[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!

IX

'Tis midnight, and small thoughts have I of sleep; [120]
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit him, gentle Sleep, with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above his dwelling,
Silent, as though they watch'd the sleeping Earth! [125]
With light heart may he rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!
O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice,
O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care, 130
By the immenseness of the good and fair
Which thou see'st everywhere,
Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,
[[1081]] To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of thy living soul! 135
O simple spirit, guided from above,
O lofty Poet, full of life and love,
Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,
Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

FOOTNOTES:

[1076:1] Collated with the text of the poem as sent to W. Sotheby in a letter dated July 19, 1802 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 379-84).