Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Meditation

Meditation.

Tell me, ye viewless Spirits of the Air,Who steal upon the soul with silent wing,Seeming to wake, as with its breath, a stringThat yields deep melody all hidden there,Tell me if ye are visions from the tomb,Or dreams awaked by Fancy's wizard call,Or ministers of ill, released from thrall,In robes of light, to tempt us to our doom.Or messengers of peace from regions blest,On mercy's errand, stooping from above,Or friends departed, drawn by lingering loveTo whisper weal or warning to the breast?Ye have no voice to answer, but the eyeDoth trace your homeward pathway to the sky!