 And ne'er shall the warm blood of life cease to flow, 
 And still 'mid the smoke of the battle shall soar 
 Our Eagle — till scattered and fled be the foe. 
 When peace shall disarm war's dark brow of its frown, 
 And roses shall bloom on the soldier'* rude grave — 
 Then Honour shall weave of the laurel a crown. 
 That Beauty shall bind on the brow of the brave. 
 
 LIBERTY TO ATHENS. 
 
 THE flag of freedom floats once more 
 Around the lofty Parthenon ; 
 It waves, as waved the palm of yore, 
 In days departed long and gongj 
 As bright a glory, from the skies, 
 Pours down its light around those towers. 
 
percival's poems. 291 
 
 That flame o'er Spartan valour burned, 
 The brave three-hundred's funeral pyre ! 
 Though now In Grecian earth inurned, 
 Their fame shall Grecian hearts inspire ; 
 It blazes on the sacred rock, 
 It flashes o'er the hallowed glen ; 
 Advance ye Greeks ! and breast the shock, 
 And show the world, ye still are men. 
 
 m 
 
 The sons of sires, who knew no fear. 
 When threatening foemen scaled their walls, 
 The light shall see, the sound shall hear, 
 And throng to Callimachi's halls : 
 The altar of their country burns ; 
 They pledge their oath to liberty ; 
 Their fathers answer from their urns, 
 " Be like us, sons, and ye are free." 
 
 On old Messene's soil are met 
 
 The sons of Aristomenes j 
 
 Your ancient wrongs and feuds forget 
 
 In wrongs so foul, so deep, as these : 
 
 A new Aristodemus flings 
 
 His iron gauntlet on the foe ; 
 
 At once, a nation's valour springs 
 
 To deal the liberating blow. 
 
 Who would not glow in such a cause ? 
 Who — not exult in such a name ? 
 
292 percival's poems j 
 
 Blest be the sword, each Maynote draws 
 To lop away his bonds and shame : 
 The fire is kindled in his soul j 
 The spirit flashes in his eye ; 
 A nation's blended voices roll 
 The vow of freedom to the sky. 
 
 Leap from your tombs, ye men, who stood 
 
 At Pylae, and at Marathon; • • 
 
 The sire shall find his boiling blood 
 
 Throb in the bosom of his son : 
 
 Haste demi-gods ! with shield and spear, 
 
 And hover o'er the coming fight ; 
 
 O ! let the rocks of Sparta hear 
 
 The gathering word, " Unite ! unite !" 
 
 THE GREEK EMIGRANT'S SONG. 
 
 NOW launch the boat upon the wave — 
 The wind is blowing ofi" the shore — 
 I will not live, a cowering slave, 
 In these polluted islands, more — 
 Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea, 
 There is a better hcfme for me. 
 
 The wind is blowing oflf the shore. 
 And out to sea the streamers fly — 
 
percival's poems. 293 
 
 My music is the dashing roar 
 
 M>^ canopy the stainless sky — 
 
 It bends above so fair a blue, 
 
 That Heaven seems opening on my view. 
 
 I will not live, a cowering slave, 
 Though all the charms of life may shine 
 Around me, and the land, the wave. 
 And sky be drawn in tints divine — 
 Give lowering skies and rocks to me, 
 If there my spirit can be free. 
 
 Sweeter, than spicy gales, that blow 
 From orange groves with wooing breath, 
 The winds may from these islands flow — 
 But 'tis an atmosphere of death; 
 The lotus, which transformed the brave 
 And haughty to a willing slave. 
 
 Softer, than Minder's winding stream, 
 The wave may ripple on this coast; 
 And brighter, than the morning beam, 
 In golden swell, be round it tost — 
 Give me a rude and stormy shore, 
 So power can never threat me more. 
 
 Brighter than all the tales, they tell 
 Of eastern pomp and pageantry, 
 
294 percival's poems. 
 
 Our sunset skies in glory swell, 
 Hung round with glowing tapestry — 
 The horrors of a wintry storm 
 Swell brighter o'er a freeman's form. 
 
 The spring may here with autumn twine, 
 And both combined may rule the year, 
 And fresh-blown flowers and racy wine 
 In frosted clusters still be near — 
 Dearer the wild and snowy hills, 
 Where hale and ruddy freedom smiles. 
 
 Beyond the wild, dark-heaving sea. 
 
 And ocean's stormy vastness o'er, 
 
 There is a better home for me, 
 
 A welcomer and dearer shore j 
 
 There hands, and hearts, and souls, are twined, 
 
 And free the man, and free the mind. 
 
 ODE TO FREEDOM. 
 
 SPIRIT of the days of old! 
 Ere the generous heart grew cold; 
 When the pulse of life was strong, 
 And the breath of vengeance long; 
 When, with jealous sense, the heart 
 Felt the least indignant smart; 
 
percival's poems. 295 
 
 When, alive at every pore, 
 Honour no injustice bore, 
 But, like lions on their prey, 
 Sprang and washed the stain away; 
 When the patriot's blood was shed 
 At the shrine, where valour bled ; 
 When the bard, with kindling song, 
 Roused them to avenge their wrong; 
 When the thought of insult, deep 
 In the heart, could never sleep, 
 But, though cherished many a day, 
 Still, at last, it burst its way, 
 Rolling with impetuous tide. 
 Till the foeman crouched or died. 
 
 Spirit of the days of yore! 
 When the lofty hero bore. 
 On his brow, and on his crest, 
 Signs of thought, that could not rest; 
 When the eager, active soul 
 Spurned, and broke through all control, 
 Nature was his only rule. 
 Feeling taught his only school; 
 When his vigorous frame was nursed. 
 By no arts, that poison, cursed; 
 When his heart was firm to will, 
 And his hand was strong to kill; 
 When he sternly struggled through 
 All, that he resolved to do; 
 
296 percival's poems. 
 
 When he recked not, if his path 
 Smiled in peace, or frowned in wrath; 
 When he started at the call, 
 Country gave and left his all, 
 Onward trod to front the foe, 
 Nerved to deal the deadly blow; 
 When the fight, to him, was play; 
 When he cared not, if his way 
 Led to victory, or the grave — 
 Either fate becomes the brave : 
 Days of strength gigantic! fled, 
 Valour sleeps, and fame is dead. 
 
 Spirit of the bold and free J 
 Mountain breath of liberty ; 
 Parent of a hardy breed, 
 Fiery as the Arab steed; 
 Master of the mighty charm; 
 Knitter of the brawny arm, 
 Of the knee that cannot kneel, 
 Heart of oak, and nerve of steel ; 
 Ruler of the craggy wild ; 
 On a throne of granite piled, 
 Like a giant, altar thou 
 Biddest all, who love thee, bow, 
 Bend the neck, and fold the luiee, 
 To no conqueror, but thee; 
 In that hold thou bidst them wait, 
 Till some proud, ambitious state^ 
 
percival's poems. 310 
 
 And once again the Greeks arise, 
 As in their country's noblest hours ; 
 Their swords are girt in virtue's cause, 
 Minerva's sacred hill is free — 
 O ! may she keep her equal laws, 
 While man shall live, and time shall be. 
 
 The pride of all her shrines went down ; 
 The Goth, the Frank, the Turk, had reft 
 The laurel from her civic crown; 
 Her helm by many a sword was cleft: 
 She lay among her ruins low — 
 Where grew the palm, the cypress rose, 
 And crushed and bruised by many a blow, 
 She cowered beneath her savage iocs; 
 But now again she springs from earth, 
 Her loud, awakening trumpet speaks; 
 She rises in a brighter birth. 
 And sounds redemption to the Greeks. 
 
 It is the classic jubilee — 
 Their servile years have rolled away; 
 The clouds that hovered o'er them flee, 
 They hail the dawn of freedom's day; 
 From Heaven the golden light descends, 
 The times of old are on the wing. 
 And glory there her pinion bends, 
 And beauty wakes a fairer spring ; 
 
 37 
 
32© percival's poems/ 
 
 The hills of Greece, her rocks, her waves, 
 Are all in triumph's pomp arrayed; 
 A light that points their tyrants' graves, 
 Plays round each bold Athenian's blade. 
 
 The Parthenon, the sacred shrine, 
 Where wisdom held her pure abode : 
 The hill of Mars, where light divine 
 Proclaimed the true, but unknown God^ 
 Where justice held unyielding sway, 
 And trampled all corruption down, 
 And onward took her lofty way 
 To reach at truth's unfading crown: 
 The rock, where liberty was full, 
 Where eloquence het torrents rolled, 
 And loud, against the despot's rule, 
 A knell the patriot's fury tolled : 
 The stage, whereon the drama spake, 
 In tones, that seemed the words of Heaven, 
 Which made the wretch in terror shake, 
 As by avenging furies driven : 
 The groves and gardens, where the fire 
 Of wisdom, as a fountain, burned. 
 And every eye, that dared aspire 
 To truth, has long in worship turned : 
 The halls and porticoes, where trod 
 The moral sage, severe, unstained, 
 And where the intellectual God 
 In all the light of science reigned : 
 
percival's poems. 321 
 
 The schools, wliere rose in symmetry • 
 The simple, but majestic pile. 
 Where marble threw its roughness by, 
 To glow, to frown, to weep, to smile, 
 Where colours made the canvas live, 
 Where music rolled her flood along, 
 And all the charms, that art can give, 
 Were blent with beauty, love, and song : 
 The port, from whose capacious womb 
 Her navies took their conquering road. 
 The heralds of an awful doom 
 To all, who would not kiss her rod: 
 On these a dawn of glory springs. 
 These trophies of her brightest fame ; 
 Away the long-chained city flings 
 Her weeds, her shackles, and her shame ; 
 Again her ancient souls awake, 
 Harmodius bares anew his sword; 
 Her sons in wrath their fetters break, 
 And freedom is their only lord. 
 
THE SENATE OF CALLIMACHI.* ODE. 
 
 IN Callimachi's halls are met 
 The chieftains of a noble line ; 
 The father's spirit lingers yet, 
 To aid them in their high design; 
 The spirit, that, in ancient days, 
 Called forth the boldest Spartan band, 
 With their own shields and breasts to raise 
 A living .bulwark round their land. 
 
 The sound, that erst in Hellas rang, 
 When war his brazen trumpet blew, 
 When shields returned the hollow clang, 
 And ready feet to battle flew; 
 That sound in Sparta's vale is raised ; 
 The Turkish bar and bolt are riven; 
 The fire, that erst on (Eta blazed, 
 In bolder eddies curls to Heaven. 
 
 * So it was written in the first accounts of the Peloponnesian Sen- 
 ate. The true name is Calamata. I prefer the name in the text. It 
 has in it an omen. K«Xw Muxi (glorious victory.) 
 
percival's poems. 29' 
 
 Marching in the pomp of war, 
 
 Spread its flaunting banner far, 
 
 And with high and threat'ning breath, 
 
 Call to slavery, or death; 
 
 Then thou bidst them gird the brand, 
 
 Plant the foot, and raise the hand, 
 
 Draw the panting nostril wide. 
 
 And with stern and stately stride, 
 
 Forward, like the eagle's wing, 
 
 On the proud invader spring, 
 
 And in one resistless rush. 
 
 All his power and splendour crush. 
 
 Spirit of the great and good ! 
 Such as, in Athenae, stood, 
 Sterrv in justice, on the rock. 
 Moveless at the people's shock, 
 And when civil tempest raged, 
 And intestine war was waged, 
 With serene, but awful sway. 
 Rolled the maddening tide away : 
 Such as met at Pylae's wall. 
 Ere that glorious freedom's fall — 
 When the life of Greece was young, 
 Like the sun from ocean sprung, 
 And the warm and lifted soul 
 Marching onward to its goal: 
 38 
 
298 pebcival's poems. 
 
 Such as at those holy gates, 
 Bulwark of the banded states, 
 With the hireling Persian strove. 
 In the high and ardent love, 
 Souls that cannot stoop to shame, 
 Bear to freedom's sacred name : 
 Such as with the Saxon flew, 
 Ever to their country true. 
 From the rock, the wood, the fen. 
 From the cavern and the den, 
 Eager to the field of fight, 
 Like a cloud that comes by night, 
 Tore away, at once, the chain 
 Fastened by the robber Dane, 
 Drove him headlong from that shore. 
 And embalmed his host in gore; * 
 Then secured their country's cause. 
 With a bond of equal laws. 
 And bequeathed the sacred trust. 
 When th6ir bones should fall in dust. 
 To that island race, who bear 
 Light, and warmth, and glory, where 
 Ocean's unchained billows roll 
 From the mid-day to the pole; 
 And to that more daring shoot, 
 Bent with flowers, and promised fruit, 
 Who have dared, beyond the sea, 
 To assert their liberty. 
 
percival's poems. 299. 
 
 Who, upon the forted hill, 
 Braved a tyrant father's will, 
 Down the bloody gauntlet threw, 
 Grasped and snapped the links in two ; 
 And unshackled ventured forth, 
 Noblest of the sons of earth. 
 
 Spirit of the stirring blood, 
 Rolling in an even flood 
 Through the hale and ruddy cheek; 
 Scorner of the pale and weak, 
 Who in festering cities crawl, 
 Victims of a sordid thrall. 
 And for ever draw their breath. 
 Lingering on the brink of death : 
 But to thee the giant limb. 
 Strong to leap, to run, to swim, 
 Strong to guide the plough or brand, 
 Guard, or free, or till their land; 
 But to thee the godlike frame, 
 Such as puts our dwarfs to shame. 
 Firm, erect, and fair, as first 
 Adam from his Maker burst, 
 And exulting leaped to see 
 His angelic symmetry; 
 But to thee the eagle eye, 
 Lifted to its parent sky, 
 
300 PERClVAL-'s POEJft;. 
 
 Drinking in the living stream, 
 And again, with ardent beam, 
 Sending all its fires abroad, 
 Like the language of a god ; 
 But to thee the mighty brow, 
 Fixed to dare, unused to bow, 
 Now in placid kindness bright, 
 Like a rock in evening's light. 
 Then with anger's wrinkled frown, 
 Gathered eyebrows lowering down. 
 Awful, as the storm, whose fold 
 Round a columned Alp is rolled; 
 But to thee the mind of fire, 
 Toil can never damp, or tire. 
 Glancing like a sun-beam, through 
 Nature with a spirit's view. 
 And from out its choicest store. 
 In its fulness flowing o'er. 
 Sending, like a bolt, the flow 
 Of thought upon the crowd below. 
 
