Which won me more than all the best Rich source gave birth to both-there cams As e'er was born of voice and hand, Then was it, by the flash that blazed Full o'er her features-oh 'twas then, But quick let fall their lids again, With holier shame, than did this maid, Of splendor from the aisles, display'd, And, at her feet in worship thrown, But, scarcely had that burst of light Of light and song, the young maids went; In vain I tried to follow ;-bands Of reverend chanters fill'd the aisle: Where'er I sought to pass, their wands But no, 'twas vain-hour after hour, And, hurrying, (though with many a look There is a Lake, that to the north Have a proud City of their own,' Slumbers, immortalized in stone; And where, through marble grots beneath, The lifeless, ranged like sacred things, Nor wanting aught of life but breath, Lie in their painted coverings, And on each new successive race, That visit their dim haunts below, Look with the same unwithering face, They wore three thousand years ago. There, Silence, thoughtful God, who loves The neighborhood of death, in groves Of Asphodel lies hid, and weaves His hushing spell among the leavesNor ever noise disturbs the air, Save the low, humming, mournful sound Of priests, within their shrines, at prayer For the fresh Dead entomb'd around. 'Twas tow'rd this place of death-in mood Made up of thoughts, half bright, half darkI now across the shining flood Unconscious turn'd my light-wing'd bark. 1 Necropolis, or the City of the Dead, to the south of Memphis. The form of that young maid, in all Its beauty, was before me still; And oft I thought, if thus to call Her image to my mind at will, If but the memory of that one Bright look of hers, forever gone, Was to my heart worth all the rest Of woman-kind, beheld, possess'dWhat would it be, if wholly mine, Within these arms, as in a shrine, Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shineAn idol, worshipp'd by the light Of her own beauties, day and night— If 'twas a blessing but to see And lose again, what would this be? ALCIPHRON. In thoughts like these-but often cross'd Suddenly from the wave to rise- Tower in succession to the skies; While one, aspiring, as if soon "Twould touch the heavens, rose o'er all; And, on its summit, the white moon Rested, as on a pedestal! The silence of the lonely tombs And temples round, where naught was heard But the high palm-tree's tufted plumes, Shaken, at times, by breeze or bird, My oars were lifted, and my boat Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream; Drifted through many an idle dream, With the same innocence of brow She wore within the lighted fane Now kindling, through each pulse and vein, That must eclipse even light like hers! Shall I confess-to thee I may That never yet hath come the chance Of a new music, a new ray From woman's voice, from woman's glance, Which-let it find me how it might, In joy or grief-I did not bless, And wander after, as a light Leading to undreamt happiness. And chiefly now, when hopes so vain Were stirring my heart and brain, When Fancy had allured my soul Into a chase, as vague and far As would be his, who fix'd his goal In the horizon, or some starAny bewilderment, that brought More near to earth my high-flown thoughtThe faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, Less high and heavenly, but more sure, Came welcome-and was then to me What the first flowery isle must be To vagrant birds blown out to sea. Quick to the shore I urged my bark, And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed Between the lofty tombs, could mark Those figures, as with hasty tread They glided on-till in the shade Of a small pyramid, which through Some boughs of palm its peak display'd, They vanish'd instant from my view. I hurried to the spot--no trace At length, exploring darkly round "Twixt peak and base-and, with a prayer To the bliss-loving Moon, whose eye A labyrinth for mystery made, With wanderings onward, backward, round, Scarce had I ask'd myself, "Can aught A glimpse of light, remote, but clear- Through which I now, all hope, descended. Never did Spartan to his bride With warier foot at midnight glide. The still, rapt awe with which I gazed. The Theban beetle, as he shines, Of a new world, when this is gone, Direct beneath this type, reclined Graved on the altar's front were seen A branch of lotus, broken in two, As that fair creature's life had been, And a small bird that from its spray Was winging, like her soul, away. But brief the glimpse I now could spare, To the wild, mystic wonders round; For there was yet one wonder there, Of her who on that altar slept; And near it stood, when first I cameBending her brow, as if she kept Sad watch upon its silent flameA female form, as yet so placed Between the lamp's strong glow and me, That I but saw, in outline traced, The shadow of her symmetry. Yet did my heart-I scarce knew why- I saw 'twas she-the same-the same- Upon the crystal, o'er the breast As if, intent on heaven, those eyes Their own pure orbits and the skies; And, though her lips no motion made, And that fix'd look was all her speech, I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd Deeper within than words could reach. Strange power of Innocence, to turn To its own hue