414
Superstition.
Dim power! by very indistinctness made
More potent, as the twilight's shade
Gives magnitude to objects mean;
Thou power, though deeply felt, unseen,
That with thy mystic, undefined,
And boundless presence, fills my mind
With unimaginable fears, and chills
My aching heart, and all its pulses stills
Into a silence deeper than the grave,
That erst throbbed quick and brave!
Wherefore, at dead of night, by some lone stream,
Dost thou, embodying its very sound
In thy own substance, seem
To speak of some lorn maiden, who hath found
Her bridal pillow deftly spread
Upon the tall reeds' rustling head,
And the long green sedges graceful sweep,
Where the otter and the wild drake sleep?
And wherefore, in the moonshine clear,
Doth her wan form appear
