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As in the accents of an unknown land
He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scanned
The Stranger's mien, and murmured : “ Who

art thou?”
He answered not, but with a sudden hand

Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,
Which was like Cain's or Christ's. Oh! that it

should be so !


What softer voice is hushed over the dead ?
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?
What formleans sadly o’er the white death-bed,
In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan?
If it be he, who, gentlest of the wise, [one;
Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed

Let me not vex, with in harmonious sighs,
The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.


Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,

Silent with expectation of the song,
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre

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Live thou, whose infamy is no. Dy fame!
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,
Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!
But be thyself, and know thyself to be!
And ever at thy season be thou free
To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow:
Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;

Hot shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shaltas



Nor let us weep that our delight is filed
Far from these carrion-kites that scream below,
He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;
Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.
Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came,
A portion of the Eternal, which must glow
Through time and change, unquenchably the

same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of



Peace; peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep-
He hath awakened from the dream of life-
'Tis we, who, lost in stormy visions, keep
With phantoms an unprofitable strife,
Arid in mad trance strike ith our spirit's knife
Invulnerable nothings.

hings. We decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief

Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hop swarm like worms within our

living clay.


He has outsoared the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again ;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain

Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.


He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!

ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou

Air, Which like a morning veil thy scarf hadst thrown

O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair'


He is made one with Nature: there is beard His voice in all her music, from the moan

Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird ;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn his being to its own;

Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.


He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely: he doth

bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compell

ing there All new successions to the forms they wear, Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its

flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;

And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens'



The splendours of the firmament of time
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not ;
Like stars to their appointed height they climb
And death is a low mist which cannot blot
T'he brightness it may veil. When lofty thought
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,
And love and life contend in it, for what

Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there, And move like winds of light on dark and stormy



The inheritors of unfulfilled renown
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal

Far in the unapparent. Chatterton
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not
Yet faded from him ; Sidney, as he fought
And as he fell and as he lived and loved,
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,

Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved ; Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.


And many more, whose names on earth are dark, But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. “ Thou art become as one of us," they cry; “ It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty,

Silent alone amid a Heaven of song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our

throng !"


Who mourns for Adonais ? O, come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light

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