 Healthful Spirit! at this hour. 
 
 There are haunts, where thou hast power, 
 
 Haunts, where thou shalt ever be, 
 
 As thou ever hast been, free; 
 
 Where the stream of life is led 
 
 Stainless in its virgin bed, 
 
percival's ijoemh. 301 
 
 And its magic fire is still 
 
 Blazing on its holy hill. 
 
 There are mountains, there are storms, 
 
 Where thou feedest thy hives and swarms, 
 
 Whence thou sendest them, to restore 
 
 Virtue, where it dwells no more; 
 
 Safe in those embattled rocks, 
 
 Life its native vigour locks, 
 
 And its kindling energy 
 
 Lives, and moves, and feels in thee ; 
 
 In those bulwarks is our trust. 
 
 For the boundless power is just, 
 
 Nor wilt thou, from earth, arise, 
 
 Linked with justice, to the skies, 
 
 But below, with mercy, dwell. 
 
 Till the world shall hear its knell. 
 
 A PLATONIC BACCHANAL SONG. 
 
 FILL high the bowl of life for me — 
 Let roses mantle round its brim, 
 While heart is warm, and thought is free. 
 Ere beauty's light is waning dim — 
 Fill high with brightest draughts of soul, 
 5^nd let it flow with feeling o'er. 
 And love, the sparkling cup, he stole 
 From Heaven, to give it briskness, pour. 
 
302 PEUCIVA^'s POEMS. 
 
 O ! fill the bowl of life for me, 
 
 And wreath its dripping brim with flowers, 
 
 And I will drink, as lightly flee 
 
 Our early, imreturning hours. 
 
 Fill high the bowl of life with wine, 
 
 That swelled the grape of Eden's grove. 
 
 Ere human life, in its decline. 
 
 Had strowed with thorns the path of love — 
 
 Fill high from virtue's crystal fount, 
 
 That springs beneath the throne of Heaven, 
 
 And sparkles brightly o'er the mount, 
 
 From which our fallen souls were driven. 
 
 O ! fill the bowl of life with wine. 
 
 The wine, that charmed the gods above, 
 
 And round its brim a garland twine. 
 
 That blossomed in the bower of love. 
 
 Fill high the bowl of lif3 with spirit, 
 
 Drawn from the living sun of soul, 
 
 And let the wing of genius bear it, 
 
 Deep-glowing, like a kindled coal — 
 
 Fill high from that ethereal treasure. 
 
 And let me quaflf the flowing fire. 
 
 And know awhile the boundless pleasure, 
 
 That Heaven-lit fancy can inspire. 
 
 O ! fill the bowl of life with spirit. 
 
 And give it brimming o'er to me, » 
 
 And as I quafi", I seem to inherit 
 
 The glow of immortality. 
 
percival's poems. SOS 
 
 Fill high the bowl of life with thought 
 From that unfathomable well, 
 Which sages long and long have sought 
 To sound, but none its depths can tell — 
 Fill high from that dark stainless wave, 
 Which mounts and flows for ever on, 
 And rising proudly o'er the grave, 
 There finds its noblest course begun. 
 O ! fill the bowl of life with thought, 
 And I will drink the bumper up, 
 And find, whate'er my wish had sought. 
 In that, the purest, sweetest cup. 
 
 HERE'S to her, who wore 
 The myrtle wreath, that bound me ; 
 Here's to her, who bore 
 The twine of bay, that crowned me — 
 O ! had not her light 
 So brightly shone upon me, 
 Still the cloud of night 
 Had darkly brooded on me; 
 There was in her eye 
 A spirit, that inspired me ; 
 Still to do or die, 
 The electric sparkle fired me ; 
 
304 tercival's poems. 
 
 And though the ice of death 
 
 Should chill the heart within me, 
 
 The music of her breath 
 
 Back to life again would win me ; 
 
 So here's to her, who wore 
 
 The myrtle wreath, that bound me ; 
 
 The girl, who kindly bore 
 
 The twine of bay, that crowned me. 
 
 No more the iron chain 
 
 Of doubt and fear enthrals me ; 
 
 I lift my wing again. 
 
 For 'tis her voice that calls me; 
 
 Still higher, higher still. 
 
 In search of glory soaring, 
 
 I feel my bosom thrill 
 
 To the song her voice is pouring ; 
 
 And though I stretch my flight, 
 
 Where Heaven alone is o'er me, 
 
 I see her form of light 
 
 Still floating on before me : 
 
 O ! when foes the direst move 
 
 In columns to assail us, 
 
 Let us hear the voice of love, 
 
 And our courage cannot fail us : 
 
 So here's to her, &;c. 
 
 And when my drowsy soul 
 A heedless moment slumbers. 
 
PERCiVAL s POEMS. :305 
 
 Away the vapours roll 
 
 At the magic of her numbers ; 
 
 Back to life again 1 start, 
 
 At her thrilling summons waking, 
 
 Every link, that bound my heart 
 
 Down to earth, indignant breaking j 
 
 Then I follow, where she flies. 
 
 Like a shooting star, before me, 
 
 And her fascinating eyes 
 
 Shed their fire in flashes o'er me : 
 
 O ! cold the heart, could sleep, 
 
 When her silver trumpet called it, 
 
 And the soul, that would not leap, 
 
 When her flowery chain enthralled it : 
 
 So here's to her who wore 
 
 The myrtle wreath that bound mej 
 
 The girl, who kindly bore 
 
 The twine of bay that crowned me. 
 
 39 
 
DITHYRAMBIC. 
 
 FILL the cup for me,. 
 
 Fill the cup of pleasure j 
 
 Wake the fairy lyre 
 
 To its wildest measure. 
 
 Melancholy's gloom 
 
 Now is stealing on me. 
 
 But the cup and lyre 
 
 Can chase the demon from me. 
 Fill the cup for me, 
 Fill the cup of pleasure;. 
 Wake the fairy lyre 
 To its wildest measure.^ 
 
 In the shades of night, 
 When every eye is closing. 
 On the moonlight bank 
 All in peace reposing. 
 There is nought so sweet. 
 As the cup of pleasure, 
 And the lyre that breathes 
 In its wildest measure. 
 Fill the cup, &c. 
 
i-ercival's poems. 307 
 
 This the smiling star, 
 That guides me o'^r life's ocean, 
 This the heavenly light, 
 That wakes my heart's devotion: 
 'T is when Beauty's smile 
 Gives the cup of pleasure, 
 And awakes the lyre 
 To its wildest measure. 
 Fill the cup, Sec. 
 
 If the fiend of sorrow 
 With his gloom affright thee. 
 There may come to-morrow 
 One who will delight thee: 
 'Tis the fair, whose smile 
 Beams with sweetest pleasure, 
 And whose hand awakes 
 The lyre's delightful measure. 
 Fill the cup, &;c. 
 
 Form of Beauty ! bind 
 Pleasure's wreath of roses 
 Round this brow of mine. 
 Where every joy reposes: 
 Yes — my heart can bound 
 To mirth's enlivening measure, 
 When the lyre is tuned, 
 And smiles the cup of Pleasure. 
 Fill the cup, &jc. 
 
303 percival's poems. 
 
 Drive dull Care away — 
 
 Why should gloom depress thee ? 
 
 Life may frown to-day, 
 
 But Joy will soon caress thee. 
 
 While there's time, my friend, 
 
 Drink the cup of Pleasure, 
 
 And awake the lyre 
 
 To its wildest measure. 
 
 Fill the cup for me, 
 Fill the cup of Pleasure, 
 Wake the fairy lyre 
 To its wildest measure. 
 
 THE SERENADE. 
 
 SOFTLY the moonlight 
 Is shed on the lake. 
 Cool is the summer night — 
 Wake ! O awake ! 
 Faintly the curfew 
 Is heard from afar, 
 List ye ! O list ! 
 To the lively Guitar. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Trees cast a mellow shade 
 Over the vale, 
 Sweetly the serenade 
 Breathes in the gale, 
 Softly and tenderly 
 Over the lake. 
 Gaily and cheerily — 
 Wake ! O awake ! 
 
 See the light pinnace 
 Draws nigh to the shore, 
 Swiftly it glides 
 At the heave of the oar, 
 Cheerily plays 
 On its buoyant ear, 
 Nearer and nearer 
 The lively Guitar. 
 
 Now the wind rises 
 And ruffles the pine. 
 Ripples foam-crested 
 Like diamonds shine. 
 They flash, where the waters 
 The white pebbles lave, 
 In the wake of the moon, 
 As it crosses the wave. 
 
310 percival's poems. 
 
 Bounding from billow 
 To billow, the boat 
 Like a wild swan is seen 
 On the waters to float; 
 And the light dipping oars 
 Bear it smoothly along 
 In time to the air 
 Of the Gondolier's song. 
 
 And high on the stern 
 Stands the young and the brave, 
 As love-led he crosses 
 The star-spangled wave. 
 And blends with the murmur 
 Of water and grove 
 The tones of the night, 
 That are sacred to love. 
 
 His gold-hilted sword 
 At his bright belt is hung, 
 His mantle of silk 
 On his shoulder Is flung. 
 And high waves the feather, 
 That dances and plays 
 On his cap where the buckle 
 And rosary blaze. 
 
percival's poems. 311 
 
 The maid from her lattice 
 Looks down on the lake, 
 To see the foam sparkle, 
 The bright billow break. 
 And to hear in his boat, 
 Where he shines like a star, 
 Her lover so tenderly 
 Touch his Guitar. 
 
 She opens her lattice, 
 
 And sits in the glow 
 
 Of the moonlight and starlight, 
 
 A statue of snow j 
 
 And she sings in a voice, 
 
 That is broken with sighs, 
 
 And she darts on her lover 
 
 The light of her eyes. 
 
 His love-speaking pantomime 
 
 Tells her his soul — 
 
 How wild in that sunny clime 
 
 Hearts and e^'es roll. 
 
 She waves with her white hand 
 
 Her white fazzolett, 
 
 And her burning thoughts flash 
 
 From her eyes' living jet. 
 
312 percival's poems. 
 
 The moonlight is hid 
 In a vapour of snow ; 
 Her voice and his rebeck 
 Alternately flow ; 
 Re-echoed they swell 
 From the rock on the hillj 
 They sing their farewell, 
 And the music is still. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 THERE is a sweetness in woman's decay, 
 When the light of beauty is fading away, 
 When the bright enchantment of youth is gone, 
 And the tint that glowed, and the eye that shone, 
 And darted around its glance of power. 
 And the lip that vied with the sweetest flower. 
 That ever in Pcnestum's* garden blew. 
 Or ever was steeped in fragrant dew. 
 When all that was bright and fair, is fled, 
 But the loveliness lingering round the dead. 
 
 O ! there is a sweetness in beauty's close. 
 Like the perfume scenting the withered rose ; 
 For a nameless charm around her plays, 
 And her eyes are kindled with hallowed rays, 
 
 * Biferique rosaria Passti. — Virg. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 313 
 
 And a veil of spotless purity 
 
 Has mantled her cheek with its heavenly dye, 
 
 Like a cloud whereon the queen of night 
 
 Has poured her softest tirst of light ; 
 
 And there is a blending of white and blue, 
 
 Where the purple blood is melting through 
 
 The snow of her pale and tender cheek; 
 
 And there are tones, that sweetly speak 
 
 Of a spirit, who longs for a purer day, 
 
 And is ready to wing her flight away. 
 
 In the flush of youth and the spring of feeling, 
 When hfe, like a sunny stream, is stealing 
 Its silent steps through a flowery path, 
 And all the endearments, that pleasure hath. 
 Are poured from her full, o'erflowing horn, 
 When the rose of enjoyment conceals no thorn, 
 In her lightness of heart, to the cheery song 
 The maiden may trip in the dance along, 
 And think of the passing moment, that lies, 
 Like a fairy dream^ in her dazzled eyes, 
 And yield to the present, that charms around 
 With all that is lovely in sight and sound, 
 Where a thousand pleasing phantoms flit. 
 With the voice of mirth, and the burst of wit, 
 And the music that steals to the bosom's core, 
 
 And the heart in its fulness flowing o'er 
 
 40 
 
314 percival's poems. 
 
 With a few big drops, that are soon repressed- 
 
 For short is the stay of grief in her breast : 
 
 fn this enlivened and gladsome hour 
 
 The spirit may burn with a brighter power; 
 
 But dearer the calm and quiet day, 
 
 When the Heaven-sick soul is stealing away. 
 
 And when her sun is low declining. 
 
 And life wears out with no repining. 
 
 And the whisper, that tells of early death,^ 
 
 Is soft as the west wind's balmy breath, 
 
 When it comes at the hour of still repose. 
 
 To sleep in the breast of the wooing rose; 
 
 And the lip, that swelled with a living glow, 
 
 Is pale as a curl of new-fallen snow ; 
 
 And her cheek, like the Parian stone, is fair, 
 
 But the hectic spot that flushes there. 
 
 When the tide of life, from its secret dwelling. 
 
 In a sudden gush, is deeply swelling, 
 
 And giving a tinge to her icy lips. 
 
 Like the crimson rose's brightest tips. 
 
 As richly red, and as transient too. 
 
 As the clouds, in autumn's sky of blue, 
 
 That seem like a host of glory met 
 
 To honour the sun at his golden set: 
 
 O ! then, when the spirit is taking wing, 
 
 How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling. 
 
percival's poems. r>l5 
 
 As if she would blend her soul with his 
 In a deep and long imprinted kiss; 
 So fondly the panting camel flies, 
 Where the glassy vapour cheats his eyes, 
 And the dove from the falcon seeks her nest, 
 And the infant shrinks to its mother's breast. 
 And though her dying voice be mute, 
 Or faint as the tones of an unstrung lute, 
 And though the glow from her cheek be fled, 
 And her pale lips cold as the marble dead, 
 Her eye still beams unwonted fires 
 With a woman's love and a saint's desires. 
 And her last fond, lingering look is given 
 To the love she leaves, and then to Heaven, 
 As if she would bear that love away 
 To a purer world and a brighter day. 
 
