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The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child,
And sweet and subtle talk now evermore,
The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill
Strange truths and new to that experienced man.
So in the caverns of the forest green,
By summer woodmen; and when winter's roar
Hanging upon the peaked wave afar,
Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,
For, lo! the wintry clouds are all
Belted Orion hangs-warm light is flowing
"On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm
"Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and
Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale !
"And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here. I bear alone what nothing may avail
"To lighten a strange load!"—No human ear
Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran,
Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake,
And, with a soft and equal pressure, prest
*Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea?
Tis just one year-sure thou dost not forget
"Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, For we had just then read-thy memory
“Is faithful now—the story of the feast;
'Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The grass in the warm sun did start and move,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror-or the spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green !
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than storms-the wide world shrinks below,
When winter and despondency are past.
'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Pass'd the white Alps-those eagle-baffling moun
Slept in their shrouds of snow ;-beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless-for their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, Or, by the curdling winds-like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow-
THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all
Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew; Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls
Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue
Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some bright robe;-thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air
In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest