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From yon remotest waste, have overthrown
The limits of the dead and living world,
Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place
Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil;
Their food and their retreat for ever gone,
So much of life and joy is lost. The race
Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling
Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream,
And their place is not known. Below, vast caves
Shine in the rushing torrent's restless gleam,
Which from those secret chasms in tumult dwelling
Meet in the vale, and one majestic River,
The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever
Rolls it sloud waters to the ocean waves,
Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air.
Mont Blanc yet gleams on high:—the power is there,
The still and solemn power of many sights
And many sounds, and much of life and death.
In the calm darkness of the moonless nights,
Iu the lone glare of day, the snows descend
Upon that Mountain ; none beholds them there,
Nor when the flakes burn in the sinking sun,
Or the star-beams dart through them:-Winds contend
Silently there, and heap the snow with breath
Rapid and strong, but silently! Its home
The voiceless lightning in these solitudes
Keeps innocently, and like vapour 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?

Switzerland, June 23, 1816.

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ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI,

IN THB FLORBNTINE GALLERY.

Ir lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,

Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine ; Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;

Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie

Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of dea th.

Yet it is less the horror than the grace

Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone; Whereon the lineaments of that dead face

Are graven, till the characters be grown Into itself, and thought no more can trace;

"Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain, Which humanize and harmonize the strain.

And from its head as from one body grow,
As [

] grass out of a watery rock, Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow

And their long tangles in each other lock,
And with unending involutions show
Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock

The torture and the death within, and saw
The solid air with many a ragged jaw.

And from a stone beside a poisonous eft

Peeps idly into those Gorgonian eyes ; Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft

Of sense, has fitted with a mad surprise Out of the cave this hideous light had cleft,

And he comes hasteniug like a moth that hies After a taper; and the midnight sky Flares, a light more dread than obscurity.

'Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror;

For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare Kindled by that inextricable error

Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air Become a [

] and ever-shifting mirror Of all the beauty and the terror thereA woman's countenance, with serpent locks, Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks. Florence, 1819.

SONG.

RARELY, rarely, comes thou,

Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

Ilow shall ever one like me

Win thee back again?

With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false! thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure,
Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure.
Pity then will cut away
Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight !
The fresh Earth in new leaves drest,

And the starry night;
Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow,

and all the forms Of the radiant frost: I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Every thing almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me
What difference! but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,

And like light can fee,
But, above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee-
Thou art love and life! O come,
Make once inore my heart thy home.

TO CONSTANTIA,

SINGING.

Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,

Perchance were death indeed !-Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

Even though the sounds which were thy voice, whick burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep;

Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet,
Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

A breathless awe, like the swift change

Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers,
Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange,

Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers.
The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven
By the inchantment of thy strain,

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