3. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And tho' the eye may sparkle still, 'tis where the ice appears. 4. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret All wreath, green and wildly fresh without, but worn and grey beneath. 5. Oh could I feel as I have felt,-or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept, o'er many a vanished scene: As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brack ish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me. 1815. STANZAS FOR MUSIC. THERE be none of Beauty's daughters With a magic like thee; And like music on the waters Is thy sweet voice to me: When, as if its sound were causing The charmed ocean's pausing, The waves lie still and gleaming, And the lulled winds seem dreaming, And the midnight moon is weaving Her bright chain o'er the deep; Whose breast is gently heaving, So the spirit bows before thee, To listen and adore thee; With a full but soft emotion, Like the swell of Summer's ocean. Alas! they had been friends in Youth; But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining- The marks of that which once hath been. Coleridge's Christabel. |