Than that inanimate cold world allowed Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth, And from the soul itself must there be sent V. Ο 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, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 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, seemed mine. But now afflictions bow me down to earth: Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man— Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out, That lute sent forth ! without, Thou Wind, that ravest Bare craig, 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 showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! * 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 valleys. This address to the Stormwind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold! "Tis of the rushing of a 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! With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: 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 watched 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, ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER "PASSAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD." "AND hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! With well strung arm, that first preserved his child, SPLENDOR'S fondly fostered child! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, With many a bright obtrusive form of art, Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, Where once the Austrian fell Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure, There crowd your finely-fibred frame His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? Yet these delight to celebrate The sordid vices and the abject pains, The doom of ignorance and penury! Beneath the shaft of Tell ! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a mother! That most holy name |