And as she looked, still lovelier grew Of his own mind did there endure After the touch, whose power had braided She looked, the flames were dim, the flood Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, The statues gave a joyous scream, The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the dream did creep; 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 Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers 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 On which, like one in trance upborne, 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 Grows pale and blue with altered hue And that at best a withered blossom; But thy false care did idly wear Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ! DEATH. THEY die—the dead return not. Misery Misery, my sweetest friend-O! weep no more! SONNET.-OZYMANDIAS. I MET a traveller from an antique land |