English

PART VI

Three days, above the plain, the setting sun
Moved over Babel; and its thousand courts,
Ruined beneath the sky, lay silently
Like pools of blood. Its devastated domes
Shone forth no more but blackened on the ground,
Rent into shapes gigantic. Its vast walls,
Spread fearfully, lay swart upon the sand,
Cleft in deep chasms, gorges of dark bronze,
Black, wind-swept cliff and brassy precipice.
Its towers had ceased like thunder. Its temples huge,
Convulsed in mammoth shapes, crouched on the plain

PART V

That night the angels in their citadels,
The great mild-eyed, whose snow-white innocence
Was soft upon them and like plumage deep,
Moved forth for pleasure and their gliding step
Peacefully on the radiant pavement shone.
Their silvery feet like doves beneath the sun
With tender pacing bred ethereal sound
Which in the melodious substance of the stone
Throbbed with the pulse of many an echoing tones
As in the sunlight sweetly sunken moons.
Some walked in the warm gardens where they ate

PART IV

Then did the powers of the air breed forth
Sight in no mortal shape involved that flew
Furious as eagles blazing in mid noon —
And snatching Heavenward that naked deed.

Swept up its prey, screaming, into the sun.
Then was there heard upon steep slopes of air,
Like fearful rushings of invisible steeds,
The trampling of innumerable eyes,
That mounted up to God, angry, amazed,
Terrific smoking, furious and appalled,
By earth affrighted. But when around the Throne

PART III

And Nimrod came to Bathsheba the Queen,
And spoke with her; but of that golden speech
There is no likeness upon earth to show
How mild its sound, how beauteous its shape.
But when the dying swan fulfills at eve
His passion on the lake and music swells
With aching sweetness all his snow-white plumes,
And he, that never, never shall return,
Like music burning floats into the sun;
Or when upon a sleek and polished water
The moon all night performs her dance serene
In solitary loveliness; or if

PART II

And Nimrod looked on Babel and beheld
How beautiful it was, and how it glowed,
A rose of splendor, burning on the plain.
And in his heart the king conspired to build
Sweeter and lovelier spires, more smiling fanes
Than ever yet had been upon the earth
And such vast arches as not yet had been,
But that with mortal beauty should persuade
The immortal angels, wondering, to explore
Those beauteous vaults of glimmering marble made,
Hollowed of whiteness like the sphered moon,

PART I

One time, in Shinar, when the setting sun,
With all his thousand javelins, drove the day
Before him and the myriad tribes of light
Departed sullenly with bleeding feet,
Great Nimrod, the strong huntsman of the Lord,
Returning hot with bloodshed from the chase,
Beheld great Babel, wrathful, beautiful,
Burn like a blood-red cloud upon the plain.
Then Nimrod, when he saw it, laughed aloud,
And turning to his warriors cried, " Behold
How those steep battlements defy the cloud

Adieu, Chicomico, adieu;
Soft may'st thou sleep amid the wave,
And 'neath thy canopy of blue
May sea-maids deck thy coral grave.

'Twas but a feeble voice which sung
Thy hapless tale of youthful woe;
But ah! that weak, that infant tongue
Will ne'er another story know.

And tho' the rough and foaming surge,
And the wild whirlwind whistling o'er,
Should rudely chaunt thy funeral dirge,
And send the notes from shore to shore;
Still shall one voice be heard, above
The dreadful " music of the spheres! "

PART II.

WHAT sight of horror, fear and woe,
Now greets chief Hillis-ha-ad-joe?
What thought of blood now lights his eye?
What victim foe is doomed to die?
For his cheek is flushed, and his air is wild,
And he cares not to look on his only child.
His lip quivers with rage, his eye flashes fire,
And his bosom beats high with a tempest of ire.
Alas! 't is Rathmond stands a prisoner now,
Awaiting death from Hillis-ha-ad-joe,
From Hillis-ha-ad-joe, the stern, the dread,

Sebastian! Oh! Sebastian! SEBASTIAN:

Who is there? —
No answer! 't was the wind — belike. Hey now,

But here's a pretty shape of good stout leather
To fit the nearest feet in Christendom.
And since they travel only on kind errands,
God bless my leather. ROSE OF THE WIND:

Oh! Sebastian! Oh! SEBASTIAN:

Come in! — 't is nobody. Eh! My poor wits
Are all rough shod.

Come in! Come in! Come in!

Mary have mercy on me! Sure I heard
Somebody knocking. Who goes there? No sound!

Gentlemen, pray be favourable to wake a fool dormant amongst ye; I have been kick'd, and kick'd to that purpose; may be, they knock'd at the wrong door, my brains are asleep in the garret. I must appeal from their feet to your hands; there is no way but one; you must clap me, and clap me soundly; d'ye hear, I shall hardly come to myself else .
Oh, since my case, without you, desperate stands,Wake me with the loud music of your hands.