by H.
Originally published in The New Monthly Magazine (Henry Colburn) vol.1 #4 (Apr 1821).
After the sleep of night, as some still Lake
Displays the cloudless Heavens in reflection,
And, dimpled by the breezes, seems to break
Into a waking smile of recollection,
As if from its calm depths the morning light
Call'd up the pleasant dreams that gladden'd night:—
So does the azure of those laughing eyes
Reflect a mental Heaven of thine own;
In that illumined smile I recognize
The sunlight of a sphere to us unknown;
Thou hast been dreaming of some previous bliss
In other worlds, for thou art new to this.
Hast thou been wafted to Elysian bowers,
In some blest star where thou hast pre-existed;
Inhaled th' ecstatic fragrancy of flowers
Around the golden harps of Seraphs twisted,
Or heard those nightingales of Paradise
Pour thrilling songs and choral harmonies?
Perchance all breathing life is but an essence
From the great Fountain Spirit in the sky,
And thou hast dreamt of that transcendant presence
Whence thou hast fall'n, a dew-drop from on high,
Destined to lose, as thou shalt mix with earth,
Those bright recallings of thy heavenly birth.
We deem thy mortal memory not begun,—
But hast thou no remembrance of the past;
No lingering twilight of a former sun,
Which o'er thy slumbering faculties hath cast
Shadows of unimaginable things,
Too high or deep for human fathomings?
Perchance, while reason's earliest flush is brightening
Athwart thy brain, celestial sights are given;
As skies that open to let out the lightning
Disclose a transitory glimpse of Heaven;
And thou art wrapt in visions, all too bright
For aught but Cherubim, and Infant's sight.
Emblem of heavenly purity and bliss,—
Mysterious type which none can understand,
Let me with reverence approach to kiss
Limbs lately touch'd by the Creator's hand:—
So awful art thou, that I feel more prone
To claim thy blessing than bestow mine own.