Still urges onward—undismay'd to tread
Where life's fond lovers would recoil with dread;
But fear is for the happy—they may shrink
From the steep precipice, or torrent's brink;
They to whom earth is paradise—their doom
Lends no stern courage to approach the tomb:
Not such his lot, who, school'd by fate severe,
Were but too blest if aught remain'd to fear.38[1]
Up the rude crags, whose giant-masses throw
Eternal shadows o'er the glen below;
And by the fall, whose many-tinctured spray
Half in a mist of radiance veils its way,
He holds his venturous track:—supported now
By some o'erhanging pine or ilex bough;
Now by some jutting stone, that seems to dwell
Half in mid-air, as balanced by a spell:
Now hath his footstep gain'd the summit's head,
A level span, with emerald verdure spread,
A fairy circle—there the heath-flowers rise,
And the rock-rose unnoticed blooms and dies;
And brightly plays the stream, ere yet its tide
In foam and thunder cleave the mountain side;
But all is wild beyond—and Hamet's eye
Roves o'er a world of rude sublimity.
F
