Art thou stone, or art thou spirit, fearful Shadow weird and grey, Daring mortals to advance beyond their precincts of the day? All the cliffs are shrouded to the waist, or only loom Head and shoulders through a death-mist, but where the rollers boom Their feet are bare and stern: pale sand I discern Near their ruined grandeur; a chrysoprase pale green Narrow water isles it, with a restless flow; The tidal heave advances: cormorants of swarthy mien Squat on rocks about the cave, or dive in deeps below. While sweet samphire, with tufted thrift, grows in clefts above, Ever and anon a sound, with ominous power to move, Wanders from the wilderness, a very mournful spell: Through the wind and wave embroilment ever tolls a passing bell. Whence the warning? what imports it? When I clamber, when I rest, It seems to breathe foreboding in a fading air. Is it from the sombre church in lonely glen deprest? There, by old cross and coffin-stone, on immemorial chair Of rude grey granite, hoary ghosts in dark conclave may brood: Nay! but the tolling tolleth from the turbulent flood, Not from where the giants hewed them vasty seats of solid rock, Or Druid with poured human blood adored the Logan block: Not from where the Cromlech ponderous, and hoary cirque remain, Though we know no more who reared them, Celt or Dane, or Athelstane; Nor whose the mouldered dust in yonder urns of perished prime, Bard's, or warrior's, who flared a moment in the hollow Night of Time! -There on dreary moorland haunteth owl and raven; There at moonrise hoots the rocky carn, to confound the craven, While fiends are hunting dark lost souls who are shut out from Heaven The knell is knolled by wild white arms of surges ramping round The fatal reef, where mariners are drifted to be drowned! It is the Rundlestone! He knolls for passing human souls: It is the voice of Doom from forth profound Eternity! Weird dragon forms, roughened in storms, a foamy beryl rolls Ever around you, dumb and blind stones, who confront the sky! I feel that in your soul there slumbers a dim Deity. Were it not better to dissolve this chaos of the mind, ... And in the twilight of your world long consolation find, Restoring the proud Spirit to your elemental Powers, Dying into cliff, and cloud, and snowdrift of sea flowers? Vanishes the storm-rack in the gleaming West: A long wide chasm, glowing like a World of Rest, Visionary domes arise, and towers of tender hue! Long ranks of high surges, heaving dark against the bright Heaven, fall illumined 'thwart iron crags, whose frown relents to Light. N BYRON'S GRAVE. HON. RODEN NOEL. [AY! Byron, nay! not under where we tread, Dumb weight of stone, lies thine imperial head! Into no vault lethargic, dark and dank, The splendid strength of thy swift spirit sank: A stormy wind, an ever-sounding ocean, An earthquake mockery of strong Creeds that were Where doom-distraught pale souls took sanctuary, More durable, more fair: O scourge of God, It was Himself who urged thee on thy road; And thou, Don Juan, Harold, Manfred, Cain, Inspired by thy death-shattering clarion! And their companions young eyes discover May all the devastating force be spent? Or all thy godlike energies lie shent ? Nay! thou art founded in the strength Divine ; The soul's immense eternity is thine! Profound Beneficence absorbs thy power, While Ages tend the long-maturing flower : Our Sun himself, one tempest of wild flame, For source of joy, and very life men claim In mellowing corn, in bird, and bloom of spring, In leaping lambs, and lovers dallying. Byron! the whirlwinds rended not in vain; Aloof behold they nourish and sustain ! In the far end we shall account them gain. |