Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son And watch'd by weeping queens. Or hollowing one hand against his ear, The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd, Or sweet Europa's mantle blue unclasp'd, Or else flushed 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, Beside him Shakspeare bland and mild; And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song, And somewhat grimly smiled. And there the Ionian father of the rest; Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd The people here, a beast of burden slow, 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' color'd flame And all those names, that in their motion were Thro' which the lights, rose, amber, emerald, blu, 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 More than my soul to hear her echo'd song Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth, Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth, Communing with herself: "All these are mine, And let the world have peace or wars, 'Tis one to me." She- - when young night divine Crown'd dying day with stars, Making sweet close of his delicious toils To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried, I marvel if my still delight In this great house so royal-rich, and wide, Be flatter'd to the height. "O all things fair to sate my various eyes! "O God-like isolation which art mine, I can but count thee perfect gain, What time I watch the darkening droves of swine That range on yonder plain. "In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin, They graze and wallow, breed and sleep; And oft some brainless devil enters in, And drives them to the deep." Then of the moral instinct would she prate, "I take possession of man's mind and deed. Full oft the riddle of the painful earth And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years Lest she should fail and perish utterly, The abysmal deeps of Personality, Plagued her with sore despair. When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight Deep dread and loathing of her solitude "What! is not this my place of strength," she said, 66 My spacious mansion built for me, Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid Since my first memory?" But in dark corners of her palace stood On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood, And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame, A spot of dull stagnation, without light A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand; A star that with the choral starry dance Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd. 66 No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall, "No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world. One deep, deep silence all!" She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod, Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame, Lay there exiled from eternal God, Lost to her place and name; |