Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! with raptur'd ear,
That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near;-
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this?
On Caledonia's hills, the ruddy morn
Breathes fresh:-the huntsman winds his clamorous
The youthful minstrel from his pallet springs,
Seizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings.
Lark-like he mounts o'er gray rocks, thunder-riven,
Lark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest-driven,
And lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs,
Whose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes.
With airy foot he treads that giddy height;
His heart all rapture, and his eye all light;
His voice all melody, his yellow hair
Floating and dancing on the mountain air,
Shaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls,
That gather clustering on his golden curls ;-
And, for a moment, gazes on a scene,
Ting'd with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening
Then plays a mournful prelude, while the star
Of morning fades :--but when heaven's gates unbar, And on the world a tide of glory rushes,
Burns on the hill, and down the valley blushes;
The mountain bard in livelier numbers sings,
While sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings ; And his young bosom feels the enchantment strong, Of light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song.
From rising morn, the tuneful stripling roves,
Through smiling valleys and religious groves;
Hears there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat,
Here, the lone turtle pour her mournful note,
Till night descends, and round the wanderer flings
The dewdrops dripping from her dusky wings.
Far from his native vale, and humble shed,
By nature's smiles, and nature's music led,
This child of melody has thoughtless stray'd,
Till darkness wraps him in her deep'ning shade.
The scene he smil'd on, when array'd in light,
Now lowers around him with the frown of night.
With weary foot the nearest height he climbs,
Crown'd with huge oaks, giants of other times;
Who feel, but fear not autumn's breath, and cast
Their summer robes upon the roaring blast;
And glorying in their majesty of form,
Toss their old arms, and challenge every storm.
Below him, Ocean rolls :-deep in a wood,
Built on a rock, and frowning o'er the flood,
Like the dark Cyclops of Trinacria's isle,
Rises an old and venerable pile :
Gothic its structure; once a cross it bore,
And pilgrims throng'd to hail it and adore.
Mitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar,
The solemn organ led the chanting quire,
When in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung,
And o'er the dead, a requiescat rung.-
Now, all is still :-the midnight anthem hush'd:-
The cross is crumbled, and the crosier crush'd.
And is all still?-No: round those ruin'd altars,
With feeble foot as our musician falters,
Faint, weary, lost, benighted, and alone,
He sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone.
Here nameless fears the young enthusiast chill:
They're superstitious, but religious still.
He hears the sullen murmur of the seas,
That tumble round the stormy Orcades;
Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar,
Their sparkling surges to that savage shore:
And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves
Through rifted rocks, and hollow rumbling caves.
Round the dark windows clasping ivy clings,
Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings:
Its green leaves rustle :-heavy winds arise:
The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs.
Now Fancy sees th' ideal canvas stretch'd,
And o'er the lines that Truth has dimly sketch'd,
Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly
Hurtled along before her phrenzied eye.
The scudding cloud that drives along the coast,
Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost,
Who sails serenely in his gloomy pall,
O'er Morven's woods and Tura's mouldering wall,
To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall.
Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill,
Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill?
No 'tis the mountain blast, that nightly rages,
Around those walls, gray with the
moss of Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light Shines in yon vault, before a spectre white? No:-'tis a glow-worm, burning greenly there, Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air. What mighty organ swells its deepest tone, And sighing, heaves a low funereal moan, That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms, And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs ? Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides! The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides; Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave; Or shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave. Yet! 'tis some Spirit that those skies deforms, And wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms. Yes:-'tis a Spirit in those vaults that dwells, Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells. Yes:-'tis some Spirit on the blast that rides, And wakes the eternal tumult of the tides. That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream, Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream,
Lur'd his young foot to every vale that rung,
And charm'd his ear in every bird that sung;
With various concerts cheer'd his hours of light,
But kept the mightiest in reserve till night;
Then, thron'd in darkness, peal'd that wildest air,
Froze his whole soul, and chain'd the listener there.
That Mighty Spirit once from Teman came:
Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame.17
Bow'd the perpetual hills :—the rivers fled :—
Green Ocean trembled to his deepest bed :-
Earth shrunk aghast,-eternal mountains burn'd,
And his red axle thunder'd as it turn'd.
O, Thou Dread Spirit! Being's End and Source ! O! check thy chariot in its fervid course.
Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire,
And with one smile immortalize our lyre.
Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne,
Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown,
Swelling one ceaseless song of praise to thee,
Eternal Author of Eternity!
Still hast thou stoop'd to hear a shepherd play,
To prompt his measures, and approve his lay.
Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest!
Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest!
How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim,
From Zion's hill to Mount Moriah came,
Beneath the wings of Cherubim to rest,
In a rich vail of Tyrian purple drest;
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