The Missing Poems from The Mysteries of Udolpho

Go, pencil! faithful to thy master’s sighs!

Go — tell the Goddess of the fairy scene,

When next her light steps wind these wood-walks green,

Whence all his tears, his tender sorrows, rise;

Ah! paint her form, her soul-illumin’d eyes,

The sweet expression of her pensive face,

The light’ning smile, the animated grace —

The portrait well the lover’s voice supplies;

Speaks all his heart must feel, his tongue would say:

Yet ah! not all his heart must sadly feel!

How oft the flow’ret’s silken leaves conceal

The drug that steals the vital spark away!

And who that gazes on that angel-smile,

Would fear its charm, or think it could beguile!

How pleasant is the greenwood’s deep-matted shade

On a midsummer’s eve, when the fresh rain is o’er;

When the yellow beams slope, and sparkle thro’ the glade,

And swiftly in the thin air the light swallows soar!

But sweeter, sweeter still, when the sun sinks to rest,

And twilight comes on, with the fairies so gay

Tripping through the forest-walk, where flow’rs, unprest,

Bow not their tall heads beneath their frolic play.

To music’s softest sounds they dance away the hour,

Till moonlight steals down among the trembling leaves,

And checquers all the ground, and guides them to the bow’r,

The long haunted bow’r, where the nightingale grieves.

Then no more they dance, till her sad song is done,

But, silent as the night, to her mourning attend;

And often as her dying notes their pity have won,

They vow all her sacred haunts from mortals to defend.

When, down among the mountains, sinks the ev’ning star,

And the changing moon forsakes this shadowy sphere,

How cheerless would they be, tho’ they fairies are,

If I, with my pale light, came not near!

Yet cheerless tho’ they’d be, they’re ungrateful to my love!

For, often when the traveller’s benighted on his way,

And I glimmer in his path, and would guide him thro’ the grove,

They bind me in their magic spells to lead him far astray;

And in the mire to leave him, till the stars are all burnt out,

While, in strange-looking shapes, they frisk about the ground,

And, afar in the woods, they raise a dismal shout,

Till I shrink into my cell again for terror of the sound!

But, see where all the tiny elves come dancing in a ring,

With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the horn,

And the timbrel so clear, and the lute with dulcet string;

Then round about the oak they go till peeping of the morn.

Down yonder glade two lovers steal, to shun the fairy queen,

Who frowns upon their plighted vows, and jealous is of me,

That yester-eve I lighted them, along the dewy green,

To seek the purple flow’r, whose juice from all her spells can free.

And now, to punish me, she keeps afar her jocund band,

With the merry, merry pipe, and the tabor, and the lute;

If I creep near yonder oak she will wave her fairy wand,

And to me the dance will cease, and the music all be mute.

O! had I but that purple flow’r whose leaves her charms can foil,

And knew like fays to draw the juice, and throw it on the wind,

I’d be her slave no longer, nor the traveller beguile,

And help all faithful lovers, nor fear the fairy kind!

But soon the vapour of the woods will wander afar,

And the fickle moon will fade, and the stars disappear,

Then, cheerless will they be, tho’ they fairies are,

If I, with my pale light, come not near!

How sweet to wind the forest’s tangled shade,

When early twilight, from the eastern bound,

Dawns on the sleeping landscape in the glade,

And fades as morning spreads her blush around!

When ev’ry infant flower, that wept in night,

Lifts its chill head soft-glowing with a tear,

Expands its tender blossom to the light,

And gives its incense to the genial air.

How fresh the breeze that wafts the rich perfume,

And swells the melody of waking birds;

The hum of bees, beneath the verdant gloom,

And woodman’s song, and low of distant herds!

Then, doubtful gleams the mountain’s hoary head,

Seen through the parting foliage from afar;

And, farther still, the ocean’s misty bed,

With flitting sails, that partial sunbeams share.

But, vain the sylvan shade — the breath of May,

The voice of music floating on the gale,

And forms, that beam through morning’s dewy veil,

If health no longer bid the heart be gay!

