For some were hung with arras green and blue, Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew His wreathed bugle-horn. One seem'd all dark and red- -a tract of sand, One show'd an iron coast and angry waves. And one, a full-fed river winding slow Behind And one, the reapers at their sultry toil. And hoary to the wind. And one, a foreground black with stones and slags, Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags, And highest, snow and fire. I And one, an English home-gray twilight pour'd Softer than sleep-all things in order stored, Nor these alone, but every landscape fair, Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there, Not less than truth design'd. * Or the maid-mother by a crucifix, In tracts of pasture sunny-warm, Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx Sat smiling, babe in arm. Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea, Or thronging all one porch of Paradise, Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon, And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, To list a footfall, ere he saw The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Of wisdom and of law. Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd The mild bull's golden horn. Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh Nor these alone: but every legend fair Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung, For there was Milton like a seraph strong, And there the Ionian father of the rest ; Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd land The people here, a beast of burden slow, Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings; Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro The heads and crowns of kings; Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind And here once more like some sick man declined, But over these she trod and those great bells To sing her songs alone. And thro' the topmost Oriels' colour'd flame And all those names, that in their motion were Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blue, Flush'd in her temples and her eyes, And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew Rivers of melodies. No nightingale delighteth to prolong Her low preamble all alone, More than soul to hear her echo'd song my Throb thro' the ribbed stone; |