t.

Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen;
Yon crescent Moon, as fix'd as if it grew

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

My genial spirits fail,

III.

And what can these avail,

To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?

It were a vain endeavor,

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:

Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!

And would we aught behold, of higher worth, Than that inanimate cold world allow'd

To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud

Enveloping the Earth

And from the soul itself must there be sent

A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element !

V.

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,

This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful, and beauty-making power.

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,

Life, and life's effulgence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,

Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r

A new Earth and new Heaven,

Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud

Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud

We in ourselves rejoice!

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,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.

But now afflictions bow me down to earth:

Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth,

But oh! each visitation

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.

For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can ;

And haply by abstruse research to steal

From my own nature all the natural ManThis was my sole resource, my only plan: Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my Soul.

VII.

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out

That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree,

Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of show'rs,
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wint❜ry song,
The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?

"Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout,

With

groans of trampled men, with smarting woundsAt 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,

* 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 wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.

With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is overIt tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

A tale of less affright,

And temper'd with delight,

As Otway's self had fram'd the tender lay—

"Tis of a little child

Upon a lonesome wild,

Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:

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 watch'd 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,
Their life the eddying of her living soul !

O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice.

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