Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/309



down, ye Spirits! in your might, come down! Come down, ye Spirits of this midnight hour; Come down in all your dim sublimity And majesty of terror! How I joy To meet you in your own dark territories, And hold mysterious converse in a tongue That hath quite perished among the sons Of fallen man! Ye Spirits that do roam With unconfined footsteps o'er the paths Of measureless eternity;—ye who skim The bosomed cloud, or pace with hasty step The earth's green surface, and its every spot, Though ne'er so lone, deserted, and profound; Repeople with strange sounds and voices sweet, Which circle round, even when all else is still, And breed in vulgar breasts a nameless dread And awe inexplicable; which bids the flesh To creep, as if its every fibre were A many-footed and a living thing, Com edownCome down [sic]! come down!