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Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
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 : I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth,
Enveloping the Earth
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
We in ourselves rejoice!
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
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 :
But oh! each visitation
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
From my own nature all the natural Man-
This 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!
Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds !
What tell'st thou now about?
'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,
* Tairn is a small lake, generally it not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the val. lies. 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,
'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 :
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
O simple spirit, guided from above,