Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare.—

Confess. St. August.

Earth, ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!



If our great Mother has imbued my soul



With aught of natural piety to feel



Your love, and recompense the boon with mine;



If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even,



With sunset and its gorgeous ministers,



And solemn midnight's tingling silentness;



If autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood,



And winter robing with pure snow and crowns



Of starry ice the grey grass and bare boughs;



If spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes



Her first sweet kisses, have been dear to me;



If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast



I consciously have injured, but still loved



And cherished these my kindred; then forgive



This boast, belovèd brethren, and withdraw



No portion of your wonted favour now!







Mother of this unfathomable world!



Favour my solemn song, for I have loved



Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched



Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,



And my heart ever gazes on the depth



Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed



In charnels and on coffins, where black death



Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,



Hoping to still these obstinate questionings



Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost



Thy messenger, to render up the tale



Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,



When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,



Like an inspired and desperate alchymist



Staking his very life on some dark hope,



Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks



With my most innocent love, until strange tears



Uniting with those breathless kisses, made



Such magic as compels the charmèd night



To render up thy charge:...and, though ne'er yet



Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,



Enough from incommunicable dream,



And twilight phantasms, and deep noon-day thought,



Has shone within me, that serenely now



And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre



Suspended in the solitary dome



Of some mysterious and deserted fane,



I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain



May modulate with murmurs of the air,



And motions of the forests and the sea,



And voice of living beings, and woven hymns



Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.







There was a Poet whose untimely tomb



No human hands with pious reverence reared,



But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds



Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyramid



Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:—



A lovely youth,—no mourning maiden decked



With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,



The lone couch of his everlasting sleep:—



Gentle, and brave, and generous,—no lorn bard



Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:



He lived, he died, he sung, in solitude.



Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes,



And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined



And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes.



The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn,



And Silence, too enamoured of that voice,



Locks its mute music in her rugged cell.







By solemn vision, and bright silver dream,



His infancy was nurtured. Every sight



And sound from the vast earth and ambient air,



Sent to his heart its choicest impulses.



The fountains of divine philosophy



Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great,



Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past



In truth or fable consecrates, he felt



And knew. When early youth had past, he left



His cold fireside and alienated home



To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands.



Many a wide waste and tangled wilderness



Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought



With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,



His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps



He like her shadow has pursued, where'er



The red volcano overcanopies



Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice



With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes



On black bare pointed islets ever beat



With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves



Rugged and dark, winding among the springs



Of fire and poison, inaccessible



To avarice or pride, their starry domes



Of diamond and of gold expand above



Numberless and immeasurable halls,



Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines



Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chrysolite.



Nor had that scene of ampler majesty



Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven



And the green earth lost in his heart its claims



To love and wonder; he would linger long



In lonesome vales, making the wild his home,



Until the doves and squirrels would partake



From his innocuous hand his bloodless food,



Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks,



And the wild antelope, that starts whene'er



The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend



Her timid steps to gaze upon a form



More graceful than her own.







His wandering step



Obedient to high thoughts, has visited



The awful ruins of the days of old:



Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste



Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers



Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids,



Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange



Sculptured on alabaster obelisk,



Or jasper tomb, or mutilated sphynx,



Dark Æthiopia in her desert hills



Conceals. Among the ruined temples there,



Stupendous columns, and wild images



Of more than man, where marble daemons watch



The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men



Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around,



He lingered, poring on memorials



Of the world's youth, through the long burning day



Gazed on those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon



Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades



Suspended he that task, but ever gazed



And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind



Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw



The thrilling secrets of the birth of time.







Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food,



Her daily portion, from her father's tent,



And spread her matting for his couch, and stole



From duties and repose to tend his steps:—



Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe



To speak her love:—and watched his nightly sleep,



Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips



Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath



Of innocent dreams arose: then, when red morn



Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home



Wildered, and wan, and panting, she returned.







The Poet wandering on, through Arabie



And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste,



And o'er the aërial mountains which pour down



Indus and Oxus from their icy caves,



In joy and exultation held his way;



Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within



Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine



Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower,



Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched



His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep



There came, a dream of hopes that never yet



Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veilèd maid



Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones.



Her voice was like the voice of his own soul



Heard in the calm of thought; its music long,



Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held



His inmost sense suspended in its web



Of many-coloured woof and shifting hues.



Knowledge and truth and virtue were her theme,



And lofty hopes of divine liberty,



Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy,



Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood



Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame



A permeating fire: wild numbers then



She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs



Subdued by its own pathos: her fair hands



Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp



Strange symphony, and in their branching veins



The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale.



The beating of her heart was heard to fill



The pauses of her music, and her breath



Tumultuously accorded with those fits



Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose,



As if her heart impatiently endured



Its bursting burthen: at the sound he turned,



And saw by the warm light of their own life



Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil



Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare,



Her dark locks floating in the breath of night,



Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips



Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly.



