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Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
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,
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 :
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
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,
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 !
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 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.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
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,
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
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.
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,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
"Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout,
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
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep :
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
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,