Poems (Denver)/Invocation to Poesy

by Mary Caroline Denver and Jane Campbell Denver

INVOCATION TO POESY.

He had gazed on the vault of the deep blue sky,
When the midnight planets were hung on high,
And bright and beautiful did they seem,
Like the fairy world of a Poet's dream;
And his soul drank deep in that happy hour,
Bright thoughts' from the sky, the star, the flower.

He had looked on the violet's robe of blue,
He had seen the rose with its silver dew,
And the pearls that lay in the hare-bell's cup
When the leaves of the lily were folded up,
And the tender gaze and the silent mirth,
Looked bright from the blossoming things of earth.

He heard a voice from the dark green leaf,
'Twas low, but it was not a sound of grief;
And he heard a sigh on the passing breeze,
And the wailing moan of the distant seas,
And they came in the smile of the moonlit wave—
In the solemn thoughts of the silent grave.

A thousand voices were breathing round,
And there was a spirit in every sound
The cold, the beautiful, and the dim,
Arose in their various shapes to him;
With the crimson cheek and spotless mind,
Like the rose on the lily's breast reclin'd.

The stern, unbending mind was there,—
The heart of pride and the brow of care,
And the passionate longing for viewless things,
Deep sunk m the spirit's hidden springs,—
Some spoke in gladness, some breathed a sigh,
All passed in their beauty before his eye.

He felt in his bosom a boundless thirst
For the glory that over his spirit burst;
And he breathed the words in that magic thrall,
Invoking the spirit that reigned over all.
O! cold and passionless did they seem
To the eloquent thoughts in his being's dream.

  "Come, Poesy, to me,
  Thou bright idolatry,
        Spirit divine!
Come with thy quenchless light,
Come with thy smile so bright;
And rescue from its blight
        This heart of mine.

  "From the desolating pain,
  The soul-enthralling chain,
        Around it thrown,—
The heart-felt agony
No other eye may see;
'Tis a fearful thing to be
        So long alone.

  "To hear no kindly word,
  To feel no bosom stirred,
        To see no ray
Across my pathway thrown,
That misery's self would own;
But to plod on, alone,
        On life's dull way.

  "Come! Spirit! come to me!
  Thy bright intensity
        Will break the thrall:
Come, to the dewy flower,
Come, to the moon-lit bower,
Come, at the sunset hour,—
        I love them all!

  "Fain would I see once more
  Thy generous spirit pour
        Its influence around;
As when rival roses blushed,
And the star-lit wave was hushed,
And the sunset hour was flushed
        At the glad sound.

  "Long have I turned to thee,
  Long have I bowed the knee
        Before thy shrine;
Then let thy thrilling tone
Illume this darkened throne,
That droops so long alone,
        Spirit divine!"