(With swimming phantom light o'erspread And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! II. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, And still I gaze-and with how blank an eye! I see, not feel how beautiful they are! III. My genial spirits fail, To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour, Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: IV. O Lady! we receive but what we give, Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! And from the soul itself must there be sent V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud We in ourselves rejoice! And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Reality's dark dream! I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that ravest without, Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, * Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? "Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds [cold! At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, With groans and tremulous shudderings-all is overIt tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay"Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: mother hear. VIII. "Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! those in the vallies. This address to the storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF ON THE 24TH STANZA IN HER 66 PASSAGE OVER "And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! With well strung arm, that first preserved his child, PLENDOUR'S fondly fostered child! Beneath the shaft of Tell? O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, |