O balmy hour! ’tis thine her wealth to give,

Here spread her blush, and bid the parent live!

Now the bat circles on the breeze of eve,

That creeps, in shudd’ring fits, along the wave,

And trembles ’mid the woods, and through the cave

Whose lonely sighs the wanderer deceive;

For oft, when melancholy charms his mind,

He thinks the Spirit of the rock he hears,

Nor listens, but with sweetly thrilling fears,

To the low, mystic murmurs of the wind!

Now the bat circles, and the twilight dew

Falls silent round, and, o’er the mountain cliff,

The gleaming wave, and far-discover’d skiff,

Spreads the grey veil of soft, harmonious hue.

So falls o’er Grief the dew of pity’s tear

Dimming her lonely visions of despair.

The weary traveller, who, all night long,

Has climb’d among the Alps’ tremendous steeps,

Skirting the pathless precipice, where throng

Wild forms of danger; as he onward creeps

If, chance, his anxious eye at distance sees

The mountain shepherd’s solitary home,

Peeping from forth the moon-illumin’d trees,

What sudden transports to his bosom come!

But, if between some hideous chasm yawn,

Where the cleft pine a doubtful bridge displays,

In dreadful silence, on the brink, forlorn

He stands, and views in the faint rays

Far, far below, the torrent’s rising surge,

And listens to the wild impetuous roar;

Still eyes the depth, still shudders on the verge,

Fears to return, nor dares to venture o’er.

Desperate, at length the tottering plank he tries,

His weak steps slide, he shrieks, he sinks — he dies!

Ah, merry swain, who laugh’d along the vales,

And with your gay pipe made the mountains ring,

Why leave your cot, your woods, and thymy gales,

And friends belov’d, for aught that wealth can bring?

He goes to wake o’er moonlight seas the string,

Venetian gold his untaught fancy hails!

Yet oft of home his simple carols sing,

And his steps pause, as the last alp he scales.

Once more he turns to view his native scene —

Far, far below, as roll the clouds away,

He spies his cabin ’mid the pine-tops green,

The well-known woods, clear brook, and pastures gay;

And thinks of friends and parents left behind,

Of sylvan revels, dance, and festive song;

And hears the faint reed swelling in the wind;

And his sad sighs the distant notes prolong!

Thus went the swain, till mountain shadows fell,

And dimm’d the landscape to his aching sight;

And must he leave the vales he loves so well!

Can foreign wealth, and shows, his heart delight?

No, happy vales! your wild rocks still shall hear

His pipe, light sounding on the morning breeze;

Still shall he lead the flocks to streamlet clear,

And watch at eve beneath the western trees.

Away, Venetian gold — your charm is o’er!

And now his swift step seeks the lowland bow’rs,

Where, through the leaves, his cottage light once more

Guides him to happy friends, and jocund hours.

Ah, merry swain! that laugh along the vales,

And with your gay pipe make the mountains ring,

Your cot, your woods, your thymy-scented gales —

And friends belov’d — more joy than wealth can bring!

— Oft I hear,

Upon the silence of the midnight air,

Celestial voices swell in holy chorus

That bears the soul to heaven!

Down, down a thousand fathom deep,

Among the sounding seas I go;

Play round the foot of ev’ry steep

Whose cliffs above the ocean grow.

There, within their secret cares,

I hear the mighty rivers roar;

And guide their streams through Neptune’s waves

To bless the green earth’s inmost shore:

And bid the freshen’d waters glide,

For fern-crown’d nymphs of lake, or brook,

Through winding woods and pastures wide,

And many a wild, romantic nook.

For this the nymphs, at fall of eave,

Oft dance upon the flow’ry banks,

And sing my name, and garlands weave

To bear beneath the wave their thanks.

In coral bow’rs I love to lie,

And hear the surges roll above,

And through the waters view on high

The proud ships sail, and gay clouds move.

And oft at midnight’s stillest hour,

When summer seas the vessel lave,

I love to prove my charmful pow’r

While floating on the moonlight wave.

And when deep sleep the crew has bound,

And the sad lover musing leans

O’er the ship’s side, I breathe around

Such strains as speak no mortal means!

O’er the dim waves his searching eye

Sees but the vessel’s lengthen’d shade;

Above — the moon and azure sky;

Entranc’d he hears, and half afraid!

Sometimes, a single note I swell,

That, softly sweet, at distance dies;

Then wake the magic of my shell,

And choral voices round me rise!

The trembling youth, charm’d by my strain,

Calls up the crew, who, silent, bend

O’er the high deck, but list in vain;

My song is hush’d, my wonders end!

Within the mountain’s woody bay,

Where the tall bark at anchor rides,

At twilight hour, with tritons gay,

I dance upon the lapsing tides:

And with my sister nymphs I sport,

Till the broad sun looks o’er the floods;

Then, swift we seek our crystal court,

Deep in the wave, ’mid Neptune’s woods.

In cool arcades and glassy halls

We pass the sultry hours of noon,

Beyond wherever sunbeam falls,

Weaving sea-flowers in gay festoon.

The while we chant our ditties sweet

To some soft shell that warbles near;

Join’d by the murmuring currents, fleet,

That glide along our halls so clear.

There, the pale pearl and sapphire blue,

And ruby red, and em’rald green,

Dart from the domes a changing hue,

And sparry columns deck the scene.

When the dark storm scowls o’er the deep,

And long, long peals of thunder sound,

On some high cliff my watch I keep

O’er all the restless seas around:

Till on the ridgy wave afar

Comes the lone vessel, labouring slow,

Spreading the white foam in the air,

With sail and top mast bending low.

Then, plunge I ’mid the ocean’s roar,

My way by quiv’ring lightnings shown,

To guide the bark to peaceful shore,

And hush the sailor’s fearful groan.

And if too late I reach its side

To save it from the ’whelming surge,

I call my dolphins o’er the tide,

To bear the crew where isles emerge.

Their mournful spirits soon I cheer,

While round the desert coast I go,

With warbled songs they faintly hear,

Oft as the stormy gust sinks low.

My music leads to lofty groves,

That wild upon the sea bank wave;

Where sweet fruits bloom, and fresh spring roves,

And closing boughs the tempest brave.

Then, from the air spirits obey

My potent voice they love so well,

And, on the clouds, paint visions gay,

While strains more sweet at distance swell.

And thus the lonely hours I cheat,

Soothing the ship-wreck’d sailor’s heart,

Till from the waves the storms retreat,

And o’er the east the day-beams dart.

Neptune for this oft binds me fast

To rocks below, with coral chain,

Till all the tempest’s overpass’d,

And drowning seamen cry in vain.

Whoe’er ye are that love my lay,

Come, when red sunset tints the wave,

To the still sands, where fairies play;

There, in cool seas, I love to lave.

Soft as yon silver ray, that sleeps

Upon the ocean’s trembling tide;

Soft as the air, that lightly sweeps

Yon said, that swells in stately pride:

Soft as the surge’s stealing note,

That dies along the distant shores,

Or warbled strain, that sinks remote —

So soft the sigh my bosom pours!

True as the wave to Cynthia’s ray,

True as the vessel to the breeze,

True as the soul to music’s sway,

Or music to Venetian seas:

Soft as yon silver beams, that sleep

Upon the ocean’s trembling breast;

So soft, so true, fond Love shall weep,

So soft, so true, with thee shall rest.

O’er Ilion’s plains, where once the warrior bled,

And once the poet rais’d his deathless strain,

O’er Ilion’s plains a weary driver led

His stately camels: For the ruin’d fane.

Wide round the lonely scene his glance he threw,

For now the red cloud faded in the west,

And twilight o’er the silent landscape drew

Her deep’ning veil; eastward his course he prest;

There, on the grey horizon’s glimm’ring bound,

Rose the proud columns of deserted Troy,

And wandering shepherds now a shelter found

Within those walls, where princes wont to joy.

Beneath a lofty porch the driver pass’d,

Then, from his camels heav’d the heavy load;

Partook with them the simple, cool repast,

And in short vesper gave himself to God.

From distant lands with merchandise he came,

His all of wealth his patient servants bore;

Oft deep-drawn sighs his anxious wish proclaim

To reach, again, his happy cottage door;

For there, his wife, his little children, dwell;

Their smiles shall pay the toil of many an hour:

Ev’n now warm tears to expectation swell,

As fancy o’er his mind extends her pow’r.

A death-like stillness reign’d, where once the song,

The song of heroes, wak’d the midnight air,

Save, when a solemn murmur roll’d along,

That seem’d to say — “For future worlds prepare.”

For Time’s imperious voice was frequent heard

Shaking the marble temple to its fall,

(By hands he long had conquer’d, vainly rear’d),

And distant ruins answer’d to his call.

While Hamet slept, his camels round him lay,

Beneath him, all his store of wealth was piled;

And here, his cruse and empty wallet lay,

And there, the flute that chear’d him in the wild.

The robber Tartar on his slumber stole,

For o’er the waste, at eve, he watch’d his train;

Ah! who his thirst of plunder shall control?

Who calls on him for mercy — calls in vain!

A poison’d poignard in his belt he wore,

A crescent sword depended at his side,

The deathful quiver at his back he bore,

And infants — at his very look had died!

The moon’s cold beam athwart the temple fell,

And to his sleeping prey the Tartar led;

But soft! — a startled camel shook his bell,

Then stretch’d his limbs, and rear’d his drowsy head.

Hamet awoke! the poignard glitter’d high!

Swift from his couch he sprung, and ’scap’d the blow;

When from an unknown hand the arrows fly,

That lay the ruffian, in his vengeance, low.

He groan’d, he died! from forth a column’d gate

A fearful shepherd, pale and silent, crept,

Who, as he watch’d his folded flock star-late,

Had mark’d the robber steal where Hamet slept.

He fear’d his own, and sav’d a stranger’s life!

Poor Hamet clasp’d him to his grateful heart;

Then, rous’d his camels for the dusty strife,

And, with the shepherd, hasten’d to depart.

And now, Aurora breathes her fresh’ning gale,

And faintly trembles on the eastern cloud;

And now, the sun, from under twilight’s veil,

Looks gaily forth, and melts her airy shroud.

Wide o’er the level plains, his slanting beams

Dart their long lines on Ilion’s tower’d site;

The distant Hellespont with morning gleams,

And old Scamander winds his waves in light.

All merry sound the camel bells, so gay,

And merry beats fond Hamet’s heart, for he,

E’er the dim evening steals upon the day,

His children, wife, and happy home shall see.

Slow o’er the Apennine, with bleeding feet,

A patient Pilgrim wound his lonely way,

To deck the Lady of Loretto’s seat

With all the little wealth his zeal could pay.

From mountaintops cold died the evening ray,

And, stretch’d in twilight, slept the vale below;

And now the last, last purple streaks of day

Along the melancholy West fade slow.

High o’er his head, the restless pines complain,

As on their summit rolls the breeze of night;

Beneath, the hoarse stream chides the rocks in vain:

The Pilgrim pauses on the dizzy height.

Then to the vale his cautious step he prest,

For there a hermit’s cross was dimly seen,

Cresting the rock, and there his limbs might rest,

Cheer’d in the good man’s cave, by faggot’s sheen,

On leafy beds, nor guile his sleep molest.

Unhappy Luke! he trusts a treacherous clue!

Behind the cliff the lurking robber stood;

No friendly moon his giant shadow threw

Athwart the road, to save the Pilgrim’s blood;

On as he went a vesper hymn he sang,

The hymn, that nightly sooth’d him to repose.

Fierce on his harmless prey the ruffian sprang!

The Pilgrim bleeds to death, his eyelids close.

Yet his meek spirit knew no vengeful care,

But, dying, for his murd’rer breath’d — a sainted pray’r!

O nymph! who loves to float on the green wave,

When Neptune sleeps beneath the moonlight hour,

Lull’d by the music’s melancholy pow’r,

O nymph, arise from out thy pearly cave!

For Hesper beams amid the twilight shade,

And soon shall Cynthia tremble o’er the tide,

Gleam on these cliffs, that bound the ocean’s pride,

And lonely silence all the air pervade.

Then, let thy tender voice at distance swell,

And steal along this solitary shore,

Sink on the breeze, till dying — heard no more —

Thou wak’st the sudden magic of thy shell.

While the long coast in echo sweet replies,

Thy soothing strains the pensive heart beguile,

And bid the visions of the future smile,

O nymph! from out thy pearly cave — arise!

Chorus

Arise! Arise!

Soft came the breath of spring; smooth flow’d the tide;

And blue the heaven in its mirror smil’d;

The white sail trembled, swell’d, expanded wide,

The busy sailors at the anchor toil’d.

With anxious friends, that shed the parting tear,

The deck was throng’d — how swift the moments fly!

The vessel heaves, the farewell signs appear;

Mute is each tongue, and eloquent each eye!

The last dread moment comes! — The sailor-youth

Hides the big drop, then smiles amid his pain,

Soothes his sad bride, and vows eternal truth,

“Farewell, my love — we shall — shall meet again!”

Long on the stern, with waving hand, he stood;

The crowded shore sinks, lessening, from his view,

As gradual glides the bark along the flood;

His bride is seen no more — “Adieu! — adieu!”

The breeze of Eve moans low, her smile is o’er,

Dim steals her twilight down the crimson’d west,

He climbs the topmost mast, to seek once more

The far-seen coast, where all his wishes rest.

He views its dark line on the distant sky,

And Fancy leads him to his little home,

He sees his weeping love, he hears her sigh,

He soothes her griefs, and tells of joys to come.

Eve yields to night, the breeze to wintry gales,

In one vast shade the seas and shores repose;

He turns his aching eyes, his spirit fails,

The chill tear falls; sad to the deck he goes!

The storm of midnight swells, the sails are furl’d,

Deep sounds the lead, but finds no friendly shore,

Fast o’er the waves the wretched bark is hurl’d,

“O Ellen, Ellen! we must meet no more!”

Lightnings, that show the vast and foamy deep,

The rending thunders, as they onward roll,

The loud, loud winds, that o’er the billows sweep —

Shake the firm nerve, appall the bravest soul!

Ah! what avails the seamen’s toiling care!

The straining cordage bursts, the mast is riv’n;

The sounds of terror groan along the air,

Then sink afar; the bark on rocks is driv’n!

Fierce o’er the wreck the whelming waters pass’d,

The helpless crew sunk in the roaring main!

Henry’s faint accents trembled in the blast —

“Farewell, my love! — we ne’er shall meet again!”

Oft, at the calm and silent evening hour,

When summer breezes linger on the wave,

A melancholy voice is heard to pour

Its lonely sweetness o’er poor Henry’s grave!

And oft, at midnight, airy strains are heard

Around the grove, where Ellen’s form is laid;

Nor is the dirge by village maidens fear’d,

For lovers’ spirits guard the holy shade!

What bowery dell, with fragrant breath,

Courts thee to stay thy airy flight;

Nor seek again the purple heath,

So oft the scene of gay delight?

Long I’ve watch’d i’ the lily’s bell,

Whose whiteness stole the morning’s beam;

No fluttering sounds thy coming tell,

No waving wings, at distance, gleam.

But fountain fresh, nor breathing grove,

Nor sunny mead, nor blossom’d tree,

So sweet as lily’s cell shall prove,

The bower of constant love and me.

When April buds begin to blow,

The primrose, and the harebell blue,

That on the verdant moss bank grow,

With violet cups, that weep in dew;

When wanton gales breathe through the shade,

And shake the blooms, and steal their sweets,

And swell the song of ev’ry glade,

I range the forest’s green retreats:

There, through the tangled wood-walks play,

Where no rude urchin paces near,

Where sparely peeps the sultry day,

And light dews freshen all the air.

