And now, regretful of the joys his birth
Had promised; deserts, mounts and streams he crost,
To find, amid the loveliest spots of earth,
Faint likeness of the heaven he had lost.
And oft, by unsuccessful searching pained,
Weary he fainted thro' the toilsome hours;
And then his mystic nature he sustained
On steam of sacrifices—breath of flowers. (4)
XXXV.
Sometimes he gave out oracles, amused
With mortal folly; resting on the shrines;
Or, all in some fair Sibyl's form infused,
Spoke from her quivering lips, or penned her mystic lines. [FN#13]
[FN#13] This passage merely accords with the belief that the responses of the ancient oracles were spoken by fiends, or evil spirits. We need only look into the "New Testament for a confirmation of the power which such beings were supposed to possess of speaking from the lips of mortals."
XXXVI.
And now he wanders on from glade to glade
To where more precious shrubs diffuse their balms,
And gliding thro' the thick inwoven shade
Where the young Hebrew lay in all her charms,
He caught a glimpse. The colours in her face—
Her bare white arms—her lips—her shining hair—
Burst on his view. He would have flown the place;
Fearing some faithful angel rested there,
Who'd see him—reft of glory—lost to bliss—
Wandering and miserably panting—fain
To glean a scanty joy—with thoughts like this—
Came all he'd known and lost—he writh'd with pain
Ineffable—But what assailed his ear,
A sigh?—surprised, another glance he took;
Then doubting—fearing—gradual coming near—
He ventured to her side and dared to look;