There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light[516]
 What do I gaze on? Nothing—Look again!
 Two forms are slowly shadowed on my sight—
 Two insulated phantoms of the brain:[pd]
 It is not so—I see them full and plain—
 An old man, and a female young and fair,
 Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein
 The blood is nectar:—but what doth she there,
 With her unmantled neck, and bosom white and bare?[pe]

CXLIX.

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young life,
 Where on the heart and from the heart we took
 Our first and sweetest nurture—when the wife,
 Blest into mother, in the innocent look,
 Or even the piping cry of lips that brook[pf]
 No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives[pg]
 Man knows not—when from out its cradled nook
 She sees her little bud put forth its leaves—
 What may the fruit be yet?—I know not—Cain was Eve's.

CL.

But here Youth offers to Old Age the food,
 The milk of his own gift: it is her Sire
 To whom she renders back the debt of blood
 Born with her birth:—No—he shall not expire
 While in those warm and lovely veins the fire
 Of health and holy feeling can provide
 Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises higher
 Than Egypt's river:—from that gentle side
 Drink—drink, and live—Old Man! Heaven's realm holds no such tide.

CLI.

The starry fable of the Milky Way[517]
 Has not thy story's purity; it is
 A constellation of a sweeter ray,
 And sacred Nature triumphs more in this
 Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss
 Where sparkle distant worlds:—Oh, holiest Nurse!
 No drop of that clear stream its way shall miss
 To thy Sire's heart, replenishing its source[ph]
 With life, as our freed souls rejoin the Universe.

CLII.

Turn to the Mole[518] which Hadrian reared on high,
 Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles,
 Colossal copyist of deformity—
 Whose travelled phantasy from the far Nile's
 Enormous model, doomed the artist's toils
 To build for Giants, and for his vain earth,
 His shrunken ashes, raise this Dome: How smiles
 The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth,[pi]
 To view the huge design which sprung from such a birth!

CLIII.[519]

But lo! the Dome—the vast and wondrous Dome,[pj][520]
 To which Diana's marvel was a cell—
 Christ's mighty shrine above His martyr's tomb![pk]
 I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle—[521]
 Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell
 The hyæna and the jackal in their shade;[522]
 I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell[pl]
 Their glittering mass i' the Sun, and have surveyed[pm]
 Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem prayed;[523]

CLIV.

But thou, of temples old, or altars new,
 Standest alone—with nothing like to thee—
 Worthiest of God, the Holy and the True!
 Since Zion's desolation, when that He
 Forsook his former city, what could be,
 Of earthly structures, in His honour piled,
 Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty—
 Power—Glory—Strength—and Beauty all are aisled
 In this eternal Ark of worship undefiled.

CLV.

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not;
 And why? it is not lessened—but thy mind,
 Expanded by the Genius of the spot,
 Has grown colossal, and can only find
 A fit[524] abode wherein appear enshrined
 Thy hopes of Immortality—and thou
 Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined
 See thy God face to face, as thou dost now
 His Holy of Holies—nor be blasted by his brow.[pn]

CLVI.

Thou movest—but increasing with the advance,[525]
 Like climbing some great Alp, which still doth rise,
 Deceived by its gigantic elegance—
 Vastness which grows, but grows to harmonize—[po]
 All musical in its immensities;
 Rich marbles, richer painting—shrines where flame[pp]
 The lamps of gold—and haughty dome which vies
 In air with Earth's chief structures, though their frame
 Sits on the firm-set ground—and this the clouds must claim.

CLVII.

Thou seest not all—but piecemeal thou must break,
 To separate contemplation, the great whole;
 And as the Ocean many bays will make
 That ask the eye—so here condense thy soul
 To more immediate objects, and control
 Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by heart
 Its eloquent proportions, and unroll[pq]
 In mighty graduations, part by part,
 The Glory which at once upon thee did not dart,

CLVIII.

Not by its fault—but thine: Our outward sense[pr]
 Is but of gradual grasp—and as it is
 That what we have of feeling most intense
 Outstrips our faint expression; even so this
 Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice
 Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great
 Defies at first our Nature's littleness,
 Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate
 Our Spirits to the size of that they contemplate.

CLIX.

Then pause, and be enlightened; there is more
 In such a survey than the sating gaze
 Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore
 The worship of the place, or the mere praise
 Of Art and its great Masters, who could raise
 What former time, nor skill, nor thought could plan:[ps]
 The fountain of Sublimity displays
 Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of Man[pt]
 Its golden sands, and learn what great Conceptions can.[pu]

CLX.

Or, turning to the Vatican, go see
 Laocoön's[526] torture dignifying pain—
 A Father's love and Mortal's agony
 With an Immortal's patience blending:—Vain
 The struggle—vain, against the coiling strain
 And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's grasp,
 The Old Man's clench; the long envenomed chain[pv]
 Rivets the living links,—the enormous Asp
 Enforces pang on pang, and stifles gasp on gasp.[pw]

CLXI.

