And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath, Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth, Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue, Livid, and starred with a lurid dew. And agarics and fungi, with mildew and mould, Started like mist from the wet ground cold; Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying dead With a spirit of growth had been animated! Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum, And hour by hour, when the air was still, And unctuous meteors from spray to spray The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid, For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soon By the heavy axe of the blast were hewn ; The shrank to the root through every pore, sap As blood to a heart that will beat no more. For Winter came: the wind was his whip; He had torn the cataracts from the hills, His breath was a chain which without a sound The earth, and the air, and the water bound; He came, fiercely driven in his chariot-throne By the tenfold blasts of the arctic zone. Then the weeds which were forms of living death, And under the roots of the Sensitive Plant First there came down a thawing rain, And its dull drops froze on the boughs again, And a northern whirlwind, wandering about When winter had gone and spring came back, Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels. CONCLUSION. WHETHER the Sensitive Plant, or that Whether that lady's gentle mind, I dare not guess; but in this life It is a modest creed, and yet That garden sweet, that lady fair, 'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed! not they. For love, and beauty, and delight, A VISION OF THE SEA. 'Tis the terror of tempest. The rags of the sail Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gale: From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven, And when lightning is loosed like a deluge from heaven, She sees the black trunks of the water-spouts spin, And bend, as if heaven was ruining in, Which they seemed to sustain with their terrible mass As if ocean had sunk from beneath them: they pass To their graves in the deep with an earthquake of sound, And the waves and the thunders, made silent around, Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now tossed Through the low trailing rack of the tempest, is lost In the skirts of the thunder-cloud: now down the sweep Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the deep Dim mirrors of ruin, hang gleaming about; In fountains spout o'er it. In many a spire |