ODES. 163 



And show to fancy's saddest eye, 



Where some lost hero's ashes lie. 



And oh, as through the mouldering arch, 



With ivj' filled and weeping larch, 



The night gale whispers sadly clear, 



Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, 



We'll hold communion with the shade, 



Of some deep-wailing ruined maid — 



Or call the ghost of Spenser down, 



To tell of woe and fortune's frown ; 



And hid us cast the eye of hope, 



Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. 



Or if these joys to us denied, 



To linger by the forest's side ; 



Or in the meadow or the wood, 



Or by the lone romantic flood ; 



Let us in the busy town, 



When sleep's dull streams the people drown. 



Far from drowsy pillows flee, 



And turn the church's massy key ; 



Then, as through the painted glass 



The moon's pale beams obscurely pass 



And darkly on the trophied wall. 



Her faint ambiguous shadows fall ; 



Let us, while the faint winds wail, 



Through the long reluctant aisle, 



As we pace with reverence meet, 



Count the echoings of our feet ; 



While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, 



Distinct responds the Toice of death. 



If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend, 



Thus on my footsteps to attend, 



To thee my lonely lamp shall bum, 



By fallen Genius' sainted urn ! 



As o'er the scroll of Time I pour, 



And sagely spell of ancient lore. 



Till I can rightly guess of all 



That Plato could to memory call, 



And scan the formless views of things. 



Or, with old Egypt's fettered kings, 



