And as she looked, still lovelier grew
Those marble forms;-the sculptor sure
Was a strong spirit, and the hue

Of his own mind did there endure
After the touch, whose power had braided
Such grace, was in some sad change faded.

She looked, the flames were dim, the flood
Grew tranquil as a woodland river
Winding through hills in solitude;

Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver
And their fair limbs to float in motion,
Like weeds unfolding in the ocean;

And their lips moved; one seemed to speak,
When suddenly the mountain crackt,
And through the chasm the flood did break
With an earth-uplifting cataract :
The statues gave a joyous scream,
And on its wings the pale thin dream
Lifted the Lady from the stream.

The dizzy flight of that phantom pale
Waked the fair Lady from her sleep,
And she arose, while from the veil

Of her dark eyes the dream did creep ;
And she walked about as one who knew
That sleep has sights as clear and true
As any waking eyes can view.

MARLOW, 1817

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, which 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 enchantment of thy strain, And on my shoulders wings are woven, To follow its sublime career,

Beyond the mighty moons that wane

Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, The blood and life within those snowy fingers

Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quick— The blood is listening in my frame, And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes ; My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies.

I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee,
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song
Flows on, and fills all things with melody.

Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne,

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Which, when the starry waters sleep

Round western isles with incense-blossoms

bright,

Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.

TO CONSTANTIA.

THE rose that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant air of noon,

Grows pale and blue with altered hue
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.
Such is my heart-roses are fair,

And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom !
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth-

DEATH.

THEY die—the dead return not. Misery

Sits near an open grave and calls them over, A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye

They are names of kindred, friend and lover, Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone! Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone. This most familiar scene, my painThese tombs alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend-O! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not;
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door

Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot Was even as bright and calm, but transitory; And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary; This most familiar scene, my painThese tombs alone remain.

SONNET.-OZYMANDIAS.

I MET a traveller from an antique land
Who said, Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The band that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.