|
Beside the falls of ancient walls, And golden Halls, Entomb'd forever, On lonely sands, with phantom bands, A figure stands, Called never, never. Her eyes are green, as em'rald sheen, With glories seen, In distant ages; As dongon keep, her eyes are deep, And there asleep, Enchanted Mages. A thousand years of hopes and fears, With dying cheers, Her cohort only. A thousand miles of vanished piles, Of olden whiles Her Empire lonely. From night to morn of glory shorn, She stands forlorn, Her only glory. From sun to frost, a night uncrossed, Forever lost, An endless story. |
A SHELL
|
Full wondrous wrought, and passing strange, Of many a sea-born tint— Some old and deathless work of change, For fairy wonderment. But what of that strange elfin sprite, That in this rainbow hall Once moved? What woe, or what delight, Did make its all in all? How roamed it through the scenery? Of ocean's old expanse? Or dreamed, in fragrant greenery, O'er some sweet sea romance? Was't haughty King, or was it slave, In its unknown kingdom there? Or loved, in elfin grot or cave, Some sweet shell-maiden fair? Alas! like some old haunted palace, The silence, how profound! Where mem'ry's drunk from death's deep chalice, And turned the chalice down. |
TO THE TRAVELLER
|
Because thy winged spirit ever craves Then must thou range wide seas and distant lands— To see, to know, thy burning thirst demands No sweeter drink. To kneel in sainted naves For art sake; marvel by Egyptian graves; Seek paynim shrines with strange fantastic bands Or pause to weep where sad Pompeii stands, So richly jewelled in her granite waves. Ah! 'Tis to know, till every cup is drained, And passion wane in pale satiety. Then but to dare the boundless unattained,— Thy self a world, thy thirst its history. Ah! such a world! such wash of human waves On human shores, where still the thirst enslaves. |