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Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wall Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wail Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things; Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e’er belong The honours of undying song.
TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.
Oh! thou who, in my early youth,
By old domestic, waken’d wide
Season of general rest, whose solemn still
But speaks to philosophic souls delight;
I sit and taste the holy calm of night.
Yon pensive orb, that through the ether sails,
Hanging in thy dull rear her vestal flame;
And sing the gentle honours of her name;
While Fancy lone o'er me, her votary, bends,
And pours upon my ear her thrilling song,
Meanwhile I tune, to some romantic lay,
The sweet notes echo o'er the mountain scene : The traveller late journeying o'er the moors, Hears them aghast,—(while still the dull owl pours
Her hollow screams each dreary pause between).
Where I, poor muser, my lone vigils keep,
And raise my mournful eye to Heaven, and weep.
WRITTEN AT MIDNIGHT.
Hence, away, vindictive thought !
Thy pictures are of pain ;
I would not weep,
I wish to sleep,
Is this thy new delight?
The dark vault of the night :
'Tis thine to die,
While o'er the eye
His bark through lonely seas;
But thou to me
Art misery, [my pillow flee. So pr’ythee, pr’ythee, plume thy wings, and from
And, memory, pray what art thou ?
Art thou of pleasure born?
With all thy smiles,
And witching wiles, [defiles. Yet not unfrequent bitterness thy mournful sway
The drowsy night-watch has forgot
To call the solemn hour ;
And restless lie,
With unclosed eye, And count the tedious hours as slow they minute by.