THE POET-LOVER.
107
The midnight watch—the wild alarms,
The clang of conflicts and of arms,
War's many and exulting charms,
I turn from them—to sing of thee!
The clang of conflicts and of arms,
War's many and exulting charms,
I turn from them—to sing of thee!
"'I am alone, yet thou art here,
Listening with an attentive ear,
A spiritual presence near,
Which, ever felt, I cannot see.
Thou meetest me in woody dell,
Thou meetest me by flood and fell,
Even in the lonely prison-cell,
Thy soft, blue eyes are turned on me.
Listening with an attentive ear,
A spiritual presence near,
Which, ever felt, I cannot see.
Thou meetest me in woody dell,
Thou meetest me by flood and fell,
Even in the lonely prison-cell,
Thy soft, blue eyes are turned on me.
"'My sweet Egeria, in thine eyes
I see a thousand fancies rise,
Too pure to dwell beneath the skies,
Where mind is like an ocean-shell,
That thrown upon the barren earth,
Sendeth a moaning music forth,
Yet ever of mysterious birth,
For none the ocean-strains can tell.
I see a thousand fancies rise,
Too pure to dwell beneath the skies,
Where mind is like an ocean-shell,
That thrown upon the barren earth,
Sendeth a moaning music forth,
Yet ever of mysterious birth,
For none the ocean-strains can tell.
"'The gathered sounds shall all be thine,
Poured out in numbers on the shrine,
That I have consecrated mine,
Thou, Blanche, alone canst tell how long!
For thou hast changed my spirit's tone,
And caused my simple lyre alone,
To breathe thy name, and made thine own,
The very music of my song.'"
Poured out in numbers on the shrine,
That I have consecrated mine,
Thou, Blanche, alone canst tell how long!
For thou hast changed my spirit's tone,
And caused my simple lyre alone,
To breathe thy name, and made thine own,
The very music of my song.'"
