© James Browne
Say, in the Isle of Youth hast thy home,
The sweetest singer there,
Stealing on winged steed across the foam
Thorough the moonlight air?
And by the gloomy peaks of Erigal,
Haunted by storm and cloud,
Wing past, and to thy lover there let fall
His singing robe and shroud?
Or, where the mists of bluebell float beneath
The red stems of the pine,
And sunbeams strike thro' shadow,
Dost thou breathe
The word that makes him thine?
Or, is thy palace entered thro' some cliff
When radiant tides are full,
And round thy lover's wandering starlit skiff
Coil in luxurious lull?
And would he, entering on the brimming flood,
See caverns vast in height,
And diamond columns,
Crowned with leaf and bud,
Glow in long lanes of light?
And there the pearl of that great glittering shell
Trembling, behold thee lone,
Now weaving in slow dance an awful spell,
Now still upon thy throne?
Thy beauty! ah, the eyes that pierce him thro'
Then melt as in a dream;
The voice that sings the mysteries of the blue
And all that Be and Seem!
Thy lovely motions answering to the rhyme
That ancient Nature sings,
That keeps the stars in cadence for all time,
And echoes through all things!
Whether he sees thee thus, or in his dreams,
Thy light makes all lights dim;
An aching solitude from henceforth seems
The world of men to him.
Thy luring song, above the sensuous roar,
He follows with delight,
Shutting behind him Life's gloomy door,
And fares into the Night.
- Thomas Boyd -