XLVIII. And, one by one, that night, young maidens came, The multiplication of the peculiar kind of maniac who professes to be a certain criminal weakens the force of the incident immeasurably. Canto Eleventh. I. SHE saw me not-she heard me not-alone Upon the mountain's dizzy brink she stood; She spake not, breathed not, moved not-there was thrown Over her look, the shadow of a mood Which only clothes the heart in solitude, A thought of voiceless depth; she stood alone, Above, the Heavens were spread;-below, the flood Was murmuring in its caves; the wind had blown Her hair apart, thro' which her eyes and forehead shone. II. A cloud was hanging o'er the western mountains; Before its blue and moveless depth were flying Grey mists poured forth from the unresting fountains Of darkness in the North:-the day was dying :Sudden, the sun shone forth, its beams were lying Like boiling gold on Ocean, strange to see, And on the shattered vapours, which defying The power of light in vain, tosssd restlessly In the red Heaven, like wrecks in a tempestuous sea. III. It was a stream of living beams, whose bank Of liquid light, which then did end and fade- IV. I stood beside her, but she saw me not- From common joy; which, with the speechless feeling From her far eyes, a light of deep revealing, V. Her lips were parted, and the measured breath From her whole frame, an atmosphere which quite Arrayed her in its beams, tremulous and soft and bright. 1 Spelt ecstacies in the original edition VI. She would have clasped me to her glowing frame; I might have heard her voice, tender and sweet; VII. Never but once to meet on Earth again! "I cannot reach thee! whither dost thou fly? "My steps are faint-Come back, thou dearest one"Return, ah me! return "-the wind past by On which those accents died, faint, far, and lingeringly. VIII. Woe! woe! that moonless midnight-Want and Pest By his own rage upon his burning bier Of circling coals of fire; but still there clung One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung: 1 Sank in Mrs. Shelley's and Mr. Rossetti's editions. IX. Not death-death was no more refuge or rest; Not life-it was despair to be!—not sleep, To which the Future, like a snaky scourge, Or like some tyrant's eye, which aye doth keep Its withering beam upon his slaves, did urge Their steps; they heard the roar of Hell's sulphureous surge. X. Each of that multitude alone, and lost To sense of outward things, one hope yet knew ; As on a foam-girt crag some seaman tost, Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew One murmur on the wind, or if some word XI. Why became cheeks wan with the kiss of death, Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold1 dead; And even in death their lips are wreathed with fear.— The crowd is mute and moveless-overlead Silent Arcturus shines-ha! hear'st thou not the tread 1 Clay cold, without a hyphen, in Shelley's edition. |