Ariel’s Song

I’ll quarry the sapphire sunset For blocks of purple air, And over the floor of ocean I’ll build me a palace rare; The South wind through its chambers By day and night shall blow, Fanning my brow with odors, With lovesick whispers low.

Eolian lutes shall murmur Their breezy notes to me, And amber-tressed merwomen My servitors shall be; By showery sunbeams paven With tessellated light, My ivory floors shall glitter A marvel to the sight.

And when my lids are heavy, With slumber’s dews oppressed, A pale-lipped shell shall circle My limbs reclined in rest; The pillars of my mansion Full proudly shall aspire, Their corbels wrought and woven Of opalescent fire.

My torches shall be kindled At wells of Naptha fine, And myrrhine urns shall bubble With draughts of Elfin wine; Those gardens, which the daughters Of Hesper sow and till, With golden-rinded melons My fragrant board shall fill.

The vaunted barge of Cydnus My shallop shall outvie, With silken cables furnished, With sails of purple dye; Its deck in halcyon weather Shall bear me o’er the main— Its argent beak shall follow Apollo’s sinking wain.

Where abid’st thou, prophet mighty? Whom the fiery horses drew Skyward from the Jordan’s rivage, Till they faded from the view,— Past the sceptre of Uriel, Regent of the solar fire, Past the starry Lion couchant, And the planet-chorded Lyre;

Till the citadels of Heaven O’er the Sea of Jasper flamed, And thy wingëd yoke in triumph At its golden gates was reined; Thou hast clomb the grades of splendor, As the ages rolled away, Till at length cherubic legions Thee as hierarch obey.

But thy fatherland has fallen From the might of other days; The anathemas of Ebal Blight and wither all its race. Gone the ivory house of pleasure, Where the Syrian cedars grew, Where the minions of Astarte Could a monarch’s heart subdue;

Gone the carven lion-warders From that monarch’s jewelled throne— But the genii malignant Still his mighty signet own; Still his song instinct with passion, Like a string of rubies glows; Than the vaunted lays of Teïos With a sweeter cadence flows.

On her monumental scroll Let these syllables be seen; Meek Griselda was no dream, No ideal of the soul.

Softly slumbers one below, Who an equal worth could claim With that visionary dame, Drawn by poet long ago.

Face more beautiful and mild Than the buried maiden bore, Never blessed the earth before, Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled.

Through her lineaments of white Blushed the morning’s healthy hue, And her eye of tender blue Was with softest lustre bright.

Like the Mother sad and fair, The Madonna in the skies, She was patient, sinless, wise, And of gentleness most rare.

In the mansion where she died, All is silent, drear and lone; In the yard the lindens moan— Through the chambers shadows glide.