whate'er comes near, And make even vagrant Passion burn With purer warmth within its sphere ! She who, but one short hour before, Had come, like sudden wildfire, o'er My heart and brain-whom gladly, even From that bright Temple, in the face Of those proud ministers of heaven, I would have borne, in wild embrace And risk'd all punishment, divine And human, but to make her mire ;She, she was now before me, thr: wn By fate itself into my arms There standing, beautiful, alone, With naught to guard her, but her charms. Yet did I, then-did even a breath From my parch'd lips, too parch'd to move, Disturb a scene where thus, beneath Earth's silent covering, Youth and Death Held converse through undying love? No-smile and taunt me as thou wilt Though but to gaze thus was delight, Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt, To win by stealth so pure a sight: And rather than a look profane Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, Or voice or whisper broke the chain That link'd her spirit with the skies, From which I watch'd her heavenward face, My life, my more than life, depended, To this bless'd scene I now ascended, And with slow seeking, and some pain, And many a winding tried in vain, Emerged to upper air again. The sun had freshly risen, and down The marble hills of Araby, Scatter'd, as from a conqueror's crown, His beams into that living sea. There seem'd a glory in his light, Newly put on as if for pride Of the high homage paid this night My mind's first impulse was to fly At once from this entangling netNew scenes to range, new loves to try, Or, in mirth, wine, and luxury Of every sense, that night forget. But vain the effort-spell-bound still, I linger'd, without power or will To turn my eyes from that dark door, Which now enclosed her 'mong the dead Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er The sunny pile their flickering shed, "Twas her light form again I saw Starting to earth-still pure and bright, But wakening, as I hoped, less awe, Thus seen by morning's natural light, Than in that strange, dim cell at night. But no, alas-she ne'er return'd: Nor yet-though still I watch-nor yet, Though the red sun for hours hath burn'd, The peak of that eternal pile He pauses still at noon to bless, Standing beneath his downward smile, Like a great Spirit, shadowless!-Nor yet she comes-while here, alone, Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, Where no heart beats except my own, Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, By turns I watch, and rest, and trace These lines, that are to waft to thee My last night's wondrous history. Dost thou remember, in that .sle Of our own Sea, where thou and I Linger'd so long, so happy a while, Till all the summer flowers went by— How gay it was, when sunset brought To the cool Well our favorite maidsSome we had won, and some we soughtTo dance within the fragrant shades, And, till the stars went down attune Their Fountain Hymns' to the young moon? That time, too-oh, 'tis like a dream- I sprung as Genius of the Stream, And bore away that blooming bride, Who thither came, to yield her charms (As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed) Into the cold Scamander's arms, But met, and welcomed mine, insteadWondering, as on my neck she fell, How river-gods could love so well! Who would have thought that he, who roved Like the first bees of summer then, Rifling each sweet, nor ever loved But the free hearts, that loved again, To the least breath that round it sighs- Yet so it is-and the same thirst For something high and pure, above This withering world, which, from the first, Made me drink deep of woman's love 1 These songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles. As the one joy, to heaven most near Farewell; whatever may befall- LETTER IV. FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST of MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRÆTORIAN PREFECT. REJOICE, my friend, rejoice:-the youthful Chief And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood, No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace? Fools!-did they know how keen the zest that's given To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven; Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best ally And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school— Like the pale moon's, o'er Passion's heaving tide, Or Pleasure's substance for its shade to miss, Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they Alone despise the craft of us who pray ; Still less their creedless vanity deceive With the fond thought, that we who pray believe. Believe!-Apis forbid-forbid it, all Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall- How far gross Man can vulgarize the sky; Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep, Believe-oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care Oh! many a time, when, 'mid the Temple's blaze, Would they not change their creed, their craft, for The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind— ours ? Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers, Languish with too much sun, like o'erblown flowers, For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd A lever, of more might, in skilful hand, |