XV.

And with it fled the tempest, so that ocean And earth and sky shone through the atmosphere

Only, 'twas strange to see the red commotion Of waves like mountains o'er the sinking sphere

Of sun-set sweep, and their fierce roar to hear Amid the calm: down the steep path I wound

To the sea-shore-the evening was most clear And beautiful, and there the sea I found Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber bound.

XVI.

There was a Woman, beautiful as morning, Sitting beneath the rocks, upon the sand Of the waste sea-fair as one flower adorning An icy wilderness—each delicate hand Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band Of her dark hair had fall'n, and so she sate Looking upon the waves; on the bare strand Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait, Fair as herself, like Love by Hope left desolate.

XVII.

It seemed that this fair Shape had looked

upon

That unimaginable fight, and now

That her sweet eyes were weary of the sun, As brightly it illustrated her woe;

For in the tears which silently to flow Paused not, its lustre hung: she watching

aye

The foam-wreaths which the faint tide wove

below

Upon the spangled sands, groaned heavily, And after every groan looked up over the sea.

XVIII.

And when she saw the wounded Serpent make

His path between the waves, her lips grew pale,

Parted, and quivered; the tears ceased to break

From her immovable eyes; no voice of wail Escaped her; but she rose, and on the gale Loosening her star-bright robe and shadowy

hair

Poured forth her voice; the caverns of the vale

That opened to the ocean, caught it there, And filled with silver sounds the overflowing

air.

XIX.

She spake in language whose strange melody Might not belong to earth. I heard, alone, What made its music more melodious be, The pity and the love of every tone;

But to the Snake those accents sweet were known

His native tongue and hers; nor did he beat The hoar spray idly then, but winding on Thro' the green shadows of the waves that meet

Near to the shore, did pause beside her snowy feet.

XX.

Then on the sands the Woman sate again, And wept and clasped her hands, and all between,

Renewed the unintelligible strain

Of her melodious voice and eloquent mien; And she unveiled her bosom, and the green And glancing shadows of the sea did play O'er its marmoreal depth:-one moment seen, For ere the next, the Serpent did obey Her voice, and, coiled in rest, in her embrace it lay.

XXI.

Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet fair, While yet the day-light lingereth in the skies Which cleaves with arrowy beams the darkred air,

And said: To grieve is wise, but the despair Was weak and vain which led thee here from

sleep:

This shalt thou know, and more, if thou dost dare

With me and with this Serpent, o'er the deep, A voyage divine and strange, companionship to keep.

XXII.

Her voice was like the wildest, saddest tone,
Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard long ago.
I wept. Shall this fair woman all alone,
Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go?
His head is on her heart, and who can know
How soon he may devour his feeble prey ?-
Such were my thoughts, when the tide 'gan
to flow;

And that strange boat, like the moon's shade did sway

Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay.

XXIII.

A boat of rare device, which had no sail
But its own curvèd prow of thin moonstone,
Wrought like a web of texture fine and frail,
To catch those gentlest winds which are not
known

To breathe, but by the steady speed alone
With which it cleaves the sparkling sea; and

now

We are embarked, the mountains hang and frown

Over the starry deep that gleams below A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the waves we go.

XXIV.

And as we sailed, a strange and awful tale That Woman told, like such mysterious dream

As makes the slumberer's cheek with wonder pale!

'Twas midnight, and around, a shoreless stream,

Wide ocean rolled, when that majestic theme Shrined in her heart found utterance, and she bent

Her looks on mine; those eyes a kindling beam

Of love divine into my spirit sent,

And, ere her lips could move, made the air eloquent.

XXV.

Speak' not to me, but hear! much shalt thou learn,

1 Note that the woman is the speaker up to the end of stanza 46.-ED.

Much must remain unthought, and more

untold,

In the dark Future's ever-flowing urn: Know then, that from the depth of ages old, Two Powers o'er mortal things dominion hold Ruling the world with a divided lot, Immortal, all-pervading, manifold,

Twin Genii, equal Gods-when life and thought

Sprang forth, they burst the womb of inessential Naught.

XXVI.

The earliest dweller of the world, alone,
Stood on the verge of chaos; Lo! afar
O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors shone,
Sprung from the depth of its tempestuous
jar:

A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star
Mingling their beams in combat-as he stood,
All thoughts within his mind waged mutual

war,

In dreadful sympathy-when to the flood That fair Star fell, he turned and shed his brother's blood.

XXVII.

Thus evil triumphed, and the Spirit of evil, One Power of many shapes which none may know,

One Shape of many names; the Fiend did revel

In victory, reigning o'er a world of woe,
For the new race of man went to and fro,
Famished and homeless, loathed and loathing,
wild,

And hating good-for his immortal foe,