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But in his delicate form-a dream of Love,
The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory—which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust-nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas
But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song,
Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all
And spreads the dim and universal pall
Through which all things grow phantoms; and the
Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd,
To hover on the verge of darkness: rays
And send us prying into the abyss,
To gather what we shall be when the frame
Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same;
These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat was
Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,
Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground-
Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd,
She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.
Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
Death hush'd that pang for ever; with thee fled
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy.
Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee,
And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! The husband of a year! the father of the dead!
Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, The love of millions! How we did entrust Futurity to her! and, though it must Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seem'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a meteor beam'd.
Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,—
These might have been her destiny; but no, Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, Good without effort, great without a foe; But now a bride and mother-and now there! How many ties did that stern moment tear! From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee
Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills
And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears
And near Albano's scarce divided waves Shine from a sister valley ;—and afar The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star Rose o'er an empire ;-but beneath thy right Tully reposed from Rome;—and where yon bar Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's delight.
But I forget.-My Pilgrim's shrine is won,
Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when we
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Euxine roll'd
Upon the blue Symplegades: long years
Long, though not very many-since have done
Their work on both; some suffering and some tears
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear