Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD

Samuel Kettell, ed. Specimens of American Poetry. 1829.

By The Minstrel Boy

James Nack (1809–1879)

AND am I doom’d to be denied for ever

The blessings that to all around are given?

And shall those links be reunited never,

That bound me to mankind till they were riven

In childhood’s day? Alas! how soon to sever

From social intercourse, the doom of heaven

Was pass’d upon me! And the hope how vain,

That the decree may be recall’d again.

Amid a throng in deep attention bound,

To catch the accents that from others fall,

The flow of eloquence, the heavenly sound

Breathed from the soul of melody, while all

Instructed or delighted list around,

Vacant unconsciousness must me enthrall!

I can but watch each animated face,

And there attempt th’ inspiring theme to trace.

Unheard, unheeded are the lips by me,

To others that unfold some heaven-born art,

And melody—Oh, dearest melody!

How had thine accents thrilling to my heart.

Awaken’d all its strings to sympathy,

Bidding the spirit at thy magic start!

How had my heart responsive to the strain,

Throbb’d in love’s wild delight or soothing pain

In vain—alas, in vain! thy numbers roll—

Within my heart no echo they inspire;

Though form’d by nature in thy sweet control,

To melt with tenderness, or glow with fire,

Misfortune closed the portals of the soul;

And till an Orpheus rise to sweep the lyre,

That can to animation kindle stone,

To me thy thrilling power must be unknown.

And none are more exquisitely awake

To nature’s loveliness than those who feel

The inspiration of the muse—who take

From her the glowing thoughts that as they steal

Around the soul entranced, a goddess make

Of nature to whose shrine of beauty kneel,

The fond enthusiasts adoring all

Within her we may dread or lovely call.

The terrible in nature is to them

The beautiful, and they can with delight

Behold the tempest, and its wrath contemn,

Stationed upon some rock whose quivering height

Is by the spirit swept, whose diadem

In burning terror wreathes the brow of night,

While the rude winds their cave of slumber rend,

And to the loud-voiced thunders answer send.

Yet, Nature, not alone when stern and wild

Canst thou the homage of the bard awaken,

Still art thou worshipp’d by the muse’s child,

When thou thy throne of terrors hast forsaken;

With darkness when thy brow is undefiled,

When scarce a leaflet of thy robe is shaken

By zephyrs that soft music murmuring,

Around thee wave their aromatic wing.

When first the queen of night in beauty rides,

That with the glory of Apollo vies,

One star alone through heaven’s azure glides,

That when ten thousand thousand robe the skies,

Preeminent in beauty still presides;

To her the lover’s and the poet’s eyes

Are ever fondly turned to hail the power

That smiles such loveliness upon the hour.

How often have I watch’d the star of even,

When eyes of heaven’s own etherial blue,

Have follow’d mine to gaze upon the heaven,

Where they as on a mirror’s face might view

The bright and beautiful reflection given,

Of their own starry light and azure hue!

But she beholding night’s resplendent throne,

Of nature’s beauty thought, and not her own.

I thought of both—if earth appear so fair,

How glorious the world beyond the skies;

And if the form that heaven-born spirits wear,

This earthly shrine so fascinate our eyes,

To kneel in worship we can scarce forbear,

And e’en to gaze on thine is paradise.

O what are those who free from earthly stain,

Above yon azure realms in bloom immortal reign?