Poems / by James G. Percival [electronic text]

HEAVEN.

The following effusion may serve to explain one of the mysteries of mythology—the location of heaven above us.

I HAD been sitting at a feast of souls, A banquet of pure spirits, where the thought Spoke on the eloquent tongue, and in the eye's

Gay sparkle, and the ever-changing play Of feature, like the twinkling glance of waves Beneath the summer moonlight. I walked forth; It was a night in autumn, and the moon Was visible through clouds of opal, laced With gold and carmine—such a silent night As fairies love to dance and revel in, When winds are hushed, and leaves are still, and waves Are sleeping on the waters, and the hum And stir of life reposing. There was spread Before my sight a smooth and glossy bay, Mirrored in silver brightness, and the chime Of rippling waters on its pebbles, broke Alone the quietude that filled the air: But when the tremulous heaving of the deep, Far off, along its sandy barriers, rose And faintly echoed, as the fitful gust Ruffled the placid surface glassed below; Or, at the call of night-birds, where they flew And sported in the sedges, low and sweet, Like swallows twittering, or the cooing voice Of ring-doves, when they brood their callow young. I looked abroad on sea and mountain, wild And cultured field, and garden, and they lay, Amid the stillness of the elements, Silent, and motionless, and beautiful, For mist and moonlight softened down their forms, And covered them with dim transparency,

Like beauty melting through her Coan veil; A wind rose from the ocean, as it rolled Blue in the boundless distance, and it swept The curtained clouds athwart the moon, and gave The undimmed azure of the sky to light And full expansion. There my eyes were turned, And there they found the magic influence, Which bound them, like enchantment, in a trance Of most exalted feeling, and the soul Was lifted from the body, and became A portion of the purity and light And loveliness of that cerulean dome: And it imagined on the mountain top, Now silvered with the milder beam of night, On the blue arch, and on the rolling moon, Careering through the host of stars, who seemed To worship at her coming, and put out The brightness of their twinkling, when she moved Serenely and majestically by— On these, and on the snowy clouds, that hung Their curtains round the border of the sky, Like folds of silken tapestry, it laid A world of tenderness and purity, The quiet habitation of the heart, The resting-place of those impassioned souls,Who draw their inspiration at the founts Of nature, flowing from that theatre, Whose scene is ever shifting with the play

Of seasons, as the year steals swiftly on, And bears us, with its silent foot, away To dissolution; ardent souls, who love The rude rock and the frowning precipice, The winding valley, where it lies in green Along the bubbling riv'let, and the plain, Parted in field and meadow, redolent Of roses in the flowery days of spring; And in the nights of autumn, of the breath Of frosted clusters, hung along the vines In blue and gushing festoons, in whose rind The drink of souls, the nectar of the gods, Ripens beneath the warm unclouded sky.

I looked upon this loveliness, until A dream came o'er me, and the firmament Was animate, and spirits filled the air, Floating on snowy wings, and rustled by, Fanning the wind to coolness; and they came On messages of kindness, and they sought The pillow of o'er-wearied toil, and shook The dews of Lethe from their dripping plumes Around his temples, till his mind forgot Its sad realities, and happy dreams Rose fair and sweet around him, and restored Awhile the spotless hours of infancy, When life is one enchantment! Then I seemed Rapt in a trance of ecstasy, and forms

Stood thronging round supremely beautiful, Whose looks were full of tenderness, whose words Were glances, and whose melodies were smiles; Who uttered forth the feelings of the soul In that expressive dialect, whose tones No tongue can syllable, the unseen chain, Which links those hearts that beat in unison. It was that perfect meeting, whither tend Our spirits in their better hours, and find The balm of wounded bosoms, where they dream The eye of mercy ever smiles, and peace For ever broods—they call the vision Heaven.

And thus hath man imagined he can find The region of his angels, and his gods, And blessed spirits, somewhere in the sky; Or in the moon, to which the Indian turns, And dreams it is a cool and quiet land, Where insect cannot sting, nor tiger prowl; Or on the cone of mountains, where the snow, Purest of all material things, is laid Upon a cloudy pillow, wreathed around The midway height, and parting from this world Olympus and the Swerga's holy bowers.