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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.
O’er solid seas, where Winter reigns,
And holds each mountain-wave in chains,
By glistering star-light through the snow,
Each potent spell thou bad’st him know.
And, while the panting tigress hies
His spirit laughs in agonies,
Mark who mounts the sacred pyre,
Blooming in her bridal vest:
To die is to be blest:
And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,
Weave the airy web of Fate; While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main, Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.
Thou spak’st, and, lo! a new creation glowed.
Each unhewn mass of living stone
Was clad in horrors not its own,
Giant Error, darkly grand,
Grasped the globe with iron hand. Circled with seats of bliss, the Lord of Light Saw prostrate worlds adore his golden height. The statue, waking with immortal powers, Springs from its parent earth, and shakes the spheres ; The indignant pyramid sublimely towers, 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.
Round the rude ark old Egypt's sorcerers rise !
A timbrelled anthem swells the gale,
And bids the God of Thunders hail ;8 With lowings loud the captive god replies.
Clouds of incense woo thy smile,
Scaly monarch of the Nile ! 9
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, Charmed with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?
On yon hoar summit, mildly bright 19
With purple ether's liquid light,
On dazzling bursts of heavenly fire;
Her figure swells! she foams, she raves !
Streams of rapture roll along,
Silver notes ascend the skies :
0, catch it, ere it dies !
Breathing a prophetic flame.
Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead !
Even whisper to the idle air;
Shivered by thy piercing glance,
Pointless falls the hero's lance.
Chased by the Morn from Snowdon's awful brow, Where late she sate and scowled on the black wave below.
Lo! steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears !
The red-cross squadrons madly rage,
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. Hear, with what heartfelt beat the midnight bell Swings its slow summons through the hollow pile! The weak, wan votarist leaves her twilight cell, To walk, with taper dim, the winding aisle ;
With choral chantings vainly to aspire Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire.
Lord of each pang the nerves can feel,
Hence with the rack and reeking wheel.
While gleams of glory open round,
Her heavenly form, with glowing hand,
Each fine feeling as it flows;
Pure as the mountain snows :
Shrinking from her glance in vain.