Makes a gracious rivalry
With its fere the hoary sea, Offering up to regal man
All the loyal gifts it can,
Such is not thy rarity
Thou Island of the Western Sea!
Thy name is of a richer tone
Than our baptismal forms may own,- A Spanish name, I little doubt, Yet stands no Spanish lady out When myriad star-rays mingle o'er Her rose-emblazoned mirador, Following with a flattered ear A voice that follows a guitar, Too mild and mellowed to be near, But every precious word so clear, It cannot come from very far.
No relic of gone days is here, No ancient-minded cavalier, Who takes his grandson on his knee And half in play, half earnestly, Watches the darling's tender hand Labour to clasp a well-used brand, Which sleeps in quiet rust at last,- And tells him of the echoing past,
What time the gallant Moorish race Made Christian Spain their dwelling-place, But Spain could never be the slave Of stranger hosts, however brave, And how this steel had helped to free Her soil from turbaned Paynimrie.
The world has had its childly days, Passion-bred hopes and earnest plays,- The world has had its manhood fraught With power and war and holy thought,- The world is now grown vain and old, Her head and heart are palsy-cold,— Light was called to meet her prime, Thunder waits on her eve-time, With a light that is not light, But a death-glare ghastly bright. And a voice is every where
Louder than thousand trumpets' blare, "Hear it, ye mortals, every one, The life from out your world is gone."
So murmurs many a soul sublime, Engaoled in this unhealthy time, Whose embryo-thoughts and half-desires Feed not his heart's sky-seeking fires; Who scales all heights, and with sharp ken Observes the policies of men,
Their aims and objects, and can see, However wide the horizon be, No onward-leading knightly road, Such as his ancient heroes trode,-- No one secure and honest way Where he can travel night and day,- But every moment full of fear, Of Truth forgot and Error near: He dare not mingle in that maze, He dare not front the doubtful haze,- He dare not, as he would keep whole His virgin rectitude of soul,
As he holds dear his life to be His claim to blest Eternity!
And thus, with all his loving mind, He stands at bay against his kind, Half sad to see amidst the blind.
Is there no refuge but the tomb For all this timeless spirit-bloom? Does earth no other prospect yield But one broad barren battle-field? Or if there be some cradling spot Where such grown evil enters not, Lies it in countries far away
From where he first drank in the day? Where, if despairing he be driven,
He must renounce his native heaven,
No more by olden ties be bound, Take other dress, and let the sound Of native and of neighbour speech No more his aliened senses reach!
Be it not so! for thou art here, O Island beautifully drear!
For Thou, encountering such a guest, Wilt clasp him to thy hardy breast, And bid him dwell at peace with thee In thy uncitied modesty ;
Let him his spirit slake and steep In thy immense Atlantic deep. Let him from thy rude nature gain Some sturdy fortune to sustain The burthen of ideal care,
To which the Poet's soul is heir.
BELOVED, close this weary-wandering book, Let us forget it ever held a line, Let me repose upon thy loving look,
For I am thine again,-nothing but Thine.
For sights half-seen, and thoughts half-followed out, And feeble memories, how can I repine? Having one bliss, on which I dare not doubt,- For I am thine again,-nothing but Thine.
Or if my Spirit has learnt some things aright, Nor toiled in vain within the Past's rich mine, It is, that it may take a nobler flight,
And worthier to be thine,-nothing but Thine.
Thy presence is the homestead of my heart, My own true country, my familiar shrine, I know no other world than what thou art, Since I am thine again,-nothing but Thine.
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