JOHN NEAL. In barrenness and ruin-where The secret of his power lies bare- His desolation mocks the skies. THE BIRTH OF A POET. On a blue summer night, And all that came near it went scented away; Like the wet warm skies, Brimful of water and light; Flashing out on the air, And a forehead alarmingly bright: "T was the head of a poet! He grew As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow, Till his heart had blown As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow; Like all the children of Poesy; With a haughty look and a haughty tread, With wonderful eyes Full of wo and surprise, Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. Looking about, For a moment or two, he stood On the shore of the mighty wood; Then ventured out, With a bounding step and a joyful shout, The brave sky bending o'er him! The broad sea all before him! AMBITION. I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, As challenging the haughty sky, They went like battle o'er my soul: I burn'd to be the slave—of men. I stood and saw the morning light, A standard swaying far and free; Where nations warr'd for liberty. I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep: And shouted to the eaglet soaring ; To hear the gallant waters roaring; But, I am strangely alter'd now I love no more the bugle voice— And all the sons of God rejoice- THE SLEEPER. WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF BYRON. I STOOD above the sea. I heard the roar On the shore JOHN NEAL. A warrior-ship, with all her banners torn, I thought of Greece-the proud one dead; Wreck'd with his bright wings all outspread, From that forbidden firmament, O'er which he went, The everlasting ocean lay A thousand birds around me flew, Like spirits from the summer deep,- They left me and I fell asleep : But soon a loud, strong trumpet blew, With tresses all on fire, and wings of color'd flame : About me, and I woke And heard a voice above proclaim The warrior-poet's name! The island bard! that came I started-wonder'd-where was I?- Again the iron trump was blown With overpowering might; His hair unbound, his forehead wet with dew, INCANTATION.. Bard of the ocean, wake! That roll away above thee, shed A most untimely dew! And from thy marble forehead shake Arise! Arise! Thou last of all the Giants! Tear A glittering shadow on the air,- The Persian in array: Byron, awake! Stand up and take Thy natural shape upon thee! bare Heavy with scented flowers But over drifted snow; Not o'er the perfumed earth, Sweltering in moonlight rain, Where even the blossoms that have birth, Breathe on the heavens a stain But o'er the rude, Cold Grecian solitude: Up, Byron, up! with eyes Dark as Egyptian skies, Where men may read their destinies ! What! still unmoved, thou Sleeper! still Thy forehead set— Thy proud lip curb'd The death-dew on thy hair! Awake thee, Byron! Thou art call'd, Thou man of power! to break The thraldom of the nations-wake! Arise! The heathen are upon thee! Lo, they come Holding their breath; Like them of old, that crept On the shorn Samson, while he slept, In their barbarian power afraid Of one-a woman had betray'd! Or, like the pirate-band that stole An armed multitude, to take Awake, anointed one, awake! Is full of lamentation-all the air With sweet, remote, Low sounds, afloat And solemn trumpeting and prayer, The waters of the mountain lake Tremble and shake And change their hue |