Rejoiced that clamorous spell and magic verse IX. The GIFT to King Amphion That walled a city with its melody Was for belief no.dream: thy skill, Arion ! Could humanize the creatures of the sea, Where men were monsters. A last grace he craves, Leave for one chant; the dulcet sound So shall he touch at length a friendly strand, X. The pipe of Pan, to shepherds Couched in the shadow of Manalian pines, This way and that, with wild-flowers crowned. To life, to life give back thine ear: Ye who are longing to be rid Of fable, though to truth subservient, hear The convict's summons in the steeple's knell; For terror, joy, or pity, XI. Vast is the compass and the swell of notes: Might tempt an angel to descend, While hovering o'er the moonlight vale. Ye wandering Utterances, has Earth no scheme, Powers that survive but in the faintest dream Of the Unsubstantial, pondered well! By one pervading spirit XII. Of tones and numbers all things are controlled, As sages taught, where faith was found to merit Initiation in that mystery old. The heavens, whose aspect makes our minds as still As they themselves appear to be, Innumerable voices fill With everlasting harmony; The towering headlands, crowned with mist, Their feet among the billows, know That Ocean is a mighty harmonist; Thy pinions, universal Air, Ever waving to and fro, Are delegates of harmony, and bear Strains that support the Seasons in their round: Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound. XIII. Break forth into thanksgiving, Ye banded instruments of wind and chords! Unite, to magnify the Ever-living, Your inarticulate notes with the voice of words! Nor hushed be service from the lowing mead, Nor mute the forest hum of noon; Thou too be heard, lone eagle! freed Of joy, that from her utmost walls The six-days' Work by flaming Seraphim All worlds, all natures, mood and measure keep For praise and ceaseless gratulation, poured XIV. A Voice to Light gave Being; To Time, and Man his earth-born chronicler; To archangelic lips applied, The grave shall open, quench the stars. O Silence! are Man's noisy years No more than moments of thy life? Is Harmony, blest queen of smiles and tears, Tempered into rapturous strife, Thy destined bond-slave? No! though earth be dust And vanish, though the heavens dissolve, her stay Is in the WORD, that shall not pass away. 1828. Brutus will start a spirit as soon as Cæsar! TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, ESQ., P. L., ETC., ETC. MY DEAR FRIEND: The Tale of Peter Bell, which I now introduce to your notice, and to that of the Public, has, in its manuscript state, nearly survived its minority; for it first saw the light in the summer of 1798. During this long interval, pains have been taken at different times to make the production less unworthy of a favorable reception; or, rather, to fit it for filling permanently a station, however humble, in the literature of our country. This has, indeed, been the aim of all my endeavors in Poetry, which, you know, have been sufficiently laborious to prove that I deem the Art not lightly to be approached; and that the attainment of excellence in it may laudably be made the principal object of intellectual pursuit by any man, who, with reasonable consideration of circumstances, has faith in his own impulses. The Poem of Peter Bell, as the Prologue will show, was composed under a belief that the Imagination not only does not require for its exercise the intervention of supernatural agency, but that, though such agency be excluded, the faculty may be called forth as imperiously, and for kindred results of pleas ure, by incidents, within the compass of poetic probability, in the humblest departments of daily life. Since that Prologue was written, you have exhibited most splendid effects of judicious daring, in the opposite and usual course. Let this acknowledgment make my peace with the lovers of the super |