In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, 'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamored breath,

Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.

Oh weep for Adonais-he is dead! Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!

Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed

Thy fiery tears, and let thy lov'd heart keep,

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;

For he is gone, where all things wise and fair

Descend;-oh, dream not that the amorous Deep

Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and

laughs at our despair.

Most musical of mourners, weep again
Lament anew, Urania !-He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his

country's pride,

The priest, the slave, and the liberticide, Trampled and mocked with many a loathéd rite

Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite

Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.

Most musical of mourners, weep anew! Not all to that bright station dared to climb;

And happier they their happiness who knew,

Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time

In which suns perished; others more sublime,

Struck by the envious wrath of man or God,

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;

And some yet live, treading the thorny road,

Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.

All he had loved, and moulded into thought,

From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet sound,

Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watchtower, and her hair unbound,

Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,

Dimmed the aërial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing
in their dismay.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,

And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,

And will no more reply to winds or fountains,

Or amorous birds perched on the young

Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's

delight,

The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender

Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor

Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death

And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;

Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows

Be as a sword consumed before the sheath

By sightless lightning?-th' intense atom glows

A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene

The actors or spectators? Great and