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Like Ossian's music, pleasant to the ear,
And mournful to the soul. It is the voice
Of days departed, and I seem to hear
Their chiding spirit borne upon the blast.
May I escape the pale and gliding ghosts
Of mispent hours; be shielded from their glance
Dark and terrific; rather may I hear
The plaintive murmurs of those hours of woe
Long past, but not forgotten. They are like
The troubled sighing of the eastern gale,
Passing o'er broken ruins. But a breath,
Sweet as the sigh of morn, mild as the breeze
That sweeps the harp of Eolus, meets my ear.
Days of my childhood, is not this thy voice
So changeful and so sweet? Ah! well I know
That doubtful melody: it sooths my soul.
I see the pictur'd hours, I see the shades
Of infancy and mental darkness pass,
As I have seen the night's dim shadows fleet.
Forth steps the morning on the misty hills,
Trembling and unconfirm'd; and the dim lamp
Of reason, scarcely lighted, aids her dawn.
While slowly on a dark mysterious world
Enters a stranger, but of little note
Save to the eye of fond parental love.
Spirit, universal and unseen!
Prompting the heart of man to kindest deeds
Of care, forbearance, or anxiety,
