VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that ravest without, 1 Bare craig, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled men, with smarting At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! 1 Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the valleys. This address to the Storm-wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country. But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! 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: VIII. "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, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; To her may all things live, from pole to pole, O simple spirit, guided from above, ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, ON THE TWENTY- OVER MOUNT GOTHARD." "And hail the chapel! hail the platform wild! With well strung arm, that first preserved his child SPLENDOUR'S fondly fostered child! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! There crowd your finely-fibred frame, His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? Or in verse and music dress Tales of rustic happiness Pernicious tales! insidious strains! The sordid vices and the abject pains, The doom of ignorance and penury! But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child, Beneath the shaft of Tell! O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! You were a mother! That most holy name, Than the poor caterpillar owes Its gaudy parent fly. You were a mother! at your bosom fed The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye, Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, A second time to be a mother, Without the mother's bitter groans: By touch, or taste, by looks or tones O'er the growing sense to roll, The mother of your infant's soul ! The angel of the earth, who, while he guides A moment turned his awful face away; |