That which from thee they should implore:-the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts A garment whom thou clothest not? MARLOW, 1817. MARIANNE'S DREAM. A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, I know the secrets of the air; And things are lost in the glare of day, And thou shalt know of things unknown, The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown At first all deadly shapes were driven And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep; And the Lady ever looked to spy And as towards the east she turned, The sky was blue as the summer sea, 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, 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 On two dread mountains, from whose crest, And columns framed of marble white, Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent But still the Lady heard that clang So that the Lady's heart beat fast, 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 overhead 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 A raging flood descend, and wind And now those raging billows came Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro. The waves were fiercely vomited From every tower and every dome, And dreary light did widely shed O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, Beneath the smoke which hung its night On the stained cope of heaven's light. The plank whereon that Lady sate Was driven through the chasms, about and about Between the peaks so desolate Of the drowning mountain, in and out, As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind sails ; At last her plank an eddy crost, And bore her to the city's wall, Which now the flood had reached almost; Through the domes of those mighty palaces. The eddy whirled her round and round For it was filled with sculptures rarest, Of winged shapes, whose legions range |