The Voyage of the Air

I saw, as I ascended, paleness change
Some faces that I love; but of their vision
Art’s silent strength an soon bore me from the range,
And made me ride the skies like a magician.

Those mighty streets, the churches, and the halls,
And all the glory of that seaport, seeming
Like some nice model in the gewgaw-stalls
Of fancy-fairs with little toy-things teeming.

And the pines appear’d as heatherblades
Upon a highland; while the rock-built castle
(The fount of old whence bubbled feudal raids)
Looked smaller than the thistle’s greyish tassel,

And soon one indistinguishable hue
Stole o’er the variousness of hill and valley;
But yet a hum ascended, and there flew
A vague sound which would faint, and then would rally.

And now the clouds were round me; sound and sight
Of earth departed—and the bleak, thin, upper coldness
Fix’d in my limbs a transitory blight,
And even crush’d my spirit’s previous boldness.

Away, away still soars the car sublime,
It shakes aside the clinging mists that blind it;
It scales into a fair and radiant clime,
And leaves whate’er is dull or dark behind it.

How strangely bright and mighty was night’s noon!
Each star shot down an arrowy diamond lustre
Through all the deep—and, like the sun, the moon
Ruled with a royal look amid a courtly cluster.

All softly blew the south-wind from the seas,
From the great tideless seas and “midland” ocean,
Wafting my chariot with propitious breeze,
And gentle upward undulating motion.

Small time was pass’d, ere I was far away
From fair Marseilles, and saw up-piled and massy,
The famous alpine summits, and the ray
Of their perennial snows, all bright and glassy.

I knew that I had travell’d towards the north,
And something eastward—or a strange confusion
Had cheated me; the icy scene sent forth
A wat’ry look, an ocean-like illusion.

Enraptured, not deceived, I much admired
The newness and the strangeness of my station,
Which, clearer soon, displayed the peaks all fired,
Like crystal, with the stars’ illumination.

And now, beneath the left hand, tower’d Mont Blanc,
Unquestion’d King of those great heights appearing;
And as my airy chariot swept along,
Savoy’s fair capital, I knew, was nearing.

I look’d upon the grandeur of the view;
Like bats the soaring eagles seem’d, whose screaming
Rose faintly through th’ immeasurable blue,
And the huge hills like ladies’ gems were beaming.

It was not safe to gaze too long below:
A girl might set Mount Jura on her forehead,
And make tiaras of what seem’d to show
So small, if truth had not such seeming borrow’d.

Alas how small is man! and yet, how great!
A puny frame, and a victorious spirit;
A soul, with almost angels for its mate,
And a frail clayey prison to immure it!

Amid a plain, found hundred miles afar
From where I had arisen, I now, delighted,
Sank downwards in the safe though vent’rous car,
And (only eight hours spent) remote alighted.

A dirge and great “high mass” for Albert’s soul
Were in the Turin churches sweetly pealing;
And bells, in many an awful, long-drawn toll,
Express’d a mournful, God-revering feeling.

And so I made the voyage of the air—
It is a recollection I shal cherish.
Far lower than where I have set my chair
No bird could soar, nor trumpet send its flourish.