Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone

In their own golden beams

each like a flower,

Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light

Under a cypress in a starless night.

XXI.

At first she lived alone in this wild home,
And her own thoughts were each a minister,
Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam,

Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire,
To work whatever purposes might come

Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, Through all the regions which he shines upon.

XXII.

The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades,
Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks,
Offered to do her bidding through the seas,
Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks,
And far beneath the matted roots of trees,
And in the knarlèd heart of stubborn oaks,
So they might live for ever in the light
Of her sweet presence — each a satellite.

XXIII.

"This may not be," the wizard maid replied ;

"The fountains where the Naiades bedew

"Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; "The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew "Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; "The boundless ocean like a drop of dew

"Will be consumed the stubborn centre must

"Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust.

XXIV.

"And ye with them will perish, one by one; "If I must sigh to think that this shall be,

"If I must weep when the surviving Sun

"Shall smile on your decay - Oh, ask not me "To love you till your little race is run;

"I cannot die as ye must - over me

"Your leaves shall glance the streams in which ye

dwell

"Shall be my paths henceforth, and so — farewell!"

XXV.

She spoke and wept : the dark and azure well

Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears,

And every little circlet where they fell

Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres

And intertangled lines of light:

- a knell

Of sobbing voices came upon her ears

From those departing Forms, o'er the serene
Of the white streams and of the forest green.

XXVI.

All day the wizard lady sate aloof,
Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity,
Under the cavern's fountain-lighted roof;
Or broidering the pictured poesy

Of some high tale upon her growing woof,

Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining Heaven - and ever she

Added some grace to the wrought poesy.

XXVII.

While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece
Of sandal wood, rare gums and cinnamon ;
Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is —
Each flame of it is as a precious stone
Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this

Belongs to each and all who gaze upon.
The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand
She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand.

XXVIII.

This lady never slept, but lay in trance

All night within the fountain

as in sleep.

Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty's glance;
Through the green splendour of the water deep
She saw the constellations reel and dance

Like fire-flies - and withal did ever keep

The tenour of her contemplations calm,
With open eyes, closed feet and folded palm.

XXIX.

And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended
From the white pinnacles of that cold hill,
She past at dewfall to a space extended,

Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel
Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended,
There yawned an inextinguishable well
Of crimson fire-full even to the brim,
And overflowing all the margin trim.

XXX.

Within the which she lay when the fierce war
Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor
In many a mimic moon and bearded star

O'er woods and lawns;

the serpent heard it flicker

In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar

And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame.

XXXI.

She had a Boat, which some say Vulcan wrought
For Venus, as the chariot of her star;

But it was found too feeble to be fraught
With all the ardours in that sphere which are,
And so she sold it, and Apollo bought

And gave it to this daughter: from a car
Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat
Which ever upon mortal stream did float.

XXXII.

And others say, that, when but three hours old,
The first-born Love out of his cradle leapt,
And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold,
And like an horticultural adept,

Stole a strange seed, and wrapt it up in mould,
And sowed it in his mother's star, and kept
Watering it all the summer with sweet dew,
And with his wings fanning it as it grew.