Those stars, that glide behind them or between, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; I see, not feel how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail, And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, And in our life alone does nature live: Enveloping the Earth VOL. I. U And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and Life's Effluence, Cloud at once and Shower, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All melodies the echoes of that voice, All colours a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, * Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the vallies. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear ex Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! "Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay— "Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: travagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! With light heart may she rise, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: To her may all things live, from Pole to Pole, O simple spirit, guided from above, Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, |