264
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE SPIRIT'S MYSTERIES.
And slight, withal, may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside forever;—it may be a sound—
A tone of music—summer’s breath, or spring—
A flower—a leaf—the ocean—which may wound—
Striking th' electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
Childe Harold.
The power that dwelleth in sweet sounds to waken
Vague yearnings, like the sailors for the shore,
And dim remembrances, whose hue seems taken
From some bright former state, our own no more;
Is not this all a mystery?—Who shall say
Whence are those thoughts, and whither tends their way?
