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VII.
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthen'd out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without.
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,[1] or blasted tree.
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee.
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of show'rs,
Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wint'ry song,
The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.
Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, e'en to Frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the Rushing of an Host in rout.
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
- ↑ Tairn is a small lake, generally it not always applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the vallies. This address to the Storm-wind[errata 1]) will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, and in a mountainous country.
Errata
