VI.

A blighted name! I hear the winds of morn-- Their sounds are not of this! I hear the shiver Of the green reeds, and all the rustlings, borne From the high forest, when the light leaves quiver Their sounds are not of this!--the cedars, waving, Lend it no tone: His wide savannahs laving, It is not murmur’d by the joyous river! What part hath mortal name, where God alone Speaks to the mighty waste, and through its heart is known?