A gallery of famous English and American poets . Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagles nest I 168 COLERIDGE. Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!Ye lio-htnings, the dread arrows of the clouds !Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene,Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou,That as I raise my head, awhil
A gallery of famous English and American poets . Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!Ye wild goats sporting round the eagles nest I 168 COLERIDGE. Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm!Ye lio-htnings, the dread arrows of the clouds !Ye signs and wonders of the element!Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Once more, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene,Into the depth of clouds that veil thy breast—Thou too, again, stupendous Mountain ! thou,That as I raise my head, awhile bowed lowIn adoration, upward from thy travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,Solemnly seemest, like a vapory rise before me—Rise, 0 ever rise;Pbise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth IThou kingly spirit throned among the hills,Thou dread ambassador from earth to heaven,Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. LOVK. 169. — ^: LOVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,Are all but ministers of love,And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do ILive oer again that happy midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruined tower. 41! 170 COLERIDGE. The moonshine, stealing oer the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my own dear Genevieve! She leaned against the armed man,The statue of the arm^d knight;She stood and listened to my layAmid the lino-ering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!She loves me best wheneer I singThe songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that woreUpo
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1870, booksu, booksubjectenglishpoetry
