The Genius Of Harmony. An Irregular Ode.

Ad harmoniam canere mundum.             CICERO "de Nat. Deor." lib. iii.         There lies a shell beneath the waves,         In many a hollow winding wreathed,                 Such as of old     Echoed the breath that warbling sea-maids breathed;                 This magic shell,         From the white bosom of a syren fell,     As once she wandered by the tide that laves                 Sicilia's sands of gold.                     It bears         Upon its shining side the mystic notes             Of those entrancing airs,[1]         The genii of the deep were wont to swell,     When heaven's eternal orbs their midnight music rolled!         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![2]                 And thou shalt own,         That, through the circle of creation's zone,         Where matter slumbers or where spirit beams;         From the pellucid tides,[3] 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,[4]     To the faint breath the tuneful osier yields                     On Afric's burning fields;[5]         Thou'lt wondering 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,[6]             Many a tear has Saturn's urn         O'er the cold bosom of the ocean wept,             Since thy aerial spell             Hath in the waters slept.                     Now blest I'll fly         With the bright treasure to my choral sky,             Where she, who waked its early swell,             The Syren of the heavenly choir.     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--     Oh son of earth, what dreams shall rise for thee!             Beneath Hispania's sun,             Thou'll see a streamlet run,         Which I've imbued with breathing melody;[7]     And there, when night-winds down the current die,     Thou'lt hear how like a harp its waters sigh:     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,     As never blest the slumbers even of him,[8]     Who, many a night, with his primordial lyre,             Sate on the chill Pangaean mount,[9]         And, looking to the orient dim,     Watched 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 ecstasy     Wafted his prayer to that eternal Power,     Whose seal upon this new-born world imprest     The various forms of bright divinity!         Or, dost thou know what dreams I wove,         Mid the deep horror of that silent bower,[10]     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,     Oh, mortal! such shall be thy radiant dreams.                  *             *             *             *             *     I found her not--the chamber seemed         Like some divinely haunted place     Where fairy forms had lately beamed,         And left behind their odorous trace!     It felt as if her lips had shed     A sigh around her, ere she fled,     Which hung, as on a melting lute,     When all the silver chords are mute,     There lingers still a trembling breath     After the note's luxurious death,     A shade of song, a spirit air     Of melodies which had been there.     I saw the veil, which, all the day,         Had floated o'er her cheek of rose;     I saw the couch, where late she lay         In languor of divine repose;     And I could trace the hallowed print         Her limbs had left, as pure and warm,     As if 'twere done in rapture's mint,         And Love himself had stamped the form.     Oh my sweet mistress, where wert thou?         In pity fly not thus from me;     Thou art my life, my essence now,         And my soul dies of wanting thee.