Methinks the darkness has grown less profound,--
A heavy, dim, and shadowy light, like that
Which, when the storm has chosen midnight's hour
Of stilly gloom, to hold its revel in,
First glimmers through the clouds which have been rent,
And torn by their own fierceness, hands about us.
The light increases still, and in the distance,
Enormous shadows, wearing distinct shapes,
Since seemingly immovable, and others
Like mighty, mastless, sailless, vessels, moved
By magic o'er a tideless, waveless ocean,
In calm, majestic silence float along!

Spirit.
Let us go nearer,
Now what seest though?

Werner.

Worlds like to that I live on, save that these
Seem made of living shades instead of dust;
Vast mountains, with tall trees and mighty rocks,
And fountains, gushing from their very summits;
Huge, towering cliffs, and deep and lonely glens,
And wide-mouthed caves that hold a deeper gloom,--
With precipices from whose edges soft
And silvery cataracts are leaping down;
Swift streams, that rush adown their rugged sides,
And quiet lakelets, that appear to sleep
In the embrace of the surrounding hills;