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Marred his repose, the influxes of sense,
And his own being unalloyed by pain,
Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed
The stream of thought, till he lay breathing there
At peace, and faintly smiling his last sight
Was the great moon, which o'er the western line
Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended,
With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed
To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills
It rests, and still as the divided frame
Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood,
That ever beat in mystic sympathy
With nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still:
And when two lessening points of light alone
Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate gasp
Of his faint respiration scarce did stir
The stagnate night :-till the minutest ray
Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart.
It paused-it fluttered. But when heaven remained
Utterly black, the murky shades involved
An image, silent, cold, and motionless,
As their own voiceless earth and vacant air,
Even as a vapour fed with golden beams
That ministered on sunlight, ere the west
Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame-
No sense, no motion, no divinity-
A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings
The breath of heaven did wander-a bright stream
Once fed with many-voicèd waves—a dream
Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever, 670
Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.



0, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! O, that God, 675 Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, who now, Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels No proud exemption in the blighting curse





He bears, over the world wanders for ever,
Lone as incarnate death! O, that the dream
Of dark magician in his visioned oave,
Raking the cinders of a crucible
For life and power, even when his feeble hand
Shakes in its last decay, were the true law
of this so lovely world! But thou art fled
Like some frail exhalation; which the dawn
Robes in its golden beams,-ah! thou hast fled!
The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful,
The child of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done and said i' the world, and many worms
And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth
From sea and mountain, city and wilderness,
In vesper low or joyous orison,
Lifts still its solemn voice:—but thou art fled-
Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes
Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest ministers, who are, alas !
Now thou art not. Upon those pallid lips
So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes
That image sleep in death, upon that form
Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear
Be shed—not even in thought. Nor, when those hues
Are gone, and those divinest lineaments,
Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone
In the frail pauses of this simple strain,
Let not high verse, mourning the memory
Of that which is no more, or painting's woe
Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own cold powers. Art and eloquence,
And all the shews o' the world are frail and vain
To weep a loss that turns their lights to shade.
It is a woe too deep for tears,' when all
Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light adorned the world around it, leaves
Those who remain behind, not sobs or groans,
The passionate tumult of a clinging hope ;
But pale despair and cold tranquillity,
Nature's vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and the grave, that are not as they were.








[To COLERIDGE.] O! THERE are spirits of the air,

And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair

As star-beams among twilight trees :-
Such lovely ministers to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.


With mountain winds, and babbling springs,

And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.



And thou hast sought in starry eyes

Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth :tame sacrifice

To a fond faith! still dost thou pine ?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands?


Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope

On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles.


Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted ;
The glory of the moon is dead;

Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed;
Toine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.


This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase ;-the mad endeavour

Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate,



AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even: Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon, And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away!

Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood: Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.


Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine

head: The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds

the dead, Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and

peace may meet.


The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,

For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows ;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. Thou in the grave shalt rest-yet till the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden made dear to

thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are

not free From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet



We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;

How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver, Streaking the darkness radiantly !-yet soon

Night closes round, and they are lost for ever: . Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings

.Give various response to each varying blast, To whose frail frame no second motion brings

One mood or modulation like the last.


We rest.--A dream has power to poison sleep;

We rise.—One wandering thought pollutes the day; We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;

Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away :


It is the same !-For, be it joy or sorrow,

The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;

Nought may endure but Mutability.


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