I, that with soft control, Shut the dim violet, hush the woodland song, I, that shower dewy light Through slumbering leaves, bring storms!—the tempest-birth Of memory, thought, remorse ;-Be holy, Earth! I am the solemn Night! THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON.' Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal? Are ye like those that shake the human breast? Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest?" MIDNIGHT, and silence deep! The air is fill'd with sleep, Childe Harold. With the stream's whisper, and the citron's breath; The fix'd and solemn stars Gleam through my dungeon bars— Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death! 1 1 Pietro Mulier, called Il Tempesta, from his surprising pictures of storms. "His compositions," says Lanzi, "inspire a real horror, presenting to our eyes death-devoted ships overtaken by tempests and darkness-fired by lightning-now rising on the mountain-wave, and again submerged in the abyss of ocean." During an imprisonment of five years in Genoa, the pictures which he painted in his dungeon were marked by additional power and gloom. · LANZI's History of Painting, translated by Roscoe. THE STORM-PAINTER IN HIS DUNGEON. 115 Ye watch-fires of the skies! The stillness of your eyes Looks too intensely through my troubled soul; An earth-load on my breast Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll! I am your own, your child, And kingly tempests!—will ye not arise? That knows not to rejoice But in the peal of your strong harmonies. By sounding ocean-waves, And dim Calabrian caves, And flashing torrents, I have been your mate; Of the olden Apennines, In your dark path stood fearless and elate: Your lightnings were as rods, That smote the deep abodes Of thought and vision-and the stream gush'd free; Come, that my soul again May swell to burst its chainBring me the music of the sweeping sea! Within me dwells a flame, An eagle caged and tame, Till call'd forth by the harping of the blast; It springs to sudden power, As mounts the billow o'er the quivering mast. Then, then, the canvass o'er, The lava-waves and guests of my own soul! Dreams, worlds, of pictured strife Wake, rushing winds, awake! and, dark clouds, roll! Wake, rise! the reed may bend, The shivering leaf descend, The forest branch give way before your might; Call, summon, wait you here- THE TWO VOICES. Two solemn Voices, in a funeral strain, "Thou art gone hence !" one sang; "Our light is flown, "Thou art gone hence!-our joyous hills among Never again to pour thy soul in song, When spring-flowers rise! THE TWO VOICES. 117 "Thou art gone home, gone home !" then, high and clear, Warbled that other Voice: "Thou hast no tear Never to fold the robe o'er secret pain, Never, weigh'd down by Memory's clouds, again To bow thy head. "Thou art gone home! oh! early crown'd and blest! Where could the love of that deep heart find rest With aught below? Thou must have seen rich dream by dream decay, All the bright rose-leaves drop from life awayThrice bless'd to go!" Yet sigh'd again that breeze-like Voice of grief"Thou art gone hence! alas! that aught so brief, So loved should be; Thou tak'st our summer hence !-the flower, the tone The music of our being, all in one, Depart with thee! "Fair form, young spirit, morning vision fled! Yes! to the dwelling where no footsteps fall, Thy smile is gone!" "Home, home!" once more the exulting Voice arose: "Thou art gone home!-from that divine repose Never to roam ! Never to say farewell, to weep in vain, 66 By the bright waters now thy lot is cast- Now the long yearnings of thy soul are still'd, THE PARTING SHIP. "A glittering ship, that hath the plain WORDSWORTH. Go, in thy glory, o'er the ancient sea, Take with thee gentle winds thy sails to swell; Sunshine and joy upon thy streamers be, Fare-thee-well, bark! farewell! Proudly the flashing billow thou hast cleft, The breeze yet follows thee with cheer and song; Who now of storms hath dream or memory left? And yet the deep is strong! But go thou triumphing, while still the smiles |