Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled

vests,

II

And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts,

She unobserved steals unto her throne,
And there she sits most meek and most
alone;

As if she had not pomp subservient;

As if thine eye, high Poet! was not bent

Save of blown self-applause, they proudly Towards her with the Muses in thine heart;

mount

As if the minist'ring stars kept not apart,

To their spirit's perch, their being's high Waiting for silver-footed messages.

account,

Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their
thrones

Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd
drums,

And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this

hums,

In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone

O Moon! the oldest shades 'mong oldest

trees

Feel palpitations when thou lookest in:
O Moon! old boughs lisp forth a holier din
The while they feel thine airy fellowship.
Thou dost bless everywhere, with silver lip
Kissing dead things to life. The sleeping
kine,

Couch'd in thy brightness, dream of fields
divine:

Like thunder-clouds that spake to Baby- Innumerable mountains rise, and rise,

lon,

20

Are then regalities all gilded masks?
No, there are throned seats unscalable
But by a patient wing, a constant spell,
Or by ethereal things that, unconfined,
Can make a ladder of the eternal wind,
And poise about in cloudy thunder-tents
To watch the abysm-birth of elements.
Aye, 'bove the withering of old-lipp'd Fate
A thousand Powers keep religious state, 30
In water, fiery realm, and airy bourne;
And, silent as a consecrated urn,
Hold spherey sessions for a season due.
Yet few of these far majesties, ah, few!
Have bared their operations to this globe-
Few, who with gorgeous pageantry enrobe
Our piece of heaven - whose benevolence
Shakes hand with our own Ceres; every

sense

Of green or silvery bower doth enshrine
Such utmost beauty? Alas, thou dost pine
For one as sorrowful: thy cheek is pale
For one whose cheek is pale: thou dost be-
wail

His tears, who weeps for thee. Where dost
thou sigh?

Ah! surely that light peeps from Vesper's

eye,

No woods were green enough, no bower
divine,

Until thou liftedst up thine eyelids fine:
In sowing-time ne'er would I dibble take,
Or drop a seed, till thou wast wide awake;
And, in the summer tide of blossoming,
No one but thee hath heard me blithely sing❘
And mesh my dewy flowers all the night.
No melody was like a passing spright
If it went not to solemnize thy reign.
Yes, in my boyhood, every joy and pain 160
By thee were fashion'd to the self-same end;
And as I grew in years, still didst thou
blend

And, ample as the largest winding-sheet, A cloak of blue wrapp'd up his aged bones, With all my ardours; thou wast the deep O'erwrought with symbols by the deepest glen;

groans

Thou wast the mountain-top—the sage's Of ambitious magic: every ocean-form Was woven in with black distinctness;

pen

The poet's harp- the voice of friends

And calm, and whispering, and hideous roar thou wast glory Quicksand, and whirlpool, and deserted

That skims, or dives, or sleeps, 'twixt cape and cape.

Thou wast the charm of women, lovely The gulphing whale was like a dot in the

Went arching up, and like two magic For I no more shall wither, droop, and pine. Thou art the man!' Endymion started

ploughs

back

Dismay'd; and, like a wretch from whom
the rack

Tortures hot breath, and speech of agony,
Mutter'd: What lonely death am I to die
In this cold region? Will he let me freeze,
And float my brittle limbs o'er polar seas?
Or will he touch me with his searing hand,
And leave a black memorial on the sand?
Or tear me piecemeal with a bony saw, 263
And keep me as a chosen food to draw
His magian fish through hated fire and
flame?

O misery of hell! resistless, tame,
Am I to be burnt up? No, I will shout,

Thou art the man! Now shall I lay Until the gods through heaven's blue look my head

In peace upon my watery pillow: now Sleep will come smoothly to my weary brow.

O Jove! I shall be young again, be young! O shell-borne Neptune, I am pierced and stung

With new-born life! What shall I do?

Where go,

out!

O Tartarus! but some few days agone
Her soft arms were entwining me, and on
Her voice I hung like fruit among green

leaves:

271

Her lips were all my own, and — ah, ripe
sheaves

Of happiness! ye on the stubble droop,
But never may be garner'd. I must stoop

When I have cast this serpent-skin of My head, and kiss death's foot. Love!