That at his bidding come, Like beckoned shadows dim; Sylphs of the brain, that with Titania roam-- Fancy’s all sprighting whim: Those shadowy tribes of mind To call from their retreat; Sweet parlance hold, then scatter to the wind, Back to their airy seat. Like melancholy Jacques, To nurse the tender thought, Doth fly to woods embrowned, man’s haunts forsakes, For scenes of quiet sought, As by some classic stream, In idless mood reclined, Deep moralize, or lost in fairy dream Of meditative mind; Or yet more thoughtful theme, The sacred page explore; Its holy words, as sang by Babel’s stream-- Song of the exile’s shore. Or climb the lofty tower, Like Plato, hoary seer; The Chaldean sage of that star-twinkling hour, And maze-revolving sphere. When the cold spectral night Gleams on the column’s stone, As Luna pale Endymion’s locks doth light, Kissing his forehead lone, Be mine with silence found, When, through the gloom o’erstealing, Is traced the lingering, pensive nymph profound, Her shadowy form revealing. THE WRECK.[F] “All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!”--_Tempest._ Weep for her loss, in pity weep, That down engulfed beneath the deep The fated vessel sunk, with all on board; Three score and ten, save one, to tell The horror of their dying knell, That mingled ’bove the surge, when loud it roared. Weep for their fate, if tears may show A grief too great for tears to flow; And words are vain, looks, sighs, but faint express; Their dread dismay, by tempest borne, When hope and human help were gone, One overwhelming flood of deep distress. Weep for the mother’s, children’s doom, Gone down to one unfathomed tomb; Brave hearts that late embarked from India’s shore, ’Neath joyous hope’s bright banner furled: How changed!--To depths of ocean hurled, The traceless wave hath swept,--they are no more! Weep for their death; no arm to save Beneath the hurrying, moaning wave; Almost in sight of their loved haven lost, On coast of France, by storm-wind driven, The vessel struck on rock--hath riven, Dispersed in fragments, o’er the foam-wave tost. Weep for the fated ship, ah! weep!-- Proud name--o’ermastered by the deep, That late through peril’s seas careered her way, “Home bound:”--yet wherefore weep?--poor souls! O’er them the mighty billow rolls!-- Their sufferings past;--their God their only stay. THE WAILING SPIRIT OF THE “ROUND-DOWN CLIFF.”[G]