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Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse
The GIFT to King Amphion
The pipe of Pan, to shepherds
To life, to life give back thine ear:
For terror, joy, or pity, Vast is the compass and the swell of notes : From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city, Rolling a solemn, sea-like bass, that floats Far as the woodlands, — with the trill to blend Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale Might tempt an angel to descend, While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme, No scale of moral music, to unite Powers that survive but in the faintest dream Of memory ? - O that ye might stoop to bear Chains, such precious chains of sight As labored minstrelsies through ages wear! O for a balance fit the truth to tell Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well!
By one pervading spirit
As sages taught, where faith was found to merit
XIII. Break forth into thanksgiving, Ye banded instruments of wind and chords ! Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words ! Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, Nor mute the forest hum of noon; Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed From snowy peak and cloud, attune Thy hungry barkings to the hymn Of joy, that from her utmost walls The six-days' Work by flaming Seraphim Transmits to Heaven! As Deep to Deep Shouting through one valley calls, All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep
For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured
XIV. A Voice to Light gave Being ; To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler ; A Voice shall finish doubt and dim foreseeing, And sweep away life's visionary stir ; The trumpet, (we, intoxicate with pride, Arm at its blast for deadly wars,) To archangelic lips applied, The grave shall open, quench the stars. O Silence ! are Man’s noisy years No more than moments of thy life? Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, With her smooth tones and discords just, Tempered into rapturous strife, Thy destined bond-slave ? No! though earth be
dust And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay Is in the WORD, that shall not pass away.
What's in a name!
Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar!
TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L., ETC., ETC.
MY DEAR FRIEND: — The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its manuscript state, nearly survived its minority; — for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the literature of our country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses.
The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously, and for kindred results of pleasure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the super