His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess



Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs and quelled



His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet



Her panting bosom:...she drew back a while,



Then, yielding to the irresistible joy,



With frantic gesture and short breathless cry



Folded his frame in her dissolving arms.



Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night



Involved and swallowed up the vision; sleep,



Like a dark flood suspended in its course



Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain.







Roused by the shock he started from his trance—



The cold white light of morning, the blue moon



Low in the west, the clear and garish hills,



The distinct valley and the vacant woods,



Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled



The hues of heaven that canopied his bower



Of yesternight? The sounds that soothed his sleep,



The mystery and the majesty of Earth,



The joy, the exultation? His wan eyes



Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly



As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven.



The spirit of sweet human love has sent



A vision to the sleep of him who spurned



Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues



Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade;



He overleaps the bounds. Alas! Alas!



Were limbs and breath and being intertwined



Thus treacherously? Lost, lost, for ever lost,



In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep,



That beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of death



Conduct to thy mysterious paradise,



O Sleep? Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds,



And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake,



Lead only to a black and watery depth,



While death's blue vault, with loathliest vapours hung,



Where every shade which the foul grave exhales



Hides its dead eye from the detested day,



Conduct, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms?



This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart,



The insatiate hope which it awakened stung



His brain even like despair.







While daylight held



The sky, the Poet kept mute conference



With his still soul. At night the passion came,



Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream,



And shook him from his rest, and led him forth



Into the darkness.—As an eagle grasped



In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast



Burn with the poison, and precipitates



Through night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud,



Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight



O'er the wide aëry wilderness: thus driven



By the bright shadow of that lovely dream,



Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night,



Through tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells,



Startling with careless step the moonlight snake,



He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight,



Shedding the mockery of its vital hues



Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on



Till vast Aornos, seen from Petra's steep,



Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud;



Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs



Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind



Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on,



Day after day a weary waste of hours,



Bearing within his life the brooding care



That ever fed on its decaying flame.



And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair



Sered by the autumn of strange suffering



Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand



Hung like dead bone within its withered skin;



Life, and the lustre that consumed it, shone



As in a furnace burning secretly



From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers,



Who ministered with human charity



His human wants, beheld with wondering awe



Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer,



Encountering on some dizzy precipice



That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of wind



With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet



Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused



In its career: the infant would conceal



His troubled visage in his mother's robe



In terror at the glare of those wild eyes,



To remember their strange light in many a dream



Of after-times; but youthful maidens, taught



By nature, would interpret half the woe



That wasted him, would call him with false names



Brother, and friend, would press his pallid hand



At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path



Of his departure from their father's door.







At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore



He paused, a wide and melancholy waste



Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged



His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there,



Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds.



It rose as he approached, and with strong wings



Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course



High over the immeasurable main.



His eyes pursued its flight.—"Thou hast a home,



Beautiful bird; thou voyagest to thine home,



Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck



With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes



Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy.



And what am I that I should linger here,



With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes,



Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned



To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers



In the deaf air, to the blind earth, and heaven



That echoes not my thoughts?" A gloomy smile



Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips.



For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly



Its precious charge, and silent death exposed,



Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure,



With doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms.







Startled by his own thoughts he looked around.



There was no fair fiend near him, not a sight



Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind.



A little shallop floating near the shore



Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze.



It had been long abandoned, for its sides



Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frail joints



Swayed with the undulations of the tide.



A restless impulse urged him to embark



And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste;



For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves



The slimy caverns of the populous deep.







The day was fair and sunny: sea and sky



Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind



Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves.



Following his eager soul, the wanderer



Leaped in the boat, he spread his cloak aloft



On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat,



And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea



Like a torn cloud before the hurricane.







As one that in a silver vision floats



Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds



Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly



Along the dark and ruffled waters fled



The straining boat.—A whirlwind swept it on,



With fierce gusts and precipitating force,



Through the white ridges of the chafèd sea.



The waves arose. Higher and higher still



Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourge



Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp.



Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war



Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast



Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven



With dark obliterating course, he sate:



As if their genii were the ministers



Appointed to conduct him to the light



Of those belovèd eyes, the Poet sate



Holding the steady helm. Evening came on,



The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues



High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray



That canopied his path o'er the waste deep;



Twilight, ascending slowly from the east,



Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks



O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of day;



Night followed, clad with stars. On every side



More horribly the multitudinous streams



Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war



Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock



The calm and spangled sky. The little boat



Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam



Down the steep cataract of a wintry river;



Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave;



Now leaving far behind the bursting mass



That fell, convulsing ocean. Safely fled—



As if that frail and wasted human form,



Had been an elemental god.







