Imatges de pÓgina


The plank whereon that Lady sate

Was driven through the chasms, about and


Between the peaks so desolate

Of the drowning mountains, in and out, As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sailsWhile the flood was filling those hollow vales.

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At last her plank an eddy crost,

And bore her to the city's wall,

Which now the flood had reached almost;

It might the stoutest heart appal

To hear the fire roar and hiss

Through the domes of those mighty palaces.


The eddy whirled her round and round
Before a gorgeous gate, which stood
Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound.
Its aëry arch with light like blood;

She looked on that gate of marble clear,
With wonder that extinguished fear.


For it was filled with sculptures rarest,
Of forms most beautiful and strange,
Like nothing human, but the fairest

Of winged shapes, whose legions range
Throughout the sleep of those that are,
Like this same Lady, good and fair.


And as she looked, still lovelier grew
Those marble forms; the sculptor sure
Was a strong spirit, and the hue

Of his own mind did there endure
After the touch, whose power had braided
Such grace, was in some sad change faded.



She looked, the flames were dim, the flood
Grew tranquil as a woodland river
Winding through hills in solitude;

Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver,

And their fair limbs to float in motion,
Like weeds unfolding in the ocean.


And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, When suddenly the mountains crackt, And through the chasm the flood did break With an earth-uplifting cataract:

The statues gave a joyous scream,
And on its wings the pale thin dream
Lifted the Lady from the stream.


The dizzy flight of that phantom pale
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep,
And she arose, while from the veil

Of her dark eyes the dream did creep,
And she walked about as one who knew
That sleep has sights as clear and true
As any waking eyes can view.

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AHUS to be lost and thus to sink

and die,

Perchance were death indeed!-
Constantia, turn!

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn

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Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet,

And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!


A breathless awe, like the swift change
Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,
Thou breathest now in fast ascending num-

The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the enchantment of thy strain,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career,

Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.


Her voice is hovering o'er my soul—it lingers O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, The blood and life within those snowy


Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick – The blood is listening in my frame,


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