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“Of perfect light immortal—Vainly boast “ That golden Broom its sunny robe of flowers: “Fair are the sunny flowers; but, fading soon “And fruitless, yield the forester's regard “ To the well-loaded Wilding-Shepherd, there “Behold the fate of song, and lightly deem “Of all but moral beauty.”
“Not in vain" — I hear my HAMILTON reply, (The torch of fancy in his eye) “'Tis not in vain," I hear him say, “ That nature paints her works so gay; “ For, fruitless though that fairy broom, “ Yet still we love her lavish bloom. “ Cheered with that bloom, yon desart wild “Its native horrors lost, and smiled. “ And oft we mark her golden ray
Along the dark wood scatter day.
“ Of moral uses take the strife; “Leave me the elegance of life. “ Whatever charms the ear or eye, “ All beauty and all harmony; “ If sweet sensations these produce, “I know they have their moral use. “I know that NATURE's charms can move “The springs that strike to Virtue's love."
In this dim cave a druid sleeps,
Where stops the passing gale to moan; The rock he hollowed o'er him weeps,
And cold drops wear the fretted stone.
In this dim cave, of different creed,
A hermit's holy ashes rest:
Which many a formal matin blest.
That truant-time full well I know,
When here I brought, in stolen hour, The Druid's magic Misletoe,
The holy hermit's Passion-flower.
The offerings on the mystic stone
Pensive I laid, in thought profound, When from the cave a deepening groan
Issued, and froze me to the ground.
I hear it still-Dost thou not hear?
Does not thy haunted fancy start? The sound still vibrates through mine ear
The horror rushes on my heart.