Page:An English Garner Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (Volume 1 1877).pdf/290

And that which was of wonder most,
The Phoenix left sweet Araby;
And on a cedar in this coast,
Built up her tomb of spicery.
  As I conjecture by the same,
  Prepared to take her dying flame.

In midst and centre of this plot,
I saw one grovelling on the grass;
A man or stone, I knew not what.
No stone; of man, the figure was.
  And yet I could not count him one,
  More than the image made of stone.

At length I might perceive him rear
His body on his elbows' end:
Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer,
Upon his knees he upward tend;
  Seeming like one in uncouth stound,
  To be ascending out the ground.

A grievous sigh forthwith he throws,
As might have torn the vital strings;
Then down his cheeks the tears so flows
As doth the stream of many springs.
  So thunder rends the cloud in twain,
  And makes a passage for the rain.