Stood many a mountain pyramid, IX. On two dread mountains, from whose crest X. And columns framed of marble white, With workmanship which could not come From touch of mortal instrument, Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent XI. But still the Lady heard that clang Among the mountains shook alway; So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 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, XIV. And now those raging billows came 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 crossed, 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 VOL. II. L She looked on that gate of marble clear XIX. For it was filled with sculptures rarest Of winged shapes whose legions range XX. And, as she looked, still lovelier grew Of his own mind did there endure After the touch whose power had braided She looked. XXI. 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,— With an earth-uplifting cataract. The statues gave a joyous scream, And on its wings the pale thin Dream XXIII. The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the Dream did creep. Marlow. DEATH. THEY die-the dead return not. Misery Sits near an open grave, and calls them over, They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover, Fond wretch, all dead! Those vacant names alone, These tombs, -alone remain. Misery, my sweetest friend, oh! weep no more! TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING. I. THUS to be lost and thus to sink and die Perchance were death indeed!-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour, it is yet, Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet; II. A breathless awe, like the swift change Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of Nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear. III. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers My heart is quivering like a flame; IV. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody. Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn : Which, when the starry waters sleep, Round western isles with incense-blossoms bright Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. SONNET.-OZYMANDIAS. I MET a traveller from an antique land Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command |