Transversely dividing the stream of the storm; As an arrowy serpent, pursuing the form
Of an elephant, bursts through the brakes of the waste. Black as a cormorant, the screaming blast
Between ocean and heaven like an ocean passed, Till it came to the clouds on the verge of the world, Which, based on the sea and to heaven upcurled, Like columns and walls did surround and sustain The dome of the tempest. It rent them in twain, As a flood rends its barriers of mountainous crag; And the dense clouds in many a ruin and rag,
Like the stones of a temple ere earthquake has passed, Like the dust of its fall, on the whirlwind are cast. They are scattered like foam on the torrent; and, where The wind has burst out through the chasm, from the air Of clear morning, the beams of the sunrise flow in, Unimpeded, keen, golden, and crystalline, Banded armies of light and of air; at one gate
They encounter, but interpenetrate.
And that breach in the tempest is widening away; And the caverns of cloud are torn up by the day; And the fierce winds are sinking with weary wings, Lulled by the motion and murmurings,
And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea;
And overhead, glorious but dreadful to see, The wrecks of the tempest, like vapours of gold,
Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped waves behold The deep calm of blue heaven dilating above; And, like passions made still by the presence of Love, Beneath the clear surface, reflecting it, slide Tremulous with soft influence. Extending its tide From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and isle,
Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with heaven's azure smile, The wide world of waters is vibrating.
Is the ship? On the verge of the wave where it lay,
One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray
With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of the battle
Stain the clear air with sunbows. The jar and the rattle
Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress
Of the snake's adamantine voluminousness;
And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and rains Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the veins
Swoln with rage, strength, and effort; the whirl and the splash, As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth smash The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the screams And hissings-crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean-streams, Each sound like a centipede. Near this commotion, A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean, The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other Is winning his way, from the fate of his brother, To his own with the speed of despair.
Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of thought Urge on the keen keel, the brine foams. At the stern Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets burn In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone ('Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone) Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. With her left hand she grasps it impetuously, With her right she sustains her fair infant. Death, fear, Love, beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere,
Which trembles and burns with the fervour of dread Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her head, Like a meteor of light o'er the waters. Her child Is yet smiling and playing and murmuring; so smiled The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and brother, The child and the ocean still smile on each other, Whilst
THE WANING MOON.
AND, like a dying lady lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapped in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The moon arose up in the murky east A white and shapeless mass.
DEATH is here, and death is there, Death is busy everywhere;
All around, within, beneath,
Above, is death-and we are death.
Death has set his mark and seal
On all we are and all we feel, On all we know and all we fear,
First our pleasures die, and then
Our hopes, and then our fears: and, when These are dead, the debt is due,
Dust claims dust-and we die too.
All things that we love and cherish, Like ourselves, must fade and perish.
Such is our rude mortal lot:
Love itself would, did they not.
THE WORLD'S WANDERERS.
TELL me, thou star, whose wings of light Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night
Will thy pinions close now?
Tell me, moon, thou pale and grey Pilgrim of heaven's homeless way, In what depth of night or day Seekest thou repose now?
Weary wind, who wanderest Like the world's rejected guest, Hast thou still some secret nest
On the tree or billow?
From yonder pointed hill Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold
A dark and barren field through which there flows, Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream, Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon Gazes in vain and finds no mirror there.
Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook Until you pause beside a darksome pond, The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night That lives beneath the overhanging rock
That shades the pool-an endless spring of gloom, Upon whose edge hovers the tender light, Trembling to mingle with its paramour,— But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so Night flies Day, Or, with most sullen and regardless hate, Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace. On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill There is a cave, from which there eddies up A pale mist, like aërial gossamer,
Whose breath destroys all life: awhile it veils The rock—then, scattered by the wind, it flies Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts, Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there. Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock There stands a group of cypresses; not such As, with a graceful spire and stirring life, Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale, Whose branches the air plays among, but not Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; But blasted and all wearily they stand, One to another clinging; their weak boughs Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake Beneath its blasts-a weather-beaten crew.
What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, But more melodious than the murmuring wind Which through the columns of a temple glides?
It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre, Borne by the Winds, who sigh that their rude King Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; But in their speed they bear along with them The waning sound, scattering it like dew Upon the startled sense.
Methought he rashly cast away his harp When he had lost Eurydice.
Awhile he paused.-As a poor hunted stag A moment shudders on the fearful brink Of a swift stream-the cruel hounds press on With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,— He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief, Mænad-like waved his lyre in the bright air, And wildly shrieked "Where she is, it is dark!" And then he struck from forth the strings a sound Of deep and fearful melody. Alas!
In times long past, when fair Eurydice With her bright eyes sat listening by his side, He gently sang of high and heavenly themes. As, in a brook fretted with little waves By the light airs of Spring, each riplet makes A many-sided mirror for the sun,
While it flows musically through green banks, Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh; So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy And tender love that fed those sweetest notes, The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food. But that is past. Returning from drear Hell, He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone, Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain. Then from the deep and overflowing spring Of his eternal ever-moving grief There rose to heaven a sound of angry song. 'Tis as a mighty cataract that parts
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