Hissing, but stingless-they were slain for food! And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again:-a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom : no love was left; All earth was but one thought—and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails-men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save A lump of death-a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still. And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expired before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Uni verse. July, 1816. December 5, 1816. PROMETHEUS TITAN! to whose immortal eyes Which speaks but in its loneliness, And then is jealous lest the sky Should have a listener, nor will sigh Until its voice is echoless. Titan! to thee the strife was given And the inexorable Heaven, Was but the menace which flung back And evil dread so ill dissembled, That in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy Godlike crime was to be kind, In the endurance, and repulse Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure scurce; His wretchedness, and his resistance, And a firm will, and a deep sense, Its own concenter'd recompense, Triumphant where it dare defy, And making Death a Victory. July, 1816. December, 1816. SONNET TO LAKE LEMAN ROUSSEAU-Voltaire-our Gibbon-and De Staël Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more Their memory thy remembrance would recall: To them thy banks were lovely as to all, But they have made them lovelier, for the lore Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core Of human hearts the ruin of a wall Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, Which of the heirs of immortality Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real! July, 1816. December 5, 1816. It will not burn so long as I must watch: My slumbers-if I slumber-are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within; and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men. But grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o'er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of SECOND SPIRIT Mont Blanc is the monarch of moun tains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, Around his waist are forests braced, I am the spirit of the place, Could make the mountain bow And quiver to his cavern'd baseAnd what with me wouldst Thou? THIRD SPIRIT In the blue depth of the waters, Where the wave hath no strife, Where the wind is a stranger, And the sea-snake hath life, Where the Mermaid is decking Her green hair with shells, Like the storm on the surface Came the sound of thy spells; O'er my calm Hall of Coral The deep echo roll'd— To the Spirit of Ocean Thy wishes unfold! FOURTH SPIRIT Where the slumbering earthquake Lies pillow'd on fire, And the lakes of bitumen Rise boilingly higher; As their summits to heaven I have quitted my birthplace, FIFTH SPIRIT I am the Rider of the wind, SIXTH SPIRIT My dwelling is the shadow of the night, Why doth thy magic torture me with light? SEVENTH SPIRIT The star which rules thy destiny A wandering mass of shapeless flame, Can ye not wring from out the hidden realms Ye offer so profusely what I ask? Spirit. It is not in our essence, in our skill; But-thou may'st die. Man. Will death bestow it on me? Spirit. We are immortal, and do not forget; We are eternal; and to us the past Is, as the future, present. Art thou answer'd? Man. Ye mock me-but the power which brought ye here Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will! The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark, The lightning of my being, is as bright, Pervading, and far darting as your own, And shall not yield to yours, though coop'd in clay! Answer, or I will teach you what I am. Spirit. We answer as we answer'd ; our reply Is even in thine own words. Man. Why say ye so? Spirit. If, as thou say'st, thine essence be as ours, Say, What we possess we offer; it is thine: Bethink ere thou dismiss us; ask again; Kingdom, and sway, and strength, and length of days Man. Accursed! what have I to do with days? They are too long already.-Hence-begone! Spirit. Yet pause: being here, our will would do thee service; Bethink thee, is there then no other gift Which we can make not worthless in thine eyes? Man. No, none: yet stay-one mo ment, ere we part, I would behold ye face to face. I hear Your voices, sweet and melancholy sounds, As music on the waters; and I see are, Or one, or all, in your accustom'd forms. Man. Oh God! if it be thus, and thou Art not a madness and a mockery, I yet might be most happy, I will clasp thee, And we again will be [The figure vanishes. My heart is crush'd! (A voice is heard in the Incantation which follows.) When the moon is on the wave, And the wisp on the morass; Though thy slumber may be deep There are shades which will not vanish, banish; By a power to thee unknown, Thou canst never be alone; Thou art wrapt as with a shroud, Though thou seest me not pass by, not And a magic voice and verse Hath begirt thee with a snare; And the day shall have a sun, From thy false tears I did distil For there it coil'd as in a brake; In proving every poison known, I found the strongest was thine own. By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy delight in others' pain, And on thy head I pour the vial Shall be in thy destiny; Though thy death shall still seem near Lo! the spell now works around thee, |