Another moon! and over the blue nightShe bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;As on she floateth with her image coldEnamell'd on the deep. A sail of cloudIs to her left, majestically proud!Trailing its silver drapery awayIn thin and fairy webs, that are at playLike stormless waves upon a summer seaDragging their length of waters lazily.Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,A lonely one, that bendeth in the mistOf moonlight, with a wild and raven pallFlung round him. Is he mortal man at all?For, by the meagre fire-light that is underThose eyelids, and the vizor shade of wonderFalling upon his features, I would guess,Of one that wanders out of blessedness!Julio! raise thee!—By the holy mass!I wot not of the fearless one would passThy wizard shadow. Where the raven hairWas shorn before, in many a matted layerIt lieth now; and on a rock besideThe sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,Feasting his wondrous vision on Decay,So art thou gazing over Agathè!Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,That was as beautiful as is the formOf sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.The eye is open, with convulsive strain—A most unfleshly orb! the stars that waneHave nothing of its hue; for it is castWith sickly blood, and terribly aghast!And sunken in its socket, like the lightOf a red taper in the lonely night!And there is not a braid of her bright hairBut lieth floating in the moonlight air,Like the long moss, beside a silver spring,In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.The worm hath 'gan to crawl upon her brow—The living worm! and with a ripple now,Like that upon the sea, are heard below,The slimy swarms all ravening as they go,Amid the stagnate vitals, with a rush;And one might hear them echoing the hushOf Julio, as he watches by the sideOf the dead ladye, his betrothed bride!And, ever and anon, a yellow groupWas creeping on her bosom, like a troopOf stars, far up amid the galaxy,Pale, pale, as snowy showers; and two or threeWere mocking the cold finger, round and round,With likeness of a ring; and, as they woundAbout its bony girth, they had the hueOf pearly jewels glistering in dew.That deathly stare! it is an awful thingTo gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will springBefore it to the heart: it telleth howThere must be waste where there is beauty now.The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snowOf that once heaving bosom!—even so,—The cold pale dewy chalk, with yellow shadeAmid the leprous hues; and o'er it playedThe straggling moonlight, and the merry breeze,Like two fair elves, that, by the murmuring seas,Woo'd smilingly together; but there fellNo life-gleam on the brow, all terribleBecoming, through its beauty, like a cloudThat waneth paler even than a shroud,All gorgeous and all glorious before;For waste, like to the wanton night, was o'erHer virgin features, stealing them away—Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?"Enough! enough! Oh God! but I have pray'dTo thee, in early daylight and in shade,And the mad curse is on me still—and still!I cannot alter the Eternal will—But—but—I hate thee, Agathè! I hateWhat lunacy hath bade me consecrate:I amnotmad!—not now!—I do not feelThat slumberous and blessed opiate stealUp to my brain—Oh! that it only would,To people this eternal solitudeWith fancies, and fair dreams, and summer mirth,Which is not now—And yet, my mother earth,I would not love to lie above thee so,As Agathè lies there—oh! no! no! no!To have these clay-worms feast upon my heart!And all the light of being, to departInto a dismal shadow! I could dieAs the red lightnings, quenching amid skyTheir wild and wizard breath; I could away,Like a blue billow, bursting into spray;But, never—never have corruption here,To feed her worms, and let the sunlight jeerAbove me so.—'Tis thou!—I owe thee, Moon,To-night's fair worship; so be lifting soonThy veil of clouds, that I may kneel, as oneThat seeketh for thy virgin benison!"He gathers the cold limpets, as they creepOn the grey rocks beside the lonely deep;And with a flint breaks through into the shell,And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.And he hath lifted water in a clam,And tasted sweetly, from a stream that swamDown to the sea; and now is turn'd away,Again, again, to gaze on Agathè!There is a cave upon that isle—a caveWhere dwelt a hermit man; the winter waveRoll'd to its entrance, casting a bright moundOf snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;And over were the solemn ridges strewnOf a dark rock, that, like the wizard throneOf some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hungWild thorn and bramble, in confusion flungAmid the startling crevices—like sky,Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.A cataract fell over, in a streakOf silver, playing many a wanton freak;Midway, and musical, with elfin gleeIt bounded in its beauty to the sea,Like dazzling angel vanishing away.In sooth, 'twas pleasant in the moonlight grayTo see that fairy fountain leaping so,Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!The hermit had his cross and rosary;I ween like other hermits, so was he;A holy man, and frugal, and at nightHe prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the lightOf the fair moon, went wandering besideThe lonely sea, to hear the silver tideRolling in gleesome music to the shore:The more he heard, he loved to hear the more.And there he is, his hoary beard adriftTo the night winds, that sportingly do liftIts snow-white tresses; and he leaneth onA rugged staff, all weakly and alone,A childless, friendless man!He is besideThe ghastly Julio, and his ghastlier bride.'Twas wondrous strange to gaze upon the two!And the old hermit felt a throbbing throughHis pulses:—"Holy virgin! save me, save!"He deem'd of spectre from the midnight wave,And cross'd him thrice, and pray'd, and pray'd again:—"Hence! hence!" and Julio started, as the strainOf exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:—"I knew thee, father, that thou beest here,To gaze upon this girl, as I have been.By yonder moon! it was a frantic sinTo worship so an image of the clay;It was like beauty—but is now away—What lived upon her features, like the lightOn yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;But it is faded as the other must,And she that was all beauty, is all dust.""Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine,And tell me, is it cold?—But she will twineNo wreath upon these temples,—never, never!For there she lieth, like a streamless riverThat stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me, here,If I be madly throbbing in the fearFor that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and seeHow dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!And where it is, have been the living huesOf beauty, purer than the very dews.So, father! seest thou that yonder moonWill be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?And I, that feel my being wear away,Shall droop beside to darkness; so, but sayA prayer for the dead, when I am gone,And let the azure tide that floweth onCover us lightly with its murmuring surfLike a green sward of melancholy turf.Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rearA cenotaph on this lone island here,Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,And carve an olden rhyme for her and meUpon its brow."He bends, and gazes yetBefore his ghastly bride! the anchoretSate by him, and hath press'd a cross of woodTo his wan lips."My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.Alas! I fear but thou hast strangely beenA child of curse, and misery, and sin.And this—is she thy sister?"