POSTHUMOUS POEMS. FINGAL'S CAVE. NOT Aladdin magian Not the wizard of the Dee Not St. John, in Patmos' isle, When he saw the churches seven, "What is this? and what art thou ?” Whispered I, and touch'd his brow; What art thou? and what is this?" "I am Lycidas," said he, 66 "Fam❜d in fun'ral minstrelsy! This was architectur'd thus But the dulled eye of mortal Such a taint, and soon unweave So saying, with a Spirit's glance ΤΟ WHAT can I do to drive away Remembrance from my eyes? for they have seen, Aye, an hour ago, my brilliant Queen! Touch has a memory. O say, love, say, What can I do to kill it and be free In my old liberty? When every fair one that I saw was fair, When, howe'er poor or particolour'd things, And ever ready was to take her course Unintellectual, yet divine to me ;— Divine, I say!—What sea-bird o'er the sea Winging along where the great water throes? How shall I do To get anew Those moulted feathers, and so mount once more Above, above The reach of fluttering Love, And make him cower lowly while I soar? Foisted into the canon law of love ; No, wine is only sweet to happy men ; Seize on me unawares,― Where shall I learn to get my peace again? That monstrous region, whose dull rivers pour, Whose winds, all zephyrless, hold scourging rods, Iced in the great lakes, to afflict mankind; Whose rank-grown forests, frosted, black, and blind, Would fright a Dryad; whose harsh herbaged meads Make lean and lank the starv'd ox while he feeds; There bad flowers have no scent, birds no sweet song, And great unerring Nature once seems wrong. O, for some sunny spell To dissipate the shadows of this hell! |