And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin

Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky

Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing

Its destined path, or in the mangled soil Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down

From yon remotest waste, have overthrown

The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaimed. The dwellingplace

Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;

Their food and their retreat for ever

gone, So much of life and joy is lost. Of man, flies far in dread; his dwelling

The race work and

Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's

The voiceless lightning in these solitudes Keeps innocently, and like vapor broods Over the snow. The secret strength of things

Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome

Of heaven is as a law, inhabits thee!
And what were thou, and earth, and
stars, and sea,

If to the human mind's imaginings
Silence and solitude were vacancy?
July 23, 1816. 1817.

TO MARY

DEDICATION OF THE REVOLT OF ISLAM

So now my summer task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home;

As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery,

Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;

Nor thou disdain that, ere my fame become

A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom, Its doubtful promise thus I would unite With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light.

The toil which stole from thee so many an hour

Is ended-and the fruit is at thy feet! No longer where the woods to frame a bower

With interlaced branches mix and meet,

Or where, with sound like many voices sweet,

Waterfalls leap among wild islands green

Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat

Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:

But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.

Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first

The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.

I do remember well the hour which burst

My spirit's sleep: a fresh Maydawn it

was,

When I walked forth upon the glitter

ing grass,

Is it that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?

Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers

Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again,

Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign,

And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway.

Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain

Reply in hope-but I am worn away, And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey.

And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak :

Time may interpret to his silent years. Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek,

And in the light thine ample forehead wears,

And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears,

And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered, to subdue my fondest

fears:

And, through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see

A lamp of vestal fire burning internally.

They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,

Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child.

I wonder not-for One then left this earth

Whose life was like a setting planet mild,

Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled

Of its departing glory; still her fame Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild

Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim

The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name.

One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit

Which was the echo of three-thousand

years;

And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it,

As some lone man who in a desert

bears

ON A FADED VIOLET

THE odor from the flower is gone
Which like thy kisses breathed on me ;
The color from the flower is flown
Which glowed of thee and only thee!

A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm,
With cold and silent rest.

I weep,-my tears revive it not !
I sigh,-it breathes no more on me ;
Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be.

1818. 1824.

LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS

MANY a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on
Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above the sunless sky,
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank
Death from the o'er-brimming deep;
And sinks down, down, like that sleep
When the dreamer seems to be
Weltering through eternity;
And the dim low line before
Of a dark and distant shore
Still recedes, as ever still
Longing with divided will,
But no power to seek or shun,
He is ever drifted on

O'er the unreposing wave
To the haven of the grave.

What, if there no friends will greet;
What, if there no heart will meet
His with love's impatient beat;
Wander wheresoe'er he may,
Can he dream before that day
To find refuge from distress

In friendship's smile, in love's caress?
Then 'twill wreak him little woe
Whether such there be or no:
Senseless is the breast, and cold,
Which relenting love would fold;
Bloodless are the veins and chill