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I called thee duteous; am I wrong?
BY EDGAR A. POE.
Type of the antique Rome' rich reliquary Of lofty contemplation, left to Time By buried centuries of pomp and power! At length, at length-after so many days Of weary pilgrimage, and burning thirst, (Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,) I kneel, an alter'd and an humble man, Within thy shadows—and so drink, within My very soul, thy grandeur, gloom, and glory.
Vastness, and age, and memories of olá: Silence, and desolation, and dim night! I fec. ye now I feel ye in your strength. 0, spells more sure than e'er Judæan king Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane ! 0, charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee Ever drew down from out the quiet stars !
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls ! Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold, A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat! Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle! Here, where on golden throne the CÆSAR sate, On bed of moss lies gloating the foul adder! Here, where on ivory couch the monarch lolld,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble honie,
But hold!—these dark, these perishing arcades, These mouldering plinths, these sad and blacken'd
shafts, These vagne entablatures, this broken frieze, These shatter'd cornices, this wreck, this ruin, These stones-alas! these gray stones, are they
all, All of the proud and the colossal left By the corrosive hours, to fate and me?
· Not all," the echoes answer me, not all, Prophetic sounds, and loud, arise for ever From us, and from all ruin, to the wise, As melody from Memnon to the sun. We rule the hearts of mightiest men; we rule, With a despotic sway, all giant minds. We are not impotent, we pallid stones ; Not all our power is gone, not all our fame, Not all the magic of our high renown, Not all the wonder that encircles us, Not all the mysteries that in us lie, Not all the memories that hang upon And cling around about us as a garment, Cloihing us in a robe of more than glory."
Hail to thy face and odours, glorious Sea !
Their hosts within the concave firmament,
Nor on the stage
Mighty Sea! Chameleon-like thou changest, but there's love In all thy change, and constant sympathy With yonder sky—thy mistress; from her brow Thou tak'st thy moods and wear'st her colours on Thy faithful bosom; morning's milky white, Noon's sapphire, or the saffron glow of eve; And all thy balmier hours, fair element, Have such divine complexion-crisped smiles, Luxuriant bearings, and sweet whisperings, That little is the wonder Love's own Queen From thee of old was fabled to have sprungCreation's common! which no human power Can parcel or inclose ; the lordliest floods And cataracts that the tiny hands of man Can tame, conduct, or bound, are drops of dew To thee that could subdue ihe earth itself