Are stedfast as the rocks; the brook itself, Old as the hills that feed it from afar, Doth rather deepen than disturb the calm Where all things else are still and motionless.

And yet, even now, a little breeze, perchance Escaped from boisterous winds that rage without,

Has entered, by the sturdy oaks unfelt,
But to its gentle touch how sensitive
Is the light ash! that, pendent from the
brow

Of yon dim cave, in seeming silence makes
A soft eye-music of slow-waving boughs,
Powerful almost as vocal harmony

To stay the wanderer's steps and soothe his thoughts.

"LYRE! THOUGH SUCH POWER DO IN THY MAGIC LIVE"

1842 (?). 1842

LYRE! though such power do in thy magic live

As might from India's farthest plain
Recall the not unwilling Maid,

Assist me to detain

The lovely Fugitive: