But that black Anchor floating still
Over the piny eastern hill.

The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear,

To see that Anchor ever hanging,
And veiled her eyes ; she then did hear

The sound as of a dim low clanging,
And looked abroad if she might know
Was it aught else, or but the flow
Of tbe blood in her own veins, to and fro.

There was a mist in the sunless air,

Which shook as it were with an earthquake 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.

But piled around with summits hid

In lines of cloud at intervals,
Stood many a mountain pyramid

Among whose everlasting walls
Two mighty cities shone, and ever
Through the red mists their domes did quiver.

On two dread mountains, from whose crest,

Might seem, the eagle for her brood
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest

Those tower-encircled cities stood.
A vision strange such towers to see,
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously
Where human art could never be.

And columns framed of marble white,

And giant fanes, dome over dome
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright

With workmanship, which could not come
From touch of mortal instrument,
Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent
From its own shapes magnificent,

But still the Lady heard that clang

Filling the wide air far away;
And still the mist whose light did hang

Among the mountains shook alway,
So that the Lady's heart beat fast,
As half in joy and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast.


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The plank whereon that Lady sate

Was driven through the chasms, about and about,
Between the peaks so desolate

Of the drowning mountain, in and out,
As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails-
While the flood was filling those hollow vales.

At last her plank an eddy crost,

And bore her to the city's wall,
Which now the flood had reached almost;

It might the stoutest heart appal
To hear the fire roar and hiss
Through the domes of those mighty palaces.

The eddy whirled her round and round

Before a gorgeous gate, which stood Piercing the clouds of smoke which bound

Its aery arch with light like blood; She looked on that gate of marble clear With wonder that extinguished fear

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THEY die—the dead return not-Misery

Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye .

They are names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone !
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,

This most familiar scene, my pain

These tombs alone remain. .....................

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Misery, my sweetest friend-oh! weep no more !

Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not:
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;

This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.



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 !

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 enchantment of thy straip,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,

To follow its sublime career,
Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere,
Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings,
The blood and life within those snowy fingers

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings.
My brain is wild, my breath comes quick-

The blood is listening in my frame,
And thronging shadows, fast and thick,

Fall on my overflowing eyes;
My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dier,
I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies.


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I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee,

Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song
Flows on, and fills all things with melody,

Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong,
On which, like one in trance upborne,

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep,
Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night,
Which, when the starry waters sleep,

Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright
Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight

THE rose that drinks the fountain dew

In the pleasant air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue-

In the gaze of the nightly moon;
for the planet of frost, so cold and bright,
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.

Such is my heart—roses are fair,

And that at best a withered blossom ;
But thy false care did idly wear

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom!
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth


I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“ My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair !”
Nothing beside remaius. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

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