SONG.

A rosary of stars, love! we’ll count them as we go

Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below,

And we’ll o’er the pearly moon-beam, as it lieth in the sea

In beauty and in glory, like a shadowing of thee!

A rosary of stars, love! a prayer as we glide

And a whisper in the wind, and a murmur on the tide!

And we’ll say a fair adieu to the flowers that are seen,

With shells of silver sown in radiancy between.

A rosary of stars, love! the purest they shall be,

Like spirits of pale pearl, in the bosom of the sea;

Now help thee, virgin mother! with a blessing as we go,

Upon the laughing waters, that are wandering below.

He lifted the dead girl, and is away

To where a light boat in its moorings lay,

Like a sea-cradle, rocking to the hush

Of the nurse waters; with a frantic rush

O’er the wild field of tangles he hath sped,

And through the shoaling waves that fell and fled

Upon the furrow’d beach.

The snowy sail

Is hoisted to the gladly gushing gale,

That bosom’d its fair canvass with a breast

Of silver, looking lovely to the west;

And at the helm there sits the wither’d one,

Gazing and gazing on the sister nun,

With her fair tresses floating on his knee—

The beautiful death-stricken Agathè!

Fast, fast, and far away, the bark hath stood

Out toward the great heaving solitude,

That gurgled in its deeps, as if the breath

Went through its lungs of agony and death!

The sun is lost within the labyrinth

Of clouds of purple and pale hyacinth,

That are the frontlet of the sister sky

Kissing her brother ocean; and they lie

Bathing in blushes, till the rival queen,

Night, with her starry tiar, floateth in—

A dark and dazzling beauty! that doth draw

Over the light of love a shade of awe

Most strange, that parts our wonder not the less

Between her mystery and loveliness!

And she is there, that is a Pyramid

Whereon the stars, the statues of the dead,

Are imaged over the eternal hall,

A group of radiances majestical!

And Julio looks up, and there they be,

And Agathè, and all the waste of sea,

That slept in wizard slumber, with a shroud

Of night flung o’er his bosom, throbbing proud

Amid its azure pulses, and again

He dropt his blighted eye-orbs, with a strain

Of mirth upon the ladye:—Agathè!

Sweet bride! be thou a queen and I will lay

A crown of sea-weed on thy royal brow!

And I will twine these tresses, that are now

Floating beside me, to a diadem:

And the sea foam will sprinkle gem on gem,

And so will the soft dews. Be thou the queen

Of the unpeopled waters, sadly seen

By star-light, till the yet unrisen moon

Issue, unveiled, from her anteroom,

To bathe in the sea fountains: let me say,

“Hail—hail to thee! thrice hail, my Agathè!”

The warrior world was lifting to the bent

Of his eternal brow magnificent,

The fiery moon, that in her blazonry

Shone eastward, like a shield. The throbbing sea

Felt fever on his azure arteries,

That shadow’d them with crimson, while the breeze

Fell faster on the solitary sail.

But the red moon grew loftier and pale,

And the great ocean, like the holy hall,

Where slept a seraph host maritimal,

Was gorgeous, with wings of diamond

Fann’d over it, and millions beyond

Of tiny waves were playing to and fro,

All musical, with an incessant flow

Of cadences, innumerably heard

Between the shrill notes of a hermit bird,

That held a solemn pæan to the moon.

A few devotional fair clouds were soon

Breath’d o’er the living countenance of Heaven,

And under the great galaxies were driven

Of stars that group’d together, and they went

Like voyagers along the firmament,

And grew to silver in the blessed light

Of the moon alchymist. It was not night,

Not the dark deathly shadow, that falls o’er

The eye-lid like a curse, but far before

In splendor, struggling through a fall of gloom,

In many a myriad gushes, that do come

Direct from the eternal stars beyond,

Like holy fountains pouring diamond!

A sail! awake thee, Julio! a sail!

And be not bending to thy trances pale.

But he is gazing on the moonlit brow

Of his dead Agathè, and fondly now,

The light is silvering her bloodless face

And the cold grave-clothes. There is loveliness

As in a marble image, very bright!

But stricken with a phantasy of light

That is not given to the mortal hue,

To life and breathing beauty: and she too

Is more of the expressless lineament,

Than of the golden thoughts that came and went

Over her features, like a living tide

No while before.

A sail is on the wide

And moving waters, and it draweth nigh

Like a sea-cloud. The elfin billows fly

Before it, in their armories enthrall’d

Of radiant and moon-breasted emerald:

And many is the mariner that sees

That lone boat in the melancholy breeze,

Waving her snowy canvass, and anon

Their stately vessel with a gallant run

Crowds by in all her glory; but the cheer

Of men is pass’d into a sudden fear,

And whisperings, and shaking of the head.—

The moon was streaming on a virgin dead,

And Julio sat over her insane,

Like a sea demon! o’er and o’er again,

Each cross’d him, as the stately vessel stood

Far out into the murmuring solitude!

But Julio saw not; he only heard

A rushing, like the passing of a bird,

And felt him heaving on the foam, that flew

Along the startled billows: and he knew

Of a strange sail, by broken oaths that fell

Beside him, on the coming of the swell.

“They knew thou wert a queen, my royal bride!

And made obeisance at thy holy side.

They saw thee, Agathè! and go to bring

Fair worshippers, and many a poet-king,

To utter music at thy pearly feet.—

Now, wake thee! for the moonlight cometh sweet,

To visit in thy temple of the sea;

Thy sister moon is watching over thee!

And she is spreading a fair mantle of

Pure silver, in thy lonely palace, love!—

Now, wake thee! for the sea-bird is aloof,

In solitude, below the starry roof:

And on its dewy plume there is a light

Of palest splendor, o’er the blessed night.

Thy spirit, Agathè!—and yet thou art

Beside me, and my solitary heart

Is throbbing near to thee: I must not feel

The sweet notes of thy holy music steal

Into my feverous and burning brain,—

So wake not! and I’ll hush thee with a strain

Of my wild fancy, till thou dream of me,

And I be loved as I have lovéd thee:—”

Graham's Magazine, Vol. XX, No. 2, February 1842 · 第 38 / 68 题