—"Nay! my bride.""A nun! and thou:"—"True, true! but then she died,And was a virgin, and is virgin still,Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fillOf light from the great sun. But now, go by,And leave me to my madness, or to die!This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and foldMe round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,That are so writhing your eternal gyresBefore the moon, which, with a myriad tiarsIs crowning you, as ye do fall and kissHer pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!Let me be mangled sore with agony!And be so cursed, so stricken by the spellOf my heart's frenzy, that a living hellBe burning there!—Back! back! if thou art mad—Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!In truth it is a piteous thing for theeTo become childless—Well-a-well, go by!Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,And I will bury her below the moon;It may be but a trance or midnight swoon,And she may wake. Wake, ladye! ha! methoughtIt was likeher—Like her! and is it not?My angel girl! my brain, my stricken brain!—I know thee now!—I know myself again."He flings him on the ladye, and anon,With loathly shudder, from that wither'd oneHath torn him back. "Oh me! no more—no more!Thou virgin mother! Is the dream not o'er,That I have dreamt, but I must dream againFor moons together, till this weary brainBecome distemper'd as the winter sea?Good father! give me blessing; let it beUpon me as the dew upon the moss.Oh me! but I have made the holy crossA curse, and not a blessing! let me kissThe sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!I sware, and sware again, as now I will—Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bringThe light of comfort on some angel wingTo one that lieth lone, do—do it now;By all the stars that open on thy browLike silver flowers! and by the herald moonThat listeth to be forth at nightly noon,Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,As I have perjured me, that I renewAllegiance to thy God, and bind me o'erTo this same penance, I have done before!That night and day I watch, as I have beenLong watching, o'er the partner of my sin!That I taste never the delight of food,But these wild shell-fish, that may make the moodOf madness stronger, till it grapple Death—Despair—Eternity!"He saith, he saith,And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,Lieth all frenzied; one would see Remorse,And hopeless Love, and Hatred, struggling there,And Lunacy, that lightens up Despair,And makes a gladness out of agony.Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,That hast the soul at will, and gives it play,Amid the wildest fancies far away;That thronest Reason, on some wizard throneOf fairy land, within the milky zone,—Some spectre star, that glittereth beyondThe glorious galaxies of diamond.Beautiful Lunacy! that shapest flightFor love to blessed bowers of delight,And buildest holy monarchies withinThe fancy, till the very heart is queenOf all her golden wishes. Lunacy!Thou empress of the passions! though they beA sister group of wild, unearthly forms,Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!I see thee, striking at the silver stringsOf the pure heart, and holy music springsBefore thy touch, in many a solemn strain,Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!But say, is Melancholy by thy side,With tresses in a raven shower, that hideHer pale and weeping features? Is she neverFlowing before thee, like a gloomy river,The sister of thyself? but cold and chill,And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,And not like thee, that art in merry mood,And frolicksome amid thy solitude!Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crownOf hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending downTo mirror thy young image in a spring;And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thingAs soul-less as thyself. 'Tis tender, too,The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hueOf health! the pearly radiance of the brow!All, all as tender—beautiful as thou!And wilt thou say, my sister, there is noneWill answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,A pure, pure being! but the God on highIs with thee ever, as thou goest by.Thou poetess! that harpest to the moon,And, in soft concert to the silver tuneOf waters, play'd on by the magic wind,As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,—I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,That came, like seraph, from the stars above,And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.Sorrow and mirthful Lunacy! that beTogether link'd for time, I deem of yeThat ye are worshipp'd as none others are,—One as a lonely shadow, one a star!Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?He seeth only in his ladye-brideThe image of the laughing girl, that diedA moon before—The same, the very same—The Agathè that lisp'd her lover's name,To him and to her heart: that azure eye,That shone through sunny tresses, waving by;The brow, the cheek, that blush'd of fire and snow,Both blending into one ethereal glow;And that same breathing radiancy, that swamAround her, like a pure and blessed calmAround some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss'dHer wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!He felt her holy being stealing throughHis own, like fountains of the azure dew,That summer mingles with his golden light;And he would clasp her, till the weary nightWas worn away.And morning rose in formOf heavy clouds, that knitted into stormThe brow of Heaven, and through her lips the windCame rolling westward, with a track behindOf gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,All rampant, like great lions terribly,And gnashing on each other: and anon,Julio heard them, rushing one by one,And laugh'd and turn'd.—The hermit was away,For he was old and weary, and he layWithin his cave, and thought it was a dream,A summer's dream? and so the quiet streamOf sleep came o'er his eyelids, and in truthHe dreamt of that strange ladye, and the youthThat held a death-wake on her wasting form;And so he slept and woke not, till the stormWas over.But they came,—the wind and sea,And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,Sang o'er the lightnings pale, as to and froThey writhed, like stricken angels!—White as snowRoll'd billow after billow, and the tideCame forward as an army deep and wide,To charge with all its waters. There was heardA murmur far and far, of those that stirr'dWithin the great encampment of the sea,And dark they were, and lifted terriblyTheir water-spouts like banners. It was grandTo see the black battalions, hand in handStriding to conflict, and their helmets bentBelow their foamy plumes magnificent!And Julio heard and laugh'd, "Shall I be kingTo your great hosts, that ye are murmuringFor one to bear you to your holy war?There is no sun, or moon, or any star,To guide your iron footsteps as ye go;But I, your king, will marshal you to flowFrom shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,That I may ride before you terrible;And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall leadYour summer hosts, when these are ambling low,In azure and in ermine, to and fro."He said, and madly, with his wasted hand,Swept o'er the tuneless harp, and fast he spann'dThe silver chords, until a rush of soundCame from them, solemn—terrible—profound;And then he dash'd the instrument awayInto the waters, and the giant playOf billows threw it back unto the shore,A shiver'd, stringless frame—its day of music o'er!The tide, the rolling tide! the multitudeOf the sea surges, terrible and rude,Tossing their chalky foam along the bedOf thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread,And fast retreating to the gloomy gorgeOf waters, sounding like a Titan forge!It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!But Julio is bending to his bride,And making mirthful whispers to her ear.A cataract! a cataract is near,Of one stupendous billow, and it breaksTerribly furious, with a myriad flakesOf foam, that fly about the haggard twain;And Julio started, with a sudden pain,That shot into his heart; his reason flewBack to its throne; he rose, and wildly threwHis matted tresses over on his brow.Another billow came, and even nowWas dashing at his feet. There was no shadeOf terror, as the serpent waters play'dBefore him, but his eye was calm as death.Another, yet another! and the breathOf the weird wind was with it; like a rockUnriveted it fell—a shroud of smokePass'd over—there was heard, and died away,The voice of one, shrill shrieking, "Agathè!"The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the sideOf the far waste of waters, flapping wideHis wet and weary wings; butheis gone,The stricken Julio!