If
they afford the reader no higher amusement, they will serve, at least,
better than narrative of any kind, to acquaint him with the wild and
irregular spirit of our hero:--
Late, when the Autumn evening fell On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell, The
lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam, The purple cloud, the golden beam:
Reflected in the crystal pool, Headland and bank lay fair and cool; The
weather-tinted rock and tower, Each drooping tree, each fairy flower, So
true, so soft, the mirror gave, As if there lay beneath the wave, Secure
from trouble, toil, and care, A world than earthly world more fair.
But distant winds began to wake, And roused the Genius of the Lake! He
heard the groaning of the oak, And donn'd at once his sable cloak, As
warrior, at the battle-cry, Invests him with his panoply: Then, as the
whirlwind nearer press'd He 'gan to shake his foamy crest O'er furrow'd
brow and blacken'd cheek, And bade his surge in thunder speak. In wild
and broken eddies whirl'd. Flitted that fond ideal world, And to the
shore in tumult tost The realms of fairy bliss were lost.
Yet, with a stern delight and strange, I saw the spirit-stirring change,
As warr'd the wind with wave and wood, Upon the ruin'd tower I stood, And
felt my heart more strongly bound, Responsive to the lofty sound, While,
joying in the mighty roar, I mourn'd that tranquil scene no more.
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