My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, t ; EPIPSYCHIDION. ADVERTIZEMENT. THE Writer of the following Lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realized a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier 5 and better world of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was singular; less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently 10 intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history of the circumstances to which it relates; and to a certain other class it must ever remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a common organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, 15 che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento. The present poem appears to have been intended by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza on 20 the opposite page is almost a literal translation from Dante's famous Canzone Voi, ch' intendendo, il terzo ciel movete, etc. The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my 25 unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. S. EPIPSYCHIDION. SWEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of withered memory. Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, High, spirit-wingèd Heart! who dost for ever Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal Curse! Veiled Glory of this lampless Universe! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror! I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through, 30 35 Then smile on it, so that it may not die. I never thought before my death to see I love thee; though the world by no thin name Would we two had been twins of the same mother! Or, that the name my heart lent to another These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, I am not thine: I am a part of thee. Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings; 40 45 50 Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, 55 All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, 60 Which moves not in the moving Heavens, alone? A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A Lute, which those whom love has taught to play She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade 65 70 75 80 85 90 |