Invocation.
Hush’d is the world in night and sleep—
Earth, sea, and air are still as death;
Too rude to break a calm so deep
Were music’s faintest breath.
Descend, bright visions! from aërial bowers,
Descend to gild your own soft silent hours.
In hope or fear, in toil or pain,
The weary day have mortals pass’d;
Now, dreams of bliss! be yours to reign,
And all your spells around them cast;
Steal from their hearts the pang, their eyes the tear,
And lift the veil that hides a brighter sphere.
Oh, bear your softest balm to those
Who fondly, vainly, mourn the dead!
To them that world of peace disclose
Where the bright soul is fled:
Whore Love, immortal in his native clime,
Shall fear no pang from fate, no blight from time.
Or to his loved, his distant land
On your light wings the exile bear,
To feel once more his heart expand
In his own genial mountain-air;
Hear the wild echoes well-known strains repeat,
And bless each note, as heaven’s own music sweet.
But oh! with fancy’s brightest ray,
Blest dreams! the bard’s repose illume;
Bid forms of heaven around him play,
And bowers of Eden bloom!
And waft his spirit to its native skies
Who finds no charm in life’s realities.
No voice is on the air of night,
Through folded leaves no murmurs creep,
Nor star nor moonbeam’s trembling light
Falls on the placid brow of sleep.
Descend, bright visions! from your airy bower:
Dark, silent, solemn is your favourite hour.
[57] Vide Annotation from Quarterly Review, p. 62.