Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they And sent my soul abroad, [awed, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And its peculiar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail; And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west : IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! Enveloping the Earth And from the soul itself must there be sent V. 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, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud— Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI.* There was a time when, though my path was rough, Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 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— VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! * This stanza originally began :— "Yes, dearest Edmund, yes!" I turn from you, and listen to the wind,* Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthen'd out That lute sent forth ! without, Thou Wind, that ravest Bare crag, 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, Makest Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? '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! * O wherefore did I let it haunt my mind, This dark distressful dream? I turn from it, and listen to the wind-1802. † 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 Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. With many groans of men—1802. And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and A tale of less affright, And temper'd with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, [loud! 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 watch'd the sleeping Earth. With light heart may she rise, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; * Here followed in the original version these lines: "And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice! O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice, O raised from anxious dread and busy care Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes," &c.-1802. |