—a wave-swept stoneStands there, on which he sat, and nakedlyIt rises looking to the lonely sea;But Julio is gone, and Agathè!The waters swept them madly to their core,—The dead and living with a frantic roar!And so he died, his bosom fondly setOn her's; and round her clay-cold waist were metHis bare and wither'd arms, and to her browHis lips were press'd. Both, both are perish'd now!He died upon her bosom in a swoon;And fancied of the pale and silver moon,That went before him in her hall of blue:He died like golden insect in the dew,Calm, calm, and pure; and not a chord was rungIn his deep heart, but love. He perish'd young,But perish'd, wasted by some fatal flameThat fed upon his vitals; and there cameLunacy sweeping lightly, like a stream,Along his brain—He perish'd in a dream!In sooth, I marvel not,If death be only a mysterious thought,That cometh on the heart, and turns the browBrightless and chill, as Julio's is now;For only had the wasting struggle beenOf one wild feeling, till it rose withinInto the form of death, and nature feltThe light of the immortal being meltInto its happier home, beyond the sea,And moon, and stars, into eternity!The sun broke through his dungeon long enthrall'dBy dismal cloud, and on the emeraldOf the great living sea was blazing down,To gift the lordly billows with a crownOf diamond and silver. From his caveThe hermit came, and by the dying waveLone wander'd, and he found upon the sand,Below a truss of sea-weed, with his handAround the silent waist of Agathè,The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it layBeside the wasted girl. The fireless eyeWas open, and a jewell'd rosaryHung round the neck; but it was gone,—the crossThat Agathè had given.Amid the moss,The hermit scoop'd a solitary graveBelow the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,Or two, or three, of some old requiemAs in their narrow home he buried them.And many a day, before that blessed spotHe sate, in lone and melancholy thought,Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess'dOf some dark secret shadowing his breast.And yet, to see him, with his silver hairAdrift and floating in the sea-borne air,And features chasten'd in the tears of woe,In sooth 'twas merely sad to see him so!A wreck of nature, floating far and fast,Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!And he is wandering by the shore again,Hard leaning on his staff; the azure mainLies sleeping far before him, with his seasFast folded in the bosom of the breeze,That like the angel Peace hath dropt his wingsAround the warring waters. Sadly singsTo his own heart that lonely hermit man,A tale of other days, when passion ranAlong his pulses, like a troubled stream,And glory was a splendour, and a dream!He stoop'd to gather up a shining gem,That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,—It was a cross, the cross that AgathèHad given to her Julio: the playOf the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,And on the glistering jewels—But the traceOf some old thought came burning to the brainOf the pale hermit, and he shrunk in painBefore the holy symbol. It was notBecause of the eternal ransom wroughtIn ages far away, or he had bentIn pure devotion sad and reverent;But now, he started, as he look'd uponThat jewell'd thing, and wildly he is goneBack to the mossy grave, away, away:—"My child! my child! my own, own Agathè!"It is her father,—he,—an alter'd man!His quiet had been wounded, and the banOf misery came over him, and frozeThe bright and holy tides, that fell and roseIn joy amid his heart. To think of her,That he had injured so, and all so fair,So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,—It was a very dismal thought, in truth,That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!And so he could not bear to have it be;But sought for some lone island in the sea,Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,And do strange penance in his mirthless mood,For this same crime, unnaturally wild,That he had done unto his saintly child.And ever he did think, when he had laidThese lovers in the grave, that, through the shadeOf ghastly features melting to decay,He saw the image of his Agathè.And now the truth had flash'd into his brain:And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain,Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;For long ago he gave that blessed crossTo his fair girl, and knew the relic still,By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at willBefore it, of the one that was not now,But, like a dream, had floated from the browOf Time, that seeth many a lovely thingFade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steelTo woman's earnest tears, and bade her feelThe curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;And saw the gladsome features growing paleUnmoved: 'tis rent, like some eternal towerThe sea hath shaken, and its stately powerLies lonely, fallen, scatter'd on the shore:'Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, beforeThe Deluge, stood in glory and in might,But now is lightning-riven, and the nightIs clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,Like coffins, here and there: 'tis rent! the throneWhere passions, in their awful anarchy,Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,That took the being, on its troubled wings,Far to the land of dim imaginings!All three are dead; that desolate green isleIs only peopled by the passing smileOf sun and moon, that surely have a sense,They look so radiant with intelligence,—So like the soul's own element,—so fair!The features of a God lie veiled there!And mariners that have been toiling farUpon the deep, and lost the polar star,Have visited that island, and have seenThat lover's grave: and many there have beenThat sat upon the gray and crumbling stone,And started, as they saw a skeletonAmid the long sad moss, that fondly grewThrough the white wasted ribs; but never knewOf those who slept below, or of the taleOf that brain-stricken man, that felt the paleAnd wandering moonlight steal his soul away,—Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathè!We found them,—children of toil and tears,Their birth of beauty shaded;We left them in their early yearsFallen and faded.We found them, flowers of summer hue:Their golden cups were lightedWith sparkles of the pearly dew—We left them blighted!We found them,—like those fairy flowers;And the light of morn lay holyOver their sad and sainted bowers—We left them, lowly.We found them,—like twin stars, alone,In brightness and in feeling;We left them,—and the curse was onTheir beauty stealing.They rest in quiet, where they are:Their lifetime is the storyOf some fair flower—some silver star,Faded in glory!
