Thought-weary and sad I reclined by a fountain,
The head of a white-cedar-shaded ravine;
And the breeze that fell over the high-glooming mountain,
Sang to me, like love, as I gazed on the scene.
Long I'd reclined not till slumber came o'er me,
Grateful as death to a suffering child;
When a lofty-souled maiden seemed standing before me,
With a lyre in her hand—oh, so sounding and wild!
Bright was her brow, never heaven was brighter;
Her eyes were two midnights of passionate thought;
Light were her movements, a zephyr not lighter;
And her locks were like sunshine and shadow inwrought.
Never before did my bosom inherit
Emotion so thrilling—such passionate awe!
Never such wonder exalted my spirit
Before, as did now through the vision I saw!
Then lifting the lyre, and with every feeling
Sublimed as with joy, she awakened the strings:
Bliss followed—and half into being came stealing
The motion and light of angelical wings.
Divine were the numbers! Each voice of the wild-wood
Seemed gathering head in their musical thrills—
The gladness of rivers that sing of their childhood,
The shouting of echoes that look from the hills;—
The moaning of trees in the moonlight's reflection,
When the breezes seem wandering lost in the air;
With a sweet meaning spirit of human affection,
All blending and woven together were there.
Ceased then the strain—and as soon as were flowing
Around but the accents that people the wild,
The lyrist, subdued by her rapture, and glowing,
Adjusted her mantle, approached me, and smiled.
And repressing it seemed now the fondest suggestions,
Calmly she spoke;—I arose to my knees,
Expectant and fearfully glad of her questions:
And the wild-warbled words that she uttered were these.
"I am the muse of the evergreen forest,
I am the spouse of thy spirit, lone bard;
Thee, from the days when thy boyhood thou worest,
Won in thy pastimes my fondest regard.
"Thee even then I felt wondrously musing
Of glory and grace, by old Hawkesbury's side;
Scenes that spread recordless round thee suffusing
With the purple of love—I beheld thee and sighed:—
"Sighed—for the fire-robe of thought had enwound thee,
It seemed but the breeze, or a sound of thine own!
I would sweep then this lyre, gliding viewless around thee,
To give to thy feelings a measure and tone.
"Since I have tracked thee through dissolute places;
Saw thee, with sorrow, long herd with the vain;
Lured into error by false-smiling faces—
Chained by dull fashion, yet scorning the chain.
"Then would I prompt in the still hour of dreaming,
Thought of the beautiful country agen;
Of streams through the shadowy forest far gleaming—
Of mountains that echo the hunt in the glen.
"Till at length I beheld thee arise in devotion,
And shake from thy heart the vile bondage it bore;
And joyed, as in sunrise rejoiceth the ocean,
Thy footfal to hear in the mountains once more.
"Listen, redeemed one: I promise thee glory,
Such as shall rise like the day-star apart,
To brighten the current of many a story—
But for this thou must give to the future thy heart.
"Be, then, a bard of thy country! Oh, rather
"Should such be thy choice than a monarchy wide!
Lo,'tis the land of the grave of thy father!
"'Tis the cradle of liberty!—Think, and decide.
"Well hast thou chosen!" She ceased. Unreplying,
Mutely I gazed on her wildering charms:
Deeper they glowed; her lips trembled, and, sighing,
She rushed to my heart, and dissolved in my arms.
Thus seemed she to pass—and yet something remaining,
Like a separate soul, in my soul seemed to be;
An aching delight—an extension, that paining
My spirit, yet made it more strengthy and free.
She passed—but to leave in my brain such sweet madness—
Assurances strange of prophetical sway!
While sounds that seem gushings of mystical gladness,
Flow through me by night and around me by day.
And since, or in cities, or solitudes dreary,
Upon the lone hill, or as lonely sea sand,
Though many that blame, few that praise be anear me,
I feel like a monarch of song in the land!