Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow-
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung
And filled with frozen light the chasm below.

FRAGMENT IV.

THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all
We can desire, O Love! and happy souls,
Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thy ambrosial dew; Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls

Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue
Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair,
The shadow of thy moving wings imbues

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some bright robe;-thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air

In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest

That which from thee they should implore:-the

weak

Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts
The strong have broken-yet where shall any

seek

A garment whom thou clothest not?

MARLOW, 1817.

MARIANNE'S DREAM.

A PALE dream came to a Lady fair,
And said, A boon, a boon, I pray!

I know the secrets of the air;

And things are lost in the glare of day,
Which I can make the sleeping see,
If they will put their trust in me.

And thou shalt know of things unknown,
If thou wilt let me rest between

The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown
Over thine eyes so dark and sheen:
And half in hope, and half in fright,
The lady closed her eyes so bright.

At first all deadly shapes were driven
Tumultuously across her sleep,

And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven
All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep;

And the Lady ever looked to spy
If the gold sun shone forth on high.

And as towards the east she turned,
She saw aloft in the morning air,
Which now with hues of sunrise burned,
A great black Anchor rising there;
And wherever the Lady turned her eyes
It hung before her in the skies.

The sky was blue as the summer sea,
The depths were cloudless over head.

The air was calm as it could be, ́

There was no sight nor sound of dread,
But that black Anchor floating still
Over the piny eastern hill.

The Lady grew sick with a weight of fear,
To see that Anchor ever hanging,

And veiled her eyes; she then did hear
The sound as of a dim low clanging,

And looked abroad if she might know
Was it aught else, or but the flow

Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro.

There was a mist in the sunless air,

Which shook as it were with an earthquake's

shock,

But the very weeds that blossomed there

Were moveless, and each mighty rock

Stood on its basis steadfastly;

The Anchor was seen no more on high.

But piled around with summits hid
In lines of cloud at intervals,
Stood many a mountain pyramid
Among whose everlasting walls
Two mighty cities shone, and ever
Through the red mist their domes did quiver.

On two dread mountains, from whose crest,
Might seem, the eagle for her brood
Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest
Those tower-encircled cities stood.
A vision strange such towers to see,
Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously,
Where human art could never be.

And columns framed of marble white,
And giant fanes, dome over dome
Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright
With workmanship, which could not come
From touch of mortal instrument,

Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent
From its own shapes magnificent.

But still the Lady heard that clang
Filling the wide air far away;
And still the mist whose light did hang

Among the mountains shook alway,

So that the Lady's heart beat fast,
As half in joy and half aghast,
On those high domes her look she cast,

Sudden from out that city sprung

A light that made the earth grow red; Two flames that each with quivering tongue Licked its high domes, and over-head Among those mighty towers and fanes Dropped fire, as a volcano rains Its sulphurous ruin on the plains.

And hark! a rush, as if the deep
Had burst its bonds; she looked behind
And saw over the western steep

A raging flood descend, and wind
Through that wide vale: she felt no fear,
But said within herself, 'Tis clear
These towers are Nature's own, and she
To save them has sent forth the sea.

And now those raging billows came
Where that fair Lady sate, and she
Was borne towards the showering flame
By the wild waves heaped tumultuously,
And, on a little plank, the flow
Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro.

The waves were fiercely vomited

From every tower and every dome,