Before the bed of death

      No ghastly spectre stood—but from the porch

      Of life, the lip—one kiss inhaled the breath,

      And the mute graceful Genius lower'd a torch.

      The judgment-balance of the Realms below,

      A judge, himself of mortal lineage, held;

      The very Furies at the Thracian's woe,

      Were moved and music-spell'd.

      In the Elysian grove

      The shades renew'd the pleasures life held dear:

      The faithful spouse rejoin'd remember'd love,

      And rush'd along the meads the charioteer;

      There Linus pour'd the old accustom'd strain;

      Admetus there Alcestes still could greet; his

      Friend there once more Orestes could regain,

      His arrows—Philoctetes!

      More glorious then the meeds

      That in their strife with labour nerved the brave,

      To the great doer of renownèd deeds,

      The Hebe and the Heaven the Thunderer gave.

      To him the rescued Rescuer of the dead,

      Bow'd down the silent and Immortal Host;

      And the Twin Stars their guiding lustre shed,

      On the bark tempest-tost!

      Art thou, fair world, no more?

      Return, thou virgin-bloom on Nature's face;

      Ah, only on the Minstrel's magic shore,

      Can we the footstep of sweet Fable trace!

      The meadows mourn for the old hallowing life;

      Vainly we search the earth of gods bereft;

      Where once the warm and living shapes were rife,

      Shadows alone are left!

      Cold, from the North, has gone

      Over the Flowers the Blast that kill'd their May;

      And, to enrich the worship of the One,

      A Universe of Gods must pass away!

      Mourning, I search on yonder starry steeps,

      But thee no more, Selene, there I see!

      And through the woods I call, and o'er the deeps,

      And—Echo answers me!

      Deaf to the joys she gives—

      Blind to the pomp of which she is possest—

      Unconscious of the spiritual Power that lives

      Around, and rules her—by our bliss unblest—

      Dull to the Art that colours or creates,

      Like the dead timepiece, Godless Nature creeps

      Her plodding round, and, by the leaden weights,

      The slavish motion keeps.

      To-morrow to receive

      New life, she digs her proper grave to-day;

      And icy moons, with weary sameness, weave

      From their own light their fullness and decay:

      Home to the Poet's land the Gods are flown;

      Light use in them that later world discerns,

      Which, the diviner leading-strings outgrown,

      On its own axle turns.

      Home!—and with them are gone

      The hues they gazed on, and the tones they heard,

      Life's beauty and life's melodies—alone

      Broods o'er the desolate void the lifeless Word!

      Yet rescued from Time's deluge, still they throng,

      Unseen, the Pindus they were wont to cherish,

      Ah—that which gains immortal life in song

      To mortal life must perish!

      I see her still, with many a fair one nigh,

      Of every fair the stateliest shape appear:

      Like a lone son she shone upon my eye—

      I stood afar, and durst not venture near.

      Seized, as her presence brighten'd round me, by

      The trembling passion of voluptuous fear,

      Yet, swift, as borne upon some hurrying wing,

      The impulse snatch'd me, and I struck the string!

      What then I felt—what sung—my memory hence

      From that wild moment would in vain invoke—

      It was the life of some discover'd sense

      That in the heart's divine emotion spoke;

      Long years imprison'd, and escaping thence

      From every chain, the SOUL enchanted broke,

      And found a music in its own deep core,

      Its holiest, deepest deep, unguess'd before.

      Like melody long hush'd, and lost in space,

      Back to its home the breathing spirit came:

      I look'd, and saw upon that angel face

      The fair love circled with the modest shame;

      I heard (and heaven descended on the place)

      Low-whisper'd words a charmèd truth proclaim—

      Save in thy choral hymns, O spirit-shore,

      Ne'er may I hear such thrilling sweetness more!

      "I know the worth within the heart which sighs,

      Yet shuns, the modest sorrow to declare;

      And what rude Fortune niggardly denies,

      Love to the noble can with love repair.

      The lowly have the loftiest destinies;

      Love only culls the flower that love should wear;

      And ne'er in vain for love's rich gifts, shill yearn

      The heart that feels their wealth—and can return!"

      Amidst the cloud-grey deeps afar

      The Bliss departed lies;

      How linger on one lonely star

      The loving wistful eyes!

      Alas—a star in truth—the light

      Shines but a signal of the night!

      If lock'd within the icy chill

      Of the long sleep, thou wert—

      My faithful grief could find thee still

      A life within my heart;—

      But,