III. 1. Mona, thy Druid-rites awake the dead! Rites that have chained old Ocean on his bed. Pointless falls the hero's lance. Thy magic bids the imperial eagle fly,* Hark, the bard's soul inspires the vocal string! III. 2. Lo, steel-clad War his gorgeous standard rears! And mow thro' infancy and age; Then kiss the sacred dust and melt in tears. Veiling from the eye of day, Penance dreams her life away; In cloistered solitude she sits and sighs, * See Tacitus, 1. xiv. c. 29. This remarkable event happened at the siege and sack of Jerusalem in the last year of the eleventh century. Matth. Paris, IV. 2. Hear, with what heart-felt beat, the midnight bell Beyond this nether sphere, on Rapture's wing of fire. III. 3. Lord of each pang the nerves can feel, Each fine feeling as it flows; Her voice the echo of a heart Pure as the mountain-snows: She smiles! and where is now the cloud Grim darkness furls his leaden shroud, Shrinking from her glance in vain. Her touch unlocks the day-spring from above, And lo! it visits man with beams of light and love. |