CLXII. But in his delicate form-a dream of Love, The mind with in its most unearthly mood, Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god! CLXIII. And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven The fire which we endure, it was repaid By him to whom the energy was given Which this poetic marble hath array'd With an eternal glory—which, if made By human hands, is not of human thought; And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid One ringlet in the dust-nor hath it caught A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought. CLXIV. 1 But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, The being who upheld it through the past? Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. He is no more-these breathings are his last; His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, And he himself as nothing:-if he was Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd With forms which live and suffer-let that passHis shadow fades away into Destruction's mass, CLXV. Which gathers shadow, substance, life, and all That we inherit in its mortal shroud, And spreads the dim and universal pall Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays To hover on the verge of darkness; rays Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze, CLXVI. And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame These fardels of the heart-the heart whose sweat was gore. CLXVII. Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, With some deep and immedicable wound; Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground, The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the chief Seems royal still, though with her head discrown'd, And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.. CLXVIII. Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled, Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee fled Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd to cloy. CLXIX. Peasants bring forth in safety.-Can it be, Those who weep not for kings shall weep for thee, Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head And desolate consort-vainly wert thou wed! CLXX. Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made; Like stars to shepherds' eyes:-'twas but a meteor beam'd. CLXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well: Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,— |