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The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ;
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the
waves! And there I felt thee !-on that sea-cliff's verge,
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea and air, Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
DEJECTION: AN ODE.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENS.
WELL! If the Bard was weather-wise, who
Upon the strings of this Eolian lute,
Which better far were mute,
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
The coming on of rain and squally blast.
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
In word, or sigh, or tear-
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green :
My genial spirits fail ;
And what can these avail
It were a vain endeavour,
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
Enveloping the Earth-
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
We in ourselves rejoice!
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
But oh! each visitation
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
But to be still and patient, all I can ;
From my own nature all the natural man-
resource, my only plan : Till that which suits a part infects the whole, And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,' or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.