MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 217 And all it's heartless,'cold, dull, nothingness, ' ' ' Yet never found, among the sons of men, A heart---a spirit like unto his own. He loves thee better than the best of life; Thy blending shadows fill the dreary void, Which to his soul the world's broad glare betrays, As even rocks, wild heaths, and barren pl?inn, Look scarcely sterile in the moon's soft light. When, glad escaping from the multitude,' The last faint murmur of it's noisy stir Dies on his ear, he hails thee with such joy, As lovers the belov'd: to thee he tells What to no other ear he dares impart, Thoughts, feelings, wishes, fe.w can understand, How few have ever felt I Now unconstrain'd His bosom seems tinshackled from the chain It ever wears among the formal crowd: He lives, he breathes, and Fancy plumes her wing, Which late hung drooping, like the captive dove's? Sweet nurse of thought--parent of virtue pure, He fondly calls thee, and, with grateful zeal, Sings pensive ditties in thy gentle praise. He thinks upon thee, *till thy form appears Distinct, self-shadow'd to his vision'd eye, And thou ass .urn'st substantial life pad being, No more the/co/nnge of a feveri.sh bral?, ......... ?Google
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