Page:Dramas 1.pdf/416

408

Who hath but seen the element of fire On household hearth or woodman's smoky pile, And looks at once, midst stounding thunderpeals, On Jove's magnificence of lightning.—Pardon, I pray you pardon me! I mean his lightning. Who is the Jove of Jove, the great Jehova.

Be not disturb'd, my son; the lips will utter. From lengthen'd habit, what the mind rejects.

These blessed hours which I have pass'd with you Have to my intellectual being given New feelings and expansion, like to that Which once I felt, on viewing by degrees The wide developement of nature's amplitude.

And how was that, my son?

I well remember it; even at this moment Imagination sees it all again. 'Twas on a lofty mountain of Armenia, O'er which I led by night my martial cohort, To shun the fierce heat of a summer's day. Close round us hung, the vapours of the night Had form'd a woofy curtain, dim and pale, Through which the waning moon did faintly mark Its slender crescent.