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Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent
The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like inusic from
Midst others of less note, came one frail
Form, A phantom among men, companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Actæon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged
way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and
XXXII. A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swiftA Love in desolation masked ;-a Power Girt round with weakness ;-it can scarce
uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow ;—even whilst we speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly; on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart
XXXIII. His head was bound with pansies overblown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 1 Moore.-ED.
And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,
that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's
All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears; well knew that
gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own; As, in the accents of an unknown land, He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned The Stranger's mien, and murmured: “who
art thou?" He answered not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined
brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's—Oh! that it
should be so !
XXXV. What softer voice is hushed over the dead ? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle
thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death
bed, In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He,' who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the de
1 Leigh Hunt. -ED.
Let me not vex with in harmonious sighs The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.
XXXVI. Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh! What deaf and viperous murderer could
crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe ? The nameless worm would now itself disown: It felt, yet could escape the magic tone Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and
wrong, But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre
Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!
thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt
XXXVIII. Nor let us weep that our delight is fled Far from these carrion kites that scream
below; He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow
Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow Through time and change, unquenchably the
same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth
XXXIX. Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not
sleepHe hath awakened from the dream of life'Tis we who, lost in stormy visions, keep With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance strike with our spirit's
knife Invulnerable nothings.- We decay Like corpses in a charnel ; fear and grief
Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our
XL. He has outsoared the shadow of our night; Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in
vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
He lives, he wakes—’tis Death is dead, not
he; Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
thou Air Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst
thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its
XLII. He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet
bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may
move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never wearied
love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
XLIII. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth
bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, com
pelling there All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its
flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; And bursting in its beauty and its might