Who, with a sun-beam for her guide,
Smoothly skims the meadows wide;

While Faith, from yonder opening cloud,
To hill and vale proclaims aloud,

"Whate'er the weak may dread, the wicked dare, Thy lot, O man, is good, thy portion fair!"

XLI.

EVENING ODE,

COMPOSED UPON AN EVENING OF EXTRAORDINARY SPLENDOR AND BEAUTY.

I.

HAD this effulgence disappeared

With flying haste, I might have sent,
Among the speechless clouds, a look
Of blank astonishment;

But 'tis endued with power to stay,
And sanctify one closing day,

That frail Mortality may see,

What is?

ah no, but what can be!

Time was when field and watery cove

With modulated echoes rang,

While choirs of fervent Angels sang

Their vespers in the grove;

Or, ranged like stars along some sovereign height, Warbled, for heaven above and earth below,

Strains suitable to both. Such holy rite,

Methinks, if audibly repeated now

From hill or valley, could not move
Sublimer transport, purer love,

Than doth this silent spectacle - the gleam
The shadow - and the peace supreme!

II.

No sound is uttered,

but a deep

And solemn harmony pervades

The hollow vale from steep to steep,
And penetrates the glades.
Far-distant images draw nigh,

Called forth by wonderous potency
Of beamy radiance, that imbues
Whate'er it strikes, with gem-like hues!
In vision exquisitely clear,

Herds range along the mountain side;
And glistening antlers are descried ;
And gilded flocks appear.

Thine is the tranquil hour, purpureal Eve!
But long as god-like wish, or hope divine,
Informs my spirit, ne'er can I believe
That this magnificence is wholly thine!
- From worlds not quickened by the sun
A portion of the gift is won;

An intermingling of Heaven's pomp is spread
On ground which British shepherds tread!

III.

And, if there be whom broken ties

Afflict, or injuries assail,

Yon hazy ridges to their eyes,
Present a glorious scale,

Climbing suffused with sunny air,

To stop

no record hath told where !

And tempting fancy to ascend,

And with immortal Spirits blend!

Wings at my shoulder seem to play;
But, rooted here, I stand and gaze

On those bright steps that heaven-ward raise
Their practicable way.

Come forth, ye drooping old men, look abroad
And see to what fair countries ye are bound!
And if some Traveller, weary of his road,
Hath slept since noon-tide on the grassy ground,
Ye Genii! to his covert speed;

And wake him with such gentle heed

As may attune his soul to meet the dower

Bestowed on this transcendent hour!

IV.

Such hues from their celestial Urn

Were wont to stream before my eye,
Where'er it wandered in the morn
Of blissful infancy.

This glimpse of glory, why renewed?
Nay, rather speak with gratitude;
For, if a vestige of those gleams
Survived, 'twas only in my dreams.

Dread Power! whom peace and calmness serve
No less than Nature's threatening voice,
If aught unworthy be my choice,

From THEE if I would swerve,

Oh, let thy grace remind me of the light,
Full early lost, and fruitlessly deplored;
Which at this moment, on my waking sight
Appears to shine, by miracle restored!
My soul though yet confined to earth,
Rejoices in a second birth;

'Tis past, the visionary splendour fades, And night approaches with her shades.

Note. The multiplication of mountain-ridges, described, at the commencement of the third stanza of this Ode, as a kind of Jacob's Ladder, leading to Heaven, is produced either by watery vapours, or sunny haze; in the present instance, by the latter cause. Allusions to the Ode, entitled "Intimations of Immortality," at the conclusion of these volumes, pervade the last stanza of the foregoing Poem,