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Ebenezer Jones (Эбенизер Джонс) Ode to Thought WHETHER you make futurity your home, Spirits of thought! Or past eternity;--come to me, come! For you have long been sought: I've looked to meet you in the morning's dawn, Often, in vain; I've followed to her haunts the wild young fawn; Through sunshine, and through rain, I have waited long and fondly; surely you will come, Familiarly as doves returning to their home. Oh! I have need of you; if you forsake My troubled mind, Whence can it strength and consolation take, Or peace or pleasure find? For the great sake of the eternal spring Of all your might,-- Unto me desolate, some comfort bring; Unto me dark, some light: Come crowdingly, and swift, that I may see, Upon your wings their native radiancy. I know that ye must have a glorious dwelling:-- Whether it rise Past mortal ken, where the old winds are swelling Choired cries; Whether, like eagles, on some lunar mountain Ye fold your wings; Or sport beside that rosy and tranquil fountain, Whence daylight springs; I know your home is beautiful; and this belief Brings glowing sunshine through the cloudiness of grief. Come not with softened utterance of the song, That gushes in your land; But as ye hear it, undisturbed, and strong, Pour it where now I stand; A glorious echo these hanging cliffs shall roll O'er this great sea; However far it speed, shall speed my soul Thrice lifted with glee; Will it not lead where I may clearly see, Countries whose low is love, whose custom, liberty! There is a noise within this tranquil heaven! This ocean has a voice! Through these tall trees a mighty tone is driven, That bids me to rejoice. In the clear greenness of these tumbling waters, I see a face, Exceeding far in beauty man's pale daughters! Bright and unwavering grace Sits around its brows, proclaiming heavenly glory; Around it leap the waves, roaring to whiteness hoary. Ye come! ye come! like stars down the dark night, Bolding leaping! I hear the mighty rushing of your flight, Loud music sweeping. The unconceived splendour of your speed, Is not more great Than the oceanic choirings that precede And tide your state; Fill me with strength to bear, and power to tell, The wonders gathering round, that man may love me well. Ebenezer Jones's other poems: Распечатать (Print) Количество обращений к стихотворению: 1233 |
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