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow,[527]
 The God of Life, and Poesy, and Light—
 The Sun in human limbs arrayed, and brow
 All radiant from his triumph in the fight;
 The shaft hath just been shot—the arrow bright
 With an Immortal's vengeance—in his eye
 And nostril beautiful Disdain, and Might
 And Majesty, flash their full lightnings by,
 Developing in that one glance the Deity.

CLXII.

But in his delicate form—a dream of Love,[528]
 Shaped by some solitary Nymph, whose breast
 Longed for a deathless lover from above,
 And maddened in that vision[529]—are exprest
 All that ideal Beauty ever blessed
 The mind with in its most unearthly mood,
 When each Conception was a heavenly Guest—
 A ray of Immortality—and stood,
 Starlike, around, until they gathered to a God![px]

CLXIII.

And if it be Prometheus stole from Heaven
 The fire which we endure[530]—it was repaid
 By him to whom the energy was given
 Which this poetic marble hath arrayed
 With an eternal Glory—which, if made
 By human hands, is not of human thought—
 And Time himself hath hallowed it, nor laid
 One ringlet in the dust—nor hath it caught
 A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with which 'twas wrought.

CLXIV.

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my Song,
 The Being who upheld it through the past?
 Methinks he cometh late and tarries long.
 He is no more—these breathings are his last—
 His wanderings done—his visions ebbing fast,
 And he himself as nothing:—if he was
 Aught but a phantasy, and could be classed
 With forms which live and suffer—let that pass—
 His shadow fades away into Destruction's mass,[py]

CLXV.

Which gathers shadow—substance—life, and all
 That we inherit in its mortal shroud—
 And spreads the dim and universal pall
 Through which all things grow phantoms; and the cloud
 Between us sinks and all which ever glowed,
 Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays
 A melancholy halo scarce allowed
 To hover on the verge of darkness—rays
 Sadder than saddest night, for they distract the gaze,

CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss,
 To gather what we shall be when the frame
 Shall be resolved to something less than this—
 Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame,
 And wipe the dust from off the idle name
 We never more shall hear,—but never more,
 Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:—
 It is enough in sooth that once we bore
 These fardels[531] of the heart—the heart whose sweat was gore.

CLXVII.

Hark! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds,[532]
 A long low distant murmur of dread sound,
 Such as arises when a nation bleeds
 With some deep and immedicable wound;—
 Through storm and darkness yawns the rending ground—
 The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the Chief
 Seems royal still, though with her head discrowned,
 And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief—
 She clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields no relief.

CLXVIII.

Scion of Chiefs and Monarchs, where art thou?
 Fond Hope of many nations, art thou dead?
 Could not the Grave forget thee, and lay low
 Some less majestic, less belovéd head?
 In the sad midnight, while thy heart still bled,
 The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy,
 Death hushed that pang for ever: with thee fled
 The present happiness and promised joy
 Which filled the Imperial Isles so full it seemed to cloy.

CLXIX.

Peasants bring forth in safety.—Can it be,
 Oh thou that wert so happy, so adored!
 Those who weep not for Kings shall weep for thee,
 And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to hoard
 Her many griefs for One; for she had poured
 Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head[pz]
 Beheld her Iris.—Thou, too, lonely Lord,
 And desolate Consort—vainly wert thou wed!
 The husband of a year! the father of the dead!

CLXX.

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment made;
 Thy bridal's fruit is ashes[533]: in the dust
 The fair-haired Daughter of the Isles is laid,
 The love of millions! How we did entrust
 Futurity to her! and, though it must
 Darken above our bones, yet fondly deemed
 Our children should obey her child, and blessed
 Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise seemed
 Like stars to shepherd's eyes:—'twas but a meteor beamed.[534]

CLXXI.

Woe unto us—not her—for she sleeps well:[535]
 The fickle reek of popular breath,[536] the tongue
 Of hollow counsel, the false oracle,
 Which from the birth of Monarchy hath rung
 Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung
 Nations have armed in madness—the strange fate
 Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns,[537] and hath flung
 Against their blind omnipotence a weight
 Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,—[qa]

CLXXII.

These might have been her destiny—but no—
 Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair,
 Good without effort, great without a foe;
 But now a Bride and Mother—and now there!
 How many ties did that stern moment tear!
 From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's breast
 Is linked the electric chain of that despair,
 Whose shock was as an Earthquake's,[538] and opprest
 The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.

CLXXIII.

