The Ladies' Garland

POETRY.
FRAGMENTS FROM A POEM ON MUSIC BY
MOONLIGHT.
[FROM THE NEW-ENGLAND GALAXY.]

This scene hath op'd the fount of crystal tears,
That drench the heart in childhood's reckless years;
Once more the visions flit before my eye,
That floated round my head in cradled infancy!
The child of Passion-votary of Romance--
My hours went tripping by in mazy dance;
Imagination spread her misty haze
Round each event, that marked those joyous days.
I gazed upon the blue and happy sky,
And watched the gold-tipt clouds go floating by,
Till fancy peopled every waving fold
With sentient beings of another mould,
With whom my spirit held communion near,
And seemed their silver harps to faintly hear--
And when their glittering squadrons passed away
To wait around the couch of dying Day,
I longed to join the bright, ethereal train,
To strike with them the harp, with them to raise
the strain.
I roamed the tangles of the forest deep,
when twilight's shadows through their mazes creep,
And watched the faint plumes of the dying breeze,
Just lift the forelocks of the dozing trees,
And heard that drowsy hum, that soothes the soul,
And bids unwonted tides of feeling roll,
Till Fancy bade her ugly phantoms rise,
And crowds of gleaming things went sweeping past
my eyes.
Then would I hie me home, and, locked in sleep,
With visions sweet my dreaming senses steep!
I dreamed of worlds with Spring forever green,
Peopled with beings, such as gild the scene
When the rapt Poet puts forth all his power
In the deep thrill of Inspiration's hour.
Each happy soul was there, alive with zeal,
Whence noble thoughts and generous deeds distil,
And make a Paradise, where'er the flow
Of purer bliss than earth-bound mortals know.
There sceptred Virtue held eternal sway
O'er realms that basked in one unclouded day.
How many a time I woke in deep despair,
To find those worlds were wove of empty air!
I filled my mind with stores of Romance,
With all that Poets tell of wondrous chance,
Which heroes dared, to rescue captive dame,
Or pluck from Danger's brows the wreath of Fame.
A darkening cloud across the horizon passed-
Life's flowers were withered by a freezing blast.
'Twas in this hour of gloom a silver star
Its bland, redeeming radiance sent from far.
A Power before unfelt, and all unknown,
Assumed the sceptre, pressed my bosom's throne,
And with a soft, but all resistless sway,
Bade every stormy passion, each dark thought obey.
Who could withstand that sweet and angel smile,
That might of agony Despair beguile?
What greater boon could dreaming Fancy pray,
Than be led on to good through Pleasure's flowery
way
To thee, my better Angel, be the praise,
That could'st from depths of low prostration raise
A groping soul, and plant it on the mount,
Where gush the healing streams of Pleasure's fount;
Or rather be to God the glory given,
That thou wert made the instrument of Heaven!
What care I now for things which others prize,
If I but catch the light that gilds those smiling eyes?
What care I for the Monarch's diadem,
So I possess that heart's far richer gem?
What fear I what my mightiest foeman can,
So I but wear thy Friendship's talisman?
What care I for the tale that Slander bears
On every gale to alert Suspicion's ears?
Slandered, misunderstood, with injured fame,
Yet care I not if thou art still the same.
A word of thine can soothe the sorest fate,
That loads my fortunes with its downward weight,
That I have worn--must ever wear--a frame
Of polar ice around a heart of flame!

MOUNTAIN BARD.