Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/503



, thou bright spirit of the skies, With witching harp or potent lyre, And bid those magic notes arise That kindle souls, and tip with fire The prophet's lips. Begin the strain, That like the trumpet's stirring sound Makes the lone heart to bound From death-like lethargy to life again, Bracing the slackened nerve and limb, And calling from the eye, all sunk and dim, Unwonted fire and noble daring; Or wake that soothing melody That stills the tumults of the heart despairing, With all its many murmurings small, Of soft and liquid sounds that be Like to the music of a water-fall, Heard from the farthest depths of some green wood, In quiet moon-lit night, that stills the mood Of painful thought, and fills the soul