IV. So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, No Sweeping, vehemently sweeping, — pause admitted, no design avowed! "Avaunt, inexplicable Guest! avaunt! Exclaimed the Chieftain; "let me rather see The coronal that coiling vipers make; The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, Which they behold whom vengeful Furies haunt; flee, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne !" V. But Shapes that come not at an earthly call Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; and that look VI. Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim! O matchless perfidy! portentous lust Of monstrous crime ! that horror-striking blade, Shuddered the walls, the marble city wept, - Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just That wretched boon, days lengthened by mistrust. XXXIII. THE PASS OF KIRKSTONE. I. WITHIN the mind strong fancies work, Oft as I pass along the fork Of these fraternal hills: Where, save the rugged road, we find Nor hint of man; if stone or rock Altars for Druid service fit (But where no fire was ever lit, II. Ye ploughshares sparkling on the slopes! Ye snow-white lambs that trip Imprisoned 'mid the formal props Ye trees, that may to-morrow fall Of life's uneasy game the stake, O care! O guilt! — O vales and plains, At once all memory of You, — Most potent when mists veil the sky, Mists that distort and magnify; While the coarse rushes, to the sweeping breeze, Sigh forth their ancient melodies! III. List to those shriller notes ! - that march Perchance was on the blast, When, through this Height's inverted arch, They saw, adventurously impelled, And older eyes than theirs beheld, This block, and Gives to this savage Pass its name. Not seldom may the hour return Be thankful, even though tired and faint, IV. My Soul was grateful for delight A veil is lifted, -can she slight The scene that opens now? Though habitation none appear, The greenness tells, man must be there; The shelter that the pérspective Is of the clime in which we live; Where Toil pursues his daily round; Where Pity sheds sweet tears; and Love, In woodbine bower or birchen grove, Inflicts his tender wound. - Who comes not hither ne'er shall know How beautiful the world below; Nor can he guess how lightly leaps |