{3}
THERE is in stillness oft a magic power |
| To calm the breast, when struggling passions lower; |
| Touch'd by its influence, in the soul arise |
| Diviner feelings, kindred with the skies. |
| By this the Arab's kindling thoughts expand, |
| When circling skies inclose the desert sand; |
| For this the hermit seeks the thickest grove, |
| To catch th' inspiring glow of heavenly love. |
| It is not solely in the freedom given |
| To purify and fix the heart on heaven; |
| There is a Spirit singing aye in air, |
| That lifts us high above all mortal care. |
| No mortal measure swells that mystic sound, |
| No mortal minstrel breathes such tones around,— |
| The Angels' hymn,—the sovereign harmony |
| That guides the rolling orbs along the sky,— {4} |
| And hence perchance the tales of saints who view'd |
| And heard Angelic choirs in solitude. |
| By most unheard,—because the earthly din |
| Of toil or mirth has charms their ears to win. |
| Alas for man! he knows not of the bliss, |
| The heaven that brightens such a life as this. |
|
Oxford.
Michaelmas Term, 1818.
|