Whose myriad, intricate voices know one tone;

And I, where’er wavers my wintry pole,

Shall hail that music’s influence as my own:

All Beauty, and all Love radiate from thee,

Thou centre of my soul’s full harmony.

{41}

{41}

XLI.

Bring me to some waste, whose stream’s Lethean trail,

Scarce stirs its islands of monotonous grass;

Where circling hills heal their huge tattered mail,

With foliage fringing all the mountain pass;

Where the quire that sings, deepens the deadly lull;

Where Time responds, chiming a sullen note;

Where Phœbus, mellowing, blends a glory dull,

With shades that on the wings of darkness float;

Where a gloom of mystery wears strange, luminous, shapes,

Shadowing unholy, ghastly, wizard forms;

Growing into the pulsing life, whose pregnance apes

Fierce fascinations, foul unspeaking storms;

 Prev. P 35/118 next