"There is joy in the forest; the bird of night
Hath made the leaves tremble with deep delight;
But mine is the glory to sunshine given;
Sing, sing, through the laughing heaven!
"Mine are the wings of the soaring morn,
Mine the free gales with the day-spring born!
Only young rapture can mount so high;
Sing, sing, through the echoing sky!”
So those two voices met: so Joy and Death
Mingled their accents; and, amidst the rush
Of many thoughts, the listening poet cried,
"Oh! thou art mighty, thou art wonderful,
Mysterious Nature! not in thy free range
Of woods and wilds alone, thou blendest thus
The dirge-note and the song of festival!"
Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 31 1832.pdf/4
