Of triumph calm, and hymns of festival,]
From the gold peaks of heaven's high piled clouds;[1]
[Voices of soft proclaim, and silver stir
Of strings in hollow shells; and there shall be
Beautiful things made new for the surprise
Of the sky-children."] So he feebly ceased,
With such a poor and sickly-sounding pause,
Methought I hear some old man of the earth
Bewailing earthly loss; nor could my eyes
And ears act with that unison of sense
Which marries sweet sound with the grace of form,
And dolorous accent from a tragic harp
With large limb'd visions. More I scrutinized.
Still fixt he sat beneath the sable trees,
Whose arms spread straggling in wild serpent forms.
With leaves all hush'd; his awful presence there
(Now all was silent) gave a deadly lie
To what I erewhile heard: only his lips
Trembled amid the white curls of his beard;
They told the truth, though round the snowy locks
Hung nobly, as upon the face of heaven
A mid-day fleece of clouds. Thea arose,
And stretcht her white arm through the hollow dark,
Pointing some whither: whereat he too rose,
Like a vast giant seen by men at sea
To grow pale from the waves at dull midnight
They melted from my sight into the woods;
Ere I could turn, Moneta cried, "These twain
Are speeding to the families of grief,
Where, rooft in by black rocks, they waste [wait?] in pain
- ↑ Upon the gold clouds metropolitan.
