Philosophy and science, and the springs
Of wonder, and the wisdom of the world,
I have essay'd, and in my mind there is
A power to make these subject to itself—
But they avail not: I have done men good,
And I have met with good even among men—
But this avail'd not: I have had my foes,
And none have baffled, many fallen before me—
But this avail'd not :-Good, or evil, life,
Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,

Have been to me as rain unto the sands,
Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,
And feel the curse to have no natural fear,

Nor fluttering throb, that beats with hopes or wishes,
Or lurking love of something on the earth.—

Now to my

task.

Mysterious Agency!

Ye spirits of the unbounded Universe!

Whom I have sought in darkness and in light—

Ye, who do compass earth about, and dwell

In subtler essence ye, to whom the tops

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth's and ocean's caves familiar things

I call upon ye by the written charm

Which gives me power upon you-Rise! appear!
[A pause.
They come not yet.-Now by the voice of him
Who is the first among you-by this sign,
Which makes you tremble-by the claims of him
Who is undying,-Rise! appear!--Appear!

If it be so.-Spirits of earth and air,
Ye shall not thus elude me: by a power,
Deeper than all yet urged, a tyrant-spell,
Which had its birthplace in a star condemn'd,
The burning wreck of a demolish'd world,
A wandering hell in the eternal space;

[A pause.

By the strong curse which is upon my soul,
The thought which is within me and around me,

I do compel ye to my will.-Appear!

[A star is seen at the darker end of the gallery; it is stationary; and a voice is heard singing.]

FIRST SPIRIT.

Mortal! to thy bidding bow'd,

From my mansion in the cloud,

своил

Which the breath of twilight builds,
And the summer's sun-set gilds

With the azure and vermilion,
Which is mix'd for my pavilion;
Though thy quest may be forbidden,
On a star-beam I have ridden;
To thine adjuration bow'd,
Mortal-be thy wish avow'd!

Voice of the SECOND SPIRIT.

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,
They crown'd him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

Around his waist are forests braced,

The Avalanche in his hand;

But ere it fall, that thundering ball
Must pause for my command.

The Glacier's cold and restless mass

Moves onward day by day;

But I am he who bids it

Or with its ice delay.

pass,

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern'd baseAnd what with me wouldst Thou?

My dwelling is the shadow of the night,

Why doth thy magic torture me with light?