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LXXI. Woe unto us, not her; for she sleeps well : The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, Which from the birth of monarchy hath rung Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstung Nations have arm'd in madness, the strange fate Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and hath flung
Against their blind omnipotence a weight Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon or late,
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and opprest The land which loved thee so that none could love thee best.
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake,
In deeming such inhabit many a spot?
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.
CLXXXIII. Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, Calm or convulsed-in breeze, or gale, or storm, Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime Dark-heaving ;-boundless, endless, and sublimeThe image of Eternity—the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made ; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
CLXXXV. My task is done-my song hath ceased-my theme Has died into an echo; it is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguish'd which hath lit My midnight lamp—and what is writ, is writ,Would it were worthier! but I am not now That which I have been—and my visions flit
Less palpably before me--and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, and low.