drowned

Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart.

The Bear, that prowled all night about the fold

Of the North-star, hath shrunk into his den,

Scared by the blithesome footsteps of the Dawn,

Whose blushing smile floods all the Orient;

And now bright Lucifer grows less and less,

Into the heaven's blue quiet deep-withdrawn.

Sunless and starless all, the desert sky
Arches above me, empty as this heart
For ages hath been empty of all joy,
Except to brood upon its silent hope,
As o'er its hope of day the sky doth now.

All night have I heard voices: deeper yet | The deep low breathing of the silence grew,

While all about, muffled in awe, there stood

Shadows, or forms, or both, clear-felt at heart,

But, when I turned to front them, far along

Only a shudder through the midnight ran, And the dense stillness walled me closer round.

But still I heard them wander up and down

That solitude, and flappings of dusk wings

Did mingle with them, whether of those hags

Let slip upon me once from Hades deep,
Or of yet direr torments, if such be,
I could but guess; and then toward me

Some doom was close upon me, and I looked

And saw the red moon through the heavy mist,

Just setting, and it seemed as it were falling,

Or reeling to its fall, so dim and dead And palsy-struck it looked. Then all sounds merged Into the rising surges of the pines, Which, leagues below me, clothing the gaunt loins

Of ancient Caucasus with hairy strength, Sent up a murmur in the morning wind, Sad as the wail that from the populous earth

All day and night to high Olympus soars, Fit incense to thy wicked throne, O Jove!

type

Of anger, and revenge, and cunning force? True Power was never born of brutish Strength,

Nor sweet Truth suckled at the shaggy dugs

Of that old she-wolf. Are thy thunderbolts,

That quell the darkness for a space, so strong

As the prevailing patience of meek Light, Who, with the invincible tenderness of peace,

Wins it to be a portion of herself? Why art thou made a god of, thou, who hast

The never-sleeping terror at thy heart, That birthright of all tyrants, worse to bear

Than this thy ravening bird on which I smile?

Thou swear'st to free me, if I will unfold What kind of doom it is whose omen flits Across thy heart, as o'er a troop of doves The fearful shadow of the kite. What

need

To know that truth whose knowledge cannot save?

Evil its errand hath, as well as Good; When thine is finished, thou art known

no more:

There is a higher purity than thou,
And higher purity is greater strength;
Thy nature is thy doom, at which thy

heart

Trembles behind the thick wall of thy might.

Let man but hope, and thou art straightway chilled

With thought of that drear silence and deep night

and thine:

great spirit,

gale,

Over men's hearts, as over standing corn, Rushes, and bends them to its own strong will.

So shall some thought of mine yet círcle earth,

And puff away thy crumbling altars, Jove!

seems,

Of what have been. Death ever fronts the wise;

Not fearfully, but with clear promises Of larger life, on whose broad vans upborne,

Their outlook widens, and they see beyond

The horizon of the Present and the Past, Even to the very source and end of things.

Such am I now: immortal woe hath made

My heart a seer, and my soul a judge Between the substance and the shadow of Truth.

The sure supremeness of the Beautiful, By all the martyrdoms made doubly sure Of such as I am, this is my revenge, Which of my wrongs builds a triumphal arch.

Through which I see a sceptre and a throne.

The pipings of glad shepherds on the hills,

Tending the flocks no more to bleed for thee,