But grief finds solace faint in others' ills And but in her own shadow loves to go: For her the mountain slide may crash and flow; Alike to that dull eye the wild brook fills With mist the chasm, or feeds the fields below; Alike the latter rain with sure return Breaks in the barren pine or thick distils On the pond lily and the green brookflags Or rises softly up to flood the fern. What though the world were water drowned? or though The sun, from his high place descending slow, Should over the autumn landscapes brood and burn Till all the vales were tinder, and their crags, Apt to the touch of fire, Hephaestian hills? |