Another moon! and over the blue nightShe bendeth, like a holy spirit bright,Through stars that veil them in their wings of gold;As on she floateth with her image coldEnamell'd on the deep. A sail of cloudIs to her left, majestically proud!Trailing its silver drapery awayIn thin and fairy webs, that are at playLike stormless waves upon a summer seaDragging their length of waters lazily.
Ay! to the rocks! and thou wilt see, I wist,A lonely one, that bendeth in the mistOf moonlight, with a wild and raven pallFlung round him. Is he mortal man at all?For, by the meagre fire-light that is underThose eyelids, and the vizor shade of wonderFalling upon his features, I would guess,Of one that wanders out of blessedness!Julio! raise thee!—By the holy mass!I wot not of the fearless one would passThy wizard shadow. Where the raven hairWas shorn before, in many a matted layerIt lieth now; and on a rock besideThe sea, like merman at the ebb of tide,Feasting his wondrous vision on Decay,So art thou gazing over Agathè!
Ah me! but this is never the fair girl,With brow of light, as lovely as a pearl,That was as beautiful as is the formOf sea-bird at the breaking of a storm.The eye is open, with convulsive strain—A most unfleshly orb! the stars that waneHave nothing of its hue; for it is castWith sickly blood, and terribly aghast!And sunken in its socket, like the lightOf a red taper in the lonely night!And there is not a braid of her bright hairBut lieth floating in the moonlight air,Like the long moss, beside a silver spring,In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.The worm hath 'gan to crawl upon her brow—The living worm! and with a ripple now,Like that upon the sea, are heard below,The slimy swarms all ravening as they go,Amid the stagnate vitals, with a rush;And one might hear them echoing the hushOf Julio, as he watches by the sideOf the dead ladye, his betrothed bride!
And, ever and anon, a yellow groupWas creeping on her bosom, like a troopOf stars, far up amid the galaxy,Pale, pale, as snowy showers; and two or threeWere mocking the cold finger, round and round,With likeness of a ring; and, as they woundAbout its bony girth, they had the hueOf pearly jewels glistering in dew.That deathly stare! it is an awful thingTo gaze upon; and sickly thoughts will springBefore it to the heart: it telleth howThere must be waste where there is beauty now.The chalk! the chalk! where was the virgin snowOf that once heaving bosom!—even so,—The cold pale dewy chalk, with yellow shadeAmid the leprous hues; and o'er it playedThe straggling moonlight, and the merry breeze,Like two fair elves, that, by the murmuring seas,Woo'd smilingly together; but there fellNo life-gleam on the brow, all terribleBecoming, through its beauty, like a cloudThat waneth paler even than a shroud,All gorgeous and all glorious before;For waste, like to the wanton night, was o'erHer virgin features, stealing them away—Ah me! ah me! and this is Agathè?
"Enough! enough! Oh God! but I have pray'dTo thee, in early daylight and in shade,And the mad curse is on me still—and still!I cannot alter the Eternal will—But—but—I hate thee, Agathè! I hateWhat lunacy hath bade me consecrate:I amnotmad!—not now!—I do not feelThat slumberous and blessed opiate stealUp to my brain—Oh! that it only would,To people this eternal solitudeWith fancies, and fair dreams, and summer mirth,Which is not now—And yet, my mother earth,I would not love to lie above thee so,As Agathè lies there—oh! no! no! no!To have these clay-worms feast upon my heart!And all the light of being, to departInto a dismal shadow! I could dieAs the red lightnings, quenching amid skyTheir wild and wizard breath; I could away,Like a blue billow, bursting into spray;But, never—never have corruption here,To feed her worms, and let the sunlight jeerAbove me so.—'Tis thou!—I owe thee, Moon,To-night's fair worship; so be lifting soonThy veil of clouds, that I may kneel, as oneThat seeketh for thy virgin benison!"
He gathers the cold limpets, as they creepOn the grey rocks beside the lonely deep;And with a flint breaks through into the shell,And feeds him—by the mass! he feasteth well.And he hath lifted water in a clam,And tasted sweetly, from a stream that swamDown to the sea; and now is turn'd away,Again, again, to gaze on Agathè!
There is a cave upon that isle—a caveWhere dwelt a hermit man; the winter waveRoll'd to its entrance, casting a bright moundOf snowy shells and fairy pebbles round;And over were the solemn ridges strewnOf a dark rock, that, like the wizard throneOf some sea-monarch, stood, and from it hungWild thorn and bramble, in confusion flungAmid the startling crevices—like sky,Through gloom of clouds, that sweep in thunder by.A cataract fell over, in a streakOf silver, playing many a wanton freak;Midway, and musical, with elfin gleeIt bounded in its beauty to the sea,Like dazzling angel vanishing away.In sooth, 'twas pleasant in the moonlight grayTo see that fairy fountain leaping so,Like one that knew not wickedness nor woe!
The hermit had his cross and rosary;I ween like other hermits, so was he;A holy man, and frugal, and at nightHe prayed, or slept, or, sometimes, by the lightOf the fair moon, went wandering besideThe lonely sea, to hear the silver tideRolling in gleesome music to the shore:The more he heard, he loved to hear the more.And there he is, his hoary beard adriftTo the night winds, that sportingly do liftIts snow-white tresses; and he leaneth onA rugged staff, all weakly and alone,A childless, friendless man!
He is besideThe ghastly Julio, and his ghastlier bride.'Twas wondrous strange to gaze upon the two!And the old hermit felt a throbbing throughHis pulses:—"Holy virgin! save me, save!"He deem'd of spectre from the midnight wave,And cross'd him thrice, and pray'd, and pray'd again:—"Hence! hence!" and Julio started, as the strainOf exorcisms fell faintly on his ear:—"I knew thee, father, that thou beest here,To gaze upon this girl, as I have been.By yonder moon! it was a frantic sinTo worship so an image of the clay;It was like beauty—but is now away—What lived upon her features, like the lightOn yonder cloud, all tender and all bright;But it is faded as the other must,And she that was all beauty, is all dust."
