IV. O lady! we receive but what we give, And from the soul itself must there be sent A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! V. O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, Joy, virtuous lady! Joy that ne'er was given, Life, and life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, Joy, lady! is the spirit and the power, Which wedding nature to us gives in dower, A new earth and new heaven, Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud; Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud- And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, All colors a suffusion from that light. VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress, And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness: For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth. But O! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, For not to think of what I needs must feel, From my own nature all the natural man— VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream That lute sent forth! Thou wind, that rav'st without, Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout, With groans of trampled 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— It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! A tale of less affright, And tempered with delight, As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 'Tis of a little child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way, And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! And may this storm be but a mountain-birth! Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice: To her may all things live, from pole to pole, O simple spirit, guided from above, SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. From the Piccolomini. OUNTESS. Well, Princess, and what found you in this COUNT tower? My highest privilege has been to snatch A side glance and away ! THEKLA. It was a strange Sensation that came o'er me, when at first From the broal sunshine I stept in; and now The narrowing line of daylight that ran after Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me A sceptre bore, and on his head a star ; But from these stars; all seemed to come from them. The star upon her head was soft and bright, MAX. O never rudely will I blame his faith For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place; Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans, And spirits; and delightedly believes. Divinities, being himself divine. The intelligible forms of ancient poets, The fair humanities of old religion, The power, the beauty, and the majesty, That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, Or chasms, and watery depths; all these have vanished; Translation of SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. " O'Connor's Child; OR, THE 'FLOWER OF LOVE LIES BLEEDING." OH I. once the harp of Innisfail Was strung full high to notes of gladness: But yet it often told a tale Of more prevailing sadness. Sad was the note, and wild its fall, When for O'Connor's child to mourn, |