Away! away! for I will fly to thee, Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards, But on the viewless wings of poesy, Though the dull brain perplexes and retards: Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, [fays; Clustered around by all her starry But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways. I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmèd darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruittree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves. WHERE IS THY FAVORED HAUNT? WHERE is thy favored haunt, eter- | No sounds of worldly toil ascending nal voice, The region of thy choice, there, Mar the full burst of prayer; Where undisturbed by sin and earth, Lone Nature feels that she may free the soul Owns thy entire control ? ly breathe, And round us and beneath 'Tis on the mountain's summit dark Are heard her sacred tones: the fit 'Tis then we hear the voice of God within, Pleading with care and sin; "Child of my love! how have I wearied thee? Why wilt thou err from me? Have I not brought thee from the house of slaves; Parted the drowning waves, And sent my saints before thee in the way, Lest And well it is for us our God should feel Alone our secret throbbings: so our prayer thou should'st faint or May readier spring to heaven, nor stray? spend its zeal Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn, Thou who canst love us, though thou read us true, As on the bosom of the aerial lawn Melts in dim haze each coarse un gentle hue. So too may soothing hope thy leave enjoy Sweet visions of long severed hearts to frame: Though absence may impair, or cares annoy, Some constant mind may draw us still the same. What shapeless form, half lost on high, Half seen against the evening sky, Where in her shadow, fast asleep, With half-closed eye a lion there Or prowls in twilight gloom. Sprang from rough ocean's womb. But where are now his eagle wings, That sheltered erst a thousand kings, Hiding the glorious sky SINCE ALL THAT IS NOT HEAVEN From half the nations, till they own No holier name, no mightier throne? That vision is gone by. |