Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

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

John Milton Harney (1789–1825)

The Knight pursued, impatient of delay:

Dark was that vale, of tall gigantic wood,

The grim abode of elves and beasts of blood;

The couchant tiger scream’d as they pass’d by,

And on them wildly roll’d his meteor-eye!

The wolf sprang frighted from the crackling brake,

And in their pathway coil’d the hissing snake.

High o’er their heads, umbrageous oaks outspread

Their giant arms, and awful murmurs made.

Scarce had they reach’d the centre of the vale,

When lo! black clouds, before a northern gale,

Came sweeping on, and with a dusky veil

Shrouded the moon—the mountain tops, oak crown’d,

Toss’d in the storm, and echoed to the sound

Of trees uptorn, and thunders rolling round.

They sat them down beneath an aged oak,

Which, though late riven by a thunder-stroke,

Seem’d tempest-proof, and there the fearless Knight

Waited impatient for returning light.

Tremendous scene! the prowlers of the wood

Stopp’d in mid-chase and spared their victim’s blood,

Fled to their caves, or crouching with alarm,

Howl’d at the passing spirits of the storm!

Eye-blasting spectres and bleach’d skeletons,

With snow-white raiment, and disjointed bones,

Before them strode; and meteors, flickering dire,

Around them trail’d their scintillating fire,

Livid and pale as light of funeral pyre.

Serenely grand, the venerable Sage

Beheld the scene and heard the tempest rage,

Then rose abruptly, and with accents dire,

Bade the fierce demons of the storm retire!

The clouds dispersed; again the tranquil moon

Sat in mid sky upon her silver throne,

And heaven’s blue vault with stars unnumber’d shone.

No sound was heard, save where the torrent hoar

Down the steep mountain fell with sullen roar,

Or far away, exploding long and loud,

The deep-toned thunder rent the fiery cloud.

Then thus, beneath the thunder-riven oak,

The hoary wizard to Rinaldo spoke—

“See’st thou yon glade, where quivering moon-beams play,

Like dancing spectres on a tomb-stone gray?

In that still glade, a fairy-circle lies—

When Cynthia, Night’s torch-bearer, lights the skies

There sportive Fairies dance till Phœbus rise;

If so thou dar’st, approach that circle dread,

And thrice three times around it boldly tread.

Then shall the earth beneath thy feet expand,

And a dark road disclose to Fairy land.”

The Hermit ceased, and by the dim moon-light,

Rinaldo spied the circle, glistening bright.

Back to his cave the old magician went,

Whilst bold Rinaldo towards the circle bent

His desperate course—his temper’d steel he drew,

And thrice around the mystic circle flew.

Then rose from earth deep groans and fearful cries,

And lurid meteors shot along the skies.

When round the ring he hurried thrice again,

The earth sent up a blue sulphureous flame,

That burnt and quiver’d like a dying lamp—

But on he press’d with firm and fearless tramp.

Now when nine times the Knight had hasted round,

The hollow earth sent forth a rumbling sound,

And, wide and sudden, yawn’d the rocking ground.

Down the dark chasm the desp’rate warrior strode,

With random steps along a viewless road;

Till massy rocks his onward march opposed,

And o’er his head the earth in thunder closed;

But soon a passage in the cloven stone

With joy he found, and boldly hurried on.

But slow and cautious, with his pond’rous spear,

Poised his bold march along the labyrinth drear.

Through rayless glooms; through silence deep and dread,

Down, downward far the dismal cavern led.

At length beneath him shone a silver light,

Like glow-worm twinkling through the gloom of night,

And tuneful sounds, celestial, high, and clear,

Rose from beneath and charm’d his wondering ear.

Thither he sped, and from the narrow way

Sprang with delight into a realm of day,

And upright stood upon the radiant plain

Of Fairy land, a heavenly domain.

O! ’twas a valley of enchanting view,

Where all things lovely and delightful grew;

Where groves of orange, cinnamon, and myrrh,

Trees that bled frankincense and balsams rare,

With grateful odors fill’d the breezy air—

Elysian groves of harmony and flowers,

Leafy pavilions and ambrosial bowers;

With many a mead, and many a winding stream,

Glade flowering fair, and glittering lake between.

Not the spiced breeze, from Ceylon’s groves that springs,

Or shakes Arabian odors from its wings;

Not shining gardens of Hesperides,

Whose golden rivers and auriferous trees,

The setting sun from his prone chariot sees,

Nor aught on earth for fragrance could compare,

Nor yet for beauty with this valley fair.

This gay, celestial valley to enclose,

Mountains sublime in even circle rose,

And towering high, on tip-toe seem’d to stand,

To gaze enchanted on the radiant land.

Glowing aloft a golden cloud was spread,

Whose splendid vault a rich effulgence shed

On all below—for sun, nor moon, nor star

Was ever seen, or ever needed there.

Like a vast amphitheatre it seem’d,

With mountain-walls; from storm and sunshine screen’d

By costly canopy of sheeted gold—

But greater far and fairer to behold.

In sweet amaze and exultation high,

O’er all the scene the youth directs his eye—

His wilder’d thoughts in floods of rapture float,

And time, and place, and being are forgot—

“Celestial visions!” cried th’ astonish’d Knight—

“Ye golden prospects that enchant my sight!

Are ye indeed substantial? or but vain,

And wild illusions of a love-sick brain?

Methinks I dream!” When thus Rinaldo said,

His well-known self, he doubtfully survey’d,

And waved his arm and shook his plumed head.

But soon the memory of his captive love

The sweet amazement from his senses drove.

