MUSINGS.
I did not dream, but yet fantastic thought
Wrought such wild changes on the spirit's harp,
It seemed that slumber ruled.
A structure rose,
Deep-founded and gigantic. Strangely blent
Its orders seemed. The solemn Gothic arch—
The obelisk antique—the turret proud
In castellated pomp—the palace dome—
The grated dungeon—and the peasant's cot—
Were grouped within its walls.
A throne was there;
A king, with all his gay and courtly train,
In robes of splendour, and a vassal throng,
Eager to do their bidding, and to wear
A gilded servitude. The back-gound seemed
Darkened by misery's pencil. Famine cast
A tinge of paleness o'er the brow of toil,
While Poverty, to soothe her naked babes,
Shrieked forth a broken song.
Then came a groan—
A rush—as if of thunder. The grey rocks
From yawning clefts breathed forth volcanic flames,
While the huge fabric, parting at its base,
A ruin seemed. A miserable mass
Of tortured life rolled through the burning gates,
And spread destruction o'er the scorching soil,
Like Etna's lava-stream.
