Poems (Hinxman)/"Eleusinalia"
ELEUSINALIA.[1]
What time my pillow brightened in the beam
Of a clear summer's morn, I dreamt this dream:—
One gave into my hand a silken roll,
On which were woven in a thousand dyes
The lovely fancies of a poet's soul.
Of a clear summer's morn, I dreamt this dream:—
One gave into my hand a silken roll,
On which were woven in a thousand dyes
The lovely fancies of a poet's soul.
It was that rich-voiced Bard's who died too soon,
Struck by too harsh reproof before his noon
Had made him firm of spirit; he who sang
Of the "nightingale upon the beechen plot,"
And tuned to English rhyme, the "Basil-pot."
Struck by too harsh reproof before his noon
Had made him firm of spirit; he who sang
Of the "nightingale upon the beechen plot,"
And tuned to English rhyme, the "Basil-pot."
Upon this roll were strewn, like various showers
Of blossoms newly fallen, or diverse beads,
In letters silken wrought, and shaped with flowers,
Loose images both small and great, but sweet
To hearts that with a life poetic beat.
Of blossoms newly fallen, or diverse beads,
In letters silken wrought, and shaped with flowers,
Loose images both small and great, but sweet
To hearts that with a life poetic beat.
"Eleusinalia" had the poet named
His gathered fancies, for the which I framed
A meaning when I woke; for was not this
The harvest of his golden field? at least
The flower-bound sheaf that crowned his harvest-feast?
His gathered fancies, for the which I framed
A meaning when I woke; for was not this
The harvest of his golden field? at least
The flower-bound sheaf that crowned his harvest-feast?
O let me strive to snatch, if yet I may,
Some fragments of this vision from rude Day!
And help me, waking fancy, to supply
Those delicate gifts of sleep that might not last,
Fine essences that even in sleep had passed.
Some fragments of this vision from rude Day!
And help me, waking fancy, to supply
Those delicate gifts of sleep that might not last,
Fine essences that even in sleep had passed.
I.
Pleasant it is, when to the mother's couch,
Her newly born is brought in dainty trim,
And through the curtained gloom she strives to draw
The features from that little outline dim,
And seeks with feeble hand the feebler touch.
Her newly born is brought in dainty trim,
And through the curtained gloom she strives to draw
The features from that little outline dim,
And seeks with feeble hand the feebler touch.
II.
Pleasant it is, upon a calm grey morn,
To float adown the glassy tide, meantime
An old musician, grave, but not forlorn,
Turning upon the crew his sightless eyes,
And playing o'er his mountain melodies.
To float adown the glassy tide, meantime
An old musician, grave, but not forlorn,
Turning upon the crew his sightless eyes,
And playing o'er his mountain melodies.
III.
And pleasant is it, also, when our ears,
Amid the noises of the heedless street,
Catch those wild melodies in fragments sweet,
Tunes which the birches and the torrents know.—
Ah, pleasant too is this, but full of tears!
Amid the noises of the heedless street,
Catch those wild melodies in fragments sweet,
Tunes which the birches and the torrents know.—
Ah, pleasant too is this, but full of tears!
IV.
Pleasant it is, beneath a southern wall,
Among September's garden-flowers to sit,
Some poet's volume open on our knees,
And comrades none, except the murmuring bees
And the large butterflies that round us flit.
Among September's garden-flowers to sit,
Some poet's volume open on our knees,
And comrades none, except the murmuring bees
And the large butterflies that round us flit.
V.
Pleasant it is to watch the fish new freed
By the pitying angler; faint it lies,—the wave
Rippling cold life into its panting gills;—
It starts—it turns—with wakened rapture thrills,
And shoots afar into the plumy weed.
By the pitying angler; faint it lies,—the wave
Rippling cold life into its panting gills;—
It starts—it turns—with wakened rapture thrills,
And shoots afar into the plumy weed.
VI.
Pleasant it is, when fields and sky are red
With tender sunset light, beside a well
To see a little fair-haired child hold up,
Slowly, between its open palms, a cup
To which the way-worn traveller stoops his head.
With tender sunset light, beside a well
To see a little fair-haired child hold up,
Slowly, between its open palms, a cup
To which the way-worn traveller stoops his head.
VII.
Pleasant it is, when some old fault, which bound
Our spirits like a nightmare,is confest,
And all the shame in fond forgiveness drowned,
And everything above us and beneath
Is light and fragrant, as an infant's breath.
Our spirits like a nightmare,is confest,
And all the shame in fond forgiveness drowned,
And everything above us and beneath
Is light and fragrant, as an infant's breath.
VIII.
Pleasant it is, beneath a summer sky,
Deep in the bosom of the hills to lie;
Or in the spicy herbage of the cliff
Above the sea, while the soft day flows by
For ever at our side, and still bestows
New gradual phase of pleasure as it flows.
Deep in the bosom of the hills to lie;
Or in the spicy herbage of the cliff
Above the sea, while the soft day flows by
For ever at our side, and still bestows
New gradual phase of pleasure as it flows.
IX.
Pleasant it is upon the choral psalm
Or soft unwinding of a holy dirge
To float our tranced souls into a calm,
Above disquietude of joy or grief.
Pleasant, and good it is; ah! why so brief?
Or soft unwinding of a holy dirge
To float our tranced souls into a calm,
Above disquietude of joy or grief.
Pleasant, and good it is; ah! why so brief?
X.
