THE GENIUS OF HARMONY; AN IRREGULAR ODE by THOMAS MOORE

THERE lies a shell beneath the waves,
In many a hollow winding wreathed,
Such as of old,
Echo'd the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;
This magic shell
From the white bosom of a Syren fell,
As once she wander'd by the tide that laves
Sicilia's sands of gold.
It bears,
Upon its shining side, the mystic notes
Of those entrancing airs
The genii of the deep were wont to swell,
When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music roll'd!

Oh! seek it, wheresoe'er it floats;
And, if the power
Of thrilling numbers to thy soul be dear,
Go, bring the bright shell to my bower,
And I will fold thee in such downy dreams,
As lap the spirit of the seventh sphere,
When Luna's distant tone falls faintly on his ear!
And thou shalt own,
That, through the circle of creation's zone,
Where matter darkles or where spirit beams;
From the pellucid tides, that whirl
The planets through their maze of song,
To the small rill, that weeps along
Murmuring o'er beds of pearl;
From the rich sigh
Of the sun's arrow through an evening sky,
To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields
On Afric's burning fields;
Oh! thou shalt own this universe divine
Is mine!
That I respire in all and all in me,
One mighty mingled soul of boundless harmony!

Welcome, welcome, mystic shell!
Many a star has ceased to burn,
Many a tear has Satan's urn
O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,
Since thy aerial spell
Hath in the waters slept!
I fly,
With the bright treasure, to my choral sky,
Where she, who waked its early swell,
The Syren, with a foot of fire,
Walks o'er the great string of my Orphic Lyre,
Or guides around the burning pole
The winged chariot of some blissful soul!
While thou,
O son of earth! what dreams shall rise for thee!
Beneath Hispania's sun,
Thou'lt see a streamlet run,
Which I have warm'd with dews of melody;
Listen! -- when the night-wind dies
Down the still current, like a harp it sighs!
A liquid chord is every wave that flows,
An airy plectrum every breeze that blows!

There, by that wondrous stream,
Go, lay thy languid brow,
And I will send thee such a godlike dream,
Such -- mortal! mortal! hast thou heard of him,
Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,
Sat on the chill Pangaean mount,
And, looking to the orient dim,
Watch'd the first flowing of that sacred fount,
From which his soul had drunk its fire!
Oh! think what visions, in that lonely hour,
Stole o'er his musing breast!
What pious ecstacy
Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power.
Whose seal upon this world impress'd
The various forms of bright divinity!

Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,
'Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,
Where the rapt Samian slept his holy slumber?
When, free
From every earthly chain,
From wreaths of pleasure and from bonds of pain,
His spirit flew through fields above,
Drank at the source of Nature's fontal number,
And saw, in mystic choir, around him move
The stars of song, Heaven's burning minstrelsy!
Such dreams, so heavenly bright,
I swear
By the great diadem that twines my hair,
And by the seven gems that sparkle there,
Mingling their beams
In a soft iris of harmonious light,
O mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams!

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