CHAPTER VI. 



CLIMATE OF THE MOUNTAIN. 



" Do not all charms fly 

 At the mere touch of cold philosophy ? 

 There was an awful rainbow once in heaven : 

 We know her woof, her texture ; she is given 

 In the dull catalogue of common things. 

 Philosophy would clip an angel's wings, 

 Conquer aH mysteries by rule and line, 

 Empty the haunted air, and gnomed mine 

 Unweave a rainbow, as it erewhile made 

 The tender-personed Lamia melt into shade." 



ONCE, men talked of the mysteries of the deep, of the 

 " dark, unfathomed caves of ocean," and thought that the 

 blue water was as bottomless as the blue ether ; while the 

 poet even dreamed of 



' ' Where the isles of perfume are, 

 Many a fathom down in the sea, 

 To the south of sun-bright Araby ; 

 Where ocean spreads 

 O'er coral rocks and amber beds ;" 



indulging also in visions of 



"Dark, green solitudes, 

 Where shades, beautiful and bright, 

 Amid sweet sounds across the deep would sweep, 

 Like swift and lovely dreams, that walk the waves of sleep." 

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