Blest infant of eternity!
Before the day-star learned to move,
In pomp of fire, along his grand career,
Glancing the beamy shafts of light
From his rich quiver to the farthest sphere,
Thou wert alone, oh Love!
Nestling beneath the wings of ancient Night,
Whose horrors seemed to smile in shadowing thee.
No form of beauty soothed thine eye,
As through the dim expanse it wandered wide;
No kindred spirit caught thy sigh,
As o'er the watery waste it lingering died.
Unfelt the pulse, unknown the power,
That latent in his heart was sleeping,--
Oh Sympathy! that lonely hour
Saw Love himself thy absence weeping.
But look, what glory through the darkness beams!
Celestial airs along the water glide:--
What Spirit art thou, moving o'er the tide
So beautiful? oh, not of earth,
But, in that glowing hour, the birth
Of the young Godhead's own creative dreams.
'Tis she!
Psyche, the firstborn spirit of the air.
To thee, oh Love, she turns,
On thee her eyebeam burns:
Blest hour, before all worlds ordained to be!
They meet--
The blooming god--the spirit fair
Meet in communion sweet.
Now, Sympathy, the hour is thine;
All Nature feels the thrill divine,
The veil of Chaos is withdrawn,
And their first kiss is great Creation's dawn!
[1] Love and Psyche are here considered as the active and passive
principles of creation, and the universe is supposed to have received its
first harmonizing impulse from the nuptial sympathy between these two
powers. A marriage is generally the first step in cosmogony. Timaeus held
Form to be the father, and Matter the mother of the World.
TO HIS SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF MONTPENSIER
ON HIS PORTRAIT OF THE LADY ADELAIDE FORBES.
_Donington Park, 1802_
To catch the thought, by painting's spell,
Howe'er remote, howe'er refined,
And o'er the kindling canvas tell
The silent story of the mind;
O'er nature's form to glance the eye,
And fix, by mimic light and shade,
Her morning tinges ere they fly,
Her evening blushes, ere they fade;
Yes, these are Painting's proudest powers,
The gift, by which her art divine
Above all others proudly towers,--
And these, oh Prince! are richly thine.
And yet, when Friendship sees thee trace,
In almost living truth exprest,
This bright memorial of a face
On which her eye delights to rest;
While o'er the lovely look serene,
The smile of peace, the bloom of youth,
The cheek, that blushes to be seen.
The eye that tells the bosom's truth;
While o'er each line, so brightly true,
Our eyes with lingering pleasure rove,
Blessing the touch whose various hue
Thus brings to mind the form we love;
We feel the magic of thy art,
And own it with a zest, a zeal,
A pleasure, nearer to the heart
Than critic taste can _ever_ feel.