OF POETIC CHAP?A.?TER. 88 And, while they feel affection's aching dearth, No spirit forms with theirs a bond of union. Cut oil' from sympathy, they rove along, Lonely, mysterious, never understood, Contemn'd, or fear'd, Or hated by the throng, _ Who cannot pierce beyond their silent mood: Their emblem is the wild and barren moor, In whose dark mines unceasing labour toils, �And busy hands collect earth's hidden spoils, Yet who, that never trod the waste before, While all without is calm, and dead, can know The varied life--the wealth, that lurks below ? So does their aspect, cold perchance, or stern, Cloak far--far more, than mortal eyes discern; 'Till, with a deeper shroud, the faithful grave Close o'er the secrets of their wayward heart, Leaving alone,' Obllvion's power to brave, The sybil-records of their tuneful art, Which, haply, may, in after years, betray Their darkly-hinted thoughts to souls as wild as they. And thou, whose numbers now are heard, Singing of ?thers' joy, or pain, Uncertain, as the mocking-bird, To which belongs thy native strain, H?te cease thy song. Can art pourtray What colours o'er the opal play ? ......... ?Goo?le
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