VERNAL ODE
Rerum Natura tota est nusquam magis quam in minimis. –PLIN. “Nat. Hist.” I BENEATH the concave of an April sky, When all the fields with freshest green were dight, Appeared, in presence of the spiritual eye That aids or supersedes our grosser sight, The form and rich habiliments of One Whose countenance bore resemblance to the sun, When it reveals, in evening majesty, Features half lost amid their own pure light. Poised like a weary cloud, in middle air He hung,–then floated with angelic ease (Softening that bright effulgence by degrees) Till he had reached a summit sharp and bare, Where oft the venturous heifer drinks the noontide breeze. Upon the apex of that lofty cone Alighted, there the Stranger stood alone; Fair as a gorgeous Fabric of the east Suddenly raised by some enchanter’s power, Where nothing was; and firm as some old Tower Of Britain’s realm, whose leafy crest Waves high, embellished by a gleaming shower! II Beneath the shadow of his purple wings Rested a golden harp;–he touched the strings; And, after prelude of unearthly sound Poured through the echoing hills around, He sang– “No wintry desolations, Scorching blight or noxious dew, Affect my native habitations; Buried in glory, far beyond the scope Of man’s inquiring gaze, but to his hope Imaged, though faintly, in the hue Profound of night’s ethereal blue; And in the aspect of each radiant orb;– Some fixed, some wandering with no timid curb: But wandering star and fixed, to mortal eye, Blended in absolute serenity, And free from semblance of decline;– Fresh as if Evening brought their natal hour, Her darkness splendour gave, her silence power To testify of Love and Grace divine. III “What if those bright fires Shine subject to decay, Sons haply of extinguished sires, Themselves to lose their light, or pass away Like clouds before the wind, Be thanks poured out to Him whose hand bestows, Nightly, on human kind That vision of endurance and repose. –And though to every draught of vital breath Renewed throughout the bounds of earth or ocean, The melancholy gates of Death Respond with sympathetic motion; Though all that feeds on nether air, Howe’er magnificent or fair, Grows but to perish, and entrust Its ruins to their kindred dust; Yet, by the Almighty’s ever-during care, Her procreant vigils Nature keeps Amid the unfathomable deeps; And saves the peopled fields of earth From dread of emptiness or dearth. Thus, in their stations, lifting tow’rd the sky The foliaged head in cloud-like majesty, The shadow-casting race of trees survive: Thus, in the train of Spring, arrive Sweet flowers;–what living eye hath viewed Their myriads?–endlessly renewed, Wherever strikes the sun’s glad ray; Where’er the subtle waters stray; Wherever sportive breezes bend Their course, or genial showers descend! Mortals, rejoice! the very Angels quit Their mansions unsusceptible of change, Amid your pleasant bowers to sit, And through your sweet vicissitudes to range!” IV Oh, nursed at happy distance from the cares Of a too-anxious world, mild pastoral Muse! That, to the sparkling crown Urania wears, And to her sister Clio’s laurel wreath, Prefer’st a garland culled from purple heath, Or blooming thicket moist with morning dews; Was such bright Spectacle vouchsafed to me? And was it granted to the simple ear Of thy contented Votary Such melody to hear! ‘Him’ rather suits it, side by side with thee, Wrapped in a fit of pleasing indolence, While thy tired lute hangs on the hawthorn-tree, To lie and listen–till o’er-drowsed sense Sinks, hardly conscious of the influence– To the soft murmur of the vagrant Bee. –A slender sound! yet hoary Time Doth to the ‘Soul’ exalt it with the chime Of all his years;–a company Of ages coming, ages gone; (Nations from before them sweeping, Regions in destruction steeping,) But every awful note in unison With that faint utterance, which tells Of treasure sucked from buds and bells, For the pure keeping of those waxen cells; Where She–a statist prudent to confer Upon the common weal; a warrior bold, Radiant all over with unburnished gold, And armed with living spear for mortal fight; A cunning forager That spreads no waste; a social builder; one In whom all busy offices unite With all fine functions that afford delight– Safe through the winter storm in quiet dwells! V And is She brought within the power Of vision?–o’er this tempting flower Hovering until the petals stay Her flight, and take its voice away!– Observe each wing!–a tiny van! The structure of her laden thigh, How fragile! yet of ancestry Mysteriously remote and high; High as the imperial front of man; The roseate bloom on woman’s cheek; The soaring eagle’s curved beak; The white plumes of the floating swan; Old as the tiger’s paw, the lion’s mane Ere shaken by that mood of stern disdain At which the desert trembles.–Humming Bee! Thy sting was needless then, perchance unknown, The seeds of malice were not sown; All creatures met in peace, from fierceness free, And no pride blended with their dignity. –Tears had not broken from their source; Nor Anguish strayed from her Tartarean den; The golden years maintained a course Not undiversified though smooth and even; We were not mocked with glimpse and shadow then, Bright Seraphs mixed familiarly with men; And earth and stars composed a universal heaven! 1817.