Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Zephyr's Soliloquy
THE ZEPHYR'S SOLILOQUY.
Though from whence I came, or whither I go,
My end or my nature I ne'er may know,
I will number o'er to myself a few
Of the countless things I am born to do.
My end or my nature I ne'er may know,
I will number o'er to myself a few
Of the countless things I am born to do.
I flit, in the days of the joyous Spring,
Through field and forest, and I freight my wing
With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear
Where I know that man will inhale the air.
And, while I hover o'er beauty's lip,
I part her locks with my pinion's tip;
Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress,
And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress.
I love to sport with the silken curl
On the lily neck of the laughing girl;
To dry the tear of the weeping boy,
Who 's breaking his heart for a broken toy;
To fan the heat of his brow away,
And over his mother's harp-strings play,
Till, his griefs forgotten, he looks around
For the secret hand that has waked the sound.
I love, when the warrior mails his breast,
To toss the head of his snow-white crest;
To take the adieu that he turns to leave,
And the sigh that his lady retires to heave!
When the sultry sun of a summer's day
Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away,
And the flowers are left to thirst to death,
I love to come and afford them breath;
And, under each languid, drooping thing
To place my balmy and cooling wing.
When the bright, fresh showers have just gone by,
And the rainbow stands in the evening sky,
Oh! then is the merriest time for me;
And I and my race have a jubilee!
We fly to the gardens and shake the drops
From the bending boughs, and the floweret tops;
And revel unseen in the calm starlight,
Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night.
These, ah! these are my hours of gladness!
But, I have my days and my nights of sadness!
When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose,
And 't is turning as white as the mountain snows;
While the eye of beauty must soon be hid
Forever, beneath its sinking lid—
Oh! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp,
And save her a moment from death's cold grasp!
And when she is borne to repose alone
'Neath the fresh-cut sod and the church-yard stone,
I keep close by her, and do my best
To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast;
And linger behind with the beautiful clay,
When friends and kindred have gone their way!
When the babe whose dimples I used to fan,
I see completing its earthly span,
I long, with a spirit so pure, to go
From the scene of sorrow and tears below,
Till I rise so high I can catch the song
Of welcome, that bursts from the angel throng,
As it enters its rest—but, alas! alas!
I am only from death to death to pass.
I hasten away over mountain and flood,
And find I'm alone on a field of blood.
The soldier is there—but he breathes no more;
And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore
I flutter and strive in vain, to place
The end of his scarf o'er his marble face;
And find not even a sigh, to take
To her, whose heart is so soon to break!
I fly to the flowers that I loved so much—
They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch.
The earth is in ruins!———I turn to the sky—
It frowns!———and what can I do, but die?
Through field and forest, and I freight my wing
With the spice of the buds, which I haste to bear
Where I know that man will inhale the air.
And, while I hover o'er beauty's lip,
I part her locks with my pinion's tip;
Or brighten her cheek with my fond caress,
And breathe in the folds of her lightsome dress.
I love to sport with the silken curl
On the lily neck of the laughing girl;
To dry the tear of the weeping boy,
Who 's breaking his heart for a broken toy;
To fan the heat of his brow away,
And over his mother's harp-strings play,
Till, his griefs forgotten, he looks around
For the secret hand that has waked the sound.
I love, when the warrior mails his breast,
To toss the head of his snow-white crest;
To take the adieu that he turns to leave,
And the sigh that his lady retires to heave!
When the sultry sun of a summer's day
Each sparkling dew-drop has dried away,
And the flowers are left to thirst to death,
I love to come and afford them breath;
And, under each languid, drooping thing
To place my balmy and cooling wing.
When the bright, fresh showers have just gone by,
And the rainbow stands in the evening sky,
Oh! then is the merriest time for me;
And I and my race have a jubilee!
We fly to the gardens and shake the drops
From the bending boughs, and the floweret tops;
And revel unseen in the calm starlight,
Or dance on the moon-beams the live-long night.
These, ah! these are my hours of gladness!
But, I have my days and my nights of sadness!
When I go to the cheek where I kissed the rose,
And 't is turning as white as the mountain snows;
While the eye of beauty must soon be hid
Forever, beneath its sinking lid—
Oh! I'd give my whole self but to spare that gasp,
And save her a moment from death's cold grasp!
And when she is borne to repose alone
'Neath the fresh-cut sod and the church-yard stone,
I keep close by her, and do my best
To lift the dark pall from the sleeper's breast;
And linger behind with the beautiful clay,
When friends and kindred have gone their way!
When the babe whose dimples I used to fan,
I see completing its earthly span,
I long, with a spirit so pure, to go
From the scene of sorrow and tears below,
Till I rise so high I can catch the song
Of welcome, that bursts from the angel throng,
As it enters its rest—but, alas! alas!
I am only from death to death to pass.
I hasten away over mountain and flood,
And find I'm alone on a field of blood.
The soldier is there—but he breathes no more;
And there is the plume, but 't is stained with gore
I flutter and strive in vain, to place
The end of his scarf o'er his marble face;
And find not even a sigh, to take
To her, whose heart is so soon to break!
I fly to the flowers that I loved so much—
They are pale, and drop at my slightest touch.
The earth is in ruins!———I turn to the sky—
It frowns!———and what can I do, but die?