Imatges de pÓgina

"A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made Their nests in it. The old anatomies

Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade

"Of dæmon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes

To reassume the delegated power,

Arrayed in which those worms did monarchize,

"Who made this earth their charnel. Others


Humble, like falcons, sate upon the fist

Of common men, and round their heads did


"Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as mist On evening marshes, thronged about the brow Of lawyers, statesmen, priest and theorist ;

"And others, like discoloured flakes of snow On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair, Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow

"Which they extinguished; and, like tears,

they were

A veil to those from whose faint lids they


In drops of sorrow. I became aware

"Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stained

The track in which we moved. After brief


From every form the beauty slowly waned;

"From every firmest limb and fairest face The strength and freshness fell like dust, and left

The action and the shape without the grace

"Of life. The marble brow of youth was


With care; and in those eyes where once hope


Desire, like a lioness bereft

"Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each one Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown

"In autumn evening from a poplar-tree. Each like himself and like each other were At first; but some distorted seemed to be

"Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air; And of this stuff the car's creative ray Wrought all the busy phantoms that were there,

"As the sun shapes the clouds; thus on the way

Mask after mask fell from the countenance
And form of all; and long before the day

"Was old, the joy which waked like heaven's glance

The sleepers in the oblivious valley, died;
And some grew weary of the ghastly dance,

"And fell, as I have fallen, by the wayside; Those soonest from whose forms most shadows


And least of strength and beauty did abide.

"Then, what is life? I cried.”—

Cancelled Opening of the "Triumph of Life"

UT of the eastern shadow of the


Amid the clouds upon its margin


Scattered by Night to swathe in its bright birth

In gold and fleecy snow the infant Day, The glorious Sun uprose: beneath his light,

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Which is indeed but the reflected ray

Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown. Yet speak to me — thy voice is as the tone Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear

That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone Like one before a mirror, without care Of aught but thine own features, imaged there; And yet I wear out life in watching thee;

A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed

Art kind when I am sick, and pity me.

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