Werner

Worlds like to that I live on, save that these Seem made of living shades instead of dust; Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks, And fountains, gushing from their very summits; Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens, And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,— With precipices from whose edges soft And silvery cataracts are leaping down; Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides, And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep In the embrace of the surrounding hills; The cottage of the hardy hunter, perched High on the rocks, like to an eagle's nest: The shepherd's humble shieling, and his fold, And, half-way up, broad vineyards, with their vines Bending with purple clusters of ripe fruit;— Wide valleys, with green meadows, and pure streams, And gentle hills, where ripening harvests stand; Majestic rivers, with their verdant banks Studded with towns, and rural villages; Motionless lakes, and seas without a wave, And oceans pulseless as a dead man's heart! And mighty cities, standing on their coasts, With vasty walls and gilded palaces, And giant tow'rs, and tapering spires, that seem The guardians of all they overlook. Churchyards, with their pale gravestones, that appear Like watchers of the dead whose names they bear! All these are there, but not a sign of life, No living thing that creeps along the ground, Or flies the air, or swims the wave, is seen. It seems as if on all things some strong spell Had in the twinkling of a star came down And rocked them to an everlasting sleep! Spirit! tell me if what I see is more Than a delusion; if it be, whence came These shades?