ODE ON IDLENESS.

———

BY T. YARDLEY.

———

With walking wearied, sat I, at the time

When, pausing far above the world, the sun

Seems musing whether he shall higher climb

The pathway up to heaven; or the one

Retrace till eve, which was at morn begun;

Or drive his cloud-clad coursers from the shade

Where lie the lightnings when the storm is done,

And where the rainbows by the saints are made,

O’er many a western wild and island everglade.

’Twas one of those sweet noons the restless soul

Most loves to dream of. Just enough of breeze

To chase the overheated air and roll

Away in music. Silent symphonies,

Among the olden avenues of trees,

The spirit gathered, weaving into wings,

To waft it up through space-encircling seas,

Whose waves are inspiration, and where rings

The octave of the spheres, with quiv’ring echoings.

My ever eager eyes, with quenchless thirst,

Drank in the glory of the scene. Before,

Commingling mountains, indistinct at first

And far, sublimely rose: each range would o’er

The rearward, slow-ascending summits soar,

Like some vast army on the Appenines,

With all the bright artillery of war,

Banners of painted clouds, with proud designs,

Helmets and jeweled shields along the glitt’ring lines.

Below me slept a valley, with its fields

O’erflowing with the ripe and yellow corn:

And harvesters, whose distance-mellowed peals

Of laughter touched the ear, as echoes borne

At vesper hour from some far Alpine horn,

Reclined, at length, beside a narrow stream

That lingered lullingly beneath its worn,

Wild-blossomed banks awhile, and then would gleam

Away and windingly, like music in a dream.

Slow sloping shores, o’er-velveted with green—

Old oaks, which, sighing softly, seemed aware

That summer is not always, as between

Their branches breathed the wing-unweary air—

Blue skies that bent above, serenely fair—

And tinklings faint of distant bells among

The snowy sheep and herds of kine, that where

The grass was deepest browsed—gave to the young,

Reposing there, an Eden-hour, and brightly hung,

Round age’s mem’ries, as at eventide,

By lighted lamps, glow carved transparencies.

I felt the perfume-freighted zephyrs glide

On tiptoe by me from the midst of these:

And as they whispered lowly, by degrees

My brain grew dizzy with felicity;

And fancy, with the warm realities,

Mingled such floating, fairy imagery,

That all was isles of Greece and air of Italy.

There seemed low music swelling from afar.

Which, as it nearer came, grew lovelier;

And then smooth, iv’ry voices, such as are

Heard only from some heavenly messenger,

With harp-like pinions, warning ere we err

In words that die not, and through after time,

When evil tempts us, draw us nearer her.

And as in thought I saw the Past, sublime,

With many a sunny sky and calm Arcadian clime,

The cooling rippling of the stream of song

More deeply in its tone went sweeping by;

For other rills, its winding way along,

Had mingled with its waters leapingly.

And skimming swift the waves with ear and eye,

I found the fountains whence the river came—

A group of singing sylphs—and standing by

The one that looked the queen, though robed the same,

And languishingly lovely—Idleness her name.

Her dark, luxuriant hair fell loosely o’er

A neck that said a thousand things unthinking,

And soft as if ’twere only fashioned for

A pillow to support a loved head sinking

Beneath the draught, deliriously drinking,

Of her resistless beauty; and her eyes

Were open volumes, which, like planets blinking,

Seemed saying, “Read us, all around us lies

The starry Infinite—the realm of Mysteries.”

Her thoughts environed me, for with a smile

And gesture of her hand, the group arose;

And pausing as they neared me, for awhile,

Drew round, encircling, in converging rows,

Enshrouding me in incense. A repose

Crept through my senses, such as sweetly stole

Over the Lotus-eaters—such as throws

Its dreamy spells around the bounding soul,

Like silken lassos, where the waves of Lethé roll.

And I was borne aloft through azure air,

Her warm, white arms around me, and her cheek

Close pressed to mine; her cooling, curling hair

Bathing my temples, as in Easter week,

In Rome’s cathedrals, ere the Fathers speak,

They lave in holy-water. Unopposed,

My burning, lightning-learning lips would seek

With hers communion; and though undisclosed

The secrets whispered, yet our hearts full well supposed.

We floated on, with wings extended wide,

To that fair region, where the thoughts of men,

The holiest they breathe, like angels glide,

Gathering the purely beautiful, and then

Returning laden to the earth again—

Imagination’s realm—the vast Unknown,

Full of as glorious images as when

The first Thought-angel gazed within, alone,

And will be while the world has evil to atone.

I touched Futurity’s thrice veiled domain.

And felt the moments of swift coming years

Fall sparklingly around me, like the rain

From over-heavy clouds of unwept tears,

Dropping through sunlight; while my eager ears

Caught from far sounding avenues, a name

Like mine, breathed in the tones affection hears

Swelling so sweetly on the earth the same,

Though lowly laid in flowers, the lips from whence they came.

My brain reeled with repletion, and no more,

Through such celestial scenes, and thus to be

Clothed with mortality, could I explore.

Fading, still fading slowly, I could see

The rolling prairie-land of Poesy,

Blooming with stars, and eastwardly a light,

Like the full moon rising gloriously,

Which streamed o’er it from Heaven—then our flight,

Unwilled, was earthward, with the soul’s archangel, Night.

Full many a shadow o’er the sun and me,

Subduing both a time, has passed since then;

And darker, colder ones in store may be

Unopened, with the woes awaiting men:

But still, in rose-wreathed summer, sometimes, when

The hour is noontide, and the noontide fair,

Sweet Idleness bends over me again

And whispers of Elysium—while Care

Flaps her broad, vulture wings and melts away in air.