Earth, Ocean, Air, belovèd
brotherhood!If our great Mother has imbued my soul With aught of natural piety
to feelYour 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 gray 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 withdrawNo portion of your wonted favor now!
Mother of this unfathomable world!Favor 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 taleOf
what we are. In lone and silent hours, When night makes a weird sound of its
own stillness, Like an inspired and desperate alchemistStaking 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 noonday thought, Has shone within me, that
serenely nowAnd moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre Suspended in the solitary
domeOf 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 pastIn truth or fable consecrates,
he felt And knew. When early youth had passed, 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’erThe red volcano overcanopies Its
fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke, or where bitumen
lakesOn black bare pointed islets ever beat With sluggish surge, or where the
secret caves, Rugged and dark, winding among the springsOf 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 band 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, suspendHer timid steps, to gaze upon a form More graceful
than her own.His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visitedThe
awful ruins of the days of old: Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste
Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towersOf Babylon, the eternal pyramids,
Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe’er of strange,Sculptured on alabaster obelisk
Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinx,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 gazedAnd 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 webOf many-colored
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 burden; 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 awhile,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
vacantlyAs ocean’s moon looks on the moon in heaven. The spirit of sweet human
love has sentA 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, forever 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 vapors hung, Where every shade which
the foul grave exhales Hides its dead eye from the detested day, Conducts, O
Sleep, to thy delightful realms? This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his
heart; The insatiate hope which it awakened stungHis brain even like despair.
While daylight heldThe 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 moon-light snake, He fled. Red morning dawned upon his
flight, Shedding the mockery of its vital huesUpon 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 careThat 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 concealHis 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 shoreHe 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 courseHigh 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 lovesThe
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 windsUpon 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 warOf 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 lightOf 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 cliffsOf Caucasus, whose icy summits shone
Among the stars like sunlight, and around Whose caverned base the whirlpools
and the waves Bursting and eddying irresistiblyRage and resound forever.–Who
shall save?– The boat fled on,–the boiling torrent drove,– The crags closed
round with black and jagged 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 deathShall not divide us long.’ The boat pursuedThe
windings of the cavern. Daylight shone At length upon that gloomy river’s flow;
Now, where the fiercest war among the wavesIs 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 fellEven 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 bankThe 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 stressOf 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 Forever gaze on their
own drooping eyes,Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave Of the boat’s motion
marred their pensive task, Which naught 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 hungUpon his
life, as lightning in a cloud Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floodsOf
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 forever. 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
frameMost 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 gray 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 network 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
odor to inviteTo 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 affordsOf 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 itWere 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 smilesTo 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 fellAmong 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 budThat 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
wasteI’ the passing wind!’ Beside the grassy shoreOf 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 flowOf the wild
babbling rivulet; and now The forest’s solemn canopies were changed For the uniform
and lightsome evening sky. Gray 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
precipiceObscuring 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
expandBeneath the wan stars and descending moon Islanded seas, blue mountains,
mighty streams, Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom Of
leaden-colored 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 pauseIn 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 gray precipice and solemn
pineAnd 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 forever green And
berries dark the smooth and even spaceOf 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. ‘T is
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 formsTo make
their wild haunts the depository Of all the grace and beauty that enduedIts
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 colors 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 vergeThat 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,
stillGuiding 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 callsHis 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 shrineThe 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 trunkOf 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 senseAnd 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 seemedTo mingle. Now upon the jagged 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 vapor fed with golden beamsThat 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 forever– Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.Oh, 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! Oh, 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
forever, Lone as incarnate death! Oh, 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 theeBeen 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 woeOr 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
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