Page:Hemans in Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine 25 1829.pdf/5



—Where of ye, O tempests, is the goal! Are ye like those that shake the human breast, Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high nest? Childe Harold.

! and silence deep! The air is fill'd with sleep, With the stream's whisper and the citron's breath; The fixed and solemn stars Gleam thro' my dungeon-bars— Wake, rushing winds! this breezeless calm is death!