The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836Various
General
The Southern Literary Messenger, Vol. II., No. 2, January, 1836
Various
American literature -- 19th century -- Periodicals
It was a fairy isle,
Where summer's golden smile
Shines on forever unchangingly,
O'er its glittering vine-clad hills,
Green valleys and cold limpid rills,
And the encircling emerald sea.
Oh! there are spirits that dwell
In every wizard dell--
Sweet forms that haunt each grottoed fount,
Each fragrant vale and sunlit mount,
And voices that whisper at even-tide,
On the silver sands by the lone sea side.
There came a youth to the shore alone,
His step was light--his air was free,
And his glittering eye flashed joyously--
He knelt him down on the printless sand,
And in the hollow of his hand,
Dipped the clear waves, and o'er a stone,
A curious greyish stone, that stood
Just on the margin of the flood,
He sprinkled the drops, and half-sung, half-spoke,
In a low faint tone, that scarcely broke
The hush that hung round that wild shore,
The waters were silently creeping o'er--
"Stars are weeping
O'er the waves,
Winds are sleeping
In their caves--
'Tis the hour,
Then come to me,
By love's power
I conjure thee--
Quickly come
Unto me,
From thy coral home
Under the sea."
"Beautiful spirit,
Hear my call--
Ocean! bear it
To her hall
Where she twines
Her yellow hair
By light that shines
From diamonds there!
Bid her come
Unto me,
From her coral home
Under the sea."
* * * * *
"Does she wait to deck
With gems her hair?
Tell her I nothing reck
Of jewels rare,
Other than those eyes
So wildly bright--
They dim the starred skies
With their purer light.
Ocean Spirit come--
Oh! come to me,
From thy coral home
Beneath the sea."
He paused, and silent stood
In listening attitude--
His head bent forward, and his eye
Gazing with fixed intensity;
A low sad tone
Came o'er the wave
Like the wind's faint moan
In a hollow cave,
Throughout the echoing archways sighing,
Then in mysterious whispers dying--
And all was calm and still again,
So still--the place might seem to be
The grave of sound.--Oh! mournfully
From the noiseless sands the youth turned then,
And slowly upward from the shore
His step retraced, with a heavy heart,
And dimming eye, as those who part
With something much loved and cherished of yore.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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