“Fair land!” he cried—“and dangerous as fair,

A foe to thy prosperity is near;

Darkness shall soon thy saffron skies o’erwhelm—

I come to spoil thee of thy richest gem—

But where, where fly to find my captive fair?

No cities, fields, or cottages appear.

’T is desert all—th’ unnumber’d flow’rets sweet

Lift their gay heads unbruised by living feet;

Even at my hand the fearless songsters sing,

And round me flutter with familiar wing;

Or ’mid the flowers, like sunbeams, glance about,

Sipping with slender tongues the dainty nectar out.

He ceased, and now a glittering palace sees,

Deep in the vale amid embowering trees!

A splendid pile of precious gems it seems,

Wrapt in a blaze of variegated beams—

With cautious steps he thither bent his way,

Whilst all around, irradiations gay

Full on his pathway beam’d celestial day.

He trode on carpets, gorgeously display’d,

Of woven flowers and grassy verdure made.

From all the waving trees, the plumy throngs,

Welcomed the warlike stranger with their songs

And lo! from bowers of myrtle, fair and green,

A choir of damsels dance with smiling mien!

Their silken robes the playful zephyrs throw

From side to side, and wantonly bestow

Delightful glimpses of their limbs of snow.

With lily-hands they strike the trembling strings

Of golden lyres—the grove responsive rings,

Soothing his soul with endless echoings.

Towards the palace, silent and alone

The hero moved—afar the fabric shone

Like gorgeous clouds that throng the setting sun:

But ere he reach’d that palace, huge and bright,

A glorious scene detain’d the wondering Knight—

A pearly river! whose melodious tide

Laved golden shores! whose banks were beautified

With trees wide-waving, paridisian bowers

And all the gaudy multitude of flowers

That on spring’s lap the liberal Flora showers.

This stream, dividing, roll’d its branches twain,

In circling sweep around a flowery plain,

Through vocal groves, then fondly met again.

The Islet fair, so form’d, arose between,

With dome-like swell, array’d in richest green.

So fair it was, so smooth, so heavenly sweet,

It seem’d made only for angelic feet.

On this green isle the splendid palace stood,

And rainbow bridges arch’d the pearly flood—

A fairer bow fair Juno ne’er display’d

In vernal skies, though not, like Juno’s, made

Of subtle sun-beams, but of solid gems,

Such as adorn imperial diadems.

Its blue was solid sapphire. Its gay green

Was massy emerald. The ruby sheen

Form’d its bright curve of rich and rosy red;

Its yellow hue the golden topaz shed.

Seem’d either end on snow-white clouds to lie—

They were not clouds, but sculptured ivory!

And now a bugle breathed a silver sound,

Whose notes with soft reverberations, round

Rang sweet and long; now silently unfold

The diamond gates on hinge of polish’d gold;

And now rode out a fairy cavalcade

In order’d march; with banners bright display’d,

With diamond lances and with golden helms,

And shields of gold emboss’d with sparkling gems,

Advanced the pageant; proud beneath each knight,

O’er grassy levels pranced their steeds milk-white,

Whose ivory hoofs in glittering silver shod,

With nimble grace on blushing flow’rets trod.

Prancing they came, and as the trumpets blew,

They neigh’d for pride, and arch’d their necks of snow;

Toss’d their proud heads indignant of the rein,

Champ’d their foam’d bits and paw’d the trembling plain.

Warrior and steed array’d for battle shone,

Whose burnish’d mail and bright caparison

Illumed, far round, the flower-enwoven field,

And restless splendors flash’d from shield to shield.

Loud in the van the wreathed bugle spoke,

Till woods and floods with martial clamors shook.

Now sad, amid a shady solitude,

On the green margin of a prattling flood,

Rinaldo paused—as there forlorn he stood,

The swell of distant melody he heard;

Anon, a golden chariot appear’d,

Proudly advancing, drawn by peacocks fair,

With gorgeous plumery, dancing in the air.

On that bright chariot, in imperial state,

The queen of Oberon, fair Titania, sate:

On downy cushion, rich with gold and green,

Aloft she sat, like Jove’s celestial queen,

When, through the skies, she drives her glowing car,

And gazing gods adore her from afar.

Around Titania, youths and damsels throng,

Warbling, with dulcet breath, a magic song,

Whose mazy tide intoxicates the soul—

From neighboring rocks a thousand echoes roll

The refluent sounds, and fondly multiply,

With busy tongues, th’ angelic harmony.

In robes of green, fresh youths the concert led,

Measuring, the while, with nice, emphatic tread

Of tinkling sandals, the melodious sound

Of smitten timbrels; some, with myrtles crown’d,

Pour the smooth current of sweet melody,

Through ivory tubes; some blow the bugle free,

And some, at happy intervals, around,

With trumps sonorous swell the tide of sound;

Some, bending raptured o’er their golden lyres,

With cunning fingers fret the tuneful wires;

With rosy lips, some press the syren shell,

And through its crimson labyrinths, impel

Mellifluous breath, with artful sink and swell.

Some blow the mellow, melancholy horn,

Which, save the Knight, no man of woman born,

E’er heard and fell not senseless to the ground,

With viewless fetters of enchantment bound.

The nodding trees its magic influence own,

And, spell-struck, drop their golden clusters down;

The forests quaver, and elysian bowers,

With pleasing tremors shed their fragrant flowers.

An awful silence, winds and waters keep;

And spell-chain’d brooks, that bound from steep to steep,

On jutting rocks, delay their headlong leap.

The cross alone, the holy cross disarms

The Fairy fiends, and baffles all their charms.

SONGS OF THE SEER.