Poetical Portraits
Robert
Macnish
Macnish, Robert
A Modern Pythagorean
Metadata research and editing
DVPP Project Team
Fukushima
Kailey
University of Victoria Digital Victorian Periodical Poetry Project
Victoria, BC, Canada
In the public domain
Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine
27
165
632–633
His was the wizard spell,
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epigraph.
Poetical Portraits
.
“ Orient pearls at random strung.”
Shakespeare.
His was the wizard spell,
The spirit to enchain :
His grasp o’er nature fell,
Creation own’d his reign.
Milton.
His spirit was the home
Of aspirations high ;
A temple, whose huge dome
Was hidden in the sky.
Byron.
Black clouds his forehead bound,
And at his feet were flowers :
Mirth, Madness, Magic found
In him their keenest powers.
Scott.
He sings, and lo ! Romance
Starts from its mouldering urn,
While Chivalry’s bright lance
And nodding plumes return.
Spenser.
Within th’ enchanted womb
Of his vast genius, lie
Bright streams and groves, whose
gloom
Is lit by Una’s eye.
Wordsworth.
He hung his harp upon
Philosophy’s pure shrine ;
And placed by Nature’s, throne,
Composed each placid line.
Wilson.
His strain, like holy hymn,
Upon the ear doth float,
Or voice of cherubim,
In mountain vale remote.
Gray.
Soaring on pinions proud,
The lightnings of his eye
Sear the black thunder-cloud,
He passes swiftly by.
Burns.
He seized his country’s lyre,
With ardent grasp and strong ;
And made his soul of fire
Dissolve itself in song.
Baillie.
The Passions are thy slaves ;
In varied guise they roll
Upon the stately waves
Of thy majestic soul,
Caroline Bowles.
In garb of sable hue
Thy soul dwells all alone,
Where the sad drooping yew
Weeps o’er the funeral stone.
Hemans.
To bid the big tear start,
Unchallenged, from its shrine,
And thrill the quivering heart
With pity’s voice, are thine.
Tighe.
On zephyr’s amber wings,
Like thine own Psyche borne,
Thy buoyant spirit springs
To hail the bright-eyed morn.
Landon.
Romance and high-soul’d Love,
Like two commingling streams,
Glide through the flowery grove
Of thy enchanted dreams.
Moore.
Crown’d with. perennial flowers,
By Wit and Genius wove,
He wanders through the bowers
Of Fancy and of Love.
Southey.
Where Necromancy flings
O’er Eastern lands her spell,
Sustain’d on Fable’s wings,
His spirit loves to dwell.
Collins.
Waked into mimic life,
The Passions round him throng,
While the loud “ Spartan fife”
Thrills through his startling song.
Campbell.
With all that Nature’s fire
Can lend to polish’d Art,
He strikes his graceful lyre
To thrill or warm the heart.
Coleridge.
Magician, whose dread spell,
Working in pale moon light,
From Superstition’s cell
Invokes each satellite !
Cowper.
Religious light is shed
Upon his soul’s dark shrine ;
And Vice veils o’er her head
At his denouncing line.
Young.
Involved in pall of gloom,
He haunts, with footsteps dread,
The murderer’s midnight tomb,
And calls upon the dead.
Grahame.
O ! when we hear the bell
Of “ Sabbath” chiming free,
It strikes us like a knell,
And makes us think of Thee !
W. L. Bowles.
From Nature’s flowery throne
His spirit took its flight,
And moves serenely on
In soft, sad, tender light.
Shelley.
A solitary rock
In a far distant sea,
Rent by the thunder’s shock,
An emblem stands of Thee !
J. Montgomery.
Upon thy touching strain
Religion’s spirit fair,
Falls down like drops of rain,
And blends divinely there.
Hogg.
Clothed in the rainbow’s beam,
’Mid strath and pastoral glen,
He sees the fairies gleam,
Far from the haunts of men.
Thomson.
The Seasons as they roll
Shall bear thy name along ;
And graven on the soul
Of Nature, live thy song.
Moir.
On every gentler scene
That moves the human breast,
Pathetic and serene,
Thine eye delights to rest.
Barry Cornwall.
Soft is thy lay—a stream
Meand’ring calmly by,
Beneath the moon’s pale beam
Of sweet Italia’s sky.
Crabbe.
Wouldst thou his pictures know,
Their power—their harrowing
truth,—
Their scenes of wrath or woe—
Go gaze on hapless “ Ruth.”
A. Cunningham.
Tradition’s lyre he plays
With firm and skilful hand,
Singing the olden lays
Of his dear native land.
Keats.
Fair thy yomg spirit’s mould—
Thou from whose heart the streams
Of sweet Elysium roll’d
Over Endymion’s dreams.
Bloomfield.
Sweet bard, upon the tomb
In which thine ashes lie,
The simple wildflowers bloom
Before the ploughman’s eye.
Hood.
Impugn I dare not thee,
For I’m of puny brood ;
And thou wouldst punish me
With pungent hardihood.
A Modern Pythagorean.