CLXII. But in his delicate form-a dream of Love, The mind with in its most unearthly mood, Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays A melancholy halo. scarce allow'd To hover on the verge of darkness: rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. 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; It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief. CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, Death hush'd that pang for ever; with thee fled Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety. Can it be, O thou that wert so happy, so adored! Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Our children should obey her child, and bless'd Like stars to shepherds' eyes; 'twas but a meteor beam'd. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— CLXXII. These might have been her destiny; but no, Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so, that none could love thee best. CLXXIII. Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares The oval mirror of thy glassy lake; And, calm as cherish'd hate, its surface wears CLXXIV. 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. CLXXV. 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 CLXXVI. Upon the blue Symplegades: long years— Long, though not very many-since have done Their work on both; some suffering and some tears Have left us nearly where we had begun : Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, We have had our reward—and it is here; That we can yet feel gladden'd by the sun, And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear As if there were no man to trouble what is clear. |