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AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
DEJECTION: AN ODE.
LATE, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE.
WELL! if the Bard was weather-wise who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
Which better far were mute.
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
The coming on of rain and squally blast. And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-shower driving loud and
fast! Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they
And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and
A grief without a pany, 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: And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye ! And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, That give away their motion to the stars ; Those stars, that glide behind them or between, Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen: Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; I see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel how beautiful they are !
My genial spirits fail :
And what can these avail To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ?
It were a vain endeavor,
Though I should gaze for ever On that green light that lingers in the west: I may not hope from outward forms to win The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
Ah! from the soul i: self must issue forth,
Enveloping the Earth-
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
of heart! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may
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, All colors a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of appiness : For hope grew round me like the twining vine, And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now aflictions bow me down to earth :
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
This was my sole 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
without, Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
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!
Tairn is a small lake, generally, if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of th in the valleys. This dres to the Stormwind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.
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
woundsAt once they groan with pain, and shudder with the
cold ! 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
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and
And tempered with delight,
'Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her
'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,