Rocking on the billowy air, Ha! what withering phantoms glare! As blows the blast with many a sudden swell, At each dead pause, what shrill-toned voices yell The sheeted spectre, rising from the tomb, Points to the murderer's stab, and shudders by; In every grove is felt a heavier gloom, That veils its genius from the vulgar eye: The spirit of the water rides the storm, And, through the mist, reveals the terrors of his form. I. 3. O'er solid seas, where Winter reigns, Smit by the scorchings of the noontide beam. Blooming in her bridal vest: She hurls the torch! she fans the fire! She clasps her lord to part no more, And, sighing, sinks! but sinks to soar. The Sisters sail in dusky state, 5 And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost, Weave the airy web of Fate; 6 While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main," Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train. II. 1. Thou spak'st, and, lo! a new creation glowed. Was clad in horrors not its own, And at its base the trembling nations bowed. Grasped the globe with iron hand. Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light And braves the efforts of a host of years. Sweet Music breathes her soul into the wind; And bright-eyed Painting stamps the image of the mind. II. 2. Round the rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise! With lowings loud the captive god replies. But, ah! what myriads claim the bended knee! 10 What eye those long, long labyrinths dare explore, To which the parted soul oft wings her flight; Again to visit her cold cell of clay, 12 Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay? II. 3. 13 On yon hoar summit, mildly bright la High o'er the world, the white-robed Magi gaze Silver notes ascend the skies: The Sibyl speaks, the dream is o'er, And moulds the features of her soul, The cavern frowns; its hundred mouths unclose! And, in the thunder's voice, the fate of empire flows! III. 1. Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead! Rites thy brown oaks would never dare Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed. Pointless falls the hero's lance. Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,15 And blasts the laureate wreath of victory. Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! At every pause dread Silence hovers o'er: While murky Night sails round on raven wing, Deepening the tempest's howl, the torrent's roar; Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below. III. 2. Lo! steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! The red-cross squadrons madly rage,' 16 And mow through infancy and age; Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, While from each shrine still, small responses rise. Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire. III. 3. Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Flushed with youth, her looks impart Each fine feeling as it flows; Her voice the echo of a heart Pure as the mountain snows: Celestial transports round her play, She smiles! and where is now the cloud Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And, lo! it visits man with beams of light and love. |