At midnight



The moon arose: and lo! the ethereal cliffs



Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone



Among the stars like sunlight, and around



Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves



Bursting and eddying irresistibly



Rage and resound for ever.—Who shall save?—



The boat fled on,—the boiling torrent drove,—



The crags closed round with black and jaggèd arms,



The shattered mountain overhung the sea,



And faster still, beyond all human speed,



Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave,



The little boat was driven. A cavern there



Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths



Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on



With unrelaxing speed.—"Vision and Love!"



The Poet cried aloud, "I have beheld



The path of thy departure. Sleep and death



Shall not divide us long!"







The boat pursued



The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone



At length upon that gloomy river's flow;



Now, where the fiercest war among the waves



Is calm, on the unfathomable stream



The boat moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven,



Exposed those black depths to the azure sky,



Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell



Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound



That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass



Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm;



Stair above stair the eddying waters rose,



Circling immeasurably fast, and laved



With alternating dash the gnarlèd roots



Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms



In darkness over it. I' the midst was left,



Reflecting, yet distorting every cloud,



A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm.



Seized by the sway of the ascending stream,



With dizzy swiftness, round, and round, and round,



Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose,



Till on the verge of the extremest curve,



Where, through an opening of the rocky bank,



The waters overflow, and a smooth spot



Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides



Is left, the boat paused shuddering.—Shall it sink



Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress



Of that resistless gulf embosom it?



Now shall it fall?—A wandering stream of wind,



Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail,



And, lo! with gentle motion, between banks



Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream,



Beneath a woven grove it sails, and, hark!



The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar,



With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods.



Where the embowering trees recede, and leave



A little space of green expanse, the cove



Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers



For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes,



Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave



Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task,



Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind,



Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay



Had e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed



To deck with their bright hues his withered hair,



But on his heart its solitude returned,



And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid



In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame



Had yet performed its ministry: it hung



Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud



Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods



Of night close over it.







The noonday sun



Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass



Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence



A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves



Scooped in the dark base of their aëry rocks



Mocking its moans, respond and roar for ever.



The meeting boughs and implicated leaves



Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led



By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,



He sought in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank



Her cradle, and his sepulchre. More dark



And dark the shades accumulate. The oak,



Expanding its immense and knotty arms,



Embraces the light beech. The pyramids



Of the tall cedar overarching, frame



Most solemn domes within, and far below,



Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,



The ash and the acacia floating hang



Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed



In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,



Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around



The grey trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes,



With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,



Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,



These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs



Uniting their close union; the woven leaves



Make net-work of the dark blue light of day,



And the night's noontide clearness, mutable



As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns



Beneath these canopies extend their swells,



Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms



Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen



Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,



A soul-dissolving odour, to invite



To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,



Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep



Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades,



Like vaporous shapes half seen; beyond, a well,



Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,



Images all the woven boughs above,



And each depending leaf, and every speck



Of azure sky, darting between their chasms;



Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves



Its portraiture, but some inconstant star



Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,



Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,



Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,



Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings



Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.







Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld



Their own wan light through the reflected lines



Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth



Of that still fountain; as the human heart,



Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,



Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard



The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung



Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel



An unaccustomed presence, and the sound



Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs



Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed



To stand beside him—clothed in no bright robes



Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,



Borrowed from aught the visible world affords



Of grace, or majesty, or mystery;—



But, undulating woods, and silent well,



And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom



Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,



Held commune with him, as if he and it



Were all that was,—only... when his regard



Was raised by intense pensiveness,... two eyes,



Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought,



And seemed with their serene and azure smiles



To beckon him.







Obedient to the light



That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing



The windings of the dell.—The rivulet



Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine



Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell



Among the moss, with hollow harmony



Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones



It danced; like childhood laughing as it went:



Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept,



Reflecting every herb and drooping bud



That overhung its quietness.—"O stream!



Whose source is inaccessibly profound,



Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?



Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,



Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,



Thy searchless fountain, and invisible course



Have each their type in me: and the wide sky,



And measureless ocean may declare as soon



What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud



Contains thy waters, as the universe



Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched



Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste



I' the passing wind!"







Beside the grassy shore



Of the small stream he went; he did impress



On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught



Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one



Roused by some joyous madness from the couch



Of fever, he did move; yet, not like him,



Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame



Of his frail exultation shall be spent,



He must descend. With rapid steps he went



Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow



Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now



The forest's solemn canopies were changed



For the uniform and lightsome evening sky.