"Father! thy hand upon this brow of mine,And tell me, is it cold?—But she will twineNo wreath upon these temples,—never, never!For there she lieth, like a streamless riverThat stagnates in its bed. Feel, feel me, here,If I be madly throbbing in the fearFor that cold slimy worm. Ay! look and seeHow dotingly it feeds, how pleasantly!And where it is, have been the living huesOf beauty, purer than the very dews.So, father! seest thou that yonder moonWill be on wane to-morrow, soon and soon?And I, that feel my being wear away,Shall droop beside to darkness; so, but sayA prayer for the dead, when I am gone,And let the azure tide that floweth onCover us lightly with its murmuring surfLike a green sward of melancholy turf.Thou mayest, if thou wilt, thou mayest rearA cenotaph on this lone island here,Of some rude mossy stone, below a tree,And carve an olden rhyme for her and meUpon its brow."
He bends, and gazes yetBefore his ghastly bride! the anchoretSate by him, and hath press'd a cross of woodTo his wan lips.
"My son! look up and tell thy dismal tale.Thou seemest cold, and sorrowful, and pale.Alas! I fear but thou hast strangely beenA child of curse, and misery, and sin.And this—is she thy sister?"—"Nay! my bride.""A nun! and thou:"—"True, true! but then she died,And was a virgin, and is virgin still,Chaste as the moon, that taketh her pure fillOf light from the great sun. But now, go by,And leave me to my madness, or to die!This heart, this brain are sore.—Come, come, and foldMe round, ye hydra billows! wrapt in gold,That are so writhing your eternal gyresBefore the moon, which, with a myriad tiarsIs crowning you, as ye do fall and kissHer pearly feet, that glide in blessedness!Let me be torture-eaten, ere I die!Let me be mangled sore with agony!And be so cursed, so stricken by the spellOf my heart's frenzy, that a living hellBe burning there!—Back! back! if thou art mad—Methought thou wast, but thou art only sad.Is this thy child, old man? look, look, and see!In truth it is a piteous thing for theeTo become childless—Well-a-well, go by!Is there no grave? The quiet sea is nigh,And I will bury her below the moon;It may be but a trance or midnight swoon,And she may wake. Wake, ladye! ha! methoughtIt was likeher—Like her! and is it not?My angel girl! my brain, my stricken brain!—I know thee now!—I know myself again."
He flings him on the ladye, and anon,With loathly shudder, from that wither'd oneHath torn him back. "Oh me! no more—no more!Thou virgin mother! Is the dream not o'er,That I have dreamt, but I must dream againFor moons together, till this weary brainBecome distemper'd as the winter sea?Good father! give me blessing; let it beUpon me as the dew upon the moss.Oh me! but I have made the holy crossA curse, and not a blessing! let me kissThe sacred symbol; for, by this—by this!I sware, and sware again, as now I will—Thou Heaven! if there be bounty in thee still,If thou wilt hear, and minister, and bringThe light of comfort on some angel wingTo one that lieth lone, do—do it now;By all the stars that open on thy browLike silver flowers! and by the herald moonThat listeth to be forth at nightly noon,Jousting the clouds, I swear! and be it true,As I have perjured me, that I renewAllegiance to thy God, and bind me o'erTo this same penance, I have done before!That night and day I watch, as I have beenLong watching, o'er the partner of my sin!That I taste never the delight of food,But these wild shell-fish, that may make the moodOf madness stronger, till it grapple Death—Despair—Eternity!"
He saith, he saith,And, on the jaundiced bosom of the corse,Lieth all frenzied; one would see Remorse,And hopeless Love, and Hatred, struggling there,And Lunacy, that lightens up Despair,And makes a gladness out of agony.Pale phantom! I would fear and worship thee,That hast the soul at will, and gives it play,Amid the wildest fancies far away;That thronest Reason, on some wizard throneOf fairy land, within the milky zone,—Some spectre star, that glittereth beyondThe glorious galaxies of diamond.
Beautiful Lunacy! that shapest flightFor love to blessed bowers of delight,And buildest holy monarchies withinThe fancy, till the very heart is queenOf all her golden wishes. Lunacy!Thou empress of the passions! though they beA sister group of wild, unearthly forms,Like lightnings playing in their home of storms!I see thee, striking at the silver stringsOf the pure heart, and holy music springsBefore thy touch, in many a solemn strain,Like that of sea-waves rolling from the main!
But say, is Melancholy by thy side,With tresses in a raven shower, that hideHer pale and weeping features? Is she neverFlowing before thee, like a gloomy river,The sister of thyself? but cold and chill,And winter-born, and sorrowfully still,And not like thee, that art in merry mood,And frolicksome amid thy solitude!
Fair Lunacy! I see thee, with a crownOf hawthorn and sweet daisies, bending downTo mirror thy young image in a spring;And thou wilt kiss that shadow of a thingAs soul-less as thyself. 'Tis tender, too,The smile that meeteth thine! the holy hueOf health! the pearly radiance of the brow!All, all as tender—beautiful as thou!
And wilt thou say, my sister, there is noneWill answer thee? Thou art—thou art alone,A pure, pure being! but the God on highIs with thee ever, as thou goest by.
Thou poetess! that harpest to the moon,And, in soft concert to the silver tuneOf waters, play'd on by the magic wind,As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,—I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,That came, like seraph, from the stars above,And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.Sorrow and mirthful Lunacy! that beTogether link'd for time, I deem of yeThat ye are worshipp'd as none others are,—One as a lonely shadow, one a star!
