Ye are the spirits who preside
In earth and air and ocean wide;
In hissing flood and crackling fire;
In horror dread and tumult dire;
In stilly calm and stormy wind,
And rule the answering changes in the human mind.
High on the tempest-beaten hill,
Your misty shapes ye shift at will;
The wild fantastic clouds ye form;
Your voice is in the midnight storm,
Whilst in the dark and lonely hour,
Oft starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret power.
From you, when growling storms are past,
And lightning ceases on the waste,
And when the scene of blood is o'er,
And groans of death are heard no more,
Still holds the mind each parted form,
Like after-echoing of th' o'erpassed storm.
When closing glooms o'erspread the day,
And what we love has passed away,
Ye kindly bid each pleasing scene
Within the bosom still remain,
Like moons who do their watches run
With the reflected brightness of the parted sun.
The shining day, and nightly shade,
The cheerful plain and gloomy glade,
The homeward flocks, and shepherd's play,
The busy hamlet's closing day,
Full many a breast with pleasures swell,
Who ne'er shall have the gift of words to tell.
Oft when the moon looks from on high,
And black around the shadows lie;
And bright the sparkling waters gleam,
And rushes rustle by the stream,
Shrill sounds and fairy forms are known
By simple 'nighted swains, who wander late alone.
Ye kindle up the inward glow,
Ye strengthen every outward show;
Ye overleap the strongest bar,
And join what Nature sunders far:
And visit oft, in fancies wild,
The breast of learned sage, and simple child.
From him who wears a monarch's crown
To the unlettered artless clown,
All in some strange and lonely hour
Have felt, unsought, your secret power,
And loved your roving fancies well:
You add but to the bard the art to tell.
Ye mighty spirits of the song,
To whom the poet's prayers belong,
My lowly bosom to inspire,
And kindle with your sacred fire,
Your wild obscuring heights to brave,
Is boon, alas! too great for me to crave.
But O, such sense of matter bring!
As they who feel and never sing
Wear on their hearts; it will avail
With simple words to tell my tale;
And still contented will I be,
Though greater inspirations never fall to me.
In earth and air and ocean wide;
In hissing flood and crackling fire;
In horror dread and tumult dire;
In stilly calm and stormy wind,
And rule the answering changes in the human mind.
High on the tempest-beaten hill,
Your misty shapes ye shift at will;
The wild fantastic clouds ye form;
Your voice is in the midnight storm,
Whilst in the dark and lonely hour,
Oft starts the boldest heart, and owns your secret power.
From you, when growling storms are past,
And lightning ceases on the waste,
And when the scene of blood is o'er,
And groans of death are heard no more,
Still holds the mind each parted form,
Like after-echoing of th' o'erpassed storm.
When closing glooms o'erspread the day,
And what we love has passed away,
Ye kindly bid each pleasing scene
Within the bosom still remain,
Like moons who do their watches run
With the reflected brightness of the parted sun.
The shining day, and nightly shade,
The cheerful plain and gloomy glade,
The homeward flocks, and shepherd's play,
The busy hamlet's closing day,
Full many a breast with pleasures swell,
Who ne'er shall have the gift of words to tell.
Oft when the moon looks from on high,
And black around the shadows lie;
And bright the sparkling waters gleam,
And rushes rustle by the stream,
Shrill sounds and fairy forms are known
By simple 'nighted swains, who wander late alone.
Ye kindle up the inward glow,
Ye strengthen every outward show;
Ye overleap the strongest bar,
And join what Nature sunders far:
And visit oft, in fancies wild,
The breast of learned sage, and simple child.
From him who wears a monarch's crown
To the unlettered artless clown,
All in some strange and lonely hour
Have felt, unsought, your secret power,
And loved your roving fancies well:
You add but to the bard the art to tell.
Ye mighty spirits of the song,
To whom the poet's prayers belong,
My lowly bosom to inspire,
And kindle with your sacred fire,
Your wild obscuring heights to brave,
Is boon, alas! too great for me to crave.
But O, such sense of matter bring!
As they who feel and never sing
Wear on their hearts; it will avail
With simple words to tell my tale;
And still contented will I be,
Though greater inspirations never fall to me.