Let me hear other groans, and trumpets blown
Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival,
From the gold peaks of heaven's high-piled clouds;
Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir

410

Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
Beautiful things made new, for the surprise
Of the sky-children." So he feebly ceased,
With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause,
Methought I heard some old man of the earth
Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
And ears act with that unison of sense

Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp

With large-limb'd visions. More I scrutinized.

Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees,

Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms,

With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there,
Now all was silent, gave a deadly lie

To what I erewhile heard: only his lips
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard;

They told the truth, though round the snowy locks
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven

A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose,

And stretcht her white arm through the hollow dark,
Pointing some whither : whereat he too rose,
Like a vast giant, seen by men at sea

Το grow pale from the waves at dull midnight.
They melted from my sight into the woods;
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, "These twain
Are speeding to the families of grief,
Where rooft in by black rocks, they waste in pain
And darkness, for no hope." And she spake on,
As ye may read who can unwearied pass
Onward from the antechamber of this dream,
Where, even at the open doors, awhile
I must delay, and glean my memory
Of her high phrase—perhaps no further dare.

420

430

440

CANTO II

MORTAL, that thou mayst understand aright,

I humanize my sayings to thine ear,
Making comparisons of earthly things;
Or thou mightst better listen to the wind,
Whose language is to thee a barren noise,
Though it blows legend-laden thro' the trees.
In melancholy realms big tears are shed,
More sorrow like to this, and such like woe,
Too huge for mortal tongue or pen of scribe.
The Titans fierce, self-hid or prison-bound,
Groan for the old allegiance once more,
Listening in their doom for Saturn's voice.
But one of the whole eagle-brood still keeps
His sovereignty, and rule, and majesty:
Blazing Hyperion on his orbed fire

Still sits, still snuffs the incense teeming up
From Man to the Sun's God—yet insecure.
For as upon the earth dire prodigies
Fright and perplex, so also shudders he;

Not at dog's howl or gloom-bird's hated screech,
Or the familiar visiting of one

Upon the first toll of his passing bell,
Or prophesyings of the midnight lamp;
But horrors, portion'd to a giant nerve,
Make great Hyperion ache. His palace bright,
Bastion'd with pyramids of shining gold,
And touch'd with shade of bronzed obelisks,
Glares a blood-red thro' all the thousand courts,

Arches, and domes, and fiery galleries;

And all its curtains of Aurorean clouds

30

Flash angerly; when he would taste the wreaths

Of incense breathed aloft from sacred hills
Instead of sweets, his ample palate takes
Savour of poisonous brass and metals sick;
Wherefore when harbour'd in the sleepy West,
After the full completion of fair day,
For rest divine upon exalted couch,
And slumber in the arms of melody,
He paces through the pleasant hours of ease,
With strides colossal, on from hall to hall,
While far within each aisle and deep recess
His winged minions in close clusters stand
Amazed, and full of fear; like anxious men,
Who on a wide plain gather in sad troops,
When earthquakes jar their battlements and towers.
Even now where Saturn, roused from icy trance,
Goes step for step with Thea from yon woods,
Hyperion, leaving twilight in the rear,

Is sloping to the threshold of the West.
Thither we tend." Now in clear light I stood,
Relieved from the dusk vale. Mnemosyne
Was sitting on a square-edged polish'á stone,
That in its lucid depth reflected pure

Her priestess' garments. My quick eyes ran on
From stately nave to nave, from vault to vault,
Through bowers of fragrant and enwreathed light,
And diamond-paned lustrous long arcades.

Anon rush'd by the bright Hypericn;

His flaming robes stream'd out beyond his heels,
And gave a roar as if of earthy fire,

That scared away the meek ethereal hours,

And made their dove-wings tremble. On he flared.

40

So

60

TO FANNY

PHYSICIAN Nature! let my spirit blood!

O ease my heart of verse and let me rest;

Throw me upon thy Tripod, till the flood
Of stifling numbers ebbs from my full breast.
A theme! a theme! great nature! give a theme,
Let me begin my dream.

I come-I see thee, as thou standest there;
Beckon me not into the wintry air.

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
And hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,-
To-night, if I may guess, thy beauty wears
A smile of such delight,

As brilliant and as bright,

As when with ravish'd, aching, vassal eyes,
Lost in soft amaze,

Who now,

I gaze, I gaze!

with greedy looks, eats up my feast?
What stare outfaces now my silver moon ?
Ah! keep that hand unravish'd at the least;
Let, let, the amorous burn-

But, pr'ythee, do not turn

The current of your heart from me so soon.
O! save, in charity,

The quickest pulse for me.

:

Save it for me, sweet love! though music breathe
Voluptuous visions into the warm air,

Though swimming through the dance's dangerous wreath;
Be like an April day,

Smiling and cold and gay,

A temperate lily, temperate as fair;
Then, Heaven! there will be
A warmer June for me.

Why, this-you'll say, my Fanny! is not true:
Put your soft hand upon your snowy side,
Where the heart beats: confess-'tis nothing new-
Must not a woman be

A feather on the sea,

Sway'd to and fro by every wind and tide?
Of as uncertain speed

As blow-ball from the mead?

I know it—and to know it is despair
To one who loves you as I love, sweet Fanny!
Whose heart goes fluttering for you every where,
Nor, when away you roam,

Dare keep its wretched home:

Love, love alone, has pains severe and many ;
Then, loveliest! keep me free

From torturing jealousy.

Ah! if you prize my subdued soul above
The poor, the fading, brief pride of an hour;
Let none profane my Holy See of love,

Or with a rude hand break

The sacramental cake:

Let none else touch the just new-budded flower;
If not-may my eyes close,
Love on their last repose.