Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but r
And are the uncomplaining things they seem
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were - Pea
This was the only moan she ever made

MARIANNE'S DREAM.

I.

A PALE dream came to a Lady fair,
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray!
I know the secrets of the air,

And things are lost in the glare of
Which I can make the sleeping see,
If they will put their trust in me.

II.

And thou shalt know of things unkno
If thou wilt let me rest between
The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen
And half in hope, and half in fright,
The Lady closed her eyes so bright.

III.

At first all deadly shapes were driven
Tumultuously across her sleep,

And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven
All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep;
And the Lady ever looked to spy

If the golden sun shone forth on high.

IV.

And as towards the east she turned,
She saw aloft in the morning air,
Which now with hues of sunrise burned,
A great black Anchor rising there;
And wherever the Lady turned her eyes,
It hung before her in the skies.

V.

The sky was blue as the summer sea, The depths were cloudless over head,

The air was calm as it could be,

There was no sight or sound of dread, But that black Anchor floating still Over the piny eastern hill.

VI.

The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear,

To see that Anchor ever hanging,

And veiled her eyes; she then did hear
The sound as of a dim low clanging,
And looked abroad if she might know
Was it aught else, or but the flow

Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro.

VII.

There was a mist in the sunless air,

Which shook as it were with an earthquake's But the very weeds that blossomed there

Were moveless, and each mighty rock Stood on its basis steadfastly;

The Anchor was seen no more on high.

VIII.

But piled around, with summits hid
In lines of cloud at intervals,
Stood many a mountain pyramid

Among whose everlasting walls

Two mighty cities shone, and ever

Through the red mist their domes did quiver.

IX.

On two dread mountains, from whose crest, Might seem, the eagle, for her brood, Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest,

Those tower-encircled cities stood. A vision strange such towers to see, Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously, Where human art could never be.

X.

And columns framed of marble white,
And giant fanes, dome over dome
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright
With workmanship, which could not come
From touch of mortal instrument,

Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent
From its own shapes magnificent.

XI.

But still the Lady heard that clang
Filling the wide air far away;
And still the mist whose light did hang

Among the mountains shook alway,
So that the Lady's heart beat fast,
As half in joy, and half aghast,

On those high domes her look she cast.

XII.

Sudden, from out that city sprung

A light that made the earth grow red; Two flames that each with quivering tong

Licked its high domes, and over head Among those mighty towers and fanes Dropped fire, as a volcano rains

Its sulphurous ruin on the plains.

XIII.

And hark! a rush as if the deep
Had burst its bonds; she looked behi
And saw over the western steep

A raging flood descend, and wind Through that wide vale; she felt no fear, But said within herself, 'Tis clear

These towers are Nature's own, and she To save them has sent forth the sea.

XIV.

And now those raging billows came Where that fair Lady sate, and she Was borne towards the showering flame By the wild waves heaped tumultuously And on a little plank, the flow

Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro.