POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817. MARIANNE'S DREAM. I. A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, 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, III. At first all deadly shapes were driven. And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven If the golden sun shone forth on high. IV. And as towards the east she turned, V. The sky was blue as the summer sea, There was no sight or sound of dread, But that black Anchor floating still VI. The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear, 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 IX. On two dread mountains, from whose crest, X. And columns framed of marble white, Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent From its own shapes magnificent. XI. But still the Lady heard that clang 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 over head 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 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 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- XVII. At last her plank an eddy crost, And bore her to the city's wall, 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 XX. And as she looked, still lovelier grew Of his own mind did there endure XXI. She looked, the flames were dim, the flood Winding through hills in solitude; Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver, And their fair limbs to float in motion, XXII. And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, XXIII. The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the dream did creep, 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 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, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven By the inchantment of thy strain, |