Lo, Nemi![539] navelled in the woody hills
 So far, that the uprooting Wind which tears
 The oak from his foundation, and which spills
 The Ocean o'er its boundary, and bears
 Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares
 The oval mirror of thy glassy lake;
 And calm as cherished hate, its surface wears[qb]
 A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake,
 All coiled into itself and round, as sleeps the snake.

CLXXIV.

And near, Albano's scarce divided waves
 Shine from a sister valley;—and afar [31.H.]
The Tiber winds, and the broad Ocean laves
 The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war,
 "Arms and the Man," whose re-ascending star
 Rose o'er an empire:—but beneath thy right[540]
 Tully reposed from Rome;—and where yon bar
 Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight[qc]
 The Sabine farm was tilled, the weary Bard's delight.

CLXXV.

But I forget.—My Pilgrim's shrine is won,
 And he and I must part,—so let it be,—
 His task and mine alike are nearly done;
 Yet once more let us look upon the Sea;
 The Midland Ocean breaks on him and me,
 And from the Alban Mount we now behold
 Our friend of youth, that Ocean, which when we
 Beheld it last by Calpe's rock[541] unfold
 Those waves, we followed on till the dark Euxine rolled

CLXXVI.

Upon the blue Symplegades: [32.H.] long years—
Long, though not very many—since have done
 Their work on both; some suffering and some tears[qd]
 Have left us nearly where we had begun:
 Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run—
 We have had our reward—and it is here,—
 That we can yet feel gladdened by the Sun,
 And reap from Earth—Sea—joy almost as dear
 As if there were no Man to trouble what is clear.[542]

CLXXVII.

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place,[543]
 With one fair Spirit for my minister,
 That I might all forget the human race,
 And, hating no one, love but only her!
 Ye elements!—in whose ennobling stir
 I feel myself exalted—Can ye not
 Accord me such a Being? Do I err
 In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
 Though with them to converse can rarely be our lot.

CLXXVIII.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
 There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
 There is society, where none intrudes,
 By the deep Sea, and Music in its roar:
 I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
 From these our interviews, in which I steal
 From all I may be, or have been before,
 To mingle with the Universe,[544] and feel
 What I can ne'er express—yet can not all conceal.

CLXXIX.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean—roll!
 Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
 Man marks the earth with ruin—his control
 Stops with the shore;—upon the watery plain
 The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
 A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
 When, for a moment, like a drop of rain,
 He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan—
 Without a grave—unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.[qe]

CLXXX.

His steps are not upon thy paths,—thy fields
 Are not a spoil for him,—thou dost arise
 And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
 For Earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
 Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies—[545]
 And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
 And howling, to his Gods, where haply lies
 His petty hope in some near port or bay,
 And dashest him again to Earth:—there let him lay.[qf][546]

CLXXXI.

The armaments which thunderstrike the walls
 Of rock-built cities, bidding nations quake,
 And Monarchs tremble in their Capitals,
 The oak Leviathans,[547] whose huge ribs make[qg]
 Their clay creator the vain title take
 Of Lord of thee, and Arbiter of War—
 These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake,
 They melt into thy yeast of waves, which mar
 Alike the Armada's pride or spoils of Trafalgar.[548]

CLXXXII.

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee—
 Assyria—Greece—Rome—Carthage—what are they?[549]
 Thy waters washed[550] them power while they were free,[qh]
 And many a tyrant since; their shores obey
 The stranger, slave, or savage; their decay
 Has dried up realms to deserts:—not so thou,
 Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play,[qi]
 Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow—
 Such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

CLXXXIII.

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
 Glasses itself in tempests; in all time,
 Calm or convulsed—in breeze, or gale, or storm—
 Icing the Pole, or in the torrid clime
 Dark-heaving—boundless, endless, and sublime—
 The image of Eternity-the throne[qj]
 Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime[551]
 The monsters of the deep are made—each Zone
 Obeys thee—thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.

CLXXXIV.

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
 Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
 Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy[552]
 I wantoned with thy breakers—they to me
 Were a delight; and if the freshening sea
 Made them a terror—'twas a pleasing fear,
 For I was as it were a Child of thee,
 And trusted to thy billows far and near,
 And laid my hand upon thy mane—as I do here.[553]

CLXXXV.

My task is done—my song hath ceased—my theme
 Has died into an echo; it is fit[qk]
 The spell should break of this protracted dream.
 The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit
 My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is writ,—
 Would it were worthier! but I am not now
 That which I have been—and my visions flit
 Less palpably before me—and the glow
 Which in my Spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.

CLXXXVI.

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been—
 A sound which makes us linger;—yet—farewell![ql]
 Ye! who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene[qm]
 Which is his last—if in your memories dwell
 A thought which once was his—if on ye swell
 A single recollection—not in vain
 He wore his sandal-shoon, and scallop-shell;
 Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain,
 If such there were—with you, the Moral of his Strain.[554]