Nor needs the god his dazzling arins, to show Speechless with awe, in transport strangely lost, Till from her trembling hand extinguish'd falls Dread Horror seizes on her sinking heart, In vain she casts around her timid glance, The rudely frowning scenes her former joys enhance. No traces of those joys, alas ! remain ; A desert solitude alone appears. No verdant shade relieves the sandy plain, The wide-spread waste no gentle fountain cheers, A sandy wild beneath, above a threatening sky. SPIRIT of love and sorrow,-hail! Oh, at this still, this lonely hour, Thine own sweet hour of closing day, Awake thy lute, whose charmful power Shall call up Fancy to obey; To paint the wild romantic dream, O lonely spirit! let thy song Lead me through all thy sacred haunt; The minster's moonlight aisles along, Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt, I hear their dirges faintly swell! Then sink at once in silence drear, While, from the pillar'd cloister's cell, Dimly their gliding forms appear! Lead where the pine-woods wave on high, Darts her long beams the leaves between. Lead to the mountain's dusky head, Where, far below, in shades profound, Wide forests, plains, and hamlets spread, And sad the chimes of vesper sound. Or guide me where the dashing oar To pebbly banks that Neptune laves, With measur'd surges, loud and deep; Where the dark cliff bends o'er the waves, And wild the winds of Autumn sweep. There pause at midnight's spectred hour, SONG OF A SPIRIT. IN the sightless air I dwell, On the sloping sunbeams play ; Delve the cavern's inmost cell, Where never yet did daylight stray. I dive beneath the green sea waves, Oft I mount with rapid force, Above the wide earth's shadowy zone, Follow the day-star's flaming course, Through realms of space to thought unknown; And listen to celestial sounds That swell in air, unheard of men, As I watch my nightly rounds O'er woody steep and silent glen. Under the shade of waving trees, On the green bank of fountain clear, At pensive eve I sit at ease, While dying music murmurs near. And oft, on point of airy clift That hangs upon the western main, I watch the gay tints passing swift, And twilight veil the liquid plain. Then, when the breeze has sunk away, Their dulcet shells!-I hear them now; Slow swells the strain upon mine ear; Now faintly falls-now warbles low, Till rapture melts into a tear. The ray that silvers o'er the dew, And trembles through the leafy shade, And tints the scene with softer hue, Or hie me to some ruin'd tower, Faintly shown by moonlight gleam, Where the lone wanderer owns my power, In shadows dire that substance seem; In thrilling sounds that murmur woe, And pausing silence make more dread In music breathing from below d; Sad, solemn strains, that wake the dead. Unseen I move-unknown am fear'd;— Fancy's wildest dreams I weave; And oft by bards my voice is heard |