Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, ed. Poems of Places: An Anthology in 31 Volumes.
America: Vols. XXV–XXIX. 1876–79.
The Mirage
By John Brayshaw Kaye (1841–1909)U
Beneath the scorching summer sun,
Where nimble swifts each other chased
O’er gaping fissures, checked to run
Their countless millions meshy lines
In tangents, angles, arcs and sines,—
A field where Science, urged by Art,
With Nature for a counterpart,
Might with her pencil sketch and pore
O’er varied shapes forevermore,—
The weary travellers struggled on
Across that stretching sea of sand,
A famishing and thirsty band.
A land of streamlets to have won
Had been to them a paradise:
When, lo! ahead there seemed to rise,
Along the distant horizon,
A scene of sylvan loveliness,
To greet them in their sore distress;
A scene where winding rivulets,
All fringed with branching, shady trees,
Coursed smoothly o’er their sandy beds,
And glimmered far, like silvery threads;
Where fountains, with a thousand jets,
Flung out their crystal tapestries,
To form in many a glassy pool
In shady nooks, serene and cool.
All dotted o’er with verdant isles,
Before the vision peaceful smiles;
And not a ripple seems to break
The mirrored surface of its deep,
While sombre shadows o’er it creep,
Like spiritual argosies
Borne by an imperceptive breeze.
Upon the isles, that gently swell
Up from the water’s curving line,
Gleams many an airy citadel,
Where princes might in splendor dwell,
Or poets woo the mystic Nine.
Tall trees and clumps of shrubbery,
Supporting many a clinging vine
That hangs in rich festoonery,
Thus forming bowers where might recline
The Beauties of Mythology,
In keeping with their high degree.
Seductive as the siren’s song,
The panorama moves along.
The wand of magic seems to fling
Its mystic beauties o’er the scene.
Oh, why must space still intervene?
Damascus of the western waste!
Where—ah! it fades! it melts away!
Far o’er the desert, grim and gray,
Along the hazy horizon,
Tall mammoth shapes stalk stately on
Across the visionary range
And disappear; and then, more strange,
A band of mounted harlequins
In madcap antics scour the plain.
You look to see them once again,
But no! they ’re gone. No object wins
The searching eye; all ’s blank and bare:
No hint of beauty lingers where
The Mirage spread her canopy
And moved the soul to ecstasy.