Genius Singing to Love

“That voice re-measuresWhatever tones and melancholy pleasuresThe things of nature utter; birds or trees,Or where the tall grass mid the heath-plant waves,Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.” Coleridge.

I heard a song upon the wandering wind,A song of many tones--though one full soulBreathed through them all imploringly; and madeAll nature as they pass’d, all quivering leavesAnd low responsive reeds and waters, thrillAs with the consciousness of human prayer.--At times the passion-kindled melodyMight seem to gush from Sappho’s fervent heart,Over the wild sea-wave;--at times the strainFlow’d with more plaintive sweetness, as if bornOf Petrarch’s voice, beside the lone Vaucluse;And sometimes, with its melancholy swell,A graver sound was mingled, a deep noteOf Tasso’s holy lyre. Yet still the tonesWere of a suppliant--“Leave me not!” was stillThe burden of their music; and I knewThe lay which Genius, in its loneliness,Its own still world, amidst th’ o’erpeopled world,Hath ever breathed to Love.

“They crown me with the glistening crown,Borne from a deathless tree;I hear the pealing music of renown--O Love! forsake me not!Mine were a lone, dark lot,Bereft of thee!They tell me that my soul can throwA glory o’er the earth;From thee, from thee, is caught that golden glow!Shed by thy gentle eyes,It gives to flower and skiesA bright, new birth!

“Thence gleams the path of morningOver the kindling hills, a sunny zone!Thence to its heart of hearts the rose is burningWith lustre not its own!Thence every wood-recessIs fill’d with loveliness,Each bower, to ring-doves and dim violets known.

“I see all beauty by the rayThat streameth from thy smile;=Oh! bear it, bear it not away!Can that sweet light beguile?Too pure, too spirit-like, it seems,To linger long by earthly streams;I clasp it with th’ alloyOf fear midst quivering joy.Yet must I perish if the gift depart--Leave me not, Love! to mine own beating heart!

“The music from my lyreWith thy swift step would flee;The world’s cold breath would quench the starry fireIn my deep soul--a temple fill’d with thee!Seal’d would the fountains lie,The waves of harmony,Which thou alone canst free!

“Like a shrine midst rocks forsaken,Whence the oracle hath fled;Like a harp which none might wakenBut a mighty master dead;Like the vase of a perfume scatter’d.Such would my spirit be--So mute, so void, so shatter’d,Bereft of thee!

“Leave me not, Love! or if this earthYield not for thee a home,If the bright summer-land of thy pure birthSend thee a silvery voice that whispers ‘Come!’Then, with the glory from the rose,With the sparkle from the stream,With the light thy rainbow-presence throwsOver the poet’s dream;With all th’ Elysian huesThy pathway that suffuse,With joy, with music, from the fading grove,Take me, too, heavenward on thy wing, sweet Love!”