Is Julio glad, that bendeth, even now,To his wild purpose, to his holy vow?He seeth only in his ladye-brideThe image of the laughing girl, that diedA moon before—The same, the very same—The Agathè that lisp'd her lover's name,To him and to her heart: that azure eye,That shone through sunny tresses, waving by;The brow, the cheek, that blush'd of fire and snow,Both blending into one ethereal glow;And that same breathing radiancy, that swamAround her, like a pure and blessed calmAround some halcyon bird. And, as he kiss'dHer wormy lips, he felt that he was blest!He felt her holy being stealing throughHis own, like fountains of the azure dew,That summer mingles with his golden light;And he would clasp her, till the weary nightWas worn away.
And morning rose in formOf heavy clouds, that knitted into stormThe brow of Heaven, and through her lips the windCame rolling westward, with a track behindOf gloomy billows, bursting on the sea,All rampant, like great lions terribly,And gnashing on each other: and anon,Julio heard them, rushing one by one,And laugh'd and turn'd.—The hermit was away,For he was old and weary, and he layWithin his cave, and thought it was a dream,A summer's dream? and so the quiet streamOf sleep came o'er his eyelids, and in truthHe dreamt of that strange ladye, and the youthThat held a death-wake on her wasting form;And so he slept and woke not, till the stormWas over.
But they came,—the wind and sea,And rain and thunder, that in giant glee,Sang o'er the lightnings pale, as to and froThey writhed, like stricken angels!—White as snowRoll'd billow after billow, and the tideCame forward as an army deep and wide,To charge with all its waters. There was heardA murmur far and far, of those that stirr'dWithin the great encampment of the sea,And dark they were, and lifted terriblyTheir water-spouts like banners. It was grandTo see the black battalions, hand in handStriding to conflict, and their helmets bentBelow their foamy plumes magnificent!
And Julio heard and laugh'd, "Shall I be kingTo your great hosts, that ye are murmuringFor one to bear you to your holy war?There is no sun, or moon, or any star,To guide your iron footsteps as ye go;But I, your king, will marshal you to flowFrom shore to shore. Then bring my car of shell,That I may ride before you terrible;And bring my sceptre of the amber weed,And Agathè, my virgin bride, shall leadYour summer hosts, when these are ambling low,In azure and in ermine, to and fro."He said, and madly, with his wasted hand,Swept o'er the tuneless harp, and fast he spann'dThe silver chords, until a rush of soundCame from them, solemn—terrible—profound;And then he dash'd the instrument awayInto the waters, and the giant playOf billows threw it back unto the shore,A shiver'd, stringless frame—its day of music o'er!The tide, the rolling tide! the multitudeOf the sea surges, terrible and rude,Tossing their chalky foam along the bedOf thundering pebbles, that are shoring dread,And fast retreating to the gloomy gorgeOf waters, sounding like a Titan forge!
It comes! it comes! the tide, the rolling tide!But Julio is bending to his bride,And making mirthful whispers to her ear.A cataract! a cataract is near,Of one stupendous billow, and it breaksTerribly furious, with a myriad flakesOf foam, that fly about the haggard twain;And Julio started, with a sudden pain,That shot into his heart; his reason flewBack to its throne; he rose, and wildly threwHis matted tresses over on his brow.Another billow came, and even nowWas dashing at his feet. There was no shadeOf terror, as the serpent waters play'dBefore him, but his eye was calm as death.Another, yet another! and the breathOf the weird wind was with it; like a rockUnriveted it fell—a shroud of smokePass'd over—there was heard, and died away,The voice of one, shrill shrieking, "Agathè!"
The sea-bird sitteth lonely by the sideOf the far waste of waters, flapping wideHis wet and weary wings; butheis gone,The stricken Julio!—a wave-swept stoneStands there, on which he sat, and nakedlyIt rises looking to the lonely sea;But Julio is gone, and Agathè!The waters swept them madly to their core,—The dead and living with a frantic roar!And so he died, his bosom fondly setOn her's; and round her clay-cold waist were metHis bare and wither'd arms, and to her browHis lips were press'd. Both, both are perish'd now!
He died upon her bosom in a swoon;And fancied of the pale and silver moon,That went before him in her hall of blue:He died like golden insect in the dew,Calm, calm, and pure; and not a chord was rungIn his deep heart, but love. He perish'd young,But perish'd, wasted by some fatal flameThat fed upon his vitals; and there cameLunacy sweeping lightly, like a stream,Along his brain—He perish'd in a dream!
In sooth, I marvel not,If death be only a mysterious thought,That cometh on the heart, and turns the browBrightless and chill, as Julio's is now;For only had the wasting struggle beenOf one wild feeling, till it rose withinInto the form of death, and nature feltThe light of the immortal being meltInto its happier home, beyond the sea,And moon, and stars, into eternity!
The sun broke through his dungeon long enthrall'dBy dismal cloud, and on the emeraldOf the great living sea was blazing down,To gift the lordly billows with a crownOf diamond and silver. From his caveThe hermit came, and by the dying waveLone wander'd, and he found upon the sand,Below a truss of sea-weed, with his handAround the silent waist of Agathè,The corse of Julio! Pale, pale, it layBeside the wasted girl. The fireless eyeWas open, and a jewell'd rosaryHung round the neck; but it was gone,—the crossThat Agathè had given.
Amid the moss,The hermit scoop'd a solitary graveBelow the pine-trees, and he sang a stave,Or two, or three, of some old requiemAs in their narrow home he buried them.And many a day, before that blessed spotHe sate, in lone and melancholy thought,Gazing upon the grave; and one had guess'dOf some dark secret shadowing his breast.And yet, to see him, with his silver hairAdrift and floating in the sea-borne air,And features chasten'd in the tears of woe,In sooth 'twas merely sad to see him so!A wreck of nature, floating far and fast,Upon the stream of Time—to sink at last!
