TWO POEMS BY HENRY LOUIS VIVIAN DEROZIO
[Henry Louis Vivian Derozio (18 April 1809–26 December 1831), was an Anglo-Indian poet . A great poet, thinker and educator, who died at 22, left a lasting imprint on English poetry.]
Literary and Classical Culture
A Walk By Moonlight
poet :Henry Louis Vivian Derozio
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A Walk By Moonlight
Last night - it was a lovely night,
And I was very blest -
Shall it not be for Memory
A happy spot to rest?
Yes; there are in the backward past
Soft hours to which we turn -
Hours which, at distance, mildly shine,
Shine on, but never burn.
And some of these but yesternight
Across my path were thrown,
Which made my heart so very light,
I think it could have flown.
I had been out to see a friend
With whom I others saw:
Like minds to like minds ever tend -
An universal law.
And when we were returning home,
'Come who will walk with me,
A little way', I said, and lo!
I straight was joined by three:
Three whom I loved - two had high thoughts
And were, in age, my peers;
And one was young, but oh! endeared
As much as youth endears.
The moon stood silent in the sky,
And looked upon our earth:
The clouds divided, passing by,
In homage to her worth.
There was a dance among the leaves
Rejoicing at her power,
Who robes for them of silver weaves
Within one mystic hour.
There was a song among the winds,
Hymning her influence -
That low-breathed minstrelsy which binds
The soul to thought intense.
And there was something in the night
That with its magic wound us;
For we - oh! we not only saw,
But felt the moonlight around us.
How vague are all the mysteries
Which bind us to our earth;
How far they send into the heart
Their tones of holy mirth;
How lovely are the phantoms dim
Which bless that better sight,
That man enjoys when proud he stands
In his own spirit's light;
When, like a thing that is not ours.
This earthliness goes by,
And we behold the spiritualness
Of all that cannot die.
'Tis then we understand the voice
Which in the night-wind sings,
And feel the mystic melody
Played on the forest's strings.
The silken language of the stars
Becomes the tongue we speak,
And then we read the sympathy
That pales the young moon's cheek.
The inward eye is open then
To glories, which in dreams
Visit the sleeper's couch, in robes
Woven of the rainbow's beams.
I bless my nature that I am
Allied to all the bliss,
Which other worlds we're told afford,
But which I find in this.
My heart is bettered when I feel
That even this human heart
To all around is gently bound,
And forms of all a part;
That, cold and lifeless as they seem,
The flowers, the stars, the sky
Have more than common minds may deem
To stir our sympathy.
Oh! in such moments can I crush
The grass beneath my feet?
Ah no; the grass has then a voice,
Its heart - I hear it beat.
***
To My Native Land
My country! In thy days of glory past
A beauteous halo circled round thy brow
and worshipped as a deity thou wast—
Where is thy glory, where the reverence now?
Thy eagle pinion is chained down at last,
And grovelling in the lowly dust art thou,
Thy minstrel hath no wreath to weave for thee
Save the sad story of thy misery!
Well—let me dive into the depths of time
And bring from out the ages, that have rolled
A few small fragments of these wrecks sublime
Which human eye may never more behold
And let the guerdon of my labour be,
My fallen country! One kind wish for thee!
***
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