And with poor skill let pass into the breeze The dull shell's echo, from a bowery strand Just opposite, an island of the sea, There came enchantment with the shifting wind, That did both drown and keep alive my ears. I threw my shell away upon the sand, Each family of rapturous hurried notes, And then another, then another strain, Each like a dove leaving its olive perch, With music wing'd instead of silent plumes. To hover round my head, and make me sick Of joy and grief at once. Grief over 421 The fallen leaves, when I have sat alone [fore, Lift up their heads, as still the whisper supreme shape, Thou hast dream'd of me; and awaking up Didst find a lyre all golden by thy side, Unwearied ear of the whole universe That thou shouldst weep, so gifted? What sorrow thou canst feel; for I am sad When thou dost shed a tear: explain thy griefs To one who in this lonely isle hath been The watcher of thy sleep and hours of life, From the young day when first thy infant hand Pluck'd witless the weak flowers, till Could bend that bow heroic to all times. Who hath forsaken old and sacred For prophecies of thee, and for the sake Throbb'd with the syllables.—“ Mne- Thy name is on my tongue, I know not how: Why should I tell thee what thou so well seest? Why should I strive to show what from thy lips Would come no mystery? For me, dark, And painful vile oblivion seals my eyes: Feel curs'd and thwarted, when the Yields to my step aspirant? why should I Spurn the green turf as hateful to my feet? Goddess benign, point forth some unknown thing: Are there not other regions than this isle? What are the stars? There is the sun, the sun! And the most patient brilliance of the moon! And stars by thousands! Point me out the way To any one particular beauteous star, I have heard the cloudy thunder: |