NEVER till now -- never till now, O Queen And wonder of the enchanted world of sound! Never till now was such bright creature seen, Startling to transport all the regions round! Whence comest thou -- with those eyes and that fine mien, Thou sweet, sweet singer? Like an angel found Mourning alone, thou seem'st (thy mates all fled) A star 'mong clouds -- a spirit mid the dead. Melodious thoughts hang round thee! Sorrow sings Perpetual sweetness near -- divine despair! Thou speak'st -- and music, with her thousand strings, Gives golden answers from the haunted air! Thou movest -- and round thee grace her beauty flings! Thou look'st -- and love is born! O songstress rare! Lives there on earth a power like that which lies In those resistless tones -- in those dark eyes? Oh, I have lived -- how long! -- with one deep treasure, One fountain of delight unlock'd, unknown; But @3thou@1, the prophetess of my new pleasure, Hast come at last, and struck my heart of stone; And now outgushes, without stint or measure, The endless rapture -- and in places lone I shout it to the stars and winds that flee, And @3then@1 I think on all I owe to thee! I see thee at all hours -- beneath all skies -- In every shape thou takest, or passionate path: Now art thou like some wing'd thing that cries Over a city flaming fast to death; Now, in thy voice, the mad Medea dies: Now Desdemona yields her gentle breath: -- All things thou art by turns -- from wrath to love; From the queen eagle to the vestal dove! Horror is stern and strong, and death (unmask'd In slow pale silence, or mid brief eclipse); But what are they to @3thy@1 sweet strength, when task'd To its height -- with all the God upon thy lips? Not even the cloudless days and riches, asked By one who in the book of darkness dips, Vies with that radiant wealth which they inherit Who own, like thee, the Muse's deathless spirit. Would I could crown thee as a king can crown! Yet, what are kingly gifts to thy fair fame, Whose echoes shall all vulgar triumphs drown -- Whose light shall darken every meaner name? The gallant courts thee for his own renown; Mimicking thee, he plays love's pleasant game: The critic brings thee praise, which all rehearse; And I -- alas! -- I can but bring my verse! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE FINDING OF THE LYRE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL MY LITTLE GIRL by SAMUEL MINTURN PECK IDYLLS OF THE KING: THE LAST TOURNAMENT by ALFRED TENNYSON EPIGAEA ASLEEP by WILLIAM WHITMAN BAILEY TO MY HONOURED FRIEND MR. DRAYTON; AFFIXED TO 'POLYOLBION' by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |