And round the roofs a gilded gallery That lent broad verge to distant lands,

Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky

Dipt down to sea and sands.

From those four jets four currents in one swell

Across the mountain stream❜d below In misty folds, that floating as they fell

Lit up a torrent-bow.

And high on every peak a statue seem'd

To hang on tiptoe, tossing up

A cloud of incense of all odor steam'd From out a golden cup.

So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon

My palace with unblinded eyes, While this great bow will waver in the sun,

And that sweet incense rise?"

From living Nature, fit for every mood And change of my still soul,

For some were hung with arras green and blue,

Showing a gaudy summer-morn, Where with puff'd check the belted hunter blew

His wreathed bugle-horn.

One seem'd all dark and red -a tract of sand,

And some one pacing there alone, Who paced forever in a glimmering land,

Lit with a low large moon.

One show'd an iron coast and angry

waves.

You seem'd to hear them climb and fall

And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,

Beneath the windy wall.

And one, a full-fed river winding slow By herds upon an endless plain, The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,

With shadow-streaks of rain.

And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.

In front they bound the sheaves.
Behind

Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,

And hoary to the wind.

And one a foreground black with stones and slags,

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,

And highest, snow and fire.

And one, an English home gray twilight pour'd

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep all things in order stored,

A haunt of ancient Peace.

And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,

And, with dim fretted foreheads all, On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,

That stood against the wall.

A spot of dull stagnation, without light

Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,

'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite Making for one sure goal.

A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,

Left on the shore; that hears all night

The plunging seas draw backward from the land

Their moon-led waters white.

And ever unrelieved by dismal tears, And all alone in crime:

Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round

With blackness as a solid wall, Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound

Of human footsteps fall.

As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,

In doubt and great perplexity, A little before moon-rise hears the low Moan of an unknown sea;

And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound

Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry

Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found

A new land, but I die."

She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.

There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin,

And save me lest I die?"

So when four years were wholly finished,

She threw her royal robes away. "Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,

"Where I may mourn and pray. "Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are

So lightly beautifully built: Perchance I may return with others there

When I have purged my guilt."

LADY CLARA VERE DE VERE. LADY Clara Vere de Vere,

Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled

I saw the snare, and I retired: The daughter of a hundred Earls, You are not one to be desired.