I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand Old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night; so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those, which mould yon cloud, in lazy flakes, [5]
Or the dull sobbing draft, that drones and rakes
Upon the strings of this Œolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light, [10]
[[1077]] (With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread)
I see the Old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming on of rain and squally blast:
And O! that even now the gust were swelling, [15]
And the slant night-show'r driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have rais'd me, while they aw'd,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live! [20]

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
Which finds no nat'ral outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Edmund! in this wan and heartless mood, 25
To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the Western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow-green:
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye! 30
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them, or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen;
Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew, [35]
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue,
A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe!
I see them all so excellently fair—
I see, not feel how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail; 40
And what can these avail,
To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze for ever
On that green light that lingers in the west: [45]
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Edmund! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! 50
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world, allow'd
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud [55]
Enveloping the earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
O pure of heart! Thou need'st not ask of me 60
What this strong music in the soul may be?
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making pow'r?
Joy, virtuous Edmund! joy that ne'er was given, [65]
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Joy, Edmund! is the spirit and the pow'r,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undream'd of by the sensual and the proud— [70]
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
We, we ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light. [75]

[[1079]]Yes, dearest Edmund, yes!
There was a time that, tho' my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: [80]
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I, that they rob me of my mirth,
But oh! each visitation [85]
Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of imagination.

[The Sixth and Seventh Stanzas omitted.]

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VIII

O wherefore did I let it haunt my mind
This dark distressful dream?
I turn from it, and listen to the wind [90]
Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream
Of agony, by torture, lengthen'd out,
That lute sent forth! O wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn[1079:1], or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove, whither woodman never clomb, [95]
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who, in this month of show'rs,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,
Mak'st devil's yule, with worse than wintry song, 100
The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, ev'n to frenzy bold!
[[1080]] What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, [105]
With many groans of men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over! [110]
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud—
A tale of less affright.
And temper'd with delight,
As Edmund's self had fram'd the tender lay—
'Tis of a little child, 115
Upon a lonesome wild
Not far from home; but she hath lost her way—
And now moans low, in utter grief and fear;
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear!