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Throbs with expectant agony, —
But nought is seen-no sounds impart
The secret of that dread abyss :
Still do they gaze, half-willing to dismiss
Their fears and hopes, for over plain and hill,
And smiling ocean—all is hush'd and still.
Gracious God, what a shriek !
The monster with his beak
Is tearing out his victim's heart!
Lo! as that desolating cry
Echoes from the mountains high,
And throws its fear afar, a start
Of horror seems to darken nature's face.
Athwart the quaking deep,
Revolting shudders creep,
Earth trembles to her very base
Air seems to swoon—the sky to frown
The sun with ghastly glare shrinks faster down.Hark! what a furious clash of chains !
Victim! thou never canst unlock
The brazen bolts that root thee to the rock;
Vain are thy struggles and convulsive strains.
Ah me! what dreadful groans are those
Wrung from the very depths of agonies;
Now weaker moanings rise, till, wom with woes,
The fainting wretch exhausted lies,
And all again is grim repose.
But still with throbbing breasts and steadfast eyes
The heroes gazed upon the mountain's peak, Till gorged with gore they saw the monster rise
With blood-stain’d claws, and breast, and beak:
And as above them he resumed his flight,
Th’arrested vessel shakes,
The flapping main-sail quakes,
And all seem'd turned to statues at the sight,
All but the son of Bacchus, who
With flashing eyes and visage red,
Again uprear'd his bow and drew
His longest arrow to the head.
When from the eagle's beak a drop of gore,
(The heart's blood of Prometheus) fell
Warm on his hand! upon the vessel's floor
Down fell his bow;-with shuddering yell,
And haggard eyes still staring on the drop,
He staggers back, clasping the mast to prop
The dews of terror stood,
And all in awe-struck mood
Ponder'd in silence on that omen horrid.
The sun went down, and far into the gloom
The monster shot away,--but none
Of the bewilder'd Argonauts resume
The vessel's guidance as her way she won.
None spakenone moved-all sate in blank dismay,
Revolving in their minds this dread portent;
And thus, abandon'd to the sway
Of the blind wind and watery element,
Through the whole night the Argo bore
Those throbbing hearts along the Pontic shore.
THE BIRTH OF THE INVISIBLE.
O SCENE of enchantment! O vision of bliss!
What Paradisaical glory is this !
A garden! a garden! O rapturous sight! More stately in beauty, more rich in delight,
Than any the Muse, in her leafiest hour,
Has fabled of golden Hesperian bower,
Or Fortunate Islands, or fields where the blest
In Elysium's sylvan beatitudes rest.
Lovely or rare, none can compare
With this heaven on earth so surpassingly fair!