POEMS,

WRITTEN DURING, OR SHORTLY AFTER, THE PUBLICATION

OF

CLIFTON GROVE.

ODE,

ADDRESSED TO H. FUSELI, ESQ. R. A.

On seeing Engravings from his Designs.

MIGHTY Magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below; And listen to the distant death-shriek long

From lonely mariner foundering in the deep,
Which rises slowly up the rocky steep,
While the weird sisters weave the horrid song:
Or when along the liquid sky

Serenely chaunt the orbs on high,
Dost love to sit in musing trance

And mark the northern meteor's dance,

(While far below the fitful oar

Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore.)

And list the music of the breeze,

That sweeps by fits the bending seas;

And often bears with sudden swell
The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell,

By the spirits sung who keep

Their night watch on the treacherous deep,

And guide the wakeful Helms-man's eye
To Helice in northern sky;

And there upon the rock inclin'd

With mighty visions fill'st the mind,
Such as bound in magic spell

*

Him who grasp'd the gates of Hell,

And bursting Pluto's dark domain

Held to the day the Terrors of his reign.

Genius of Horror and romantic awe,

Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him thy darling child who best Thy shuddering images exprest? Sullen of soul and stern and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the croud, And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead.

Mighty Magician! long thy wand has lain
Buried beneath the unfathomable deep;
And oh for ever must its efforts sleep,
May none the mystic sceptre e'er regain.
Oh yes, tis his!Thy other son!
He throws thy dark-wrought Tunic on,

Fuesslin waves thy wand,-again they rise, Again thy wildering forms salute our ravish'd eyes. Him didst thou cradle on the dizzy steep

Where round his head the volley'd light'nings flùng, And the loud winds that round his pillow rung Wooed the stern infant to the arms of sleep.

Or on the highest top of Teneriffe,
Seated the fearless Boy, and bade him look
Where far below the weather-beaten skiff
On the gulph bottom of the ocean strook.
Thou mark'dst him drink with ruthless ear
The death-sob, and disdaining rest,

Thou saw'st how danger fir'd his breast,

And in his young hand couch'd the visionary spear.
Then Superstition at thy call,

She bore the boy to Odin's Hall,
And set before his awe-struck sight

The savage feast and spectred fight;

And summon'd from his mountain tomb
The ghastly warrior son of gloom,
His fabled runic rhymes to sing

While fierce Hresvelger flapp'd his wing;
Thou shew'dst the trains the shepherd sees,
Laid on the stormy Hebrides,

Which on the mists of evening gleam
Or croud the foaming desart stream;
Lastly her storied hand she waves
And lays him in Florentian caves;
There milder fables lovelier themes
Enwrap his soul in heavenly dreams,