Shall wear away, and be seen nae mair; And the angels shall miss them travelling the air. But lang, lang after baith night and day, When the sun and the world have dyed away, When the sinner has gane to his waesome doom, Kilmeny shall smile in eternal bloom!" But to sing the sights Kilmeny saw, So far surpassing Nature's law, The singer's voice wad sink away And the string of his harp wad cease to play. Till the stars of heaven fell calmly away, Like the flakes of snaw on a winter's day. Then Kilmeny begged again to see The friends she had left in her own countrye, To tell of the place where she had been, To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of Heaven, the spirit's care, That all whose minds unmeled remain With distant music, soft and deep, And when she awakened, she lay her lane, All happed with flowers in the green-wood wene. When grief was calm, and hope was dead, Late, late in the gloamin, Kilmeny came hame! But still and steadfast was her ee; Such beauty bard may never declare, For there was no pride nor passion there; And the soft desire of maiden's een, In that mild face could never be seen. Her seymar was the lily flower, And her cheek the moss-rose in the shower; And her voice like the distant melodye, That floats along the twilight sea. But she loved to raike the lanely glen, To suck the flowers and drink the spring. Oh! then the glen was all in motion! Broke from their bughts and faulds the tame, And murmured, and looked with anxious pain, The wolf and the kid their raike began, And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour them hung, And the merl and the mavis forhooyed their young; And all in a peaceful ring were hurled: It was like an eve in a sinless world! When a month and a day had come and gane, Kilmeny sought the green-wood wene; For they kend na whether she was living or dead. It wasna her hame, and she couldna remain; She left this world of sorrow and pain, I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, From the seas and the streams: I bear light shades for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Spirit he loves remains; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings; And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, Are paved with the moon and these. I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and upbuild it again. MODERATE MOVEMENT. PALM SUNDAY. (ADDRESS TO POETS.) Ye whose hearts are beating high With the pulse of Poesy, Heirs of more than royal race, Framed by Heaven's peculiar grace, (If the word be not too bold,) And a life that ne'er grows old Sovereign masters of our hearts! His Hosannas here below; Mount, and claim your glorious meed; But if ye should hold your peace, Deem not that the song would cease Angels round His glory-throne, Stars, His guiding hand that own, Flowers, that grow beneath our feet, John Keble. Stones, in earth's dark womb that rest, High and low in choir shall meet, Ere His name shall be unblest. Lord, by every minstrel tongue Be Thy praise so duly sung, That Thine angels' harps may ne'er |