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!