And he is wandering by the shore again,Hard leaning on his staff; the azure mainLies sleeping far before him, with his seasFast folded in the bosom of the breeze,That like the angel Peace hath dropt his wingsAround the warring waters. Sadly singsTo his own heart that lonely hermit man,A tale of other days, when passion ranAlong his pulses, like a troubled stream,And glory was a splendour, and a dream!He stoop'd to gather up a shining gem,That lay amid the shells, as bright as them,—It was a cross, the cross that AgathèHad given to her Julio: the playOf the fierce sunbeams fell upon its face,And on the glistering jewels—But the traceOf some old thought came burning to the brainOf the pale hermit, and he shrunk in painBefore the holy symbol. It was notBecause of the eternal ransom wroughtIn ages far away, or he had bentIn pure devotion sad and reverent;But now, he started, as he look'd uponThat jewell'd thing, and wildly he is goneBack to the mossy grave, away, away:—"My child! my child! my own, own Agathè!"
It is her father,—he,—an alter'd man!His quiet had been wounded, and the banOf misery came over him, and frozeThe bright and holy tides, that fell and roseIn joy amid his heart. To think of her,That he had injured so, and all so fair,So fond, so like the chosen of his youth,—It was a very dismal thought, in truth,That he had left her hopelessly, for aye,Within the cloister-wall to droop, and die!And so he could not bear to have it be;But sought for some lone island in the sea,Where he might dwell in doleful solitude,And do strange penance in his mirthless mood,For this same crime, unnaturally wild,That he had done unto his saintly child.And ever he did think, when he had laidThese lovers in the grave, that, through the shadeOf ghastly features melting to decay,He saw the image of his Agathè.
And now the truth had flash'd into his brain:And he is fallen, with a shriek of pain,Upon the lap of pale and yellow moss;For long ago he gave that blessed crossTo his fair girl, and knew the relic still,By many a thousand thoughts, that rose at willBefore it, of the one that was not now,But, like a dream, had floated from the browOf Time, that seeth many a lovely thingFade by him, like a sea-wave murmuring.
The heart is burst!—the heart that stood in steelTo woman's earnest tears, and bade her feelThe curse of virgin solitude,—a veil;And saw the gladsome features growing paleUnmoved: 'tis rent, like some eternal towerThe sea hath shaken, and its stately powerLies lonely, fallen, scatter'd on the shore:'Tis rent, like some great mountain, that, beforeThe Deluge, stood in glory and in might,But now is lightning-riven, and the nightIs clambering up its sides, and chasms lie strewn,Like coffins, here and there: 'tis rent! the throneWhere passions, in their awful anarchy,Stood sceptred! There was heard an inward sigh,That took the being, on its troubled wings,Far to the land of dim imaginings!
All three are dead; that desolate green isleIs only peopled by the passing smileOf sun and moon, that surely have a sense,They look so radiant with intelligence,—So like the soul's own element,—so fair!The features of a God lie veiled there!
And mariners that have been toiling farUpon the deep, and lost the polar star,Have visited that island, and have seenThat lover's grave: and many there have beenThat sat upon the gray and crumbling stone,And started, as they saw a skeletonAmid the long sad moss, that fondly grewThrough the white wasted ribs; but never knewOf those who slept below, or of the taleOf that brain-stricken man, that felt the paleAnd wandering moonlight steal his soul away,—Poor Julio, and the ladye Agathè!
We found them,—children of toil and tears,Their birth of beauty shaded;We left them in their early yearsFallen and faded.
We found them, flowers of summer hue:Their golden cups were lightedWith sparkles of the pearly dew—We left them blighted!
We found them,—like those fairy flowers;And the light of morn lay holyOver their sad and sainted bowers—We left them, lowly.
We found them,—like twin stars, alone,In brightness and in feeling;We left them,—and the curse was onTheir beauty stealing.
They rest in quiet, where they are:Their lifetime is the storyOf some fair flower—some silver star,Faded in glory!
A pale and broken Iris in the mirrorOf a gray cloud,—as gray as death,Slow sailing in the breathOf thunder! Like a child, that lies in terrorThrough the dark night, an Iris fairTrembled midway in air.The blending of its elfin huesWas as the pure enamel onThe early morning dews;And gloriously they shone,Waving everyone his wing,Like a young aërial thing!That Iris cameOver the shells of gold, besideThe blue and waveless tide;Its girdle, of resplendent flame,Met shore and sea, afar,Like angel that shall standOn flood and land,Crown'd with a meteor star.The sea-bird, from her snowy stone,Beheld it floating on,Like a bride that bent her wayTo the altar, standing lone,In some cathedral gray.The melancholy waveStarted at the cry she gave,Hailing the lovely childOf the immortal sun,—A tender and a tearful one,Bounding away, with footsteps wild!Old Neptune on his silver bedThe dazzling image threw;It laid like sunbeam on the dew,Its young tress-waving head.The god upon the shadow gazed,And silently upraisedA gentle wave, that came and kiss'dFair Iris in her holy rest.Her pearly brow grew pale:It felt the sinful fire,And from her queenly tiarShe drew the veil.The sun-wing'd steeds her sacred carWheel'd to her throne of star.
A pale and broken Iris in the mirrorOf a gray cloud,—as gray as death,Slow sailing in the breathOf thunder! Like a child, that lies in terrorThrough the dark night, an Iris fairTrembled midway in air.The blending of its elfin huesWas as the pure enamel onThe early morning dews;And gloriously they shone,Waving everyone his wing,Like a young aërial thing!That Iris cameOver the shells of gold, besideThe blue and waveless tide;Its girdle, of resplendent flame,Met shore and sea, afar,Like angel that shall standOn flood and land,Crown'd with a meteor star.
The sea-bird, from her snowy stone,Beheld it floating on,Like a bride that bent her wayTo the altar, standing lone,In some cathedral gray.The melancholy waveStarted at the cry she gave,Hailing the lovely childOf the immortal sun,—A tender and a tearful one,Bounding away, with footsteps wild!
Old Neptune on his silver bedThe dazzling image threw;It laid like sunbeam on the dew,Its young tress-waving head.The god upon the shadow gazed,And silently upraisedA gentle wave, that came and kiss'dFair Iris in her holy rest.Her pearly brow grew pale:It felt the sinful fire,And from her queenly tiarShe drew the veil.The sun-wing'd steeds her sacred carWheel'd to her throne of star.
