Mighty magician! who on Torneo's brow, When sullen tempests wrap the throne of night, Art wont to sit and catch the gleam of light, That shoots athwart the gloom opaque below, And listen to the distant death-shriek long, From lonely mariner foundering in the deep, Which rises slowly up the rocky steep, While weird sisters weave the horrid song: Or when along the liquid sky Serenely chant the orbs on high, Dost love to sit in musing trance, And mark the northern meteor's dance; (While far below the fitful oar Flings its faint pauses on the steepy shore,) And list the music of the breeze, That sweeps by fits the bending seas; And often bears with sudden swell The shipwreck'd sailor's funeral knell, By the spirits sung, who keep Their night-watch on the treacherous deep, And guide the wakeful helms-man's eye To Helicé in northern sky, And there, upon the rock inclined, With mighty visions fill'st the mind, Such as bound, in magic spell, Him[75] who grasp'd the gates of Hell, And bursting Pluto's dark domain, Held to the day the terrors of his reign. Genius of horror and romantic awe, Whose eye explores the secrets of the deep, Whose power can bid the rebel fluids creep, Can force the inmost soul to own its law; Who shall now, sublimest spirit, Who shall now thy wand inherit, From him,[76] thy darling child, who best Thy shuddering images express'd? Sullen of soul, and stern, and proud, His gloomy spirit spurn'd the crowd; And now he lays his aching head In the dark mansion of the silent dead.