And, wrapt in clouds, in tempests tost,

Weave the airy web of fate;

While the lone shepherd, near the shipless main, b

Sees o'er her hills advance the long-drawn funeral train.

II. 1.

Thou spak'st, and lo! a new creation glow'd..

Each unhewn mass of living stone

Was clad in horrors not its own,

And at its base the trembling nations bow'd.

Giant Error, darkly grand,

Grasp'd 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,

1

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-ey'd Painting stamps the image of the mind.

But ah! what myriads claim the bended knee! m

Go, count the busy drops that swell the sea.

Proud land! what eye can trace thy mystic lore,

Lock'd up in characters as dark as night?"

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,

Charm'd with perennial sweets, and smiling at decay?

II. 3.

On yon hear summit, mildly bright P

With purple ether's liquid light,

High o'er the world, the white-rob'd Magi gaze

On dazzling busts of heav'nly fire;

Start at each blue, portentous blaze,

Each flame that flits with adverse spire.

But say, what sounds my ear invade

From Delphi's venerable shade?

The temple rocks, the laurel waves!

"The God! the God!" the Sybil cries.

Her figure swells! she foams, she raves!

Her figure swells to more than mortal size!

Streams of rapture roll along,

Silver notes ascend the skies:

Wake, Echo, wake and catch the song,

Oh catch it, ere it dies!

The Sybil speaks, the dream is o'er,

The holy harpings charm no more.

In vain she checks the God's controul;

His madding spirit fills her frame,

And moulds the features of her soul,

Breathing a prophetic flame.

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

E'en whisper to the idle air;

Rites that have chain'd old Ocean on his bed.

Shiver'd by thy piercing glance,

Pointless falls the hero's lance.

Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,

г

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;

Chas'd by the morn from Snowdon's awful brow,

Where late she sat and scowl'd on the black wave below.

L