What need, then, of these finished Strains? A temple of the wilderness, Wrecks though they be, announce with feeling The majesty of honest dealing. Spirit of Ossian ! if imbound In language thou may'st yet be found, Or floating on the tongues of men, Subsist thy dignity to guard, In concert with memorial claim Of old gray stone, and high-born name, Where moans the blast, or beats the wave, Let Truth, stern arbitress of all, Interpret that original, And for presumptuous wrongs atone; Time is not blind ;—yet He, who spares Hath preyed with ruthless appetite Of the poetic ecstasy Into the land of mystery. No tongue is able to rehearse One measure, Orpheus! of thy verse; When thousands, by severer doom, Have sunk, at Nature's call; or strayed Hail, Bards of mightier grasp ! on you Who cast not off the acknowledged guide, Dropped from the lenient cloud of years. Brothers in Soul! though distant times Such to the tender-hearted Maid Appears, on Morven's lonely shore, Such Milton, to the fountain-head THE WISHING-GATE. In the vale of Grasmere, by the side of the highway leading to Ambleside, is a gate, which, time out of mind, has been called the Wishing-gate, from a belief that wishes formed or indulged there have a favourable issue. HOPE rules a land for ever green : All powers that serve the bright-eyed Queen Clouds at her bidding disappear; Points she to aught ?—the bliss draws near, Not such the land of wishes-there And thoughts with things at strife; When magic lore abjured its might, Witness this symbol of your sway, Inquire not if the faery race Enough that all around is fair, Peace to embosom and content, The selfish to reprove. Yea! even the Stranger from afar, The infection of the ground partakes, Then why should conscious Spirits fear The mystic stirrings that are here, The ancient faith disclaim? The local Genius ne'er befriends Smile if thou wilt, but not in scorn, If some have thirsted to renew A broken vow, or bind a true, With firmer, holier knot. And not in vain, when thoughts are cast Upon the irrevocable past, Some penitent sincere May for a worthier future sigh, While trickles from his downcast eye No unavailing tear. The Worldling, pining to be freed From turmoil, who would turn or speed The current of his fate, Might stop before this favoured scene, At Nature's call, nor blush to lean The Sage, who feels how blind, how weak Is man, though loth such help to seek, Yet, passing, here might pause, And yearn for insight to allay Misgiving, while the crimson day In quietness withdraws; Or when the church-clock's knell profound To Time's first step across the bound Of midnight makes reply; Time pressing on with starry crest, To filial sleep upon the breast Of dread eternity! |