When latest autumn spreads her evening veil, And the gray mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs Through the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. For at such hours the shadowy phantom pale, Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies As of night-wanderers who their woes bewail. Here by his native stream, at such an hour, Pity's own Otway I methinks could meet And hear his deep sighs swell the saddened wind! O Melancholy, such thy magic power That to the soul these dreams are often sweet And soothe the pensive visionary mind.
Huge Vapours Brood above the Clifted Shore
Huge vapours brood above the clifted shore,
Night o’er the ocean settles, dark and mute,
Save where is heard the repercussive roar
Of drowsy billows, on the rugged foot
Of rocks remote; or still more distant tone
Of seamen, in the anchored bark, that tell
The watch reliev’d; or one deep voice alone
Singing the hour, and bidding “strike the bell.”
All is black shadow, but the lucid line
Mark’d by the light surf on the level sand,
Or where afar, the ship-lights faintly shine
Like wandering fairy fires, that oft on land
Mislead the pilgrim; such the dubious ray
That wavering reason lends, in life’s long darkling way.