Xi

For terror, joy, or pity, Vast is the compass and the swell of notes: From the babe's first cry to voice of regal city, Rolling a solemn sea-like bass, that floats Far as the woodlands--with the trill to blend Of that shy songstress, whose love-tale Might tempt an angel to descend, While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. Ye wandering Utterances, has earth no scheme, No scale of moral music--to unite Powers that survive but in the faintest dream Of memory?-O that ye might stoop to bear Chains, such precious chains of sight As laboured minstrelsies through ages wear! O for a balance fit the truth to tell Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well!