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The thought which is within me and around me,
(A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; it is
Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,
Voice of the Second Spirit.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,
They crowned him long ago
With a diadem of snow.
The avalanche in his hand;
Must pause for my command.
Moves onward day by day;
Or with its ice delay.
Could make the mountain bow
Aud what with me would'st Thou?
Voice of the Third Spirit.
In the blue depth of the waters,
Where the wave hath no Mrife, Where the wind is a stranger,
And the sea-snake hath life, Where the mermaid is decking
Her green hair with shells, Like the storm on the surface
Came the sound of thy spells; O'er my calm hall of coral
The deep echo roll'd:
To the spirit of Ocean
Thy wishes unfold!
Where the slumbering earthquake
Lies pillow'd on fire, And the lakes of bitumen
Rise boilingly higher; Where the roots of the Ancles
Strike deep in the earth,
Shoot soaringly forth;
Thy bidding to bide—
Thy will be my guide I
I am the rider of the wind,
The hurricane I left behind
To speed to thee, o'er shore and sea
The fleet I met sailed well, and yet
My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light?
The star which rules thy destiny, Was ruled, ere earth began, by me: It was a world as fresh and fair As e'er revolved round sun'in air; Its course was free and regular, Space bosom'd not a lovelier star. The hour arrived—and it became A wandering mass of shapeless flame, A pathless comet, and a curse, The menace of the universe; Still rolling on with innate force, Without a sphere, without a course, A bright deformity on high, The monster of the upper sky! And thou, beneath its influence born—Thou worm! whom I obey and scornForced by a power ( which is not thine, And lent thee but to make thee mine ) For this brief moment to descend, Where these weak spirits round thee bend And parley with a thing like thee— What would'st thou, Child of Clay! with me?
THE SEVEN SPIRITS.
Earth, ocean, air, uight, mountains, winds, thy star, Are at thy beck and bidding, Child of Clay'
Before thee at thy quest their spirits are—
What would'st thou with us, son of mortals—say?
Of what—of.whom—and why?
Of that which is within me; read it there—
We can but give thee that which -we possess:
It is not in our essence, in our skill;
Will Death bestow it on me?
We are immortal, and do not forge;
Ye mock me—*-tut the power which brought ye here'
We answer as we answered ; our reply
Why say ye so?
If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours,
I then have call'd ye from your realms in vain;
What we possess we offer; it is thine: