And the meteor on the grave,

And the wisp on the morass;

When the falling stars are shooting,
And the answer'd owls are hooting,
And the silent leaves are still

In the shadow of the hill,
Shall my soul be upon thine,

With a power and with a sign.

Though thy slumber may be deep,

Yet thy spirit shall not sleep;

There are shades which will not vanish, There are thoughts thou canst not banish; By a power to thee unknown,

Thou canst never be alone;

Thou art wrapt as with a shroud,

Thou art gather'd in a cloud;

And forever shalt thou dwell
In the spirit of this spell.

Though thou seest me not pass by,
Thou shalt feel me with thine eye
As a thing that, though unseen,
Must be near thee, and hath been;
And when in that secret dread
Thou hast turn'd around thy head,
Thou shalt marvel I am not
As thy shadow on the spot,
And the power which thou dost feel
Shall be what thou must conceal.

And a magic voice and verse
Hath baptized thee with a curse;
And a spirit of the air

Hath begirt thee with a snare;
In the wind there is a voice
Shall forbid thee to rejoice;

And to thee shall Night deny
All the quiet of her sky;

And the Day shall have a sun,

Which shall make thee wish it done.

Man. THE spirits I have raised abandon me

The spells which I have studied baffle me-
The remedy I reck'd of tortured me.

I lean no more on super-human aid;
It hath no power upon the past, and for

The future, till the past be gulf'd in darkness,
It is not of my search.

My mother Earth!

And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,

Why are ye beautiful?

I cannot love ye.

And thou, the bright eye of the universe,

That openest over all, and unto all

Art a delight- thou shin'st not on my heart.

And you, ye crags, upon whose extreme edge
I stand, and on the torrent's brink beneath
Behold the tall pines dwindled as to shrubs
In dizziness of distance; when a leap,
A stir, a motion, even a breath, would bring
My breast upon its rocky bosom's bed
To rest forever - wherefore do I pause?
I feel the impulse — yet I do not plunge;
I see the peril - yet do not recede;

And my brain reels - and yet my foot is firm:
There is a power upon me which withholds,
And makes it my fatality to live;
If it be life to wear within myself
This barrenness of spirit, and to be
My own soul's sepulchre, for I have ceased
To justify my deeds unto myself —
The last infirmity of evil. Ay,

Thou winged and cloud-cleaving minister,

[An eagle passes.

Whose happy flight is highest into heaven,
Well may'st thou swoop so near me — I should be
Thy prey, and gorge thine eaglets; thou art gone
Where the eye cannot follow thee; but thine
. Yet pierces downward, onward, or above,
With a pervading vision. Beautiful!
How beautiful is all this visible world!

How glorious in its action and itself!

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,

Half dust, half deity, alike unfit

To sink or soar, with our mix'd essence make

A conflict of its elements, and breathe

The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will,
Till our mortality predominates,

And men are - - what they name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other. Hark! the note,

[The Shepherd's pipe in the distance is heard. The natural music of the mountain reed

For here the patriarchal days are not

A pastoral fable- pipes in the liberal air,

Mixt with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;
My soul would drink those echoes. —Oh, that I were
The viewless spirit of a lovely sound.

A living voice, a breathing harmony,
A bodiless enjoyment — born and dying
With the blest tone which made me!

Enter from below a CHAMOIS HUNTER.

Chamois Hunter.

Even so

This way the chamois leapt : her nimble feet
Have baffled me; my gains to-day will scarce
Repay my break-neck travail. - What is here?
Who seems not of my trade, and yet hath reach'd
A height which none even of our mountaineers,
Save our best hunters, may attain: his garb
Is goodly, his mien manly, and his air
Proud as a free-born peasant's, at this distance
I will approach him nearer.

Man. (not perceiving the other). To be thus Gray-hair'd with anguish, like these blasted pines, Wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, A blighted trunk upon a cursèd root,

Which but supplies a feeling to decay

And to be thus, eternally but thus,

Having been otherwise! Now furrow'd o'er
With wrinkles, plough'd by moments, not by years
And hours - all tortured into ages - hours

Which I outlive! - Ye toppling crags of ice!
Ye avalanches, whom a breath draws down
In mountainous o'erwhelming, come and crush me!
I hear ye momently above, beneath,

Crash with a frequent conflict; but ye pass,
And only fall on things that still would live;
On the young flourishing forest, or the hut
And hamlet of the harmless villager.

C. Hun. The mists begin to rise up from the valley; I'll warn him to descend, or he may chance

To lose at once his way and life together.

Man. The mists boil up around the glaciers; clouds Rise curling fast beneath me, white and sulphury, Like foam from the roused ocean of deep Hell, Whose every wave breaks on a living shore, Heap'd with the damn'd like pebbles. — I am giddy. C. Hun. I must approach him cautiously; if near, A sudden step will startle him, and he

Seems tottering already.

Man.

Mountains have fallen,

Leaving a gap in the clouds, and with the shock
Rocking their Alpine brethren; filling up

The ripe green valleys with destruction's splinters;
Damming the rivers with a sudden dash,

Which crush'd the waters into mist, and made

Their fountains find another channel — thus,