Who beats the walls of his stony cell.
But his, it seemed already free,

Like the shadow of fire surrounding me!
On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell
That spirit as it passed, till soon,

As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon,
Beneath its light invisible,

Is seen when it folds its grey wings again
To alight on midnight's dusky plain,

I lived and saw, and the gathering soul
Passed from beneath that strong controul,
And I fell on a life which was sick with fear
Of all the woe that now 1 bear.

Amid a bloomless myrtle wood,
On a green and sea-girt promontory,
Not far from where we dwelt, there stood
In record of a sweet sad story,

An altar and a temple bright

Circled by steps, and o'er the gate
Was sculptured, "To Fidelity;"
And in the shrine an image sate,

All veiled: but there was seen the light
Of smiles, which faintly could express
A mingled pain and tenderness

Through that ethereal drapery.

The left hand held the head, the right-
Beyond the veil, beneath the skin,

You might see the nerves quivering within-
Was forcing the point of a barbed dart

Into its side-convulsing heart.

An unskilled hand, yet one informed
With genius, had the marble warmed
With that pathetic life. This tale

1 told: A dog had from the sea,

When the tide was raging fearfully,
Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale,
Then died beside her on the sand,

And she that temple thence had planned;
But it was Lionel's own hand

Had wrought the image. Each new moon
That lady did, in this lone fane,

The rites of a religion sweet,

Whose god was in her heart and brain:
The seasons' loveliest flowers were strew
On the marble floor beneath her feet,
And she brought crowns of sea-buds white,
Whose odour is so sweet and faint,
And weeds, like branching chrysolyte,
Woven in devices fine and quaint,
And tears from her brown eyes did stain
The altar: need but look upon

That dying statue, fair and wan,

If tears should cease, to weep again:
And rare Arabian odours came,

Though the myrtle copses steaming thence
From the hissing frankincense,

Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,
Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome,
That ivory dome, whose azure night
With golden stars, like heaven, was bright
O'er the split cedars pointed fame;

And the lady's harp would kindle there

The melody of an old air

Softer than sleep; the villagers

Mixt their religion up with her's,

And, as they listened round, shed tears.

One eye he led me to this fane:
Daylight on its last purple cloud

Was lingering grey, and soon her strain
The nightingale began; now loud,
Climbing in circles the windless sky,
Now dying music; suddenly

"Tis scattered in a thousand notes,
And now to the hushed ear it floats
Like field smells known in infancy,
Then failing, soothes the air again.
We sate within that temple lone,
Pavilioned round with Parian stone:
His mother's harp stood near, and oft
I had awakened music soft

Amid its wires: the nightingale

Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale:
"Now drain the cup," said Lionel,

"Which the poet-bird has crowned so well
With the wine of her bright and liquid song!
Heardst thou not sweet words among
That heaven-resounding minstresly?
Heardst thou not, that those who die
Awake in a world of extacy?

That love, when limbs are interwoven,

And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,

And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging,

And music, when one beloved is singing,

Is death? Let us drain right joyously

The cup which the sweet bird fills for me."

He paused, and to my lips he bent

His own like spirit his words went
Through all my limbs with the speed of fire;
And his keen eyes, glittering through mine
Filled me with the flame divine,

Which in their orbs was burning far,
Like the light of an unmeasured star;
In the sky of midnight dark and deep :
Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire

Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken;
And first, I felt my fingers sweep
The harp, and a long quivering cry
Burst from my lips in symphony:
The dusk and solid air was shaken,

As swift and swifter the notes came

From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,

And from my bosom, labouring

With some unutterable thing:

The awful sound of my own voice made

My faint lips tremble, in some mood

Of worldless thought Lionel stood
So pale, that even beside his cheek
The snowy column from its shade
Caught whiteness: yet his countenance,
Raised upward, burned with radiance
Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light,
Like the moon struggling through the night
Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break
With beams that might not be confined.

I paused, but soon his gestures kindled
New power, as by the moving wind
The waves are lifted, and my song

To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,
And from the twinkling wires among

My languid fingers drew and flung

Circles of life dissolving sound,
Yet faint in aery rings they bound

My Lionel, who, as every strain

Grew fainter but more sweet, bis mien Sunk with the sound relaxedly; And slowly now he turned to me, As slowly faded from his face That awful joy: with looks serene He was soon drawn to my embrace, And my wild song then died away In murmurs: words, I dare not say We mixed, and on his lips mine fed Till they methought felt still and cold: "What is it with thee, love?" I said: No word, no look, no motion! yes, There was a change, but spare to guess, Nor let that moment's hope be told. I looked, and knew that he was dead, And fell, as the eagle on the plain Falls when life deserts her brain,

And the mortal lightning is veiled again.

Oh that I were now dead! but such
Did they not, love, demand too much
Those dying murmurs? He forbade.
Oh that I once again were mad!
And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,
For I would live to share thy woe.
Sweet boy, did I forget thee too?
Alas, we know not what we do
When we speak words.