 TO THE HOUSTONIA CERULEA.* 
 
 HOW often, modest flower, 
 I mark thy tender blossoms, where they spread. 
 Along the turfy slope, their starry bed. 
 Hung heavy with the shower. 
 
 * A verj delicate and humble flower of New-England, blossomiog 
 early in spring, and often covering large patches of turf with a white 
 or pale blue carpet. The botanical allusions in this piece are repeat- 
 ed, and perhaps it will not be fully relished by those, who have not 
 examined the structure of the flower. 
 
316 percival's poems. 
 
 Thou comest in the dawn 
 
 Of nature's promise, when the sod of May 
 
 Is speckled with its earliest array, 
 
 And strewest with bloom the lawn. 
 
 'Tis but a few brief days, 
 I saw the green hill in its fold of snow ; 
 But now thy slender stems arise, and blow 
 In April's fitful rays. 
 
 I love thee, delicate 
 
 And humble, as thou art; thy dress of white, 
 And blue, and all the tints wliere these unite, 
 Or wrapped in spiral plait, 
 
 Or to the glancing sun, 
 
 Shining through chequered cloud, and dewy shower, 
 Unfolding thy fair cross. Yes, tender flower, 
 Thy blended colours run. 
 
 And meet in harmony. 
 
 Commingling, like the rainbow tints; thy urn 
 
 Of yellow rises with a graceful turn. 
 
 And as a golden eye, 
 
 Its softly swelling throat 
 Shines in the centre of thy circle, where 
 Thy downy stigma rises slim and fair, 
 And catches as they float, 
 
percival's poems. 317 
 
 A cloud of living air, 
 
 The atom seeds of fertilizing dust, 
 
 Tliat hover, as thy lurking anthers burst ; 
 
 And O ! how purely there 
 
 Thy snowy circle, rayed 
 
 With crosslets, bends its pearly whiteness round, 
 And how thy spi*eading lips are trimly bound. 
 With such a mellow shade 
 
 As in the vaulted blue. 
 Deepens at starry midnight, or grows pale, 
 When mantled in the full-moon's silver veil, 
 That calm ethereal hue. 
 
 I love thee, modest flower ! 
 And I do find it happiness to tread. 
 With careful step, along thy studded bed, 
 At morning's freshest hour. 
 
 Or when the day declines, 
 And evening comes with dewy footsteps on. 
 And now his golden hall of slumber won. 
 The setting sun resigns 
 
 His empire of the sky, 
 
 And the cool breeze awakes her fluttering train — 
 I walk through thy parterres, and not in vain, 
 For to my downward eye, 
 
318 percival's poems. 
 
 Sweet flower ! thou tallest how hearts 
 As pure and tender as thy leaf, as low 
 And humble as thy stem, will surely know 
 The joy that peace imparts. 
 
 THE CORAL GROVE. 
 
 DEEP in the wave is a coral grove, 
 Where the purple mullet, and gold-fish rove. 
 Where the sea-flower spreads its leaves of blue, 
 That never are wet with falling dew. 
 But in bright and changeful beauty shine. 
 Far down in the green and glassy brine. 
 The floor is of sand, like the mountain drift, 
 And the pearl shells spangle the flinty snow ; 
 From coral rocks the sea plants lift 
 Their boughs, where the tides and billows flow ; 
 The water is calm and still below, 
 For the winds and waves are absent there, 
 And the sands are bright as the stars that glow 
 In the motionless fields of upper air : 
 There with its waving blade of green, 
 The sea-flag streams through the silent water, 
 And the crimson leaf of the dulse is seen 
 To blush, like a banner bathed in slaughter : 
 
piircival's poems. 319 
 
 There with a light and easy motion, 
 
 The fan-coral sweeps through the clear deep sea -, 
 
 And the yellow and scarlet tufts of ocean. 
 
 Are bending like corn on the upland lea : 
 
 And life, in rare and beautiful forms, 
 
 Is sporting amid those bowers of stone, 
 
 And is safe, when the wrathful spirit of storms, 
 
 Has made the top of the wave his own : 
 
 And when the ship from his fury flies. 
 
 Where the myriad voices of ocean roar, 
 
 When the wind-god frowns in the murky skies. 
 
 And demons are waiting the wreck on shore ; 
 
 Then far below in the peaceful sea, 
 
 The purple mullet, and gold-fish rove. 
 
 Where the waters murmur tranquilly. 
 
 Through the bending twigs of the coral grove. 
 
 On finding the Anemone Hepatic a, t/ic earliest Ff owe i 
 of Sjyring. 
 
 BESIDE a fading bank of snon 
 A lovely Anemone blew, 
 Unfolding to the sun's bright glow 
 Its leaves of Heaven's serenest hue ; 
 
320 percival's poems. 
 
 The snowy stamens gemmed them o'er, 
 The pleasing contrast caught my eye, 
 As on the ocean's sandy shore 
 The purple shells and corals lie. 
 
 I saw the flower — what tumults rose 
 Within my heart, what ecstasy ; 
 The captive soul no brighter glows, 
 When hailing life and liberty. 
 
 ' Tis spring, I cried, pale winter's fled, 
 The earliest wreath of flowers is blown, 
 The blossoms withered long and dead 
 Will soon proclaim their tyrant flown. 
 
 How smiles the sun in yonder sky. 
 How pure the vault of ether swells, 
 How sweet to hear on mountain high 
 The tinkle of the shepherd-bells. 
 
 The meadows don their green array, 
 The streams in purer currents flow ; 
 On sunny knolls the lambkins play. 
 And sport amid the vales below. 
 
 • 
 The humble Anemone blows. 
 The blue-bird now is on the wing, 
 How soon will breathe the blushing rose, 
 How soon will all around be spring ! 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 321 
 
 A TULIP blossomed, one morning in May, 
 By the side of a sanded alle}^ ; 
 Its leaves were dressed in a rich array, 
 Like the clouds at the earliest dawn of day, 
 When the mist rolls over the valley : 
 The dew had descended the night before, 
 And lay in its velvet bosom, 
 And its spreading urn was flowing o'er, 
 And the crystal heightened the tints, it bore 
 On its yellow and crimson blossom. 
 
 A sweet red-rose, on its bending thorn, 
 
 Its bud was newly spreading, 
 
 And the flowing eflfulgence of early morn 
 
 Its beams on its breast was shedding ; 
 
 The petals were heavy with dripping tears, 
 
 That twinkled in pearly brightness. 
 
 And the thrush in its covert thrilled my ears 
 
 With a varied song of lightness. 
 
 A lily, in mantle of purest snow. 
 Hung over a silent fountain, 
 And the wave in its calm and quiet flow. 
 Displayed its silken leaves below, 
 liike the drift on the windy mountain; 
 
 41 
 
323 percival's poems. 
 
 It bowed with the moisture, the night had wept. 
 When the stars shone over the billow, 
 And white-winged spirits their vigils kept, 
 Where beauty and innocence sweetly slept 
 On its pure and thornless pillow. 
 
 A hyacinth lifted its purple bell 
 
 From the slender leaves around it ; 
 
 It curved its cup in a flowing swell, 
 
 And a starry circle crowned it ; 
 
 The deep blue tincture, that robed it, seemed 
 
 The gloomiest garb of sorrow, 
 
 As if on its eye no brightness beamed. 
 
 And it never in clearer moments dreamed, 
 
 Of a fair and a calm to-morrow. 
 
 A daisy peeped from the tufted sod, 
 
 In its bashful modesty drooping ; 
 
 Where often the morn, as 1 lightly trod, 
 
 In bounding youth, the fallow clod, 
 
 Had over it seen me stooping ; 
 
 It looked in my face with a dewy eye 
 
 From its ring of ruby lashes. 
 
 And it seemed, that a brighter was lurking by. 
 
 The fires of whose ebony lustre fly. 
 
 Like summer's dazzling flashes. 
 
 And the wind, with a soft and silent wing, 
 Brushed over this wild of flowers, 
 
percival's poems. 323 
 
 And it wakened the birds, who began to sing 
 Their hymn to the season of love and spring, 
 In the shade of the bending bowers ; 
 And it culled their full nectareous store, 
 In its lightly fluttering motion. 
 As when from Hybla's murmuring shore 
 The evening breeze from her thyme-beds bore 
 Their sweetness over the ocean. 
 
 I HAD found out a sweet green spot, 
 Where a lily was blooming fair ; 
 The din of the city disturbed it not. 
 But the spirit, that shades the quiet cot 
 With its wings of love, was there. 
 
 I found that lily's bloom. 
 
 When the day was dark and chill ; 
 
 It smiled, like a star, in the misty gloom, 
 
 And it sent abroad a soft perfume, 
 
 Which is floating around me still. 
 
 I sat by the lily's bell, 
 
 And I watched it many a day j 
 
 The leaves, that rose in a flowing swell. 
 
 Grew faint and dim, then drooped and fell, 
 
 And the flower had flown awav. 
 
324 pekcival's poem». 
 
 I looked where the leaves were laid, ' 
 
 In withermg paleness, by ; 
 And, as gloomy thoughts stole on me, said", 
 There is many a sweet and blooming maid, 
 Who will soon as dimly die. 
 
 BALLADS. 
 
 A few years since, a small lake in a wildly romantic situation in the 
 northern part of Vermont, was unfortunately drained by the burst- 
 ings of one of the b.\nks that confined it. The following stanzas are 
 intended for a description of that event. 
 
 A LAKE once lay, where the thmider clouds sail. 
 On the lofty mountain's breast^ 
 Whose ripple, when raised by the rustling gale, 
 Was so gentle, it seemed at rest; 
 The pine waved round, and the dark cliff frowned, 
 Their shadow was gloomy as night ; 
 But when the sun shone, on his noon-day throne, 
 The lake seemed a mirror of light. 
 There the red-finned trout like a flash darted by, 
 And the pickerel moved like the glance of an c^c. 
 
 When the wind breathed soft at the dawning of day, 
 
 When the morning-birds warbled around. 
 
 And the rainbow shone on the scarce seen spray, 
 
 No lovelier place could be found : 
 
 Oh ! this scene was as dear to mine eye and mine ear, 
 
percival's roRMs. SSTf 
 
 As the glance and the song of my love, 
 
 And the lake was as bright, and as pure to the sight, 
 
 As the bosom of angels above : 
 
 The surface flashed with a golden glow, 
 
 And a forest of verdure seemed waving below. 
 
 The year rolled away, and I saw it no more 
 
 Till the spring bloomed sweetly again. 
 
 Till the birch first unfolded its leaves on the shore. 
 
 And the robin first warbled its strain: 
 
 But no lake smiled there, with its bosom fair, 
 
 'Twas a dell all with bushes o'ergrown, 
 
 From my dream of delight, like a sleeper at night, 
 
 I awoke and I found me alone. 
 
 Through the vale it had burst with the swiftness of wind, 
 
 And left but a path of destruction behind. 
 
 The leaves were all dead on the wave-loving willow, 
 
 It whispered no more in the wind ; 
 
 No moonbeam slept on the water's soft pillow, 
 
 Or smiled like the tranquillized mind ; 
 
 The flower-bush there was the foxes lair, 
 
 And the whippoorwill sung all alone. 
 
 Where the moonbeams pale, glancing through the vale. 
 
 Just gleamed on the moss-gray stone. 
 
 Where the trout once darted, the adder crept, 
 
 And the rattlesnake coiled, where the Naiad wept. 
 
320 pkrcival's poi:ms. 
 
 By the moon's chill light, the white pebble shone 
 
 On the beach, where the wave once rolled, 
 
 And the lustre gleamed on the water-worn stone. 
 
 But told to the eye it was cold : 
 
 No rippling wave that beach shall lave. 
 
 No white foam shall toss on that shore, 
 
 And the billow's flash, and its scarce heard dash. 
 
 Shall be known in that valley no more. 
 
 For the wave, shall be heard the serpent's breath, 
 
 For the dash of the billow, the hiss of death. 
 
 Where the foam once sparkled, the cedar-bush waved. 
 And the reed rustled sweet in the gale ; 
 And the rock that the water so silently laved 
 Was hid by the gray lichen's veil ; 
 There the dark fern flings on the night-wind's wings 
 Its leaves like the dancing feather, 
 And the whippoorwill's note seemed gently to float 
 From the deep purple bloom of the heather. 
 Where the surface glittered, the weed grew wild, 
 And the flower blossomed sweet, where the wave once 
 smiled. 
 
 So when life first dawns on the infant soul, 
 
 ?T is as pure as the lake's clear wave ; 
 
 Not a passion is there but can brook controul, 
 
 Not a thought that is pleasure's slave : 
 
 But youth comes on, and this purity's gone, 
 
percival's poems. 327 
 
 Fair innocence smiles there no more, 
 
 And cold is the guest, that lives in that breast, 
 
 As the stone on this desolate shore ; 
 
 A poison floats in its balmiest breath, 
 
 And where the flower smiles is the serpent of death. 
 
 THE MERMAID. 
 
 I. 
 
 THE waning moon looked cold and pale, 
 .Just rising o'er the eastern wave, 
 And faintly moaned the evening gale, 
 That swept along the gloomy cave : 
 The waves that wildly rose and fell, 
 On all the rocks the white foam flung. 
 And like the distant funeral knell, 
 Within her grot the Mermaid sung. 
 
 II. 
 It was a strain of witchery 
 So sweet, yet mournful to my ear, 
 It lit the smile, it waked the sigh. 
 Then started pity's pearly tear; 
 There was a ruffle in my breast, 
 It was not joy, it was not pain, 
 'T was wild as yonder billow's crest, 
 That tosses o'er the heaving main. 
 
328 percival's poems. 
 
 III. 
 
 Along the wave the moon's cold light, 
 With trembling radiance feebly shone j 
 A lustre neither faint nor bright 
 Sparkled on yonder watery stone : 
 There, seated on her sea-beat throne, 
 The Mermaid eyed the dashing wave, 
 Then waked her wild harp's melting tone, 
 And breathed the music of the grave. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Her silken tresses all unbound, 
 
 Played loosely on the evening gale, 
 
 She cast a mournful look around. 
 
 Then sweetly woke her wild harp's wail ; 
 
 And, as her marble fingers flew 
 
 Along the chords, such music flowed — 
 
 Her cheek assumed a varied hue. 
 
 Where grief grew pale — where pleasure glowed, 
 
 V. 
 
 The sound rose sweetly on the wind, 
 It was a strain of melancholy — 
 It soothed each tumult of the mind. 
 And hushed the wildest laugh of folly. 
 It flowed so softly o'er the main, 
 And spread so calmly, widely 'round ; 
 The air seemed living with the strain, 
 And every zephyr breathed the sound. 
 
percival's poems. 32S 
 
 VI. 
 
 The seal, that sported on the shore, 
 
 His gambols ceased, and pricked his ear ; 
 
 He heeded not the billow's roar — 
 
 That strain was all he seemed to hear. 
 
 As through the surf the dolphins flew, 
 
 They stopped and played around her throne, 
 It seemed, Arion woke anew 
 
 His harp to some celestial tone. ' 
 
 VII. 
 With what a thrilling ecstacy 
 I heard the music of her lyre ; 
 The very soul of melody 
 Seemed warbling on the trembling wire : 
 O ! never o'er her infant dear 
 The mother half so fondly hung. 
 As when I bent my soul to hear 
 Those heavenly strains the Mermaid sung. 
 
 On viewing, one summer evening, the house of my birth, 
 in a state of desertion. 
 
 THE crescent moon with pallid light 
 Was silvering o'er the brow of night ; 
 With downy wing the summer-breeze 
 Sported amid the rustling trees, 
 Waving the leaves that lightly flew, 
 And kissing off the night-fallen dew. 
 
 42 
 
330 percival's poems. 
 
 Along the gently-winding vale, 
 
 Its surface ruffled by the gale, 
 
 The softly-flowing rivulet strayed. 
 
 While o'er its wave the moonbeam played, 
 
 Smiling, as calmly stealing by, 
 
 Like tears of joy in beauty's eye. 
 
 Through the wood my fancy loved, 
 
 Rapt in kindhng thought, I roved ; 
 
 Not a zephyr shook the spray 
 
 To brush the trembling gems away ; 
 
 Not a warble met my ear, 
 
 All was silent far and near. 
 
 Still as cypress boughs, that wave 
 
 Slowly o'er the lonely grave. 
 
 And weave their deep, impressive gloom — 
 
 Fit emblem of the dreary tomb. 
 
 Down a glen, where half unseen, 
 Banked with turf of deepest green, 
 Flowed a winding rill along. 
 Tinkling Uke the milk-maid's song; 
 Where the moon's reflected ray 
 Smiling on the surface lay, 
 Seeming to sleep in soft repose. 
 Like morning dew-drops on the rose; 
 Where the evening-splendours fade 
 In the maple's quiet shade ; 
 
percival's poems. 331 
 
 Lonely, desolate appears, 
 Pale as in the vale of years, 
 The mansion where my infant eye 
 First saw the rocks, the woods, the sky, 
 
 ! it was a lovely sight, 
 
 Though obscured by shades of night ; 
 And though the ivy-mantled wall 
 At intervals was heard to fall, 
 Breaking with faintly rattling sound 
 The quiet hush that reigned around. 
 
 Through the walks, where privets blew 
 And purple lilacs wildly grew, 
 'Mid entangling weeds and briars, 
 And the rye-grass' waving spires, 
 'Neath the pear-tree, where, as Spring 
 Bade her untaught music ring. 
 Purest blooms of snowy white 
 Charmed the fond-reposing sight, 
 And gales of incense whispered by 
 Gentle as the lover's sigh 
 
 1 wandered slow, and fondly viewed 
 This scene in evening tears bedewed, 
 And felt around my heart the throe 
 Of tender grief and melting wo, 
 
 To see a spot so sweet, so dear, 
 Now laid on desolation's bier. 
 And view a scene of loveliness 
 In ruin's wildest, roughest dress. 
 
332 rERCivAL s poems ^ 
 
 With trembling hand I oped the door, 
 
 And wandered o'er the mouldering floor j; 
 
 Along the slowly crumbling wall, 
 
 Where wintry fires were wont to fall 
 
 And smile with beams of rnddy light, 
 
 Chasing away the gloom of night, 
 
 Nought was seen but shadows drear 
 
 And sights that filled my sonl with fear : 
 
 Darkened by trickling autumn rains. 
 
 That left their wild fantastic stains, 
 
 Seeming, as stars with feeble ray 
 
 Reflected o'er the ceiling play, 
 
 Spirits that swiftly flutter by 
 
 And glance like visions on my eye. 
 
 And there the slowly creeping snail 
 
 Drew o'er the wall its slimy veil ; 
 
 Its silken web the spider wove 
 
 To trap the flies that idly rove ; 
 
 While, slumbering through the summer's day. 
 
 The bat in some lone corner lay, 
 
 Till started by my solemn tread 
 
 He flapped his wings around my head, 
 
 And darting through the broken pane 
 
 Sailed on the evening breeze again. 
 
 The moonbeam shone along the room, 
 Like starlight glistening on a tomb ; 
 The clock was still — its sweet-toned bell 
 No longer rung Time's funeral knell, 
 
percival's poems, 33» 
 
 No more its index seemed to say 
 
 How swift the moments flew away. 
 
 All was lonely, all was still, 
 
 The thrush was silent on the hill, 
 
 The sheep-bell's shrilly tinkling note 
 
 Was heard no longer in the cote, 
 
 No breathing soul the silence broke, 
 
 No flageolet its sweetness woke, 
 
 No voice was singing in the vale, 
 
 No echo floated on the gale ; 
 
 'Twas hushed, but when with droning sound 
 
 The slow-winged beetle hummed around. 
 
 Resting on a broken chair, 
 
 Rehc of the ruin there, 
 
 By the window I reclined 
 
 And listened to the moaning wind. 
 
 That whispered through the broken pane, 
 
 Mournful as the funeral strain. 
 
 O'er my head the woodbine blew, 
 
 All its flowers were wet with dew. 
 
 And sweeter fragrance flowed around, 
 
 Than ever charmed enchanted ground ; 
 
 So sweet the scent, that Eden's gale 
 
 Seemed breathing through the desert vale. 
 
 Ivy hung its tendrils there, 
 
 And trembled in the dewy air, 
 
 Twisting around the shattered frame, 
 
 Where still a rudely sculptured name 
 
334 percival's poems. 
 
 Half hid in lichens caught my eye, 
 And told me of the years gone by. 
 
 Beneath my eye and in the shade, 
 An aged elm low-bending made, 
 A modest rose-bush reared its head 
 And far around its sweetness shed. 
 Two damask flowers with leaflets pale, 
 Were lightly trembling on the gale, 
 And, as the moonbeam o'er them shone, 
 Seemed like two mourners left alone 
 Amid those scenes, where gay delight. 
 Frolic ever dancing light, 
 Woke their shouts of rapture wild. 
 And cheerfulness serenely smiled. 
 All — all were gone. Like insects gay. 
 That sport them in the summer ray. 
 Young Happiness, so sweetly blown. 
 With hurrying wing away had flown, 
 Vanished in night the vision fair, 
 And left these two to wither there. 
 
 Soon I glanced my roving eye 
 On a sprig of rosemary ; 
 Hid in grass that rankly grew 
 There the humble flow'ret blew. 
 Bashful 'neath the rose's shade 
 All its modest hues displayed ; 
 
percival's poems. 335 
 
 As the maiden sweet as May 
 With her eye of heavenly ray 
 Shrinking from the world's rude storm, 
 Hides in shades obscure her form. 
 On its lip of paley blue, 
 Smiled in peace a pearl of dew; 
 'T was a melancholy flower, 
 Such as in affliction's hour 
 O'er the heaving turf I'd throw. 
 To deck the friend that rests below. 
 
 Glancing farther o'er the scene, 
 Gay with flowers and soft with green j 
 But now beneath the moon's pale light 
 All seemed one colour to the sight. 
 Such the mellow fading tint, 
 When the fays their footsteps print, 
 Where the tiny billows break 
 On the gently heaving lake : 
 'T was not ebon, 't was not green, 
 Mingled hues that melt between; 
 As when beside the taper's ray 
 The maiden weeps the hours away. 
 And seen at distance faintly glows, 
 Her grief-worn cheeks decaying rose, 
 Till every soft and winning charm 
 Dissolves into a sylphid form. 
 
336 PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 O'er the slowly winding flood, 
 
 Mid the shadows of the wood, 
 
 And in the meadow spread before 
 
 The ruined mansion's broken door, 
 
 I saw in gently veering flight 
 
 The insect lightning of the night, 
 
 Shining with a feeble ray, 
 
 As it slowly sailed away. 
 
 Or twinkling with a sudden spark. 
 
 Spangling the scenery wild and dark. 
 
 So the meteor light of fame 
 
 Glows with such a fickle flame, 
 
 So all happiness below 
 
 Is an insect's transient glow : 
 
 For a time it sweetly smiles 
 
 Dressed in fancy's dearest wiles ; 
 
 Mirth amid his rosy bowers 
 
 Laughs away the gUding hours, 
 
 The moments of a short-lived day 
 
 That steals like air unseen away; 
 
 Love entwines his silken chain 
 
 And breathes his soft enchanting strain, 
 
 Joy awakes his twisted shell 
 
 To the notes that please him well, 
 
 Hope's gay colours richly blend 
 
 And tell of sports that never end, 
 
 While jovial Pleasure's golden dawn, 
 
 Sparkles awhile, and all is gone. 
 
percival's pokms. 337 
 
 Farther still I turned my eyes, 
 Where the waving forests rise, 
 Where the hills with easy swell 
 Rising from the lowly dell. 
 Smile beneath the pallid ray, 
 Till they fade in mist away. 
 Upward to the sky I turned, 
 Where the stars serenely burned. 
 And around the lonely pole. 
 Saw the bear its lustre roll. 
 There amid the lofty blue, 
 Veiled in robe of silver hue, 
 Luna showed her crescent pale, 
 And trembled through her misty veil: 
 Round her orb the halo shone 
 Lovely as the milky zone, 
 When in winter^s cloudless night. 
 It spreads o'er Heaven its belt of light. 
 " Silvery planet — kindly shed 
 On thy humble votary's head 
 Thy serenest rays, and shine 
 On my brow with beam divine. 
 Light me through this world of sorrow, 
 Till I find a fair to-morrow; 
 Till the woes that rack my breast 
 Slumber in an infant's rest. 
 When my corpse is lowly laid 
 Where the yews inweave their shade, 
 
 43 
 
338 percival's poems. 
 
 Through the boughs that slowly wave 
 Smile serenely on my grave. 
 
 "Never will th}' pallid ray 
 
 O'er such lovely waters play, 
 
 Never shine on fairer bowers 
 
 Through the evening's quiet hours, 
 
 Nor shed thy flood of spotless light 
 
 On scenes more beauteous or more bright." 
 
 Land of my Nativity ! 
 How thou charniest the wearied eye; 
 O! thou hast a genial balm. 
 That can the saddest bosom calm. 
 Smiling in the dewy dawn, 
 When the songsters o'er the lawn 
 Open their mellifluous throats 
 And warble their enchanting notes; 
 Glowing "when the noon- tide beam 
 Gilds the flowery bordered stream. 
 And charming at the close of day, 
 When the twilight fades away. 
 
 Mountains swelling to the sky. 
 Forests frowning on the eye, 
 Waving woodlands, meadows gay, 
 Streamlets where the minnows play. 
 Winding valleys, swelling hills, 
 Crystal fountains, tinkling rills, * 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 339 
 
 Smile in morning's rosy light — 
 And melt amid the shades of night. 
 Such thy scenes, for ever dear, 
 Whether far away or near; 
 Whether smiling on the eye, 
 Or in the hues of memor}^ 
 When I leave this desert vale 
 Thou wilt ever bid me wail, 
 Always wake the parting sigh 
 And draw the tear-drop from my eye. 
 
 THE BROKEN HEART. 
 
 HE has gone to the land, where the dead are still. 
 
 And mute the song of gladness; 
 
 He drank at the cup of grief his fill, 
 
 And his life was a dream of madness; 
 
 The victim of fancy's torturing spell. 
 
 From hope to darkness driven, 
 
 His agony was the rack of Hell, 
 
 His joy the thrill of Heaven. 
 
 He has gone to the land, where the dead are cold, 
 And though^: will sting him — never; 
 Tiie tomb its darkest veil has rolled 
 O'er all his faults for ever; 
 
340 percival's i'oems. 
 
 O ! there was a light that shone within 
 The gloom, that hung around him; 
 His heart was formed to woo and win, 
 But love had never crowned him. 
 
 He has gone to the land, where the dead may rest 
 
 In a soft, unbroken slumber, 
 
 Where the pulse, that swelled his anguished breast, 
 
 Shall never his tortures number; 
 
 Ah ! little the reckless witlings know, 
 
 How keenly throbbed and smarted 
 
 That bosom, which burned with a brightest glow, 
 
 Till crushed and broken-hearted. * 
 
 He longed to love, and a frown was all, 
 The cold and thoughtless gave him; 
 He sprang to Ambition's trumpet-call, 
 But back they rudely drave him: 
 He glowed with a spirit pure and high, 
 They called tWe feeling madness : 
 And he^^e^ for wo with a melting eye, 
 'T was wrak and moody sadness. 
 
 He sought, with an ardour full and keen, 
 To rise to a noble station. 
 But repulsed by the proud, the cold, the mean, 
 He sunk in desperation; 
 
percival's poems. 341 
 
 They called him away to Pleasure's bowers, 
 But gave him a poisoned chalice, 
 And from her all urine; wreath of flowers 
 They glanced the grin of malice. 
 
