The unshrived ghosts, in fairy trance, To join her moonshine morris-dance; While around the mystic ring The shadowy shapes elastic spring, Then with a passing shriek they fly, Wrapt in mists, along the sky, And oft are by the shepherd seen In his lone night-watch on the green. Then, hermit, let us turn our feet To the low abbey's still retreat, Embower'd in the distant glen, Far from the haunts of busy men, Where as we sit upon the tomb, The glowworm's light may gild the gloom, And show to fancy's saddest eye Where some lost hero's ashes lie. And oh, as through the mouldering arch, With ivy fill'd and weeping larch, The night gale whispers sadly clear, Speaking dear things to fancy's ear, We'll hold communion with the shade Of some deep wailing, ruin'd maid-- Or call the ghost of Spenser down, To tell of woe and fortune's frown; And bid us cast the eye of hope Beyond this bad world's narrow scope. Or if these joys, to us denied, To linger by the forest's side; Or in the meadow, or the wood, Or by the lone, romantic flood; Let us in the busy town, When sleep's dull streams the people drown, Far from drowsy pillows flee, And turn the church's massy key; Then, as through the painted glass The moon's faint beams obscurely pass, And darkly on the trophied wall Her faint, ambiguous shadows fall, Let us, while the faint winds wail Through the long reluctant aisle, As we pace with reverence meet, Count the echoings of our feet, While from the tombs, with confess'd breath, Distinct responds the voice of death. If thou, mild sage, wilt condescend Thus on my footsteps to attend, To thee my lonely lamp shall burn By fallen Genius' sainted urn, As o'er the scroll of Time I pore, And sagely spell of ancient lore, Till I can rightly guess of all That Plato could to memory call, And scan the formless views of things; Or, with old Egypt's fetter'd kings, Arrange the mystic trains that shine In night's high philosophic mine; And to thy name shall e'er belong The honours of undying song. TO THE GENIUS OF ROMANCE.