I saw not, but I felt that it was there. That which I saw was the reveal'd abode Of Spirits in beatitude: my heart Swell'd in my breast.-"I have been dead," I cried, live! Oh! wherefore do I live?" "And now And with that pang I pray'd to be no more! DION. (SEE PLUTARCH.) SERENE, and fitted to embrace, With self-sufficing solitude, But with majestic lowliness endued, Help, under every change of adverse fate. Five thousand warriors-O the rapturous day! Each crown'd with flowers, and arm'd with spear and shield, Or ruder weapon which their course might yield, To Syracuse advance in bright array. Who leads them on? The anxious people see Or blest procession (to the Immortals dear), Lo! when the gates are enter'd, on each hand, On tables set, as if for rites divine; And, as the great Deliverer marches by, He looks on festal ground with fruits bestrown; In boundless prodigality; Nor doth the general voice abstain from prayer, As if a very Deity he were! Mourn, hills and groves of Attica!-and mourn Mourn, and lament for him whose spirit dreads Your once sweet memory, studious walks, and shades! Not on the breath of popular applause, But through dependence on the sacred laws Framed in the schools where Wisdom dwelt retired, Intent to trace th' ideal path of right (More fair than heaven's broad causeway paved with stars) Which Dion learn'd to measure with sublime delight; But he hath overleap'd th' eternal bars; And, following guides whose craft holds no consent With aught that breathes th' ethereal element, Whence doubts that came too late, and wishes vain, And oft his cogitations sink as low As, through the abysses of a joyless heart, The heaviest plummet of despair can go But whence that sudden check? that fearful start? He hears an uncouth sound Anon his lifted eyes Saw, at a long-drawn gallery's dusky bound, And hideous aspect, stalking round and round! So, but from toil less sign of profit reaping, No pause admitted, no design avow'd! The torch that flames with many a lurid flake, Move where the blasted soil is not unworn, And, in their anguish, bear what other minds have borne!" But Shapes that come not at an earthly call, Will not depart when mortal voices bid; Lords of the visionary eye, whose lid, Once raised, remains aghast, and will not fall! Ye gods, thought he, that servile Implement Obeys a mystical intent! Your Minister would brush away The spots that to my soul adhere; But should She labour night and day, They will not, cannot disappear; Whence angry perturbations, and that look Ill-fated Chief! there are whose hopes are built Upon the ruins of thy glorious name; Who, through the portal of one moment's guilt, Pursue thee with their deadly aim! O matchless perfidy! portentous lust Of monstrous crime! that horror-striking blade, Of spirit too capacious to require That Destiny her course should change; too just That wretched boon, days lengthen'd by mistrust. INCIDENT AT BRUGES. IN Brugès town is many a street A harp that tuneful prelude made The measure, simple truth to tell, When silent were both voice and chords, Yet sad as sweet,-for English words It was a breezy hour of eve; And pinnacle and spire Quiver'd and seem'd almost to heave Cloth'd with innocuous fire; But, where we stood, the setting sun And, if the glory reach'd the Nun, Not always is the heart unwise, If even a passing Stranger sighs |