 He felt, that the charm of life was gone, 
 That his hopes were chilled and blasted, 
 That being wearily lingered on 
 In sadness, while it lasted ; 
 He turned to the picture fancy drew. 
 Which he thought would darken never; 
 It fled — to the damp, cold grave he flew, 
 And he sleeps with the dead for ever. 
 
 THE PARTING OF 
 
 » WILLIAM AND MARY. 
 
 " WE part, perhaps to meet no more — 
 To distant lands from thee I go; 
 Far, far beyond the ocean's roar. 
 For thee my tears will ever flow : 
 
 An exile from my native land, 
 
 I long must plow the raging main: 
 
 Alas! no Mary's gentle hand 
 
 Shall sooth my bosom's inward pain. 
 
842 percival's poems. 
 
 Thou weep'st, my love : — how dear those tears, 
 Wiiat treasures t) thy WiiUain's heart: 
 They banish all his anxious fears — 
 They bkint the point of sorrow's dart — 
 
 They tell me Mary loves me still, 
 And grieves to bid her last adieu: 
 Oh. guard her, Heaven, from every 111, 
 And keep her to her WilHam true." 
 
 " And wilt thou, William ! think no more. 
 
 When far beyond the ragmg mam, 
 
 How Mary lingers on this shore 
 
 And strains to catch thy sail in vain r 
 
 « 
 Oh, William ! let thy wishes rise # 
 
 And send them o'er the wave to me: 
 
 The Power, that rjiles in yonder skies. 
 
 Will hear the vows of constancy." 
 
 Yes ! I will think when far away, 
 H'^'W thou art weeping on this shore; 
 Diik be the hour, and curst the day. 
 When I shall muse on thee no more. 
 
 But hark! the signal! we must part: — 
 While life remains let us be true; 
 Yes ! though I feel a bursting heart, 
 1 now must bid my last adieu." 
 
PERCfVAL S POEMS. 34' 
 
 Her drooping; head his Mary laid 
 Upon the youth she loved so well; 
 He irently kissed the sinking- maid 
 And breathed upon her Wps farewell; 
 
 Then tore him from her fond embrace 
 And dashed the tear-drops from his eye — 
 Just gazed upon her anu;el-face; 
 Then turned and marked the streamers fly. 
 
 He shouted, as he leaped on board, 
 
 To hide his bosom's niward pain; 
 
 The sails were set — the loud winds roared-— 
 
 The ship plowed foaming to the main. 
 
 ''VANITY OF VANITIES, ALL IS VANITY." 
 
 ON Regg;io's classic shore I stood. 
 And looked across the wave below, 
 And saw the sea, a glassy flood. 
 In all the hues of morning glow;* 
 Groves waved aloft on sunward hills. 
 Their leaves were green and tipt with gold, 
 And all the dazzHng pomp, that fills 
 The sunset skies, was round thpni rolled ; 
 
 * The r ata i>ioi'i'cuia. 
 
344 percival's i^dems. 
 
 Arches on arches, proudly piled, 
 Seemed towering to the deep-blue sky, 
 And ruins lay deserted, wild. 
 And torrents foamed and thundered by; 
 And flowery meadows soft and green, 
 In living emerald met the light. 
 And o'er their dewy turf were seen. 
 In countless gems, the drops of niglit ; 
 And gardens, full of freshest flowers, 
 Unfurled the pictured veil of Spring, 
 And round the gay and perfumed bowers 
 Sweet-warbling birds were on the wing ; 
 And many a tall and stately spire 
 Rose to the clouds, that loosely curled, 
 And kindled each with solar fire. 
 Seemed beings of a brighter world ; 
 And mountains reared their giant head. 
 And lifted high their peak of snow. 
 And o'er its wide majestic bed 
 The ocean seemed to ebb and flow ; 
 And all the wonders of the skies, 
 And earth and sea were thrown around, 
 And all were stained in deepest dies. 
 And vast as Being's utmost bound; 
 And on the magic scene I gazed. 
 And as behind the hills arose 
 The golden Sun, awhile it blazed 
 In brighter tints, and then it closed. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 345 
 
 And all the changing pageant passed, 
 In faint and fainter hues, away, 
 Until a tender green, at last, 
 Glassed o'er the still and waveless bay, 
 And Reggio's towers, Messina's wall, 
 The hills, the woods, the frequent sail. 
 That trembled on the stream, were all 
 The relics of the Fairy tale. 
 
 'Twas evening, and the Sun went down, 
 Deep crimsoned in the frowning sky. 
 And Night, in robe of dusky brown. 
 Hung out her lurid veil on high; 
 A mist crept o'er the lonely wild. 
 That heaved, a sandy ocean, round. 
 And loosely lay, in billows piled. 
 To the horizon's farthest bound ; 
 The Sun, as if involved in blood. 
 Shone through the fog with direful beam. 
 And from behind the hills, a flood 
 Of liquid purple poured its stream, 
 And o'er the dusty desert flowed, 
 Until, as kindled by the rays. 
 The heated plain intensely glowed, 
 Like some wide forest in a blaze; 
 And riding o'er the distant waste 
 The burning sand-spout stalked along. 
 
 And as the horrid phantom passed, 
 
 44 
 
346 percival's poems. 
 
 The driver keener plied his thong, 
 And shrieked, as on the Simoom roared, 
 As if the gathered fiends of hell, 
 Around in vengeful armies poured. 
 Had rung the world's decisive knell : 
 But far away a bright Oase* 
 Shone sweetly in the eastern sky, 
 As fair, as in the magic glass 
 Groves, lawns, and hills, and waters lie ; 
 A lake in mirrored brightness lay. 
 Spread like an overflowing Nile, 
 Its peaceful rippling seemed to play, 
 And curl in summer's sweetest smile; 
 The sunset tinged the surface o'er, 
 And here it lay in sheeted gold. 
 And there the ruffled stream, before 
 The evening breeze, in emerald rolled; 
 And many a white and platted sail 
 Dropped softly down the silent tide, 
 Or as the rising winds prevail. 
 Careening low was seen to glide; 
 And there the fisher plied his oar. 
 And spread his net, and hung his pole. 
 And drove with palm boughs to the shore. 
 In crowds, the gaily glittering shoal; 
 
 * The Mirage of the Desert. 
 
percival's poems. .347 
 
 And birds Mere ever on the wing, 
 
 Or lightly plashing in the flood, 
 
 And gorgeous, as an eastern King, 
 
 In stately pomp the Flammant stood j 
 
 And herds of lowing bufl'aloes. 
 
 And light gazelles came down to drink, 
 
 And there the river horse arose, 
 
 And stalked a giant to the brink; 
 
 And shepherds drove their pastured flocks 
 
 To taste the cool, refreshing wave. 
 
 And on the heathy-mantled rocks 
 
 The goats their tender bleating gave : 
 
 And o'er the green and rice-clad plain, 
 
 In coats of crimson, gold and blue. 
 
 The small birds trilled their mellow strain, 
 
 And revelled in the falling dew; 
 
 And there the palm its pillar heaves, 
 
 And spreads its umbelled crown of flowers, 
 
 And broad and pointed glossy leaves, 
 
 Whose shade the idle camp embowers; 
 
 And there the aged sit and tell 
 
 Their tales, as high the light smoke curls. 
 
 And eye the dance, around the well. 
 
 Of fiery youths and black-eyed girls. 
 
 Or where in many a leap and curve 
 
 They keenly rush around the ring, 
 
 And with an aim, that cannot swerve, 
 
 In eager strife the jerreed fling ; 
 
348 percival's foems. 
 
 And there beside the bubblhig fount 
 
 The date its welcome shadow threw, 
 
 And many a child was seen to mount, 
 
 And pluck the fruit that on it grew; 
 
 And with its broad and pendent boughs, 
 
 The thickly tufted sycamore, 
 
 The image of profound repose. 
 
 Waved silently along the shore; 
 
 And mangroves bent their limbs to taste 
 
 The wave, that calmly floated by, 
 
 And showed beneath, as purely glassed, 
 
 A softer image of the sky; 
 
 And groves of myrtle sweetly blew, 
 
 And hung their boughs with spikes of snow. 
 
 And beds of flowering cassia threw 
 
 A splendour like the morning glow; 
 
 And o'er the wild, that stretched away 
 
 To meet the sands, now steeped with rain, 
 
 The lilies, in their proud array, 
 
 With pictured brightness gemmed the plain; 
 
 And roses, damask, white, and red. 
 
 Stood breathing perfume on the rocks, 
 
 And there the dry acacia spread 
 
 Its deep, unfading yellow locks; 
 
 And gardens brighter bloomed the while 
 
 Around the silver tiled kiosk. 
 
 And brighter shone with sacred smile 
 
 The gilded crescent on the mosque; 
 
percival's poems. 349 
 
 And over all calm evening drew 
 
 A tender, softly dimming veil, 
 
 And mellowed down each gaj'er hue 
 
 To tints, that seemed divinely pale ; 
 
 It was a lovely resting place, 
 
 The traveller's home, the pilgrim's well, 
 
 Where he might sit at ease and trace 
 
 His wanderings, and his dangers tell ; 
 
 It rose at once upon their sight, 
 
 Like paradise from Heaven descending, 
 
 And there, with keen and eager light. 
 
 Each look, in panting hope, was bending ; 
 
 An island on the pathless waste, 
 
 It caught the weary camel's eye, 
 
 And on he flew in wildest haste. 
 
 As if to drink the wave, and die ; 
 
 And there the fainting Bedouin gazed, 
 
 As if the cup of life were given. 
 
 And then with thankful look he raised 
 
 His withered hands in prayer to Heaven ; 
 
 And as he hurried on his road 
 
 O'er burning sand, and flinty rock, 
 
 Before his eye the phantom flowed, 
 
 A flattering, but delusive mock; 
 
 Its brightest tints grew wan and pale. 
 
 Its fairer features faded dim. 
 
 Till in a dark and lonely vale 
 
 A mist alone was seen to swimj 
 
350 peiicival's poems. 
 
 And as the tear in anguish stole, 
 The last and faintest beam of day 
 Fled, and the dream was seen to roll 
 And vanish in the night away; 
 And cold the wild Harmattan blew. 
 And rolled the dusty billow by. 
 But still no welcome rain nor dew 
 Came down to soothe their misery ; 
 Parched, burnt, in agony they tread 
 The waste, in hopeless longing, o'er, 
 A frowning sky above their head, 
 A shoreless sea of sand before. 
 
 And life is but a fairy tale — 
 Its fondest and its brightest hours 
 Are transient as the passing gale. 
 Or drops of dew that melt in flowers ; 
 And life is but a fleeting dream, 
 A shadow of a pictured sky. 
 The airy phantom of a stream, 
 That flattering smiles, and hurries by ; 
 The mists that hover o'er the deep,* 
 And seem the storm-beat sailor's home, 
 And still retiring, always keep 
 Their station on the farthest foam ; 
 
 * The Mirage of the Ocean. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 351 
 
 Till imaged out, his woods and hills, 
 
 His father's cot, the village spire, 
 
 And all his heated fancy wills, 
 
 And all his eager hopes desire. 
 
 The white chalk coast that fronts the billow, 
 
 The boat that trimly scuds below, 
 
 The brook that glides beneath the willow, 
 
 With lulling chime and quiet flow; 
 
 Till all he loves, and all he longs 
 
 To meet and fold his arms around, 
 
 Come crowding in alluring throngs, 
 
 And every charm of home is found ; 
 
 And round the ship the meadow lies, 
 
 That filled his hand with flowers in May, 
 
 And as the billows onward rise. 
 
 They spread and blossom green and gay ; 
 
 But if he stoop to pluck the grass, 
 
 That waves in frolic mimicry, 
 
 Away the darling phantoms pass, 
 
 And leave alone the bitter sea : 
 
 And life is but a painted bow, 
 
 That crowns our days to come with smiles, 
 
 The mingled tints of Heaven, that throw 
 
 Their pomp on glory's airy piles ; 
 
 But when we run to catch the gay 
 
 And glittering pageant, all is o'er, 
 
 And all its bright and rich array 
 
 Can draw us fondlv on no more: 
 
352 percival's poems. 
 
 'Tis like the moon who shines so clear 
 
 Above the mountains and the groves, 
 
 And seems to float along so near 
 
 The boy, he grasps the moon, he loves, 
 
 And dreams, it is some sweet, bright face, 
 
 Who smiles in such a pleasant sky, 
 
 And he would think it Heaven to pass 
 
 His still, soft nights, that maiden by; 
 
 He sits upon the grassy bank, 
 
 And rests his face upon his hand 
 
 And looks intent, as if he drank 
 
 The light that silver sea and land; 
 
 And though she smiles so sweetly on 
 
 Her fond and loving shepherd boy, 
 
 The same bright face is ever won 
 
 By those, who make the night their joy : 
 
 O ! life and all its charms decay, 
 
 Alluring, cheating, on they go ; 
 
 The stream for ever steals awa'v 
 
 In one irrevocable flow ; 
 
 Its dearest charms, the charms of love, 
 
 Are fairest in their bud, and die 
 
 Whene'er their tender bloom we move, 
 
 We touch the leaves, they withered lie ; 
 
 At distance all how gay, how sweet, 
 
 A very land of fairy blisses. 
 
 Where smiles, and tears, and soft words meet, 
 
 And willing lips unite in kisses ; 
 
percival's poems. 353 
 
 But when we touch the magic shore, 
 The glow is gone, the charm is fled; 
 We find the dearest hues it wore. 
 Are but the light around the dead. 
 And cold the hymeneal chain, 
 That binds their cheated hearts in one, 
 And on, with'many a step of pain. 
 Their weary race is sadly run; 
 And still, as on they plod their way, 
 They find, as life's gay dreams depart, 
 To close their being's toilsome day. 
 Nought left them but a broken heart. 
 
 THE FAIREST ROSE IS FAR AWA'. 
 
 THE morn is blinking o'er the hills 
 With softened light and colours gay; 
 Through grove and valley sweetly trills 
 The melody of early day; 
 The dewy roses blooming fair 
 Glitter around her father's ha', 
 But still my Mary is not there — - 
 The fairest rose is far awa.' 
 
