THE
ISLES—AN ODE
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Faithful
reports of them have reached me oft!
Many their embassage to mortal court,
By golden pomp, and breathless-heard consort
Of music soft,—
By fragrances accreditied, and dreams.
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Many
their speeding herald, whose light feet
Make pause at wayside brooks, and fords of streams,
Leaving transfigured by an effluence fleet
Those wayfarers they meet.
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II
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| No wind
from out the solemn wells of night |
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But
hath its burden of strange messages,
Tormenting for interpreter; nor less
The wizard light
That steals from noon-stilled waters, woven in shade,
Beckons somewither, with cool fingers slim.
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No dawn
but hath some subtle word conveyed
In rose ineffable at sunrise rim,
Or charactery dim.
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III
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One
moment throbs the hearing, yearns the sight.
But tho’ not far, yet strangely hid—the
way,
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And
our sense slow; nor long for us delay
The guides their flight!
The breath goes by; the word, the light, elude;
And we stay wondering. But there comes an hour
Of fitness perfect and unfettered mood,
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When
splits her husk the finer sense with power,
And—yon their palm-trees tower!
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IV
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Here
Homer came, and Milton came, tho’ blind.
Omar’s deep doubts still found them nigh and
nigher,
And learned them fashioned to the heart’s
desire.
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The
supreme mind
Of Shakspere took their sovereignty, and smiled.
Those passionate Israelitish lips that poured
The Song of Songs attained them; and the wild
Child-heart of Shelley, here from strife restored,
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| Remembers
not life’s sword. |
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