Spirit! in deathless halo zoned,A chain of stars with wings of diamond,—Is music blended into theeWith holy light and immortality?For, as thy shape of glory sweptThrough seas of darkness, magic breathings fellAround it, like the notes that sleptIn the wild caverns of a silver shell.Thou camest, as a lightning springThrough chasms of horrid cloud, on scathless wing;Old Chaos round him, like a tiar,Swathed the long rush of immaterial fire;As thou, descending from afar,Wast canopied with living arch of light,Pale pillars of immortal star,Burst through the curtains of the moonless night.Phantom of wonder! over thee,Trembles the shadow of the Deity;For face to face, on lifted throne,Thou gazest to the glory-shrouded One,Where highest in the azure heightOf universe, eternally he turnsMyriads of worlds; with blaze of lightFilling the hollow of their golden urns.Why comest thou, with feelings boundOn thy birth-shore, the long unenter'd ground?To visit where thy being first,Through the pale shell of embryo nothing, burst?Or, on celestial errand bent,To win to faith a sin enraptured son,And point the angel lineamentOf mercy on a cross,—the Bleeding One?Spirit! I breathe no sad adieu:The altars where thou bendest never knewSigh, tear, or sorrow, and the nightNo chariot drives behind the wheel of light;Where every seraph is a sun,And every soul an everlasting star.—Go to thy home, thou peerless one!Where glory and the Great Immortal are!
Spirit! in deathless halo zoned,A chain of stars with wings of diamond,—Is music blended into theeWith holy light and immortality?For, as thy shape of glory sweptThrough seas of darkness, magic breathings fellAround it, like the notes that sleptIn the wild caverns of a silver shell.
Thou camest, as a lightning springThrough chasms of horrid cloud, on scathless wing;Old Chaos round him, like a tiar,Swathed the long rush of immaterial fire;As thou, descending from afar,Wast canopied with living arch of light,Pale pillars of immortal star,Burst through the curtains of the moonless night.
Phantom of wonder! over thee,Trembles the shadow of the Deity;For face to face, on lifted throne,Thou gazest to the glory-shrouded One,Where highest in the azure heightOf universe, eternally he turnsMyriads of worlds; with blaze of lightFilling the hollow of their golden urns.
Why comest thou, with feelings boundOn thy birth-shore, the long unenter'd ground?To visit where thy being first,Through the pale shell of embryo nothing, burst?Or, on celestial errand bent,To win to faith a sin enraptured son,And point the angel lineamentOf mercy on a cross,—the Bleeding One?
Spirit! I breathe no sad adieu:The altars where thou bendest never knewSigh, tear, or sorrow, and the nightNo chariot drives behind the wheel of light;Where every seraph is a sun,And every soul an everlasting star.—Go to thy home, thou peerless one!Where glory and the Great Immortal are!
Her life is in the marble! yet a fallOf sleep lies on the heart's fair arsenal,Like new shower'd snow. You hear no whisper throughThose love-divided lips; no pearly dewTrembles on her pale orbs, that seem to beBent on a dream of immortality!She sleeps: her life is sleep,—a holy rest!Like that of wing-borne cloud, that, in the westLaves his aërial image, till afarThe sunlight leaves him, melting into star.Did Phidias from her brow the veil remove,Uncurtaining the peerless queen of love?The fluent stone in marble waves recoil'd,Touch'd by his hand, and left the wondrous child,A Venus of the foam! How softly fairThe dove-like passion on the sacred airFloats round her, nesting in her wreathed hair,That tells, though shadeless, of its auburn hue,Bathed in a hoar of diamond-dropping dew!How beautiful!—Was this not one of eld,That Chaos on his boundless bosom held,Till Earth came forward in a rush of storm,Closing his ribs upon her wingless form?How beautiful!—The very lips do speakOf love, and bid us worship: the pale cheekSeems blushing through the marble—through the snow!And the undrap'ried bosom feels a flowOf fever on its brightness; every veinAt the blue pulse swells softly, like a chainOf gentle hills. I would not fling a wreathOf jewels on that brow, to flash beneathThose queenly tresses; for itself is moreThan sea-born pearl of some Elysian shore!Such, with a heart like woman! I would castLife at her foot, and, as she glided past,Would bid her trample on the slavish thing—Tell her, I'd rather feel me witheringUnder her step, than be unknown for aye:And, when her pride had crush'd me, she might seeA love-wing'd spirit glide in glory byStriking the tent of its mortality!
Her life is in the marble! yet a fallOf sleep lies on the heart's fair arsenal,Like new shower'd snow. You hear no whisper throughThose love-divided lips; no pearly dewTrembles on her pale orbs, that seem to beBent on a dream of immortality!
She sleeps: her life is sleep,—a holy rest!Like that of wing-borne cloud, that, in the westLaves his aërial image, till afarThe sunlight leaves him, melting into star.Did Phidias from her brow the veil remove,Uncurtaining the peerless queen of love?The fluent stone in marble waves recoil'd,Touch'd by his hand, and left the wondrous child,A Venus of the foam! How softly fairThe dove-like passion on the sacred airFloats round her, nesting in her wreathed hair,That tells, though shadeless, of its auburn hue,Bathed in a hoar of diamond-dropping dew!
How beautiful!—Was this not one of eld,That Chaos on his boundless bosom held,Till Earth came forward in a rush of storm,Closing his ribs upon her wingless form?How beautiful!—The very lips do speakOf love, and bid us worship: the pale cheekSeems blushing through the marble—through the snow!And the undrap'ried bosom feels a flowOf fever on its brightness; every veinAt the blue pulse swells softly, like a chainOf gentle hills. I would not fling a wreathOf jewels on that brow, to flash beneathThose queenly tresses; for itself is moreThan sea-born pearl of some Elysian shore!
Such, with a heart like woman! I would castLife at her foot, and, as she glided past,Would bid her trample on the slavish thing—Tell her, I'd rather feel me witheringUnder her step, than be unknown for aye:And, when her pride had crush'd me, she might seeA love-wing'd spirit glide in glory byStriking the tent of its mortality!