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But tell not where my cheek was laid,
Nor where my careless arm was flung.
As slowly steals, on angel wing,
Thy light pavilion down the sky, Before thee let young seraphs sing
The softest love-sick melody.
And here, on thy beloved shrine,
Where fragrant flames of incense glow, Pure as that heav'nly breast of thine,
And fairer than the virgin snow;
Here will I worship with delight,
And pay the vows I made to thee ; Until thy mild and modest light,
Is cradled on the heaying sea.
ON THE COMET OF 1811.
When Silence, from her vault so blue, Steals soft o'er Teviot's mountains green,
To sleep embalm'd in midnight dew!
All hail, ye hills, whose tow'ring height,
Like shadows scoops the yielding sky! And thou, mysterious guest of night,
Dread trav’ller of immensity!
Stranger of heav'n, I bid thee bail!
Shred from the pall of glory riven, That flashest in celestial gale;
Broad pennon of the King of Heaven! Art thou the flag of woe and death
From angel's ensign-staff unfurl'd ? Art thou the standard of his wrath,
Wav'd o'er a sordid sinful world ?
No; from thy pure pellucid beam,
That erst o'er plains of Bethlehem shone, No latent evil we can deem,
Fair herald of th' eternal throne !
Whate'er portends thy front of fire,
And streaming locks so lovely pale ; Or peace to man, or judgments dire,
Stranger of heav'n, I bid thee hail!
Where bast thou roam'd these thousand years?
Why sought these polar paths again? From wilderness of glowing spheres,
To fling 'thy, vesture o'er the wain ?
And when thou climb’st the milky way,
And vanishest from human view,
Through wilds of yon empyreal blue.
Oh, on 'thy rapid prow to glide !
To sail the boundless skies with thee ! And plough the twinkling stars aside,
Like foam-bells on a tranquil sea!
To brush the embers from the sun;
The icicles from off the pole ; Then far to other systems run,
Where other moons and planets roll!
Eccentric as thy course on high,
And airy as thine ambient beam.
And long, long may thy silver ray
Our northern vault at eve adorn; Then, wheeling to the east away,
Sweep the grey portals of the morn!
TO THE CLOUDS.
Ye glorious pageants ! hung in air
To greet our raptur'd view;
For loveliness, with you ?
This earth is beautiful, indeed,
And in itself appeals
The beauties it reveals.
Its giant mountains, which ascend
To your exalted sphere,
In majesty austere:
Its lovely valleys, forests vast;
Its rivers, lakes, and seas ;
The sight, the sense must please.
When through the eastern gates of heav'n
The sun's first glories shine ;
To gild the day's decline ;
All glorious as that orb appears,
His radiance still would lose Each gentle charm, that most endears,
Without your soft'ning hues. When these with his refulgent rays
Harmoniously unite, Who on your splendid pomp can gaze,
Nor feel a hush'd delight?
'Tis then, if to the raptur'd eye
Her aid the fancy brings, . In you our vision can descry
Not merely mountains, cliffs, and caves,
Domes, battlements, and towers, Torrents of light, that Aling their waves . O'er coral rocks and bowers;
Not only what to man is known
In nature, or in art;
No seeming counterpart.
As once the Seer in Patmos saw
Heaven's op'ning door reveal'd, And scenes inspiring love and awe
To his rapt sight unseald:
So, in a faint and low degree,
Through your unfoldings bright, Phantoms of glory yet to be · Dawn on the wond'ring sight.
ADDRESS TO THE OCEAN.'
From Childe Harold.
LORD BYRON. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar ; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark-blue Ocean, roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain ; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore;- upon the wat'ry plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell’d, uncoffin'd, and un
His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields