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And the grey mists from these dim waves arise, I love to listen to the hollow sighs, Thro' the half leafless wood that breathes the gale. For at such hours the shadowy phantom, pale, Oft seems to fleet before the poet's eyes; Strange sounds are heard, and mournful melodies, As of night-wanderers, who their woes bewail! Pity's own Otway, I methinks could meet, And hear his deep sighs swell the sadden'd wind! Oh Melancholy! such thy magic power, That to the soul these dreams are often sweet, And soothe the pensive visionary mind! |