 The cooling zephyrs gently blow 
 Along the dew-bespangled mead — 
 In every field the owsen low — 
 The careless shepherd tunes his reed — 
 45 
 
354 percival's poems. 
 
 And while the roses blossom fan*, 
 My lute with softly dying fa' 
 Laments that Mary is not there — 
 The fairest rose is far awa'. 
 
 The thrush is singing on the hills, 
 And charms the groves that wave around, 
 And through the vale the winding rills 
 Awake a softly murmuring sound; 
 The robin tunes his mellow throat 
 Where glittering roses sweetly blaw. 
 But grieves that Mary hears him not — 
 The fairest rose is far awa'. 
 
 Why breathe thy melody in vain 
 Thou lovely songster of the morn — 
 Why pour thy ever-varying strain 
 Amid the sprays of yonder thorn — 
 Do not the roses blooming fair, 
 At morning's dawn or evening's fa', 
 Tell thee of one that is not there — 
 The fairest rose that's far awa'. 
 
THE FLOWER OF THE VALLEY. 
 
 SWEET flower of the valley, why droopest thou so 
 low, 
 Ah ! why is thy beauty all faded and gone, 
 Ah ! who could destroy thee — who wield the sad blow, 
 Who rifle tJiy charms in their earliest dawn? 
 
 So gay was the morning, that rose as you blew, 
 So fragrant the zephyrs that fluttered around — 
 So soft did'st thou smile through thy mantle of dew, 
 No lovelier ^ower in the valley was found. 
 
 But see, on the turf all thy beauties are laid. 
 Thy leaves, they are scattered, thy sweetness is gone: 
 Thy colours — once gay as the rainbow — now fade 
 As fast, as the hues that enliven the dawn. 
 
 Sweet flower ! once the sweetest that bloomed in the 
 
 vale — 
 Sweet flower ! we will weep, for thy beauties are fled — 
 For those charms that are gone we will pour the sad 
 
 wail, 
 And chant o'er thy ruins the dirge of the dead. 
 
356 percival's poems. 
 
 Written on hearing a lady sing in the tower of 
 Montevideo, near Hartford. 
 
 THE soft dews of twilight are steeping the plain, 
 And gemming the bougi)s of the willow — 
 The eve-star is lighting its twinkle again, 
 To shine on the foam of the billow — 
 
 The south breeze is brushing the breast of the lake, 
 That swells with a light heaving motion. 
 And its ripple is heard on the pebbles to break 
 Like the slumbering wave of the ocean — 
 
 The gale on its pinions of gossamer flies 
 Through the boughs of the low bending willow, 
 And sweeping the forest, it mournfully sighs 
 O'er the turf of my flowery pillow — 
 
 It bears on its wing, from the dark lonely tower, 
 O'er the mead, and the wave's "playful motion," 
 The song of the maid, who at eve's balmy hour 
 Sings her sweet breathing strain of devotion : 
 
 Like the hymn of a seraph, it floats through the grove, 
 And sighs o'er the slope of the mountain ; 
 How sweet — how enchanting its warble of love — 
 How it lulls, like the flow of the fountain. 
 
percival's poems. 357 
 
 As I listen, 1 fancy the dew-dropping cloud, 
 That glows with a lovely " to-morrow," 
 An angel conceals in its ebony shroud, 
 Whose harp breathes her accent of sorrow. 
 
 ONCE, on a cloudless summer-day. 
 Beneath a mantling vine I lay. 
 When Cupid came by chance that way, 
 
 And aimed at me an arrow. 
 
 He laid the dart upon the bow, 
 And drew the horn and sinew so — 
 And said, "my friend, you soon will know, 
 How keenly stings my arrow." 
 
 His cheek was gay, his eye was bright. 
 And shot a piercing, bitter light — 
 He drew the nerve all tense and tight, 
 And then let fly his arrow. 
 
 The bow twanged sharp, and with a bound 
 At once its mark the weapon found; 
 I tingled with the fiery wound 
 Of that soul-kindling arrow. 
 
358 percival's poems. 
 
 He flapped his wings, away he flew, 
 And turning backward looked me through, 
 And sUly laughed, as forth 1 drew 
 The heart-encrimsoned arrow. 
 
 I felt my blood like lava glow, 
 I writhed, and twined, and wrestled so, 
 As madmen in their dying throe — 
 I broke and cursed the arrow. 
 
 It is indeed a cruel thing, 
 When early youth is on the wing. 
 To feel, and keenly feel the sting 
 Of such a poisoned arrow. 
 
 MY heart too firmly trusted, fondly gave 
 Itself to all its tenderness a slave ; 
 I had no wish but thee and only thee ; 
 I saw no joy, no hope, beyond thy smile j 
 I knew no happiness, but only while 
 Thy love-lit eyes were kindly turned on me. 
 
 I took the tender image to my breast, 
 I made it there a dear, a cherished guest, 
 
percival's poems. 359 
 
 I laid it on the pillow of my soul ; 
 I gave it all my feeling, and around 
 The fond idea all my heart-strings bound ; 
 In that one point I blent my being's whole. 
 
 But thou hast gone, and left me here to bear 
 
 The weight of loneliness — thou thinkest not, where 
 
 Bright forms caress thee, of my bosom torn 
 
 By thee so coldly — but I cannot rend 
 
 Thy image from my heart, I cannot blend 
 
 Hate with the love so long, so fondly borne. 
 
 I feel my spirit falter, and my frame 
 
 Trembling and faint with weakness, but the flame 
 
 Of passion burns as brightly — I will lay 
 
 My forehead on my pillow, and resign 
 
 My bosom to its torture, nor repine, 
 
 And let the fire consume my life away. 
 
 TO SENECA LAKE. 
 
 ON thy fair bosom, silver lake! 
 The wild swan spreads his snowy sail. 
 And round his breast the ripples break, 
 As down he bears before the gale. 
 
360 percival's poems. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, waveless stream! 
 The dipping paddle echoes far, 
 Aiid flashes in the moonUght gleam. 
 And bright reflects the polar star. 
 
 The waves along thy pebbly shore, 
 
 As blows the north-wind, heave their foam, 
 
 And curl around the dashing oar. 
 
 As late the boatman hies him home. 
 
 How sweet, at set of sun, to view 
 Thy golden mirror spreading wide, 
 And see the mist of mantling blue 
 Float round the distant mountain's side. 
 
 At midnight hour, as shines the moon, 
 A sheet of silver spreads below. 
 And swift she cuts, at highest noon. 
 Light clouds, like wreaths of purest snow. 
 
 On thy fair bosom, silver lake ! 
 , O! I could ever sweep the oar. 
 When early birds at morning wake, 
 And evening tells us toil is o'er. 
 
percival's poems. 301 
 
 "HOW beautiful is Night!*' 
 A smile is on her brow; 
 Her eyes of dewy light 
 Look out, serenely bright. 
 Upon the wave below: 
 The waters, in their flow. 
 Just murmur, and the air 
 Hath scarce a breath to show 
 A spirit moving there : 
 The world is purely fair; 
 The winds are hushed and still; 
 The moonlight on the hill 
 Is sleeping, and her ray 
 Along the falling rill, 
 In lightly dancing play, 
 Soft-winding steals away: 
 A cool and silent breath, 
 From water-falls and streams. 
 Comes o'er my ear, like dreams, 
 Which, in the pictured death 
 Of slumber, on the soul 
 Delicious whispers roll; 
 And lead, in mazy light, 
 Before the spirit's eye, 
 46 
 
362 percival's poems. 
 
 Sweet visions of delight, 
 
 In trains of beauty, by. — 
 
 How fair and calm is Night! 
 
 Amid the dewy bowers 
 
 She guides the silent hours, 
 
 With fairy steps, along, 
 
 And round the floating throng 
 
 A cloudy vesture throws ; 
 
 And loosely on the air 
 
 She spreads their raven hair 
 
 To every wind that blows : 
 
 They seem to hover by 
 
 Between me and the sky. 
 
 Each with a golden zone, 
 
 A waving robe of snow, 
 
 A veil, whose folds are thrown 
 
 In undulating flow, 
 
 Like clouds, when breezes blow; 
 
 So to my fancy's view 
 
 The sylphid people play 
 
 Around the vaulted blue. 
 
 And then they melt away, 
 
 And leave the sky all bright. 
 
 With lamps of living light ; 
 
 And as I fondly gaze, 
 
 Where countless cressets blaze, 
 
 I look to Heaven and say — 
 
 "How beautiful is Night!" 
 
percival's poems. 30^ 
 
 OFTEN, when at night delaying, 
 Where the winding river flows, 
 On the silent waters playing 
 How the star of beauty glows ; 
 In the clear wave brightly sparkling, 
 Brightly as the love-lit eye. 
 Now again its beams are darkling, 
 As the clouds athwart it fly : 
 With a soft and tender feeling 
 Then I whisper out my song, 
 While the mellow brook is stealing 
 Silently the sand along. 
 
 There is in that twinkling planet 
 More than all the stars can boast. 
 And my fond eye loves to scan it. 
 Like a light-house on a coast, 
 Where the budding spring is ever 
 Pranking out her wooing bowers, 
 And the locks of beauty never 
 Float without a crown of flowers. 
 And her eye is ever straying 
 Round and round with kindling beam, 
 Like her own bright planet playing 
 Sweetly on the silent stream. 
 
364 PERCIVAL^S POEMS. 
 
 Now the star is near the mountain 
 Slowly setting in the west, 
 Shining on a crisping fountain, 
 Or a lakelet's ruffled breast ; 
 Now its maiden brightness mingles 
 With the mist that hovers there, 
 Rising from the woody dingles, 
 Like a streaming tress of hair j 
 
 Now a form is imaged round it, 
 
 ■Tis the form that I adore, 
 
 Every charm of earth has crowned it. 
 
 Fairer beauty never wore : 
 
 O ! how dear that tender feeling, 
 
 When the rays of beauty play. 
 
 Where the mellow brook is stealing. 
 
 Lighted by the moon, away. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 O! PURE is the wind, 
 As it blows o'er the mountain; 
 And clear is the wave, 
 As it flows from the fountain; 
 And sweet are the flowers 
 In the green meadow blooming; 
 And gay are the bowers. 
 When the soft air perfuming^ 
 
percival's poems. 365 
 
 O! go, clearest, go 
 To the heath, and the mountain, 
 Where the blue violets blow 
 On the brink of the fountain; 
 Where nothing, but death, 
 Our affection can sever; 
 And till life's latest breath 
 Love shall bind us for ever. 
 
 O ! bright is the morn, 
 When it breaks on the valley; 
 And shrill is the horn, 
 When the wild huntsmen sally; 
 And clear shines the dew, 
 As the hounds hurry o'er it; 
 And light blows the wind, 
 As the sail flies before it. 
 ^ go, dearest, go, Sic. 
 
 O ! soft is the mist. 
 When it curls round the island; 
 And dark is the cloud, 
 As it hangs on the highland; 
 And sweet chimes the rill. 
 O'er the white pebble flowing; 
 And quick glides the boat 
 O'er the smooth water rowing, 
 O! go, dearest, go, Sic. 
 
366 percival's poems. 
 
 O ! fleet is the deer 
 Through the bhie heather springing, 
 And loud is the shout 
 Through the wild valley ringing; 
 And soft is the flute 
 O'er the lake faintly sighing, 
 When the wide air is mute, 
 And the night-wind is dying. 
 O! go, dearest, go, k,c. 
 
 O! go, dearest, go 
 To the heath and the mountain; 
 Where the heart shall be pure, 
 As the clear-flowing fountain ; 
 Where the soul shall be free. 
 As the winds, that blow o'er us; 
 And the sunset of life 
 Smile in beauty before us. 
 O ! go, dearest, go 
 To the heath, and the mountain. 
 Where the blue violets blow 
 On the brink of the fountain ; 
 Where nothing, but death, 
 Our afiection can sever ; 
 And till life's latest breath 
 Love shall bind us for ever. 
 
percival's poems. 307 
 
 0! HAD I the wings of a swallow, I'd fly 
 Where the roses are blossomhig all the year long, 
 Where the landscape is always a feast to the eye, 
 And the bills of the warblers are ever in song; 
 O ! then I would fly from the cold and the snow. 
 And hie to the land of the orange and vine. 
 And carol the winter away in the glow, 
 That rolls o'er the ever green bowers of the line. 
 
 Indeed, I should gloomily steal o'er the deep. 
 Like the storm-loving petrel, that skims there, alone; 
 I would take me a dear little martin to keep 
 A sociable flight to the tropical zone : 
 How cheerily, wing by wing, over the sea 
 We would fly from the dark clouds of winter away. 
 And for ever our song and our twitter should be, 
 * To the land where the year is eternally gay." 
 
 We would nestle awhile in the jessamine bowers, 
 And take up our lodge in the crown of the palm, 
 And live, like the bee, on its fruits and its flowers, 
 That always are flowing with honey and balm ; 
 And there we would stay, till the winter is o'er. 
 And April is chequered with sunshine and rain — 
 O ! then we would flit from that far-distant shore 
 Over island and wave to our country again. 
 
3GS percival's poems. 
 
 How light we would skim, where the billows are rolled 
 Through clusters that bend with the cane and the lime; 
 And break on the beaches in surges of gold, 
 When morning comes forth in her loveliest prime : 
 We would touch for a while, as we traversed the ocean, 
 At the islands that echoed to Waller and Moore, 
 And winnow our wings with an easier motion 
 Through the breath of the cedar that blows from the 
 shore. 
 
 And when we had rested our wings, and had fed 
 On the sweetness that comes from the juniper groves, 
 By the spirit of home and of infancy led. 
 We would hurry again to the land of our loves ; 
 And when from the breast of the ocean would spring, 
 Far off in the distance, that dear native shore, 
 In the joy of our hearts we would cheerily sing, 
 " No land is so lovely, when winter is o'er." 
 
 THE LAND OF THE BLEST. 
 
 THE sunset is calm on the face of the deep, 
 And bright is the last look of day in the west. 
 And broadly the beams of its parting glance sweep, 
 Like the path that conducts to the land of the blest ; 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 369 
 
 All f^olden and green is the sea, as it flows 
 
 In billows just heaving its tide to the shore ; 
 
 And crimson and blue is the sky, as it glows 
 
 With the colours, which tell us that day-light is o'er. 
 
 I sit on a rock, that hangs over the wave, 
 
 And the foam heaves and tosses its snow-wreaths below, 
 
 And the flakes, gilt with sunbeams, the flowing tide 
 
 pave. 
 Like the gems that in gardens of sorcery grow : 
 I sit on the rock, and I watch the light fade 
 Still fainter and fainter away in the west, 
 And I dream, I can catch, through the mantle of shade, 
 A glimpse of the dim, distant land of the blest. 
 
 And I long for a home in that land of the soul, 
 Where hearts always warm glow with friendship and 
 
 love. 
 And days ever cloudless still cheerily roll, 
 Like the age of eternity blazing above : 
 There, with friendships unbroken, and loves ever true, 
 Life flows on, one gay dream of pleasure and rest; 
 And green is the fresh turf, the sky purely blue, 
 That mantle and arch o'er the land of the blest. 
 
 The last line of light is now crossing the sea, 
 And the first star is lighting its lamp in the sky; 
 It seems that a sweet voice is calling to me, 
 Like a bird on that pathway of brightness to fly : 
 
 47 
 
370 i'ercival's poems. 
 
 " Far over the wave is a green sunny isle, 
 Where the last cloud of evening now shines in the west; 
 'Tis the island that Spring ever woos with her smile j 
 O ! seek it — the bright happy land of the blest." 
 
 RETROSPECTION. 
 
 THERE are moments in life, which are never forgot, 
 Which brighten, and brighten, as time steals away; 
 They give a new charm to the happiest lot, 
 And they shine on the gloom of the loneliest day : 
 These moments are hallowed by smiles and by tears ; 
 The first look of love, and the last parting given ; 
 As the sun, in the dawn of his glory, appears, 
 And the cloud weeps and glows with the rainbow in 
 Heaven. 
 
 There are hours — there are minutes, which memory- 
 brings. 
 Like blossoms of Eden, to twine round the heart; 
 And as time rushes by on the might of his wings, 
 They may darken awhile, but they never depart: 
 O ! these hallowed remembrances cannot decay. 
 But they come on the soul with a magical thrill; 
 And in days that are darkest, they kindly will stay, 
 And the heart, in its last throb, will beat with them 
 still. 
 
percival's poems. 371 
 
 They come, like the dawn in its loveliness, now. 
 The same look of beauty, that shot to my soul; 
 The snows of the mountain are bleached on her brow, 
 And her eyes, in the blue of the firmament, roll : 
 The roses are dim by her cheek's living bloom, 
 And her coral lips part, like the opening of flowers; 
 She moves through the air in a cloud of perfume, 
 Like the wind from the blossoms of jessamine bowers. 
 
 From her eye's melting azure there sparkles a flame, 
 That kindled my young blood to ecstacy's glow; 
 She speaks — and the tones of her voice are the same, 
 As would once, like the wind-harp, in melody flow: 
 That touch, as her hand meets and mingles with mine, 
 Shoots along to my heart, with electrical thrill; 
 'T was a moment, for earth too supremely divine. 
 And while life lasts, its sweetness shall cling to me still. 
 
 We met — and we drank from the crystalline well 
 
 That flows from the fountain of science above ; 
 
 On the beauties of thought we would gently dwell, 
 
 Till we looked — though we never were talking of love : 
 
 We parted — the tear glistened bright in her eye, 
 
 And her melting hand shook, as I dropped it for ever; 
 
 O ! that moment will always be hovering by. 
 
 Life may frown — but its light shall abandon me---never. 
 
CALM A1^ SEA. 
 
 THE night is clear, 
 The sky is fair, 
 
 The wave is resting on the ocean; 
 And far and near 
 The silent air 
 Just lifts the flag with faintest motion. 
 
 There is no gale 
 
 To fill the sail, 
 
 No wind to heave the curling billow ; 
 
 The streamers droop, 
 
 And trembling stoop, 
 
 Like boughs, that crown the weeping willow. 
 
 From off the shore 
 
 Is heard the roar 
 
 Of waves in softest motion rolling; 
 
 The twinkling stars, 
 
 And whispering airs 
 
 Are all to peace the heart controlling- 
 
 The moon is bright, 
 Her ring of light, 
 
percival's poems. ^ 373 
 
 In silver, pales the blue of Hea^^i, 
 Or tints with gold, ^ 
 
 Where lightly rolled, ^ 
 Like deecy snow, the rack is driven. 
 
 How calm and clear 
 
 The silent airV 
 
 How smoodfi and still the glassy ocean! 
 
 While stai^ above 
 
 Seem Igmips of love. 
 
 To light the temple of devotion. 
 
 MX heart was a mirror, that showed every treasure 
 Of beauty and loveliness, life can display; 
 It reflected each beautiful blossom of pleasure, 
 But turned from the dark looks of bigots away; 
 It was living and moving with loveliest creatures, 
 In smiles or in tears, as the soft spirit chose; 
 Now shining with brightest and ruddiest features. 
 Now pale as the snow of the dwarf mountain rose. 
 
 These visions of sweetness for ever were playing, 
 Like butterflies fanning the still summer air; 
 Some sported a moment, some, never decaying. 
 In deep hues of love are still lingering there : 
 
S14 - percival's poems. 
 
 At times some fair spirit, descending from Heaven, 
 Would shroud all the rest in the blaze of its light ; 
 Then wood nymphs and fays o'er the mirror were driven, 
 Like the fire-swarms, that ^iindle the darkness of night. 
 
 But the winds and the storms broke the mirror, and 
 
 severed \ 
 
 Full many a beautiful angel in twain i 
 And the tempest raged on, till the fragments were 
 
 shivered 
 And scattered, like dust, as it rolls o'er the plain: 
 One piece, which the storm, in its madness, neglected 
 Away, on the wings of the whirlwind, to bear, 
 One fragment was left, and that fragment reflected 
 All the beauty, that Mary threw carelessly there. 
 
 O ! NOW'S the hour, when air is sweet, 
 And birds are all in tune. 
 To seek with me the cool retreat, 
 In bright and merry June ; 
 When every rose-bush has a nest, 
 And every thorn a flower, 
 And every thing on earth is blest. 
 This sweet and holy hour. 
 
percival's poems. 375 
 
 O come, my dear, when evening flings 
 
 Her veil of purple round. 
 
 And zephyr, on his dewy wings. 
 
 Sweeps o'er the flowery ground; 
 
 When every bird of day is still. 
 
 And stars are bright above, 
 
 O come, my dear, and we will fill 
 
 Our cup, and drink of love. 
 
 We'll fill it from the pure blue sky, 
 
 And from the glowing west, 
 
 And catch its spirit in thine eye, 
 
 And in the small bird's nest; 
 
 And take its sweetness from the flowerSy 
 
 Its freshness from the spring, 
 
 Its coolness from the dewy hours, 
 
 When night-hawks take the wing. 
 
 Then we will wander far away, 
 
 Along the flowery vale, 
 
 Where winds the brook, in sparkling play, 
 
 And freshly blows the gale; 
 
 And we will sit beneath the shade. 
 
 That maples weave above, 
 
 And on the mossy pillow laid, 
 
 Will drink the cup of love. 
 
376 percival's poems. 
 
 O ! WILT thou go with nie, love, 
 And seek the lonely glen? 
 O ! wilt thou leave for me, love, 
 The smiles of other men ? — 
 The birds are there aye singing, 
 And the woods are full of glee, 
 And love shall there be flinging 
 His roses over thee. 
 
 O ! wilt thou go with me, dear, 
 
 And share my humble lot? 
 
 O ! wilt thou live with me, dear, 
 
 Within a lowly cot? — 
 
 Though beauty hath enshrouded thee 
 
 With all that's sweet and fair. 
 
 The sorrows, that have clouded thee. 
 
 Shall all be wanting there. 
 
 O! wilt thou go with me, Anne, 
 To yonder mountain side. 
 And happy there in me, Anne, 
 Ne'er sigh for aught beside? — 
 Oh ! Heaven shall there be over us 
 Unclouded, pure, and bright. 
 And wings of love shall cover us, 
 And all around be light. 
 
PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 Yes, thou wilt go with me, love, 
 
 I see it in thy smile, 
 
 And 1 will be to thee, love, 
 
 Thy shelter all the while; 
 
 And thou shah spread thy bloom around. 
 
 And be all sweet and fair. 
 
 And every sight, and touch, and sound 
 
 Shall be ecstatic there. 
 
 Yes, thou wilt go with me, dear. 
 The cot shall be thy home. 
 And never near its roof, dear, 
 Shall want or sorrow comej 
 O ! I will be the parent dove, 
 That hovers o'er her nest. 
 And we will know how sweet is love 
 Caressing and caressed. 
 
 Yes, thou wilt go with me, Anne, 
 Though seas are now between. 
 And thou wilt dwell with me, Anne, 
 In woodlands flowered and green; 
 I cannot cross the sea to thee, 
 I do not love that shore, 
 So cross the ocean, dear, to me, 
 And we will part no more. 
 
 48 
 
378 pekcival's poems. 
 
 HERE the air is sweet, 
 Fresh from the roses newly blowing; 
 Here the waters meet, 
 Down the grassy valley flowing; 
 Here the bands of ivy twine, 
 Here the bells in yellow shine 
 On the flowering gelsemine. 
 Round the woven trellice growing. 
 
 Here the flitting breeze 
 
 Wafts afar the musky treasure, 
 
 And the wanton bees 
 
 Sip the honied fount of pleasure ; 
 
 Here the loving spirits dwell, 
 
 Here they sit, and weave their spell, 
 
 And within the blossom's bell 
 
 Tune their soul-dissolving measure. 
 
 Here the wind is balm. 
 
 Laden with the breath of roses ; 
 
 Here the air is calm, 
 
 And the sleeping noon-flower closes; 
 
 Now the sun is setting bright, 
 
 And his arch of purple light 
 
 Heralding the summer night, 
 
 Earth in dreams of bliss reposes. 
 
i'Ercival's poems. 370 
 
 Here's a magic bower — 
 
 O'er it budding vines are creeping, 
 
 And a dewy shower, 
 
 By a bank of turf is steeping; 
 
 Though the fallen winds are mute, 
 
 Faintly from the sweet-blown flute, 
 
 Tones, that with the stillness suit, 
 
 Harmonies of love are keeping. 
 
 I am here alone — 
 
 Far has fled my flowery dreaming, 
 
 All its beauty flown 
 
 Like a bow by moonlight gleaming, 
 
 Fancy's day of love is o'er, 
 
 All its rich and golden store 
 
 Ne'er can charm my spirit more 
 
 With its false, but fairy seeming. 
 
 THE WANDERING SPIRIT. 
 
 THERE'S a voice that is heard in the depth of the 
 sky, 
 Where nothing is seen, but the blue-tinted Heaven ; 
 That voice with the wind rolls its mellowness by. 
 And a few notes alone to our fond ears are given : 
 
380 percival's poems. 
 
 The spirit, who sings it, still hastens away, 
 
 He is doomed round the wide earth for ever to roam, 
 
 He may settle a moment, but never will stay, 
 
 For he ne'er found, and never will find here a home. 
 
 There is grief in the voice, as it comes through the air, 
 Like the low-moaning wind in the calmness of Even, 
 Or the tone, as we dream, of the angels, who bear 
 The pure soul, that rises to mingle with Heaven; 
 It was clear, when it first came, but quickly afar 
 It murmured and died, like the wave on the shore, 
 When the mariner hails the benevolent star. 
 That rises and smiles, and the tempest is o'er. 
 
 O! that voice is the dirge, that for ever is sung 
 O'er the wreck and the ruin of beauty and love, 
 But in ears that are deaf, is its melody flung, 
 There are none, who will listen, but pure ones above : 
 O ! Earth is no place for the spirit, who feels 
 Every wound of the heart with the pang of despair, 
 He will mourn and be never at home, till he steals 
 To the skies, and the bright world, that welcomes him 
 there. 
 
FAREWELL TO MY LYRE. 
 
 LYRE of my soul! the partinjj; hour draws nigh, 
 The hour that tears thy votary away — 
 The hour when death shall close my fading eye, 
 And wrap in earth my cold and lifeless clay. 
 
 I feel his icy fingers chill my heart, 
 And curdle all the blood that warms my breast; 
 Charm of my darkest moments ! soon we part — 
 Soon shall thy chords in endless silence rest. 
 
 What if thy sounds have charmed the coldest ear — 
 What if they breathed like melody divine — 
 What if they stole the fair one's purest tear, 
 Or bade the downcast eye with pleasure shine! 
 
 Still I must sink in Death's unbroken sleep, 
 And coldly slumber 'neath the hallowed ground; 
 And thou must all thy chords in silence keep. 
 Nor sweetly wake them to the feeblest sound. 
 
382 percival's poems. 
 
 Sleep in yon cypress shade — its heavy gloom 
 Becomes the awful stillness of the grave — 
 Rest, where above yon maiden's early tomb, 
 The willow's boughs in sorrow seem to wave. 
 
 There should the fainting zephyr, whispering by. 
 Awake one note along thy tuneful string, 
 Oh! be it sadder than the mourner's sigh, 
 And in my ear like funeral dirges ring. 
 
 Let not a trill of joy invade my ear. 
 This gloomy hour asks nothing of delight — 
 Let all be like the pall that shades the bier, 
 Or like the darkest canopy of night. 
 
 Let no sweet songster pour its witching spell — 
 No voice of comfort to my spirit come ; 
 Nought but the echo of the passing bell, 
 The hollow murmur of the muffled drum. 
 
 And yet I seem to hear thy seraph strain 
 Pour like a gentle stream along the gale — 
 It ceases — now its music wakes again. 
 And breathes as sweetly as the turtle's wail. 
 
