Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By A Poet’s Reverie

James W. Miller

TTHE CALM, reposing shades of evening hours,

Thrown from the forest-tops on fields of flowers;

The gentle hill-side sloping to the plain;

The faint blue islet on the distant main;

And, over all, the reaching bend of sky,

Where floating clouds pass on, and others lie

In heavenly watch, that the gone sun hath shaded

With hues like rainbow arches broke and braided;

With idle oar uplift, the gliding barge,

O’er winding waters, with close-shaven marge;

And then, the wavy voices of the tide,

Lapsing along the narrowing river’s side;

The low winds, passing mute across the plain,

Then murmuring their forest tones again,

And freshening to a cool and plaintive breeze,

Catching a dirge-like measure from the trees;

Such scenes before mine eye, such sounds that glide

Along the woody path and water’s side,

Fling on my mind a deep poetic feeling,

From every hue and tone a beauty stealing:

Like a rich mantle it comes folding o’er me,

Woven of all the harmonies before me;

And then I close my eyes, and seem to see,

Within, the feeling thus enthralling me.

In such a musing mood a vision pass’d

Sudden before me, and was still—then cast

Off from mine eye the dream’s obscurity,

And was unveil’d, in its fine mystery.

Such reveries the sages of old days

Were wont to have, and call them visiting rays

From caring Deities, that they might then

Bless, with good thoughts and truth, the souls of men;

And on their eyes holy revealings broke,

And in their ears great teaching voices spoke.

The vision. It came forth, and there it stood,

And I beheld it; the tall, solemn wood

Smiled greenly in the slant sunbeams, that linger’d

Yet on the hovering cloud shapes, rosy finger’d,

Pointing Day’s hidden place; along its edges

Wander’d a brooklet, loosing, ’neath the sedges

Frequent its silver course, and only telling

Its secret roaming by its musical welling;

And thence went down the long smooth slope; below

Spread out the meadow, with its exquisite show

Of tall grass waving verdantly, and flowers,

Lifting their grateful eyes for morning showers;

And clumps of bunchy hazel; farther still

Went by the river, as if with grave will

Going down straight, or curving with strong grace,

Passing, for ever, to his destined place.

Yet the sweet vision. From the dusky verging

Of the gray wood’s recess it came emerging,

A dreamy shape, as of the sea-born daughter,

Light as a mist wreath o’er a moonlit water;

Yet with calm eye distinct, and lip and brow

Like the low sun-tints on a hill of snow.

She spake to me; her voice, the utterless tone

That comes down by us when we muse alone,

Calling our names familiarly, and when

We lift our pleased eyes, straight is still again.

Poet, with bent ear, to thee

Call I, the spirit of poesy.

Music’s elder sister I,

That dwell i’ the earth, and sea, and sky,

Chosen from my birth to be

Attendant on the Deity.

And through air, and earth, and sea,

By his power, I speak to thee.

My voice is in the “thunder’s mouth,”

And in the breath of the sweet south;

In the hollow sounding sea

Of storms; and in its quiet glee,

When the winds of summer run

Along the pathways of the sun.

I am in the torrent’s going,

And the brooklet’s silver flowing;

In the great, heart-chilling cranch

Of the coming avalanche,

When the groaning forests cower,

Like slaves beneath his steps of power,

And beast, and bird, and peasant cry

Once, in death’s strong agony—

All noises of destruction blending;

And in the flaky snow’s descending,

On whose feathery, printless bed,

Silence lies embodied.

When the pleasant spring-time comes

To palaces and cotter’s homes,

My voice is in the low heard laughings

That stir in the air, like fairy quaffings;

’T is I who tune the summer trees

To their soft breezy cadences,

And in their autumn wails draw near

To sing a moral in man’s ear

I, who in the pattering rain

Soothe the dying harvest’s pain,

So my liquid talkings then

Are happy sounds to husbandmen.

When the lighten’d clouds go by,

Unveiling the sun’s great eye,

I soar up in its warm blaze,

And divide the coming rays;

Contriving, with poetic knowing,

What bending tints to wreathe his bow in;

Then, when my gamut is complete,

I tread it with my silver feet,

Till the depths of ether ring

To the soft tints mingling;

It was my stealing voice that came,

On the glance of morning’s flame,

To old Memnon’s shrine, to make

Tones divine, for mystery’s sake.

Through the dark earth’s cavy halls,

Ore to ore in music calls;

And gem to glancing gem, by me

Is stirr’d with answering melody.

Mine is all the harmony

Of sounds to hear, and sights to see;

All the joy of the glad earth,

And the blue sky’s holier mirth.

I, with calm consistency,

Unroll the mazes of the sky;

That the sage’s soul may scan

The Deity’s harmonious plan,

So his thought to men may tell

The orderings that in heaven do dwell,

That worn age, and prime, and youth,

Alike may know of God’s good truth.

Then, poet, bend thine ear to me,

Attendant on the Deity.

Thus as she spake, all things appear’d to see

And feel the presence of divinity.

The brooks went downward with a gladlier cheer;

The trees bow’d gently, with rejoicing fear;

Beneath her feet the gay earth shone new-vested,

And o’er her head a skyey glory rested;

Her beck was to me, and my thought once more

Heard her calm voice, more serious than before.

Mortal, dost thou seek to find

The rich joy of deathless mind?

Would’st thou have thine heart to be

Full of fine humanity?

Would’st familiarly converse

With this beautiful universe,

And have all its excellence

Pour’d upon thy spirit’s sense;

All loveliness pause in thine eye,

And its dark things pass thee by,

Feeling all that God hath given

Of happiness below his heaven?

Bow to me: and I will come,

Bringing peace to thy calm home;

Touching all its eyes to shine

With a lustre caught from thine;

Lightening, with happy ease,

All thy social companies;

Giving all their songs and smiles

Merriment and witful wiles;

And in all their gentle doing

Hearty friendliness imbuing.

Yet should sorrow come to steal

Aught from thee of cheer or weal,

Ill fortune of thy store bereave thee,

All thy friends of sunshine leave thee,

And, like hurrying clouds that flee

O’er the noon’s tranquillity,

Cares, and strong anxieties

Darkly o’er thy couch arise;

Then thee by the hand I ’ll take,

And lead thee by the quiet lake,

So look upon its skyey plain,

Till thy heart grow calm again;

Or, beneath the springing joy

Of the blue day’s canopy,

By the hill-side, where have birth

Fountain streams that bless the earth,

Till thy spirit shall rejoice

Freshly in their gushing voice,

I would give the recompense

Of my generous influence,

That thou should’st not sigh for aught

By wasting care and toiling bought.

Brazen Fame’s peace-scaring noise,

And Ambition’s lightning toys,

Should be discord to thine ear,

And darkness to thine eye appear;

Thou shouldst gladly flee away

From the rude world’s busy fray,

In my bowers to build thine home,

And in my pleasant ways to roam.

I would bring, for thy content,

Good things of each element;

And all beautiful should be

Subservient to thy gaiety.

Thou shouldst climb the mountain top,

And hear its piny tones come up;

Watching, with a glad surprise,

To see the glorious sun uprise;

Then go down beside the brook,

Whiffling from a leafy nook,

And, resting there beneath the tree,

I would whisper dreams to thee.

When the spring-day sun was bright,

Thou shouldst walk with fancies light;

And the opening forest’s sheen,

Cool thine eye with its soft green.

What time mournful autumn grieves

Through the sere wood’s falling leaves,

Thou shouldst cull their skeletons,

Where the shrouded streamlet runs,

And musing on their swift decay,

Know that thou art frail as they;

Then go home, with step sedate

And sober eye, to contemplate:

So I o’er thy heart would pour

The treasurings of Wisdom’s store.

If thou wouldst thy soul should live

In all of heaven that earth can give,

Mortal, bow thyself to me,

Favor’d of the Deity.

And silently I bow’d to her; and then

Wander’d above me one accepting strain,

And I rose up; of that sweet vision there

Was not one tint upon the dewy air.

Yet, o’er the pale hills of the distant west,

Went calmly down one golden star to rest;

And as on me its lingering glance was cast,

I knew her smile; thus had her spirit pass’d:

And in that moment, I became to her,

And yet am now, a happy worshipper.