18. The eddy whirled her round and round
Before a gorgeous gate which stood
Piercing the cloud of smoke which bound
Its aery arch with light like blood.
She looked on that gate of marble clear
With wonder that extinguished fear :—

19. For it was filled with sculptures rarest Of forms most beautiful and strange, Like nothing human, but the fairest

Of winged shapes whose legions range Throughout the sleep of those that are, Like the same Lady, good and fair.

20. 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.

21. 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.

22. And their lips moved,-one seemed to

speak,

When suddenly the mountain cracked, 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.

23. 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.

A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye. They are the names of kindred, friend, and

They all are gone, Those vacant names

Which he so feebly calls.

Fond wretch, all dead!

alone,

This most familiar scene, my pain,
These tombs,—alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend, oh! 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 pain,
These tombs,-alone remain,

TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING.

I.

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!

2.

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.

3.

Her voice is hovering o'er my soul—it lingers
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling

The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the

strings.

instrumental

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.

4.

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.