Pleasant it is to turn, on lonely shore,
Into some cavern of primeval rock,
So silent, that the single drop which falls
In measured time upon the sparry floor,
Strikes on the blank of stillness like a shock
Into some cavern of primeval rock,
So silent, that the single drop which falls
In measured time upon the sparry floor,
Strikes on the blank of stillness like a shock
To muse how many thrones have been o'erhurled,
How many wastes made palaces for man,
How many palaces returned to wastes,
Since first this secret Clepsydra began
To count the minutes of the hoary world.
How many wastes made palaces for man,
How many palaces returned to wastes,
Since first this secret Clepsydra began
To count the minutes of the hoary world.
XI.
Pleasant it is, when slow and empty days
Have brought some heart-prized friend's return, to gaze
On scenes, to visit haunts, that long have shown
All dull and dreary to our wistful hearts,
Now radiant in a sunshine of our own.
Have brought some heart-prized friend's return, to gaze
On scenes, to visit haunts, that long have shown
All dull and dreary to our wistful hearts,
Now radiant in a sunshine of our own.
Pleasant to lay us down at night, and feel
One happy roof will shelter both our dreams,—
To hear the sound of beating wind and rain;—
Nor image seas that toss, and masts that reel,
Or lonely mountain-pass, or howling plain.
One happy roof will shelter both our dreams,—
To hear the sound of beating wind and rain;—
Nor image seas that toss, and masts that reel,
Or lonely mountain-pass, or howling plain.
Pleasant to make a game of bygone care,
Lingering from that dear side, in wanton wealth,
Because the absence lasts but with our choice,—
Yet hear, meantime, his footstep on the stair,
Or from the window catch his passing voice.
Lingering from that dear side, in wanton wealth,
Because the absence lasts but with our choice,—
Yet hear, meantime, his footstep on the stair,
Or from the window catch his passing voice.
XII.
Pleasant it is, in slumber to behold
The tender loveliness of Fairyland.
Such sight of late did sleep to me unfold.
I stood beneath a hill which rose alone,
O'erlooking the gay plain on either hand.
The tender loveliness of Fairyland.
Such sight of late did sleep to me unfold.
I stood beneath a hill which rose alone,
O'erlooking the gay plain on either hand.
Its sunny slope was lightly sprinkled o'er
With bosky clusters, but its forehead wore
The crowning glory of a stately tree,
Large-leaved, wide-sweeping, comeliest among trees
That ever in cool labyrinths stayed the breeze.
With bosky clusters, but its forehead wore
The crowning glory of a stately tree,
Large-leaved, wide-sweeping, comeliest among trees
That ever in cool labyrinths stayed the breeze.
And when I gained its shadow I discerned
That all its boughs were thick with hollow flowers,
Hollow they were, and deep, whose purple cup
Might well have served some wood-nymph to draw up
A bounteous draught to cool the fervid hours.
That all its boughs were thick with hollow flowers,
Hollow they were, and deep, whose purple cup
Might well have served some wood-nymph to draw up
A bounteous draught to cool the fervid hours.
These basked in the full light which gave to view
The delicate veins in all their mazy run,
And on their tender sides soft shadows threw
From waving leaves;—half blown, these showed a hue
Deep violet as a storm-cloud in the sun.
The delicate veins in all their mazy run,
And on their tender sides soft shadows threw
From waving leaves;—half blown, these showed a hue
Deep violet as a storm-cloud in the sun.
But what sweet picture did one flower disclose!
For in the ample concave of its breast
A mother dove sat brooding on her nest,
Fair as a flower herself, with hues that blent
As in the rainbow_green to purple flows.
For in the ample concave of its breast
A mother dove sat brooding on her nest,
Fair as a flower herself, with hues that blent
As in the rainbow_green to purple flows.
Beside her, on a brother spray to this
Which held the burthened blossom, sat her mate,
His music blending in her heart the bliss
Of spousal love with calm maternal hope,—
Nor seemed he weary thus to coo and wait.
Which held the burthened blossom, sat her mate,
His music blending in her heart the bliss
Of spousal love with calm maternal hope,—
Nor seemed he weary thus to coo and wait.
And now I saw that o'er his glossy neck,
A tendril, springing upwards from that flower,
Had thrown its lithe green band, which gently held
That lover, well content; for never swelled
His broad and burnished breast against the check.
A tendril, springing upwards from that flower,
Had thrown its lithe green band, which gently held
That lover, well content; for never swelled
His broad and burnished breast against the check.
And in my dream, I knew that thus should rest
That mate expectant; thus that tendril grow,
Till the sweet patience of maternal love
Should work its end, till hope in joy should blow,
Till silence from beneath that downy breast
Yielding its reign, warm life should wake and move.
That mate expectant; thus that tendril grow,
Till the sweet patience of maternal love
Should work its end, till hope in joy should blow,
Till silence from beneath that downy breast
Yielding its reign, warm life should wake and move.
Then, all together should they rise and seek
The regions of their pleasure—floating now
Through seas of noon-tide azure—gliding now
Down purple slopes of sunset—stooping now
By rivers rosied with the dawn—and now
In fairy woods with fairy tongues to speak
And do kind wonders for the fair and weak.
The regions of their pleasure—floating now
Through seas of noon-tide azure—gliding now
Down purple slopes of sunset—stooping now
By rivers rosied with the dawn—and now
In fairy woods with fairy tongues to speak
And do kind wonders for the fair and weak.
Pursue, O happy troop! pursue your flight,
Fain would I follow, marking all your joy,
But; faster, further, than your soaring wings,
The dreams which showed me this, and more sweet things
Have flown upon the secret track of night.
Fain would I follow, marking all your joy,
But; faster, further, than your soaring wings,
The dreams which showed me this, and more sweet things
Have flown upon the secret track of night.
Sept. 1851.
- ↑ This poem is, as it states, founded on a dream.