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Fallen, and diffused into a shapeless heap, Or quietly self-buried in earth's mold, Is that embattled House, whose massy Keep Flung from yon cliff a shadow large and cold. — There dwelt the gay, the bountiful, the bold, 'Till nightly lamentations, like the sweep Of winds — when winds were silent, struck a deep And lasting terror through that ancient Hold. Its line of Warriors fled; — they shrunk when tried By ghostly power: — but Time's unsparing hand Hath plucked such foes, like weeds, from out the land;And now, if men with men in peace abide,
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Surprized by joy — impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport — Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent Tomb, That spot which no vicissitude can find?Love, faithful love recalled thee to my mind — But how could I forget thee? — Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour,
November 1, 1815.
How clear, how keen, how marvellously bright The effluence from yon distant mountain's head, Which, strewn with snow as smooth as heaven can
shed, Shines like another Sun — on mortal sight Uprisen, as if to check approaching night, And all her twinkling stars. Who now would tread, If so he might, yon mountain's glittering head — Terrestrial — but a surface, by the flight Of sad mortality's earth-sullying wing, Unswept, unstained? Nor shall the aerial Powers Dissolve that beauty — destined to endure, White, radiant, spotless, exquisitely pure, Through all vicissitudes — till genial spring Have filled the laughing vales with welcome flowers.
High is our calling, Friend! — Creative Art