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And hark! a rush as if the deep
A raging flood descend, and wind
These towers are Nature's own, and she
And now those raging billows came
The waves were fiercely vomited
From every tower and every dome, And dreary light did widely shed
O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, Beneath the smoke which hung its night On the stained cope of heaven's light.
The plank whereon that Lady sate
Was driven through the chasms, about and about, Between the peaks so desolate
Of the drowning mountain, in and out,
At last her plank an eddy crost,
And bore her to the city's wall,
Which now the flood had reached almost ;
To hear the fire roar and hiss
Through the domes of those mighty palaces.
The eddy whirled her round and round
For it was filled with sculptures rarest,
Of winged shapes, whose legions range
And as she looked, still lovelier grew
Of his own mind did there endure
She looked, the flames were dim, the flood
Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver,
And their lips moved; one seemed to speak,
The dizzy flight of that phantom palc
Of her dark eyes the dream did creep,
LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.
I ARISE from dreams of thee
Has led me-who knows how?
The wandering airs they faint
O lift me from the grass!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES
THE Sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
Like many a voice of one delight,
I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown
I sit upon the sands alone,
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
And walked with inward glory crowned
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Smiling they live and call life pleasure;
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Some might lament that I were cold,
They might lament-for I am one
Whom men love not,-and yet regret,
Unlike this day, which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. December, 1818.
THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
On the earth her
And the year
deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying.