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I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand Old ballad of SIR PATRICK SPENCE, This night; so tranquil now, will not go hence Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those, which mould yon cloud, in lazy flakes, Or the dull sobbing draft, that drones and rakes Upon the strings of this Œolian lute, Which better far were mute. For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright! And overspread with phantom light, (With swimming phantom light o'erspread, But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread) I see the Old Moon in her lap, foretelling The coming on of rain and squally blast: And O! that even now the gust were swelling, And the slant night-show'r driving loud and fast! Those sounds which oft have rais'd me, while they aw'd, And sent my soul abroad, Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!