Thou hast gain'd the summit now! Shaking with victorious notes Now afar it rolls-it dies And thy voice is heard to rise All the spirit of thy sky Now hath lit thy large dark eye, Radiant daughter of the sun! Now thy living wreath is won. Crown'd of Rome!-Oh! art thou not Happy in that glorious lot?— THE RUIN. Happier, happier far than thou, 107 THE RUIN. "Oh! 't is the heart that magnifies this life, WORDSWORTH. "Birth has gladden'd it: death has sanctified it." No dower of storied song is thine, O desolate abode ! Forth from thy gates no glittering line Nor have rich bowers of pleasaunce here Under green leaves to rest: Only some rose, yet lingering bright Yet minstrel tale of harp and sword, House of quench'd light and silent board! For me thou needest not. It is enough to know that here, Thou bindest me with mighty spells! A presence all around thee dwells, I need but pluck yon garden flower To wake, with strange and sudden power, Thou hast heard many sounds, thou hearth! Deserted now by all! Voices at eve here met in mirth Which eve may ne'er recall. Youth's buoyant step, and woman's tone, And song and prayer, have all been known, Thou hast heard blessings fondly pour'd Upon the infant head, As if in every fervent word The living soul were shed; Thou hast seen partings, such as bear The bloom from life away Alas! for love in changeful air, Where nought beloved can stay! THE RUIN. Here, by the restless bed of pain Till sunrise, bright with hope in vain, Here hath been felt the hush, the gloom, Through the dim dwelling, from the room The seat left void, the missing face, Till from the narrowing household chain Is there not cause, then -cause for thought, Fix'd eye and lingering tread, Where, with their thousand mysteries fraught, Even lowliest hearts have bled? Where, in its ever-haunting thirst For draughts of purer day, Man's soul, with fitful strength, hath burst Holy to human nature seems The long-forsaken spot; To deep affections, tender dreams, 109 Therefore in silent reverence here, Hearth of the dead! I stand, THE MINSTER. "A fit abode, wherein appear enshrined BYRON. SPEAK low!—the place is holy to the breath Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell, Each troubled billow of the soul to quell. Leave me to linger silently awhile! -Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb, Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom: Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry:Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour. |