High on a sunbeam oft I sport

O’er bower and fountain, vale and hill;

Oft ev’ry blushing flow’ret court,

That hangs its head o’er winding rill.

But these I’ll leave to be thy guide,

And show thee, where the jasmine spreads

Her snowy leaf, where mayflow’rs hide,

And rosebuds rear their peeping heads.

With me the mountain’s summit scale,

And taste the wild thyme’s honied bloom,

Whose fragrance, floating on the gale,

Oft leads me to the cedar’s gloom.

Yet, yet, no sound comes in the breeze!

What shade thus dares to tempt thy stay?

Once, me alone thou wish’d to please,

And with me only thou wouldst stray.

But, while thy long delay I mourn,

And chide the sweet shades for their guile,

Thou may’st be true, and they forlorn,

And fairy favours court thy smile.

The tiny queen of fairy-land,

Who knows thy speed, hath sent thee far,

To bring, or ere the night-watch stand,

Rich essence for her shadowy car:

Perchance her acorn-cups to fill

With nectar from the Indian rose,

Or gather, near some haunted rill,

May-dews, that lull to sleep Love’s woes:

Or, o’er the mountains, bade thee fly,

To tell her fairy love to speed,

When ev’ning steals upon the sky,

To dance along the twilight mead.

But now I see thee sailing low,

Gay as the brightest flow’rs of spring,

Thy coat of blue and jet I know,

And well thy gold and purple wing.

Borne on the gale, thou com’st to me;

O! welcome, welcome to my home!

In lily’s cell we’ll live in glee,

Together o’er the mountains roam!

Last of the hours, that track the fading Day,

I move along the realms of twilight air,

And hear, remote, the choral song decay

Of sister nymphs, who dance around his car.

Then, as I follow through the azure void,

His partial splendour from my straining eye

Sinks in the depth of space; my only guide

His faint ray dawning on the farthest sky;

Save that sweet, lingering strain of gayer Hours,

Whose close my voice prolongs in dying notes,

While mortals on the green earth own its pow’rs,

As downward on the evening gale it floats.

When fades along the West the Sun’s last beam,

As, weary, to the netherworld he goes,

And mountain summits catch the purple gleam,

And slumbering ocean faint and fainter glows,

Silent upon the globe’s broad shade I steal,

And o’er its dry turf shed the cooling dews,

And ev’ry fever’d herb and flow’ret heal,

And all their fragrance on the air diffuse.

Where’er I move, a tranquil pleasure reigns;

O’er all the scene the dusky tints I send,

That forests wild and mountains, stretching plains

And peopled towns, in soft confusion blend.

Wide o’er the world I waft the fresh’ning wind,

Low breathing through the woods and twilight vale,

In whispers soft, that woo the pensive mind

Of him, who loves my lonely steps to hail.

His tender oaten reed I watch to hear,

Stealing its sweetness o’er some plaining rill,

Or soothing ocean’s wave, when storms are near,

Or swelling in the breeze from distant hill!

I wake the fairy elves, who shun the light;

When, from their blossom’d beds, they slyly peep,

And spy my pale star, leading on the night,

Forth to their games and revelry they leap;

Send all the prison’d sweets abroad in air,

That with them slumber’d in the flow’ret’s cell;

Then to the shores and moonlight brooks repair,

Till the high larks their matin-carol swell.

The wood-nymphs hail my airs and temper’d shade,

With ditties soft and lightly sportive dance,

On river margin of some bow’ry glade,

And strew their fresh buds as my steps advance:

But, swift I pass, and distant regions trace,

For moonbeams silver all the eastern cloud,

And Day’s last crimson vestige fades apace;

Down the steep west I fly from Midnight’s shroud.

