A curious child, who dwelt upon a tract Of inland ground, applying to his ear The convolutions of a smooth-lipped shell; To which, in silence hushed, his very soul Listened intensely; and his countenance soon
Brightened with joy; for murmurings from within Were heard,-sonorous cadences! whereby, To his belief, the monitor expressed Mysterious union with its native sea. Even such a shell the universe itself Is to the ear of faith; and there are times, I doubt not, when to you it doth impart Authentic tidings of invisible things; Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power; And central peace subsisting at the heart Of endless agitation. Here you stand, Adore, and worship, when you know it not: Pious beyond the intention of your thought, Devout above the meaning of your will. Yes, you have felt, and may not cease to feel. The estate of man would be indeed forlorn, If false conclusions of the reasoning power Made the eye blind, and closed the passages Through which the ear converses with the heart. Has not the soul, the being of your life, Received a shock of awful consciousness, In some calm season, when these lofty rocks At night's approach bring down the unclouded sky To rest upon their circumambient walls;
A temple framing of dimensions vast, And yet not too enormous for the sound Of human anthems,-choral song, or burst Sublime of instrumental harmony,
To glorify the Eternal! What if these Did never break the stillness that prevails Here if the solemn nightingale be mute, And the soft woodlark here did never chant Her vespers-Nature fails not to provide Impulse and utterance. The whispering air Sends inspiration from the shadowy heights And blind recesses of the caverned rocks; The little rills, and waters numberless,
Inaudible by daylight, blend their notes With the loud streams; and often, at the hour When issue forth the first pale stars, is heard, Within the circuit of this fabric huge, One voice-the solitary raven, flying Athwart the concave of the dark blue dome, Unseen, perchance above the power of sight— An iron knell! with echoes from afar, Faint-and still fainter-as the cry, with which The wanderer accompanies her flight Through the calm region, fades upon the ear, Diminishing by distance till it seemed
To expire, yet from the abyss is caught again, And yet again recovered!
WHEN Soothing darkness spreads o'er hill and dale,
Then in full many a region, once like this The assured domain of calm simplicity
And pensive quiet, an unnatural light, Prepared for never-resting labour's eyes, Breaks from a many-windowed fabric huge; And at the appointed hour a bell is heard,- Of harsher import than the curfew-knell That spake the Norman conqueror's stern behest, A local summons to unceasing toil! Disgorged are now the ministers of day;
And, as they issue from the illumined pile,
A fresh band meets them at the crowded door,
And in the courts-and where the rumbling stream,
That turns the multitude of dizzy wheels,
Glares, like a troubled spirit, in its bed Among the rocks below.
GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.
In this still place, remote from men, Sleeps Ossian, in the Narrow Glen; In this still place, where murmurs on But one meek streamlet, only one: He sang of battles, and the breath
Of stormy war, and violent death;
And should, methinks, when all was past,
Have rightfully been laid at last
Where rocks were rudely heaped, and rent
As by a spirit turbulent;
Where sights were rough, and sounds were wil,
And every thing unreconcil'd;
In some complaining, dim retreat,
For fear and melancholy meet;
But this is calm; there cannot be
A more entire tranquillity.
Does then the Bard sleep here indeed ?
Or is it but a groundless creed?
What matters it?-I blame them not
Whose fancy in this lonely Spot
Was moved; and in this way express'd
Their notion of its perfect rest.
A convent, even a hermit's cell,
Would break the silence of this Dell:
GLEN-ALMAIN; OR, THE NARROW GLEN.
It is not quiet, is not ease;
But something deeper far than these: The separation that is here
Is of the grave; and of austere
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