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Ebenezer Jones (Эбенизер Джонс)

Ode to Thought

WHETHER you make futurity your home,
Spirits of thought!
Or past eternity;--come to me, come!
For you have long been sought:
I've looked to meet you in the morning's dawn,
Often, in vain;
I've followed to her haunts the wild young fawn;
Through sunshine, and through rain,
I have waited long and fondly; surely you will come,
Familiarly as doves returning to their home.

Oh! I have need of you; if you forsake
My troubled mind,
Whence can it strength and consolation take,
Or peace or pleasure find?
For the great sake of the eternal spring
Of all your might,--
Unto me desolate, some comfort bring;
Unto me dark, some light:
Come crowdingly, and swift, that I may see,
Upon your wings their native radiancy.

I know that ye must have a glorious dwelling:--
Whether it rise
Past mortal ken, where the old winds are swelling
Choired cries;
Whether, like eagles, on some lunar mountain
Ye fold your wings;
Or sport beside that rosy and tranquil fountain,
Whence daylight springs;
I know your home is beautiful; and this belief
Brings glowing sunshine through the cloudiness of grief.

Come not with softened utterance of the song,
That gushes in your land;
But as ye hear it, undisturbed, and strong,
Pour it where now I stand;
A glorious echo these hanging cliffs shall roll
O'er this great sea;
However far it speed, shall speed my soul
Thrice lifted with glee;
Will it not lead where I may clearly see,
Countries whose low is love, whose custom, liberty!

There is a noise within this tranquil heaven!
This ocean has a voice!
Through these tall trees a mighty tone is driven,
That bids me to rejoice.
In the clear greenness of these tumbling waters,
I see a face,
Exceeding far in beauty man's pale daughters!
Bright and unwavering grace
Sits around its brows, proclaiming heavenly glory;
Around it leap the waves, roaring to whiteness hoary.

Ye come! ye come! like stars down the dark night,
Bolding leaping!
I hear the mighty rushing of your flight,
Loud music sweeping.
The unconceived splendour of your speed,
Is not more great
Than the oceanic choirings that precede
And tide your state;
Fill me with strength to bear, and power to tell,
The wonders gathering round, that man may love me well. 

Ebenezer Jones's other poems:
  1. High Summer

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