LXIII. And little did the sight disturb her soul— Our course unpiloted and starless make But she in the calm depths her way could take, Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide, Beneath the weltering of the restless tide. LXIV. And she saw princes couched under the glow She saw the priests asleep,-all of one sort, The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. LXV. And all the forms in which those spirits lay, Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them. LXVI. She all those human figures breathing there The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fairAnd then, she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, Could make that spirit mingle with her own. LXVII. Alas, Aurora! what wouldst thou have given Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina LXVIII. "Tis said in after times her spirit free Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady-like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none— Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen. LXIX. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was a green and over-arching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. LXX. For on the night that they were buried, she Of second childhood's swaddling bands, and took LXXI. And there the body lay, age after age, Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle sleep about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new the rapid, blind, And fleeting generations of mankind. LXXII. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent's wake Which the sand covers,-all his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar's lap ;—the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe. LXXIII. The priests would write an explanation full, How the god Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak Whate'er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese. LXXIV. The king would dress an ape up in his crown Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet LXXV. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Round the red anvils you might see them stand LXXVI. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done Only in fancy-till the tenth moon shone; LXXVII. And then the Witch would let them take no ill : Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Of deep affection and of truth sincere. LXXVIII. These were the pranks she played among the cities A tale more fit for the weird winter nights— TO THE MOON. ART thou pale for weariness Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth, Among the stars that have a different birth,And ever-changing, like a joyless eye That finds no object worth its constancy? |