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THE Moon shines white and silent
On the mist, which, like a tide Of some enchanted ocean,
O'er the wide marsh doth glide, Spreading its ghost-like billows Silently far and wide.
A vague and starry magic
Makes all things mysteries,
Up to the longing skies,-
And tremulous replies.
The fire-flies o'er the meadow
In pulses come and go; The elm-trees' heavy shadow
Weighs on the grass below; And faintly from the distance
The dreaming cock doth crow.
All things look strange and mystic,
The very bushes swell,
As if beneath a spell,
From childhood known so well.
The snow of deepest silence
O’er every thing doth fall, So beautiful and quiet,
And yet so like a pall,As if all life were ended,
And rest were come to all.
O, wild and wondrous midnight,
There is a might in thee
Almost like spirit be,
Midnight at the Siege of Corinth.
His day's hot task has ended in the west:
The sheep are gone to fold, birds to their nest;
SHAKESPEARE. * Mạezzin, one appointed by the Turks (who do not use bells) to summon by his voice the religious to their devotions.
THE Poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling,
Away with weary cares and themes!
With wonders and romances!
PO E M S
IMAGINATION AND FANCY,
Pleasures of the Imagination, O BLEST of heaven! whom not the languid songs Of luxury, the siren! not the bribes Of sordid wealth, nor all the gaudy spoils Of pageant honour, can seduce to leave Those ever blooming sweets, which from the store Of Nature fair imagination culls To charm the enliven’d soul! What! though not all Of mortal offspring can attain the heights Of envied life; though only few possess Patrician treasures or imperial state ? Yet Nature's care, to all her children just, With richer treasures and an ampler state, Endows at large whatever happy man Will deign to use them. His the city's pomp, The rural honours his. Whate'er adorns The princely dome, the column and the arch, The breathing marbles and the sculptured gold, Beyond the proud possessor's narrow claim, His tuneful breast enjoys. For him the spring Distils her dews, and from the silken gem Its lucid leaves unfolds : for him the hand Of autumn tinges every fertile branch With blooming gold and blushes like the Each passing hour sheds tribute from her wings;