230
KNICKERBOCKER GALLERY.
To inner temples of imperial blaze;
Uplifts the rainbow, a triumphal arch
Sprung over hosts angelic on their march;
Throws us on clouds to bask, or softly slides,
Voluptuous rushing! down their fleecy sides;
Whose wondrous chemistry transforms the mist
That robes the hills to veils of amethyst;
O'er common objects holds a glass of rose,
And common paths with hopeless blossoms sows;
And shading rum with her ivy-wreath,
She crowns with amaranth the brow of Death;
Cloaking the scars of evil that we see,
To make things seem as we would have them be.
Always in season, her sweet, constant flowers,
To grace our festive or our mourning hours.
Yes! Poesy was sent to fallen earth
To wake afresh the graces of its birth.
'T is hers 'to gild refined gold' alone,
And 'lilies paint' with hues that quench their own;
Still garlanding young beauty with her flowers;
Still dropping honey on our sweetest hours!
'Mid odors wafting us from birth to doom,
To wake, half-risen to the heaven to come!"
"How poor the power of statesmen, sages, kings!
To his whose words, abroad on mighty wings,
(Sun-drawn exhalings of th' eternal seas!)
Rush over nations with their tempest-breeze!
O'ershadowing, thundering, showering in all parts:
Watering the growing graces of all hearts!
That in all moods that range from smiles to tears,
Come humming like sweet birds about our ears;
Drowning our groans, and setting husky sighs
To tenderest music, while our dancing joys
Tread double measure when those pipes do play.
And when poor life is foundering, and gives way,
Like hovering seraphs through the breakers' roar
Pilot the spirit to the tranquil shore!
"Above, around, we find no deep recess
Their music reaches not, to rouse or bless;
Uplifts the rainbow, a triumphal arch
Sprung over hosts angelic on their march;
Throws us on clouds to bask, or softly slides,
Voluptuous rushing! down their fleecy sides;
Whose wondrous chemistry transforms the mist
That robes the hills to veils of amethyst;
O'er common objects holds a glass of rose,
And common paths with hopeless blossoms sows;
And shading rum with her ivy-wreath,
She crowns with amaranth the brow of Death;
Cloaking the scars of evil that we see,
To make things seem as we would have them be.
Always in season, her sweet, constant flowers,
To grace our festive or our mourning hours.
Yes! Poesy was sent to fallen earth
To wake afresh the graces of its birth.
'T is hers 'to gild refined gold' alone,
And 'lilies paint' with hues that quench their own;
Still garlanding young beauty with her flowers;
Still dropping honey on our sweetest hours!
'Mid odors wafting us from birth to doom,
To wake, half-risen to the heaven to come!"
"How poor the power of statesmen, sages, kings!
To his whose words, abroad on mighty wings,
(Sun-drawn exhalings of th' eternal seas!)
Rush over nations with their tempest-breeze!
O'ershadowing, thundering, showering in all parts:
Watering the growing graces of all hearts!
That in all moods that range from smiles to tears,
Come humming like sweet birds about our ears;
Drowning our groans, and setting husky sighs
To tenderest music, while our dancing joys
Tread double measure when those pipes do play.
And when poor life is foundering, and gives way,
Like hovering seraphs through the breakers' roar
Pilot the spirit to the tranquil shore!
"Above, around, we find no deep recess
Their music reaches not, to rouse or bless;