Till solemn midnight! On this lonely steep,

Beneath this watchtow’r’s desolated wall,

Where mystic shapes the wonderer appall,

I rest; and view below the desert deep,

As through tempestuous clouds the moon’s cold light

Gleams on the wave. Viewless, the winds of night

With loud mysterious force the billows sweep,

And sullen roar the surges, far below.

In the still pauses of the gust I hear

The voice of spirits, rising sweet and slow,

And oft among the clouds their forms appear.

But hark! what shriek of death comes in the gale,

And in the distant ray what glimmering sail

Bends to the storm? — Now sinks the note of fear!

Ah! wretched mariners! — no more shall day

Unclose his cheering eye to light ye on your way!

From haunt of man, from day’s obtrusive glare,

Thou shroud’st thee in the ruin’s ivy’d tow’r.

Or in some shadowy glen’s romantic bow’r,

Where wizard forms their mystic charms prepare,

Where Horror lurks, and ever-boding Care!

But, at the sweet and silent ev’ning hour,

When clos’d in sleep is ev’ry languid flow’r,

Thou lov’st to sport upon the twilight air,

Mocking the eye, that would thy course pursue,

In many a wanton round, elastic, gay,

Thou flit’st athwart the pensive wand’rer’s way,

As his lone footsteps print the mountain dew.

From Indian isles thou com’st, with Summer’s car,

Twilight thy love — thy guide her beaming star!

Viewless, through heaven’s vast vault your course ye steer,

Unknown from whence ye come, or whither go!

Mysterious pow’rs! I hear ye murmur low,

Till swells your loud gust on my startled ear,

And, awful! seems to say — some God is near!

I love to list your midnight voices float

In the dread storm, that o’er the ocean rolls,

And, while their charm the angry wave controls,

Mix with its sullen roar, and sink remote.

Then, rising in the pause, a sweeter note,

The dirge of spirits, who your deeds bewail,

A sweeter note oft swells while sleeps the gale!

But soon, ye sightless pow’rs! your rest is o’er,

Solemn and slow, ye rise upon the air,

Speak in the shrouds, and bid the seaboy fear,

And the faint-warbled dirge — is heard no more!

Oh! then I deprecate your awful reign!

The loud lament yet bear not on your breath!

Bear not the crash of bark far on the main,

Bear not the cry of men, who cry in vain,

The crew’s dread chorus sinking into death!

Oh! give not these, ye pow’rs! I ask alone,

As rapt I climb these dark romantic steeps,

The elemental war, the billow’s moan;

I ask the still, sweet tear, that listening Fancy weeps!

Spirit of love and sorrow — hail!

Thy solemn voice from far I hear,

Mingling with ev’ning’s dying gale:

Hail, with this sadly pleasing tear!

O! at this still, this lonely hour,

Thine own sweet hour of closing day,

Awake thy lute, whose charmful pow’r

Shall call up Fancy to obey:

To paint the wild romantic dream,

That meets the poet’s musing eye,

As, on the bank of shadowy stream,

He breathes to her the fervid sigh.

O lonely spirit! let thy song

Lead me through all thy sacred haunt;

The minister’s moonlight aisles along,

Where spectres raise the midnight chaunt.

I hear their dirges faintly swell!

Then, sink at once in silence drear,

While, from the pillar’d cloister’s cell,

Dimly their gliding forms appear!

Lead where the pine woods wave on high,

Whose pathless sod is darkly seen,

As the cold moon, with trembling eye,

Darts her long beams the leaves between.

Lead to the mountain’s dusky head,

Where, far below, in shade profound,

Wide forests, plains and hamlets spread,

And sad the chimes of vesper sound,

Or guide me, where the dashing oar

Just breaks the stillness of the vale,

As slow it tracks the winding shore,

To meet the ocean’s distant sail:

To pebbly banks, that Neptune laves,

With measur’d surges, loud and deep,

Where the dark cliff bends o’er the waves,

And wild the winds of autumn sweep.

There pause at midnight’s spectred hour,

And list the long-resounding gale;

And catch the fleeting moonlight’s pow’r,

O’er foaming seas and distant sail.