him, a mountain Youth, was known The wailing tempest's dreariest tone. He knew the shriek of wizard caves, And the trampling fierce of howling waves. The mystic voice of the lonely night, He had often drunk with a strange delight, And look'd on the clouds as they roll'd on high, Till with them he sail'd on the sailing sky. And thus hath he learn'd to wake the lyre, With something of a bardlike fire; Can tell in high empassion'd song, Of worlds that to the Bard belong, And, till they feel his kindling breath, To others still and dark as death. Yet oft, I ween, in gentler mood A human kindness hush'd his blood, And sweetly blended earth-born sighs With the Bard's romantic extacies. The living world was dear to him, And in his waking hours more bright it seem'd, More touching far, than when his fancy dream'd Of heavenly bowers, th' abode of Seraphim: And gladly from her wild sojourn Mid haunts dim-shadow'd in the realms of mind, Even like a wearied dove that flies for rest Back o'er long fields of air unto her
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