Ruffling the ocean of their self-content;—
I sit—and smile or sigh as is my bent.
But not for them—Libeccio rushes round
With an inconstant and an idle sound,115
I heed him more than them—the thunder-smoke
Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak
Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare;
The ripe corn under the undulating air
Undulates like an ocean;—and the vines 120
Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines—
The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill
The empty pauses of the blast;—the hill
Looks hoary through the white electric rain,
And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain,125
The interrupted thunder howls; above
One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the eye[1] of Love
On the unquiet world;—while such things are,
How could one worth your friendship heed the war
Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion jays,130
Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise?
You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees,
In vacant chairs, your absent images,
And points where once you sat, and now should be
But are not.—I demand if ever we135
Shall meet as then we met;—and she replies.
Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes;
'I know the past alone—but summon home
My sister Hope,—she speaks of all to come.'
But I, an old diviner, who knew[2] well 140
Every false verse of that sweet oracle,
Turned to the sad enchantress once again,
And sought a respite from my gentle pain,
In citing[3] every passage o'er and o'er
Of our communion—how on the sea-shore 145
We watched the ocean and the sky together,
Under the roof of blue Italian weather;
How I ran home through last year's thunder-storm,
And felt the transverse lightning linger warm
Upon my cheek—and how we often made150
Feasts[4] for each other, where good will outweighed
The frugal luxury of our country cheer,
As well it[5] might, were it less firm and clear
Than ours must ever be;—and how we spun
A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun 155
Of this familiar life, which seems to be
But is not:—or is but quaint mockery
N 3
