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The Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

How silently! Around thee and above

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil Deep is the air and dark, substantial,

around my mind,

Reality's dark dream!

I turn from you, and listen to the wind,

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 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 over

It 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:

And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,

And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

black,

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Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?.

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing ye meadow-streams, with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the elements! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast

Thou too again, stupendous mountain! thou

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low

In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,

To rise before me- Rise, O ever

rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth!

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YOUTH AND AGE. VERSE, a breeze, mid blossoms straying, Where hope clung fading, like a bee

Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woful when!

Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!

This breathing house not built with hands,

This body that does me grievous wrong,

O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of
yore,

On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or
weather

When youth and I lived in't together.

O part them never! If hope pros- Flowers are lovely; Love is flower

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like;

Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O! the joys, that came down shower-
like,

Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old.

Ere I was old? Ah, woful ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!

O Youth! for years so many and sweet,

'Tis known, that thou and I were one,

I'll think it but a fond conceit
It cannot be, that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled :-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put

on,

To make believe, that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine
eyes!

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LOVE.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,

Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,

And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.

scene

The moonshine, stealing o'er the
Had blended with the lights of eve;
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!

She leaned against the armèd man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listened to my lay,

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own.
My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene'er I sing

The songs that make her grieve.

played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace;
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he wooed The lady of the land.

I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another's love, Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace;

And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!

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