Poems / by James G. Percival [electronic text]

SONNETS.

I Stand upon the Mountains, 'mid a Sea.

I STAND upon the mountains, 'mid a sea Of rocks, and woods, and waters, vales and plains, Where smiling freedom clad in russet reigns, Beneath a cloudless, deep-blue canopy, Whereon, in sovereign pomp and majesty, The lord of day ascends his noontide throne, And looks o'er all, himself unviewed alone, Such is the burning brightness of his eye; And here with upward breast, and daring wing, And glance, that dwells undazzled on the blaze, And finds its home in those unclouded rays, From off these rocky battlements I spring, And soaring to a more etherial height, My pinions lift me on to Heaven's own world of light.

Monarch of Mountains! Whose Serenest Brow.

MONARCH of mountains! whose serenest brow, O'er clouds and storms uplifted, courts the sky, And gazes on the all-pervading eye, To which, in heartfelt awe, wide nations bow,

As Him, from whom their life and being flow— Monarch of mountains! at thy feet I lay The tribute of my wonder, and there pay The homage of a soul, to whom the bow Of glory, that encircles thee, when night Comes on in iris-splendour, and thy height Glows with unnumbered hues and seems on fire, And o'er thy pure snows rolls a wave of light— To whom these glories are a high delight, An inspiration and a deep desire, And would be Heaven, could I but hear an angel's lyre.

My Country—At the Sound of that Dear Name.

MY country—at the sound of that dear name The wanderer's heart awakens, nerved and bold; Before him stand the deeds and days of old, The tombs of ages, and the rolls of fame Sculptured on columns, where the living flame Of Freedom lights anew its fading ray, And glows in emulation of that day, When on their foes they stamped the brand of shame: Yes, at the thought of these bright trophies leaps The spirit in his bosom, and he turns His longing eye to where his parent sleeps, And high on rocks his country's beacon burns; And though the world be gayest, and sweet forms

Of love and beauty call him, he would fly, And walk delighted in her mountain storms, And man his soul with valour at her cry, And in the fiercest shock of battle die.

Now to My Task—Be Firm—The Work Requires.

NOW to my task—be firm—the work requires Cool reason, deep reflection—and the glow Of heart, that pours itself in restless flow, Must sleep, and fancy quench her beaming fires, And all my longings, hopes, and wild desires Must seek their slumberous pillow and be still; But energy must mantle o'er my will, And give the patient toil that never tires: For Nature stands before me, and invites My spirit to her sanctuary, and draws Aside her pictured veil, from where she writes In living letters her eternal laws; And as I stand amid the countless wheels, That roll the car of being on its way, A deep serene my silent bosom feels, I seem a portion of the viewless ray, And o'er me flows the light of pure, unfading day.

Come Forth, Fair Waters, from the Classic Spring.

COME forth, fair waters, from the classic spring, And let me quaff your nectar, that my soul May lift itself upon a bolder wing, And spurn awhile this being's base control. How many a cup of inspiration stole The bards from out thy sparkling well, and sung Strains high, and worthy of the kindling bowl, Till all Aonia and Hesperia rung.— And on the green isles of the ocean sprung A wilder race of minstrels, like the storm, Which beats their rocky bulwarks; there they strung A louder harp, and showed a prouder form; And sending o'er the sea their song, our shore Shall catch the sound, and silent sleep no more.

Farewell, Sad Flowers, that on a Desert Blow.

FAREWELL, sad flowers, that on a desert blow, Farewell! I plucked you from the Muses' bower, And wove you in a garland, which an hour Might on my aching eye enchantment throw— Your leaves are pale and withered, and your flow Of perfume wasted, your alluring power Has vanished like the fleeting April shower; Too lovely flowers to spread your leaves below— Sweet flowers! though withered, all the joy I know,

Is, when I breathe your balm, your wreathe intwine; And earth can only this delight bestow, That sometimes all your loveliness is mine; And then my frozen heart awhile will glow, And life have moments, in its path, divine!

Would I Were but a Spirit, Veiled in Light.

WOULD I were but a spirit, veiled in light, Wafted by winds of Heaven, from flower to flower, Catching, from bending blades, the crystal shower, When earth, impearled, awakened new and bright; Would I were set to guide some rolling sphere, Amid the glories of eternal day, Hymning aloud a sweet celestial lay, That immortality alone can hear; Would I were but the messenger of love, To bear, from soul to kindred soul, the sigh, To kiss the tears that fall from beauty's eye, And watch the ring-dove in the lonely grove; Then sounds of melody might ever flow From lips, that with the fire of feeling glow.