PANTHEA.

ACT I.

Look, sister, where a troop of spirits gather,
Like flocks of clouds in spring's delightful weather,
Thronging in the blue air!

IONE.

And, see! more come,

Like fountain-vapours when the winds are dumb,
That climb up the ravine in scattered lines.
And, hark! Is it the music of the pines?
Is it the lake? Is it the waterfall?

PANTHEA.

'Tis something sadder, sweeter far than all.

Chorus of Spirits.

From unremembered ages we Gentle guides and guardians be Of heaven-oppress'd mortality;

And we breathe, and sicken not,
The atmosphere of human thought;
Be it dim, and dank, and grey,
Like a storm-extinguish'd day,
Travell'd o'er by dying gleams:

Be it bright as all between Cloudless skies, and windless streams, Silent, liquid, and serene;

As the birds within the wind,

As the fish within the wave, As the thoughts of man's own mind Float through all above the grave; We make these our liquid lair, Voyaging cloud-like and unpent Through the boundless element: Whence we bear the prophecy Which begins and ends in thee!

Act II Scene I