RT thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth, -
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

II.

Thou chosen sister of the spirit,

That gazes on thee till in thee it pities . . .

Fragment: "Alas! This Is Not What I Thought

Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering, through the rugged

glen.

In mine own heart I saw as in a glass

The hearts of others

And when

I went among my kind, with triple brass
Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed,
To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful mass!

'Perhaps in continuation of the first poem on page 278, and so forming a sonnet. - ED.

T

IS the terror of tempest. The

rags of the sail

Are flickering in ribbons within the fierce gale:

From the stark night of vapours the dim rain is driven,

And when lightning is loosed, like a deluge

from heaven,

She sees the black trunks of the waterspouts

spin,

And bend, as if heaven was ruining in,

Which they seemed to sustain with their terrible

mass

As if ocean had sunk from beneath them: they

pass

To their graves in the deep with an earthquake

of sound,

And the waves and the thunders made silent

around

Leave the wind to its echo. The vessel, now

tossed

Through the low-trailing rack of the tempest, is lost

In the skirts of the thunder-cloud: now down

the sweep

Of the wind-cloven wave to the chasm of the

deep

It sinks, and the walls of the watery vale Whose depths of dread calm are unmoved by

the gale,

Dim mirrors of ruin hang gleaming about; While the surf, like a chaos of stars, like a

rout

Of death-flames, like whirlpools of fire-flowing iron

With splendour and terror the black ship environ,

Or like sulphur-flakes hurled from a mine of pale fire

In fountains spout o'er it. In many a spire

The pyramid-billows with white points of brine In the cope of the lightning inconstantly shine, As piercing the sky from the floor of the sea. The great ship seems splitting! it cracks as a tree,

While an earthquake is splintering its root, ere the blast

Of the whirlwind that stripped it of branches

has past.

The intense thunder-balls which are raining from heaven

Have shattered its mast, and it stands black

and riven.

The chinks suck destruction. The heavy dead

hulk

On the living sea rolls an inanimate bulk, Like a corpse on the clay which is hungering to fold

Its corruption around it. Meanwhile, from

the hold,

One deck is burst up by the waters below,

And it splits like the ice when the thaw-breezes

blow