Far to the hinder side, a mountain spread, With shadowy clouds impervious, o’er its head, Hiding whate’er beneath the veil might be, With the dark mantle of futurity. In vain, my searching eye-balls seek t’ explore The hidden secrets of that mystic shore.
From time to time, a legion would emerge From its dark region’s shade-encircled verge: 150 But most, ere yet a few short stops were o’er, Fell to the earth, and were beheld no more! A few, indeed, a farther distance past; But, though they sunk not first, they sunk at last. Yet, as _they_ fell, from forth the sable land, All careless of their fate, another band In swift succession issued forth, till they Soon, in their turn, sunk down the dangerous way.
Methought my feet with rash, unhallow’d tread, My longing eyes, to this dark region led; 160 Methought my hand already seiz’d the shroud, That o’er it hung its canopy of cloud;-- Methought, mid those just rushing on to light, I view’d a form, with awful grandeur bright; Upon his beaming brows, in leaves of gold, “Britannia’s greatest glory” was enroll’d! Scarce could I snatch a momentary trace Of these high words, when, through the darksome place, Burst forth these accents, awful, loud, and drear, “Hold back, hold back, rash mortal, and forbear!”
Scarce was it utter’d, ere the wondrous scene, 171 And those who fill’d it, were no longer seen; And, in the stead of that remember’d dream, I view’d the waves that swell Brent’s shallow stream; And heard the tinkling from the distant fold, Stead of the strains from many a lyre of gold, That e’en but now, had bound the melting soul, In thralls of heav’nly, but of vain control. The grateful spell is broke!--the treasur’d tone-- The hallow’d visions--yes, alas!--are flown! 180 And I must back to scenes of loathsome life, Pregnant with sorrow, and profuse with strife.
Yes! though the hand of time has scarcely spread His roseate wreath of youth around my head, Yet I have felt, how keen the piercing dart, That grief can give, to lacerate the heart.-- Yes, I have felt, how full of care, alas! The thorny paths that man is doom’d to pass. But for a bright, and ofttimes cheering ray, Athwart my dark and melancholy way; 190 For many a soothing, many a raptur’d hour, I bless, my Muse, thy sweet celestial pow’r. Oh, mayst thou still continue, o’er my soul, To hold, for aye, thine heav’n-inspir’d control. Oh, mayst thou still in many a dream like this, Give thine unearthly purity of bliss! Till snatch’d from life, from all its trammels free, I lose its searing bitterness--in thee!