 Ah, I would brush thy chords and faintly wake 
 To sounds of joy thy melody awhile — 
 Would charm my heart a moment ere it break, 
 And gild my dying features with a smile : 
 
percival's poems. 383 
 
 But no ! my hand refuses : 'tis but clay — 
 The touch of death has withered all its powers — 
 Soon will his wings my spirit waft away 
 From thee — thou charmer of my darkest hours ! 
 
 Farewell, thou lyre of sweetest minstrelsy ! 
 Distraction calls, its sufferer must obey — 
 The ruthless hand of dark adversity 
 Has chilled my soul, and torn thy chords away : 
 
 The mist of death, that hovers o'er my eyes. 
 Withdraws thy lovely image from my view, 
 Like fancy's midnight dream, th' illusion flies — 
 Lyre of my soul, adieu ! a long adieu. 
 
 CARE-WORN, and sunk in deep despondency. 
 I bless the hours that lay my thought at rest: 
 I woo the covert of a midnight sky. 
 But sink in feverish dreams by doubt distrest. 
 
 The pleasing morning of my early days, 
 My opening fortune's bright and flattering bloom, 
 Gone are they all — and mute the voice of praise, 
 How hard to one, who shone, this cruel doom ? 
 
384 percival's poems. 
 
 Would I were in some lonely desert born, 
 And 'neath the sordid roof my being drew; 
 Were nursed by poverty the most forlorn, 
 And ne'er one ray of hope or pleasure knew. 
 
 Then had my soul been never taught to rise; 
 Then had I never dreamed of power or fame; 
 No pictured scene of bliss deceived my eyes, 
 Nor glory lighted in my breast its flame. 
 
 What to the wretch like me this towering mind ! 
 'T is but a curse — a pang that racks the soul. 
 Better in humble life to be resigned 
 To ceaseless toil, as round the seasons roll. 
 
 Happy the life, that in a peaceful stream, 
 Obscure, unnoticed, through the vale has flowed ; 
 The heart that ne'er was charmed by fortune's gleam, 
 Is ever sweet contentment's blest abode. 
 
 But can I leave the scenes, ray fancy drew 
 In colours rich as Heaven, and strong as light; 
 Can I avert from fame my longing view, 
 And plunge again amid my native night.'' 
 
 Hard is the pang that rends these links away, 
 And humbling to my soul to rise no more; 
 How cruel to abandon wisdom's ray. 
 And find my hopes, my fame, my prospects o'er. 
 
i'Ercival's poems. 385 
 
 Yes, I must yield — but slowly I retire ; 
 O ! can I dim the light that science gave? 
 O! can I quench my bosom's ardent fire? 
 Welcome, ye paths! that lead me to my grave. 
 
 ANACREONTICS. 
 I. 
 
 H y»i f/,iXa.iva ■^rim. Anac. Od. 9-. 
 
 EARTH is a thirsty drinker, 
 The trees drink from its bosom, 
 The ocean drinks the wet winds. 
 The fiery sun the ocean, 
 The moon drinks in the sun's light. 
 Then why, my fi-iends, be angry, 
 Because I love to drink too. 
 
 II. 
 
 FULL bosomed maids of Chio— • 
 Around your auburn tresses 
 The woven roses twining, 
 Now sport in circling dances. 
 The moon is on the ocean. 
 The light, loose clouds around her 
 Their fleecy heaps are piling. 
 And gird her with a halo : 
 49 
 
386 percival's poems. 
 
 No longer from the billow 
 The fresh sea-wind is stealing ; 
 His pinions wet with night-dew, 
 And bathed in liquid odours, 
 He slumbers on the flower bed, 
 And lies till morning wake him. 
 Then come ye maids of Chio — 
 And while your dark eyes sparkle, 
 Full eyes of living brightness, 
 Weave in 3'our mazy dances 
 The flowery chain of Ero, 
 And round our yielding bosoms 
 Its rings of roses linking, 
 Give us those glowing kisses. 
 That drop the tempting treasures 
 Of Aphrodite's nectar. 
 
 HI. 
 
 DEAR girl of Mytilene— 
 
 Thy dark locks loosely flowing, 
 
 Thy full, round, jet eye sparkling 
 
 With soul-subduing glances, 
 
 Thy brown cheek flushed and glowing. 
 
 Thy lips, like opening rose buds 
 
 Their earliest balm exhaling. 
 
 Thy slender hands of coral, 
 
 Whose light and fairy fingers, 
 
percival's poems. 387 
 
 The cittern sweetly tuning, 
 Awake the song of Sappho, 
 And echo " lovely Phaon ! 
 Adored, but cruel Phaon !" 
 Dear girl of Mytilene — 
 Beneath the bending vine-bower, 
 That hangs its loaded clusters 
 Full-swoln with purple nectar, 
 And o'er the vaulted trellice 
 Its tendrils, wildly ramping. 
 With broad, green leaves inwoven. 
 Shut out the star and moonlight — 
 Dear girl of Mytilene — 
 As in that secret bower 
 Thy love-lorn song is flowing. 
 The shepherd, on the moss bank, 
 All silvered o'er with moonlight, 
 Beside a dimpling fountain, 
 Shall play upon his tabret, 
 Responsive to thy echoes. 
 The dying song of Sappho 
 To loved, but cruel Phaon. 
 
HORATIAN. 
 
 (^uem III, Melpomene, semel, — Horat. Od L. IV. 3. 
 
 FAIREST of all, bright Urania! 
 Who, on Helicon's top, sing to the golden stars, 
 When night draws all her curtains round, 
 And far over the hills shines the moon's mellow light; 
 First she gilds the tall mountain-top. 
 Then on glittering streams, and the wide-spreading 
 
 plain. 
 And the dark waves of the tossing sea, 
 Pours all her mellowest beams, till earth and ocean 
 
 smile — 
 Fairest of all, bright Urania ! 
 Sing to thy golden-stringed lyre, sing the sweet song 
 
 of Heaven. 
 
 COME on your sky-blue wings, ye Paphian doves! 
 And o'er me drop the pure Idalian dews, 
 Come, fan the air with silken pinions, 
 Pluck with tender bill the roses, 
 While they open in the thickets. 
 
percival's poems. 389 
 
 Heavy with the tears of morning : 
 
 Bear them on the faltering breezes, 
 
 As they waken with Aurora, 
 
 Lightly brushing o'er the meadow, 
 
 Kissing, as they pass, the lilies ; 
 
 Sighing through the silent forest, 
 
 Waking from their nightly slumbers. 
 
 All its murmuring tones and echoes; 
 
 Floating o'er the sleeping ocean, 
 
 When without a wave or billow, 
 
 Like a green and golden mirror, 
 
 In the morning light it glows, 
 
 Bear these nectar-breathing blossoms, 
 
 Hovering round on rustling pinions, 
 
 Drop them on my mossy pillow. 
 
 Till a heap of crimson sweetness 
 
 Buries in its down my head. 
 
 O ! come, ye Paphian doves ! from Cyprus come : 
 
 Close, o'er the smiling queen of love and joy, 
 
 Your wavy pinions, that a canopy 
 
 Of living sapphire, gold and amethyst, 
 
 Emerald and hyacinth and orient pearl, 
 
 Cool her and shield her in its moving shade. 
 
 The Paphian Goddess, on her sea-born car 
 
 Of polished shell, sails lightly on the wind : 
 
 Before her chirp the bounding sparrows, 
 
 As they draw the lovely burden 
 
 With a trace of gauzy film : 
 
390 
 
 PERCIVAL S POEMS. 
 
 She nearer comes and sends before 
 Her harbinger, the breath of roses, 
 Sweeter than the spicy gales. 
 That blow from Araby, the blest; 
 Where resting on white coffee-beds. 
 Or groves of frankincense and myrrh, 
 They drink the airs of Paradise; 
 Sweeter than a languid zephyr, 
 From a flowering myrtle thicket. 
 Which, beside the briny billow, 
 Sucks the essences of love, 
 And by the secret arts of nature, 
 To the most refined sweetness, 
 Floating in a cloud of ether, 
 Turns the salt and bitter wave. 
 Drop on my head those thrilling dews, 
 So oft, in childhood's tender hours 
 You poured in kindling showers around 
 But no — my brow is cold — 
 Passion's fire is spent — 
 The dews no sooner touch my forehead, 
 Than they freeze to crystal drops, 
 And scornful bound away. 
 
percival's poems. 391 
 
 I once thought of writing a Poem in the irregular measure of Thalaba, 
 the scene to be laid in Peru, among the Incas. I however wrote 
 only the following morceaux . 
 
 MAN is born to die, 
 And so are nations. Thus I mused, 
 As on the Inca's pyramid 
 I sat and gazed around. 
 Here, methought, a royal race, 
 To whom a nation bowed, 
 As if they were the sons of Heaven, 
 Came and paid their adoration 
 To the all o'er-seeing Sun. 
 And where is now that royal race.^ 
 Gone, and mingled with the ages, 
 That have passed away. 
 Here a countless multitude 
 Of self-made slaves, through weary years 
 Toiled and built this stately pile. 
 Years on years have rolled away, 
 Since they, who built it, lived. 
 Still it rears its massy front. 
 And stands unmoved, in proud defiance, 
 'Gainst the scythe of time 
 And ruin's crumbling hand; 
 While the same winds bleach the bones 
 
392 percival's poems. 
 
 Of the poor slave, that toiled, 
 And the great king, who bade. 
 
 'T WAS midnight — and the full round moon 
 
 Was riding in the midway Heaven, 
 
 And poured her faint, but spotless light, 
 
 Around the pillow, where he lay. 
 
 On the tender grass, and half-shut flower, 
 
 That closed their leaves against the nightly air, 
 
 The dews, that hung in falling drops, 
 
 Sparkled with a feeble ray. 
 
 Sleep poured her poppy dews. 
 
 And spread her gauzy mantle o'er him; 
 
 Like an infant in its cradle, 
 
 There in innocence he lay, 
 
 Unconscious of impending harm. 
 
 Sudden, from the ground he starts, 
 
 And feels it rock beneath his feet. 
 
 And like the ocean roll. 
 
 From the north, a growling sound 
 
 Rushes on his ear. 
 
 Louder — louder, on it comes. 
 
 Like the never-ending din 
 
 Of some wide waterfall. 
 
 That in the desert pours its ceaseless flood; 
 
 Or like the roar of ocean 
 
 When the tempest rages, 
 
 And on a reef of broken rocks 
 
percival's poems. ' 393 
 
 The billows chafing, bursthig foam; 
 
 Or like the rush of myriad horsemen. 
 
 When to conflict fierce they ride, 
 
 And 'neath the thundering tramp 
 
 Quivers the embattled plain. 
 
 Never ending, still increasing, 
 
 On it comes, and now beneath him 
 
 Bellows like the groans of hell : 
 
 Instant to the ground he falls, 
 
 And long entranced is lost. 
 
 Hark! the volcan's thunder 
 
 Rolling o'er the hills. 
 
 As at midnight, when the storm 
 
 Rears its front in Heaven, 
 
 And sheds a thicker darkness o'er the gloom, 
 
 Bursts the thmider-bolt, 
 
 And shakes the solid ground: 
 
 So the volcan's thunder rolls. 
 
 See the lightning's flash 
 
 Quivering in the sky — 
 
 Long red streams of flaring light 
 
 Rise and lick the stars. 
 
 From the crater's mouth 
 
 Rolls the fiery flood : 
 
 Down the rocks it sweeps its way. 
 
 And the ice of ages 
 
 In an instant melts. 
 
 And bursts a torrent to the plains below^ 
 
 50 
 
'394 pkhcival's poems. 
 
 Slower rolls the fiery flood — 
 
 From cliff to cliff it tumbles, 
 
 And like the mingled roar of thousand cataracts. 
 
 Deeper — deeper strikes the ear. 
 
 Hast thou seen Niobe's statue, 
 Stand in speechless agony, 
 With eye upraised — and clasped hand, 
 As if to curse the bolj of Heaven ? 
 So Atalpa stood. 
 
 THE night draws on. 
 
 And closer o'er the wave 
 
 Her sombre curtain spreads. 
 
 The dark-blue Heaven swells o'er the sea 
 
 And rests its pillars on the tossing deep. 
 
 The star of evening. 
 
 Has lit its lamp. 
 
 And hanging o'er the western wave. 
 
 Sparkles upon the foam below. 
 
 How calmly steal the winds along the main, 
 
 And heave the water round the cleaving prow. 
 
 The sail swells lightly overhead, 
 
 And the streamer scarcely flutters; all is still. 
 
 But the petrel as he circles round, 
 
 And skims the wave with snowy wing. 
 
 'T is midnight — and the moon 
 Has lit her lamp in Heaven. 
 
percival's poems. 395 
 
 Around her silver throne 
 
 The twinkling stars grow pale, , 
 
 So bright she pours her beams. 
 
 Below her, o'er the sea, 
 
 Spread like a floor of glass 
 
 Unruffled by the winds, 
 
 Her image travels on. 
 
 As the mariner looks at the wake of the ship, 
 
 He sees a long track of light behind, 
 
 And the sparkling foam a world of gems. 
 
 I hear the voice of mirth, 
 
 The song of love, and the flute's soft note 
 
 Floating o'er the wave. 
 
 A white sail steers its course against the mooUj 
 
 And seems a sheet of snow. 
 
 Beneath its shade the music breathes—^ 
 
 'Tis the ship of joy that sails. 
 
 Streamers of silk wave on the topmast 
 
 Shining with purple and gold. 
 
 So light the west wind blows — 
 
 The sails flap and the cordage creaks ; 
 
 While moving to the sound of flutes 
 
 The long white oars in order strike 
 
 And cut the marble main. 
 
 The morn is young in Heaven, 
 
 And the light is spread over the mountains j 
 
 The sky is blue above, 
 
396 percival's PopMs. 
 
 And the earth is green below; 
 
 The mist rolls over the rocks, 
 
 And curls its light folds in the valley; 
 
 The grass is wet with dew, 
 
 A gem is on every twinkling blade ; 
 
 The song of the birds has awaked the sleeper, 
 
 And he starts on his journey anew. 
 
 FINIS.