184 HENRY KIRKE WHITE'S POEMS. 



And unseen fairies would the moon invoke, 

 To their light morrice by the restless surge. 



Now to my sobered thought with life's false smiles, 

 Too much * * =^ 



The vagrant, Fancy, spreads no more her wiles. 

 And dark forebodings now my bosom fill. 



X. 



Once more, and yet once more, 



I give unto my harp a dark- woven lay ; 

 1 heard the waters roar, 



I heard the flood of ages pass away. 

 Oh thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell 



In thine eternal cell, 

 Nothing, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; 



1 saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete. 



Thou spakest, and at thy feet, 

 The universe gave way. 



XI. 



Hushed is the lyre — the hand that swept 

 The low and pensive wires. 

 Robbed of its cunning, from the task retireSj 



Yes — it is still — the lyre is still ; 



The spirit which its slumbers broke. 



Hath passed away, — and that weak hand that woko 

 Its forest melodies hath lost its skill. 

 Yet I would press you to my lips once more, 



Ye wild, ye withering flowers of poesy ; 

 Yet would I drink the fragrance which ye pour. 



Mixed with decaying odour:, ; for to me 

 Ye have beguiled the hours of infancy, 



As in the wood-paths of my native — 

 * * * * 



