The Blossing Of The Solitary Date-Tree
Lines:52
Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are the Thrones ofFrost, through the absence of objects to reflect the rays. `What no onewith us shares, seems scarce our own.' The presence of a ONE, The best belov'd, who loveth me the best, is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the hollowglobe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and all without, thatwould have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes a burthenand crushes it into flatness. II The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and the fairer andlovelier the object presented to the sense ; the more exquisite theindividual's capacity of joy, and the more ample his means andopportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he feel the ache ofsolitariness, the more unsubstantial becomes the feast spread around him.What matters it, whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces areshadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms to embrace them? III Hope, Imagination, honourable Aims,Free Commune with the choir that cannot die,Science and Song, delight in little things,The buoyant child surviving in the man ;Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,With all their voices--O dare I accuseMy earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,Or call my destiny niggard ! O no ! no !It is her largeness, and her overflow,Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! IV For never touch of gladness stirs my heart,But tim'rously beginning to rejoiceLike a blind Arab, that from sleep doth startIn lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.Belovйd ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there !Then melts the bubble into idle air,And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. V The mother with anticipated gleeSmiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chairAnd flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee,Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepareTo mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sightShe hears her own voice with a new delight ;And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright, VI Then is she tenfold gladder than before !But should disease or chance the darling take,What then avail those songs, which sweet of yoreWere only sweet for their sweet echo's sake ?Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's kneeWas e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee :Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me ?