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238 TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES.
There shall thy wings, rich as an evening-sky,
- Yet wert thou once a worm, a thing that crept
AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST.
TREAD lightly here, for here, 't is said,
Gone to the world where birds are blest !
TO THE FRAGMENT OF A STATUE OF HERCULES.
COMMONLY CALLED TILE TORSO.
And dost thou still, thou mass of breathing stone
What though the Spirits of the North, that swept
Ah ! little thought she, when, with wild delight,
By many a torrent's shining track she flew, When mountain-glens and caverns full of night
O'er her young mind divine enchantment threw,
That in her veins a secret horror slept,
That her light footsteps should be heard no more, That she should die — nor watched, alas ! nor wept
By thee, unconscious of the pangs she bore.
Yet round her couch indulgent Fancy drew
The kindred forms her closing eye required. There didst thou stand there, with the smile she knew;
She moved her lips to bless thee, and expired.
And now to thee she comes ; still, still the same
As in the hours gone unregarded by!
Health on her cheek, and pleasure in her eye!
Nor less, less oft, as on that day, appears,
When lingering, as prophetic of the truth, By the way-side she shed her parting tears
Forever lovely, in the light of Youth !
THE BOY OF EGREMOND.
“Say, what remains when Hope is fled ?"
At Embsay rung the matin-bell,
of yore; But where the rock is rent in two, And the river rushes through, His voice was heard no more! ’T was but a step! the gulf he passed ; But that step
it was his last ! As through the mist he winged his way (A cloud that hovers night and day), The hound hung back, and back he drew The master and his merlin too.
WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND.
That narrow place of noise and strife
There now the matin-bell is rung;
WRITTEN IN THE HIGHLANDS OF SCOTLAND,
SEPTEMBER 2, 1812.
Blue was the loch, the clouds were gone,
Beloved sister, since with thee
The fairy-isles fled far away;
Tarbat,a thy shore I climbed at last; And, thy shady region passed, Upon another shore I stood, And looked upon another flood; 30 Great Ocean's self! ('T is He who fills That vast and awful depth of hills); Where many an elf was playing round, Who treads unshod his classic ground; And speaks, his native rocks among, As FINGAL spoke, and Ossian sung.
Night fell; and dark and darker grew That narrow sea, that narrow sky, As o'er the glimmering waves we flew; The sea-bird rustling, wailing by. And now the grampus, half-descried, Black and huge above the tide ; The cliffs and promontories there, Front to front, and broad and bare ; Each beyond each, with giant-feet Advancing as in haste to meet