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1. It is the midnight hour, and sunk in sleep Are all around me—yet I wake—to thee My heart still breathes its vow so fond, so deep, Love's first—last burning word—Remember me!
Take—cherish- love these flowers! as tenderly As thou dost hold my memory in thy breast: They will be withered ere they meet thine eye, Yet to thy bosom let their leaves be pressed.
The powers of magic to this faded wreath;
Behold a Scene of mountain loneliness! To which the howling Winds lend fitting tongue; But an exulting sense, a consciousness Of freedom thrills me as I walk along, Until my gratitude pours forth in song, Even for the boon of life; oh! what are worth The best joys of the World-corrupted throng, To his, who wrapped in Clouds above the Earth, Pure as the fountain Waters which there draw their birth,
Tours his free spirit to the Elements,
For then do we ally ourselves with power Congenial, with the mightier Energies Of Nature, calling us in that fierce hour To prove our spirit's answering sympathies: Who ever stood beneath the stormy skies, Or heard the wild Winds' voices poured abroad, Or watched the Ocean when its foam-flake flies To Heaven—nor gazing, freer, prouder trod, Nor looked into his soul, and felt it came from God? LXXI.
This flying moment—this brief point of time
Let me arrest, and fix, ere it be past,
All which it doth inspire of the sublime;
How through yon scathed trunks sweeps the rushing
blast! While Autumn leaves in Spring are round me cast, Still clinging, like grey age, to life; but, lo, Yon hill-bound lake expands its azure vast! I stand by its white waves that foam below, Typing the Ocean's wrath when heaves its mane of snow.
And this was Thrasimene !—how the name
All fight was vain; the darkening mists rolled down,
Still that once blood-dyed stream records the dreadful day.
Joy even to the joyless, and extract the dart