POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817.

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 day,
Which I can make the sleeping see
If they will put their trust in me.

II.

"And thou shalt know of things unknown,
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 overhead ;
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 shock;

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 tongue Licked its high domes, and overhead 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 behind,

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.

XV.

The flames were fiercely vomited 1
From every tower and every dome,
And dreary light did widely shed

O'er that vast flood's suspended foam,
Beneath the smoke which hung its night
On the stained cope of heaven's light.

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-
While the flood was filling those hollow vales.

XVII.

At last her plank an eddy crossed,

And bore her to the city's wall,

Which now the flood had reached almost
It might the stoutest heart appall

To hear the fire roar and hiss

Through the domes of those mighty palaces.

XVIII.

The eddy whirled her round and round
Before a gorgeous gate which stood
Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound
Its aery arch with light like blood.
She looked on that gate of marble clear
With wonder that extinguished fear :-

XIX.

For it was filled with sculptures rarest
Of forms most beautiful and strange,
Like nothing human, but the fairest

Of winged shapes whose legions range
Throughout the sleep of those that are,
Like this same Lady, good and fair.

Marlow.

XX.

And, as she looked, still lovelier grew
Those marble forms; the sculptor sure
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
Grew tranquil as a woodland river

Winding through hills in solitude;

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,--
When suddenly the mountain cracked,
And through the chasm the flood did break
With an earth-uplifting cataract.

The statues gave a joyous scream,—
And on its wings the pale thin Dream
Lifted the Lady from the stream.

XXIII.

The dizzy flight of that phantom pale
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep;
And she arose, while from the veil

Of her dark eyes the Dream did creep.
And she walked about as one who knew
That sleep has sights as clear and true
As any waking eyes can view.