Grey rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed



The struggling brook: tall spires of windlestrae



Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope,



And nought but gnarlèd roots of ancient pines



Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots



The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,



Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,



The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin



And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes



Had shone, gleam stony orbs:—so from his steps



Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade



Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds



And musical motions. Calm, he still pursued



The stream, that with a larger volume now



Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there



Fretted a path through its descending curves



With its wintry speed. On every side now rose



Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms,



Lifted their black and barren pinnacles



In the light of evening, and its precipice



Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,



Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves,



Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues



To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands



Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,



And seems, with its accumulated crags,



To overhang the world: for wide expand



Beneath the wan stars and descending moon



Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,



Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom



Of leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills



Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge



Of the remote horizon. The near scene,



In naked and severe simplicity,



Made contrast with the universe. A pine,



Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy



Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast



Yielding one only response, at each pause,



In most familiar cadence, with the howl



The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams



Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river,



Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path,



Fell into that immeasurable void,



Scattering its waters to the passing winds.







Yet the grey precipice and solemn pine



And torrent, were not all;—one silent nook



Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain,



Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,



It overlooked in its serenity



The dark earth, and the bending vault of stars.



It was a tranquil spot, that seemed to smile



Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped



The fissured stones with its entwining arms,



And did embower with leaves for ever green,



And berries dark, the smooth and even space



Of its inviolated floor, and here



The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore,



In wanton sport, those bright leaves, whose decay,



Red, yellow, or ethereally pale,



Rivals the pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt



Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach



The wilds to love tranquillity. One step,



One human step alone, has ever broken



The stillness of its solitude:—one voice



Alone inspired its echoes;—even that voice



Which hither came, floating among the winds,



And led the loveliest among human forms



To make their wild haunts the depository



Of all the grace and beauty that endued



Its motions, render up its majesty,



Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm,



And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould,



Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss,



Commit the colours of that varying cheek,



That snowy breast, those dark and drooping eyes.







The dim and hornèd moon hung low, and poured



A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge



That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist



Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank



Wan moonlight even to fulness: not a star



Shone, not a sound was heard; the very winds,



Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice



Slept, clasped in his embrace.—O, storm of death!



Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night:



And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still



Guiding its irresistible career



In thy devastating omnipotence,



Art king of this frail world, from the red field



Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital,



The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed



Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne,



A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls



His brother Death. A rare and regal prey



He hath prepared, prowling around the world;



Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and men



Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms,



Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine



The unheeded tribute of a broken heart.







When on the threshold of the green recess



The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death



Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled,



Did he resign his high and holy soul



To images of the majestic past,



That paused within his passive being now,



Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe



Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place



His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk



Of the old pine. Upon an ivied stone



Reclined his languid head, his limbs did rest,



Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink



Of that obscurest chasm;—and thus he lay,



Surrendering to their final impulses



The hovering powers of life. Hope and despair,



The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear



Marred his repose, the influxes of sense,



And his own being unalloyed by pain,



Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed



The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there



At peace, and faintly smiling:—his last sight



Was the great moon, which o'er the western line



Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended,



With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed



To mingle. Now upon the jaggèd hills



It rests, and still as the divided frame



Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood,



That ever beat in mystic sympathy



With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still:



And when two lessening points of light alone



Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp



Of his faint respiration scarce did stir



The stagnate night:—till the minutest ray



Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart.



It paused—it fluttered. But when heaven remained



Utterly black, the murky shades involved



An image, silent, cold, and motionless,



As their own voiceless earth and vacant air.



Even as a vapour fed with golden beams



That ministered on sunlight, ere the west



Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame—



No sense, no motion, no divinity—



A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings



The breath of heaven did wander—a bright stream



Once fed with many-voicèd waves—a dream



Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever,



Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.







O, for Medea's wondrous alchemy,



Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam



With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale



From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! O, that God,



Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice



Which but one living man has drained, who now,



Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels



No proud exemption in the blighting curse



He bears, over the world wanders for ever,



Lone as incarnate death! O, that the dream



Of dark magician in his visioned cave,



Raking the cinders of a crucible



For life and power, even when his feeble hand



Shakes in its last decay, were the true law



Of this so lovely world! But thou art fled



Like some frail exhalation; which the dawn



Robes in its golden beams,—ah! thou hast fled!



The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,



The child of grace and genius. Heartless things



Are done and said i' the world, and many worms



And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth



From sea and mountain, city and wilderness,



In vesper low or joyous orison,



Lifts still its solemn voice:—but thou art fled—



Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes



Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee



Been purest ministers, who are, alas!



Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips



So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes



That image sleep in death, upon that form



Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear



Be shed—not even in thought. Nor, when those hues



Are gone, and those divinest lineaments,



Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone



In the frail pauses of this simple strain,



Let not high verse, mourning the memory



Of that which is no more, or painting's woe



Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery



Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence,



And all the shows o' the world are frail and vain



To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.



It is a woe too "deep for tears," when all



Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,



Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves



Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,



The passionate tumult of a clinging hope;



But pale despair and cold tranquillity,



Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,



Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.









