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 Scream in its scanty cradle: he the while Wins gentle solace as with upward eye He marks the streamy banners of the North, Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join Who there in floating robes of rosy light Dance sportively. For Fancy is the Power That first unsensualizes the dark mind, Giving it new delights; and bids it swell With wild activity; and peopling air, By obscure fears of Beings invisible, Emancipates it from the grosser thrall Of the present impulse, teaching Self-controul, Till Superstition with unconscious hand Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain, Nor yet without permitted power impress'd, I deem those legends terrible, with which The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng: Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird , of whose rushing wings the noise Is Tempest, when the unutterable shape Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once That shriek, which never Murderer heard, and lived.