And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, Like wrecks in the surge of eternity."

I dwelt beside the prison gate,

And the strange crowd that out and in
Passed, some, no doubt, with mine own fate,
Might have fretted me with its ceaseless din,
But the fever of care was louder within.

Soon, but too late, in penitence

Or fear, his foes released him thence:

I saw his thin and languid form,
As leaning on the jailor's arm,

Whose hardened eyes grew moist the while,
To meet his mute and faded smile,

And hear his words of kind farewell,

He tottered forth from his damp cell.

Many had never wept before,

From whom fast tears then gushed and fell:

Many will relent no more,

Who sobbed like infants then: ay, all

Who thronged the prison's stony hall,
The rulers or the slaves of law,

Felt with a new surprise and awe
That they were human, till strong shame
Made them again become the same.
The prison bloodhounds, huge and grim,
From human looks the infection caught,
And fondly crouched and fawned on him :
And men have heard the prisoners say,
Who in their rotting dungeons lay,
That from that hour, throughout one day,
The fierce despair and hate which kept
Their trampled bosoms almost slept;

When, like twin vultures, they hung feeding

On each heart's wound, wide torn and bleeding.
Because their jailors' rule, they thought,
Grew merciful, like a parent's sway.

I know not how, but we were free:

And Lionel sate alone with me,

As the carriage drove through the streets apace;
And we looked upon each other's face;
And the blood in our fingers intertwined
Ran like the thoughts of a single mind,
As the swift emotions went and came
Through the veins of each united frame.
So through the long long streets we past
Of the million-peopled City vast;
Which is that desert, where each one
Seeks his mate yet is alone,

Beloved and sought and mourned of none;

Until the clear blue sky was seen,

And the grassy meadows bright and green,
And then I sunk in his embrace,
Enclosing there a mighty space

Of love and so we travelled on

By woods, and fields of yellow flowers,
And towns, and villages, and towers,

Day after day of happy hours.

It was the azure time of June,

When the skies are deep in the stainless noon,
And the warm and fitful breezes shake

The fresh green leaves of the hedge-row briar,
And there were odours then to make

The very breath we did respire

A liquid element, whereon
Our spirits, like delighted things
That walk the air on subtle wings,
Floated and mingled far away,

'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day.
And when the evening star came forth
Above the curve of the new bent moon,
And light and sound ebbed from the earth,
Like the tide of the full and weary sea
To the depths of its tranquillity,
Our natures to its own repose

Did the earth's breathless sleep attune :
Like flowers, which on each other close
Their languid leaves when daylight's gone,
We lay, till new emotions came,

Which seemed to make each mortal frame
One soul of interwoven flame,

A life in life, a second birth

In worlds diviner far than earth,
Which, like two strains of harmony
That mingle in the silent sky
Then slowly disunite, past by
And left the tenderness of tears,

A soft oblivion of all fears,

A sweet sleep so we travelled on

Till we came to the home of Lionel,

Among the mountains wild and lone,
Beside the hoary western sea,

Which near the verge of the echoing shore
The massy forest shadowed o'er.

The ancient steward, with hair all hoar,

As we alighted, wept to see

His master changed so fearfully;

And the old man's sobs did waken me

From my dream of unremaining gladness:

The truth flashed o'er me like quick madness
When I looked, and saw that there was death
On Lionel yet day by day

He lived, till fear grew hope and faith,

And in my soul I dared to say,

Nothing so bright can pass away:

Death is dark, and foul, and dull,

But he is-O how beautiful!

Yet day by day he grew more weak,

And his sweet voice, when he might speak,

Which ne'er was loud, became more low;

And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow

From sunset o'er the Alpine snow:

And death seemed not like death in him,
For the spirit of life o'er every limb
Lingered, a mist of sense and thought.
When the summer wind faint odours brought
From mountain flowers, even as it passed
His cheek would change, as the noonday sea
Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully.
If but a cloud the sky o'ercast,

You might see his colour come and go,
And the softest strain of music made
Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade
Amid the dew of his tender eyes;
And the breath, with intermitting flow,
Made his pale lips quiver and part.
You might hear the beatings of his heart,
Quick, but not strong; and with my tresses
When oft he playfully would bind
In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses
His neck, and win me so to mingle
In the sweet depth of woven caresses,
And our faint limbs were intertwined,
Alas! the unquiet life did tingle

From mine own heart through every vein,
Like a captive in dreams of liberty,
Who beats the walls of his stony cell.
But his, it seemed already free,

Like the shadow of fire surrounding me!
On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell
That spirit as it passed, till soon,

As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon,
Beneath its light invisible,

Is seen when it folds its grey wings again
To alight on midnight's dusky plain,

I lived and saw, and the gathering soul
Passed from beneath that strong control,
And I fell on a life which was sick with fear
Of all the woe that now I bear.

Amid a bloomless myrtle wood,
On a green and sea-girt promontory,

Not far from where we dwelt, there stood
In record of a sweet sad story,

An altar and a temple bright

Circled by steps, and o'er the gate
Was sculptured, "To Fidelity;"

And in the shrine an image sate

All veiled but there was seen the light
Of smiles, which faintly could express

A mingled pain and tenderness

Through that ethereal drapery.

The left hand held the head, the right

Beyond the veil, beneath the skin,

You might see the nerves quivering within

Was forcing the point of a barbed dart

Into its side-convulsing heart.

An unskilled hand, yet one informed
With genius, had the marble warmed

With that pathetic life. This tale
It told: A dog had from the sea,
When the tide was raging fearfully,
Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale,
Then died beside her on the sand,

And she that temple thence had planned;
But it was Lionel's own hand

Had wrought the image. Each new moon
That lady did, in this lone fane,

The rites of a religion sweet,

Whose god was in her heart and brain :
The season's loveliest flowers were strewn
On the marble floor beneath her feet,
And she brought crowns of sea-buds white,
Whose odour is so sweet and faint,
And weeds, like branching chrysolite,
Woven in devices fine and quaint,
And tears from her brown eyes did stain
The altar need but look upon

That dying statue, fair and wan,
If tears should cease, to weep again :
And rare Arabian odours came,

Though the myrtle copses steaming thence
From the hissing frankincense,

Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,
Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome,
That ivory dome, whose azure night
With golden stars, like heaven, was bright
O'er the split cedars pointed flame;

And the lady's harp would kindle there
The melody of an old air,

Softer than sleep; the villagers
Mixt their religion up with hers,

And as they listened round, shed tears.

One eve he led me to this fane.:
Daylight on its last purple cloud
Was lingering grey, and soon her strain
The nightingale began; now loud,
Climbing in circles the windless sky,
Now dying music; suddenly

'Tis scattered in a thousand notes.
And now to the hushed ear it floats
Like field smells known in infancy,
Then failing, soothes the air again.
We sate within that temple lone,
Pavilioned round with Parian stone:
His mother's harp stood near, and oft
I had awakened music soft

Amid its wires: the nightingale

Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale :

"Now drain the cup," said Lionel,

"Which the poet-bird has crowned so well

With the wine of her bright and liquid song!
Heardst thou not sweet words among
That heaven-resounding minstrelsy?
Heardst thou not, that those who die

Awake in a world of ecstasy?

That love, when limbs are interwoven,
And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,

And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging,
And music, when one beloved is singing,

Is death? Let us drain right joyously

The cup which the sweet bird fills for me."
He paused, and to my lips he bent
His own like spirit his words went
Through all my limbs with the speed of fire;
And his keen eyes, glittering through mine,
Filled me with the flame divine,
Which in their orbs was burning far,
Like the light of an unmeasured star.
In the sky of midnight dark and deep;
Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire

Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken;
And first, I felt my fingers sweep
The harp, and a long quivering cry
Burst from my lips in symphony:
The dusk and solid air was shaken,

As swift and swifter the notes came

From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,

And from my bosom, labouring

With some unutterable thing:

The awful sound of my own voice made

My faint lips tremble, in some mood

Of wordless thought Lionel stood

So pale, that even beside his cheek
The snowy column from its shade
Caught whiteness: yet his countenance
Raised upward, burned with radiance
Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light,

Like the moon struggling through the night
Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break
With beams that might not be confined.

I paused, but soon his gestures kindled
New power, as by the moving wind
The waves are lifted, and my song

To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,
And from the twinkling wires among,
My languid fingers drew and flung

Circles of life-dissolving sound,

Yet faint in aery rings they bound
My Lionel, who, as every strain

Grew fainter, but more sweet, his mien
Sunk with the sound relaxedly;
And slowly now he turned to me,
As slowly faded from his face
That awful joy: with looks serene
He was soon drawn to my embrace,
And my wild song then died away
In murmurs: words, I dare not say
We mixed, and on his lips mine fed
Till they methought felt still and cold:
"What is it with thee, love?" I said:
No word, no look, no motion! yes,
There was a change, but spare to guess,
Nor let that moment's hope be told.