XV. The flames were fiercely vomited O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, XVI. The plank whereon that Lady sate Was driven through the chasms, about and about, Between the peaks so desolate Of the drowning mountains, in and out, As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails XVII. At last her plank an eddy crost, And bore her to the city's wall, Which now the flood had reached almost; To hear the fire roar and hiss Through the domes of those mighty palaces. XVIII. The eddy whirled her round and round XIX. For it was filled with sculptures rarest, Of winged shapes, whose legions range Throughout the sleep of those that are, Like this same Lady, good and fair. XX. And as she looked, still lovelier grew Was a strong spirit, and the hue Of his own mind did there endure After the touch, whose power had braided Such grace, was in some sad change faded. XXI. She looked, the flames were dim, the flood Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver, And their fair limbs to float in motion, Like weeds unfolding in the ocean. XXII. And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, The statues gave a joyous scream, XXIII. The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the dream did creep, As any waking eyes can view. TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING. I. THUS to be lost and thus to sink and die, - Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget! II. A breathless awe, like the swift change Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. And on my shoulders wings are woven, To follow its sublime career, Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, III. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul - it lingers My heart is quivering like a flame ; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, IV. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn. |