Perchance as numerous, overpeers the rock That sullenly refuses to partake
Of the wild impulse. From a fount of life Invisible, the long procession moves Luminous or gloomy, welcome to the vale Which they are entering, welcome to mine eye That sees them, to my soul that owns in them,
And in the bosom of the firmament
O'er which they move, wherein they are contained, A type of her capacious self and all
Here is my body doomed to tread, this path,
A little hoary line and faintly traced, Work, shall we call it, of the shepherd's foot Or of his flock?-joint vestige of them both. I pace it unrepining, for my thoughts Admit no bondage and my words have wings. Where is the Orphean lyre, or Druid harp, To accompany the verse? The mountain blast Shall be our hand of music; he shall sweep The rocks, and quivering trees, and billowy lake, And search the fibres of the caves, and they Shall answer, for our song is of the Clouds And the wind loves them; and the gentle gales- Which by their aid re-clothe the naked lawn With annual verdure, and revive the woods,
And moisten the parched lips of thirsty flowers
Love them; and every idle breeze of air Bends to the favourite burthen. Moon and stars Keep their most solemn vigils when the Clouds Watch also, shifting peaceably their place
Like bands of ministering Spirits, or when they lie, As if some Protean art the change had wrought, In listless quiet o'er the ethereal deep Scattered, a Cyclades of various shapes And all degrees of beauty. O ye Lightnings! Ye are their perilous offspring; and the Sun- Source inexhaustible of life and joy,
And type of man's far-darting reason, therefore In old time worshipped as the god of verse, A blazing intellectual deity—
Loves his own glory in their looks, and showers Upon that unsubstantial brotherhood
Visions with all but beatific light
Enriched-too transient were they not renewed From age to age, and did not, while we gaze In silent rapture, credulous desire
Nourish the hope that memory lacks not power To keep the treasure unimpaired. Vain thought!
Yet why repine, created as we are For joy and rest, albeit to find them only Lodged in the bosom of eternal things?
With a continuous cloud of texture close, Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen, A dull, contracted circle, yielding light So feebly spread, that not a shadow falls, Chequering the ground-from rock, plant, tree, or
At length a pleasant instantaneous gleam Startles the pensive traveller while he treads His lonesome path, with unobserving eye
Bent earthwards; he looks up-the clouds are split Asunder, and above his head he sees
The clear Moon, and the glory of the heavens. There, in a black-blue vault she sails along, Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away, Yet vanish not!-the wind is in the tree,
But they are silent ;-still they roll along Irnmeasurably distant; and the vault,
Built round by those white clouds, enormous clouds, Still deepens its unfathomable depth.
At length the Vision closes; and the mind,
Not undisturbed by the delight it feels, Which slowly settles into peaceful calm, Is left to muse upon the solemn scene.
Were fellow-travellers in this gloomy Pass, And with them did we journey several hours At a slow step. The immeasurable height Of woods decaying, never to be decayed, The stationary blasts of waterfalls, And in the narrow rent, at every turn, Winds thwarting winds bewildered and forlorn, The torrents shooting from the clear blue sky, The rocks that muttered close upon our ears, Black drizzling crags that spake by the wayside As if a voice were in them, the sick sight And giddy prospect of the raving stream, The unfettered clouds and region of the heavens, Tumult and peace, the darkness and the light— Were all like workings of one mind, the features Of the same face, blossoms upon one tree, Characters of the great Apocalypse,
The types and symbols of Eternity,
Of first, and last, and midst, and without end.
NOT a breath of air
Ruffles the bosom of this leafy glen.
From the brook's margin, wide around, the trees Are steadfast as the rocks; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar,
Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless. And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without, Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,
But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the brow Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony
To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.
ENOUGH of climbing toil!-Ambition treads Here, as 'mid busier scenes, ground steep and rough,
Or slippery even to peril! and each step, As we for most uncertain recompence
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