Poems (Hinxman)/"Eleusinalia"
ELEUSINALIA.[1]
What time my pillow brightened in the beamOf a clear summer's morn, I dreamt this dream:—One gave into my hand a silken roll,On which were woven in a thousand dyesThe 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 noonHad made him firm of spirit; he who sangOf the "nightingale upon the beechen plot,"And tuned to English rhyme, the "Basil-pot."
Upon this roll were strewn, like various showersOf blossoms newly fallen, or diverse beads,In letters silken wrought, and shaped with flowers,Loose images both small and great, but sweetTo hearts that with a life poetic beat.
"Eleusinalia" had the poet namedHis gathered fancies, for the which I framedA meaning when I woke; for was not thisThe harvest of his golden field? at leastThe 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 supplyThose 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 drawThe 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, meantimeAn 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!
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 beesAnd the large butterflies that round us flit.
V.
Pleasant it is to watch the fish new freedBy the pitying angler; faint it lies,—the waveRippling 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 redWith tender sunset light, beside a wellTo see a little fair-haired child hold up,Slowly, between its open palms, a cupTo which the way-worn traveller stoops his head.
VII.
Pleasant it is, when some old fault, which boundOur spirits like a nightmare,is confest,And all the shame in fond forgiveness drowned,And everything above us and beneathIs 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 cliffAbove the sea, while the soft day flows byFor ever at our side, and still bestowsNew gradual phase of pleasure as it flows.
IX.
Pleasant it is upon the choral psalmOr soft unwinding of a holy dirgeTo 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 fallsIn 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 beganTo count the minutes of the hoary world.
XI.
Pleasant it is, when slow and empty daysHave brought some heart-prized friend's return, to gazeOn scenes, to visit haunts, that long have shownAll dull and dreary to our wistful hearts,Now radiant in a sunshine of our own.
Pleasant to lay us down at night, and feelOne 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.
XII.
Pleasant it is, in slumber to beholdThe 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'erWith bosky clusters, but its forehead woreThe crowning glory of a stately tree,Large-leaved, wide-sweeping, comeliest among treesThat ever in cool labyrinths stayed the breeze.
And when I gained its shadow I discernedThat all its boughs were thick with hollow flowers,Hollow they were, and deep, whose purple cupMight well have served some wood-nymph to draw upA bounteous draught to cool the fervid hours.
These basked in the full light which gave to viewThe delicate veins in all their mazy run,And on their tender sides soft shadows threw From waving leaves;—half blown, these showed a hueDeep violet as a storm-cloud in the sun.
But what sweet picture did one flower disclose!For in the ample concave of its breastA mother dove sat brooding on her nest,Fair as a flower herself, with hues that blentAs in the rainbow_green to purple flows.
Beside her, on a brother spray to thisWhich held the burthened blossom, sat her mate,His music blending in her heart the blissOf 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 heldThat lover, well content; for never swelledHis broad and burnished breast against the check.
And in my dream, I knew that thus should restThat mate expectant; thus that tendril grow,Till the sweet patience of maternal loveShould work its end, till hope in joy should blow,Till silence from beneath that downy breastYielding its reign, warm life should wake and move.
Then, all together should they rise and seekThe regions of their pleasure—floating nowThrough seas of noon-tide azure—gliding nowDown purple slopes of sunset—stooping nowBy rivers rosied with the dawn—and nowIn fairy woods with fairy tongues to speakAnd 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 thingsHave flown upon the secret track of night.
Sept. 1851.
- ↑ This poem is, as it states, founded on a dream.