Thee, meekest power! I love to meet,
As oft with even solitary pace
The scattered abbey's hallowed rounds I trace
And listen to the echoings of my feet.
Or on the half-demolished tomb,
Whose warning texts anticipate my doom,
Mark the clear orb of night
Cast through the storying glass a faintly-varied light.
Nor will I not in some more gloomy hour
Invoke with fearless awe thine holier power,
Wandering beneath the sainted pile
When the blast moans along the darksome aisle,
And clattering patters all around
The midnight shower with dreary sound.
But sweeter 'tis to wander wild
By melancholy dreams beguiled,
While the summer moon's pale ray
Faintly guides me on my way
To the lone romantic glen
Far from all the haunts of men,
Where no noise of uproar rude
Breaks the calm of solitude.
But soothing silence sleeps in all,
Save the neighbouring waterfall,
Whose hoarse waters falling near
Load with hollow sounds the ear,
And with down-dasht torrent white
Gleam hoary through the shades of night.
Thus wandering silent on and slow
I'll nurse reflection's sacred woe,
And muse upon the perisht day
When hope would weave her visions gay,
Ere Fancy chilled by adverse fate
Left sad Reality my mate.
O Contemplation! when to memory's eyes
The visions of the long-past days arise,
Thy holy power imparts the best relief,
And the calmed spirit loves the joy of grief.
DARK Horror, hear my call!
Stern genius hear from thy retreat
On some old sepulchre's moss-cankered seat
Beneath the abbey's ivied wall
That trembles o'er its shade;
Where wrapt in midnight gloom, alone,
Thou lovest to lie and hear
The roar of waters near,
And listen to the deep dull groan
Of some perturbed sprite
Borne fitful on the heavy gales of night.
Or whether o'er some wide waste hill
Thou markest the traveller stray,
Bewildered on his lonely way.
When, loud and keen and chill,
The evening winds of winter blow,
Drifting deep the dismal snow.
Or if thou followest now on Greenland's shore,
With all thy terrors, on the lonely way
Of some wrecked mariner, when to the roar
Of herded bears, the floating ice-hills round
Pour their deep echoing sound,
And by the dim drear boreal light
Givest half his dangers to the wretch's sight.
Or if thy fury form,
When o'er the midnight deep
The dark-winged tempests sweep,
Watches from some high cliff the increasing storm,
Listening with strange delight,
As the black billows to the thunder rave
When by the lightning's light
Thou seest the tall ship sink beneath the wave.
Dark Horror! bear me where the field of fight
Scatters contagion on the tainted gale,
When to the moon's faint beam,
On many a carcase shine the dews of night,
And a dead silence stills the vale
Save when at times is heard the glutted raven's scream.
Where some wrecked army from the conqueror's might Speed their disastrous flight,
With thee, fierce genius! let me trace their way, And hear at times the deep heart-groan
Of some poor sufferer left to die alone,
His sore wounds smarting with the winds of night; And we will pause, where, on the wild,
The mother to her frozen breast,
On the heaped snows reclining clasps her child,
And with him sleeps, chilled to eternal rest!
Black Horror! speed we to the bed of death,
Where he whose murderous power afar
Blasts with the myriad plagues of war,
Struggles with his last breath;
Then to his wildly-starting eyes
The phantoms of the murdered rise
Then on his phrensied ear
Their groans for vengeance and the demon's yell
In one heart-maddening chorus swell.
Cold on his brow convulsing stands the dew,
And night eternal darkens on his view.
Horror! I call thee yet once more!
Bear me to that accursed shore
Where round the stake the impaled negro writhes.
Assume thy sacred terrors then! dispense
The blasting gales of pestilence!
Arouse the race of Afric! holy power,
Lead them to vengeance! and in that dread hour
When ruin rages wide,
I will behold and smile by Mercy's side.
AND wouldst thou seek the low abode
Where peace delights to dwell?
Pause traveller on thy way of life!
With many a snare and peril rife
Is that long labyrinth of road:
Dark is the vale of years before;
Pause traveller on thy way!
Nor dare the dangerous path explore
Till old experience comes to lend his leading ray.
Not he who comes with lanthorn light
Shall guide thy groping pace aright
With faltering feet and slow;
No! let him rear the torch on high,
And every maze shall meet thine eye,
And every snare and every foe;
Then with steady step and strong,
Traveller, shalt thou march along.
Though power invite thee to her hall,
Regard not thou her tempting call
Her splendour's meteor glare;
Though courteous flattery there await
And wealth adorn the doom of state,
There stalks the midnight spectre, Care;
Peace, traveller! does not sojourn there.
If fame allure thee, climb not thou
To that steep mountain's craggy brow,
Where stands her stately pile;
For far from thence does peace abide,
And thou shalt find fame's favouring smile
Cold as the feeble sun on Hecla's snow-clad side.
And, traveller! as thou hopest to find
That low and loved abode,
Retire thee from the thronging road,
And shun the mob of human-kind.
Ah! hear how old experience schools,
"Fly, fly the crowd of knaves and fools,
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