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In chârnals and on coffins, where black

death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, 25

Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone
ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its
own stillness, 30
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange

tears, Uniting with those breathless kisses, made 35

Such magic as compels the charmed night
To render up thy charge; and, though
ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday
thought, 40
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my
strain 45
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven
hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of
IIlan.

SJ HYMN TO INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY (1816)

i

The awful shadow of some unseen Power

Floats though unseen amongst us, visiting

This various world with as inconstant

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