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UNCOUTH was I of face and form,
But strong to blast and blight,
By pestilence and thunder-storm,
By famine and by fight;
I pierced the rivets of the mail,
I maimed the war-steed's hoof,
Ibade the yellow harvest fail,
And sent the blast to rend the sail,
And the bolt to rend the roof.

Within my Second's dark recess
In silent pomp I dwelt,
Before the mouth in lowliness
My rude adorers knelt;
'Twas a fearful place; a pile of stones
Stood for its stately door;
Its music was of sighs and groans,
And the torch-light fell on human bones
|Unburied on the fiocrl

The chieftain, ere his band he led,
Came thither with his prayer;

The boatman, ere his sail he spread,
Watched for an omen there;

And ever the shriek rang loud within, And ever the red blood ran,

And amid the sin and smoke and din

I sate with a changeless, endless grin, Forging my First for Man

My priests are rotting in their grave,
My shrine is silent now ;
There is no victim in my cave,
No crown upon my brow ;
Nothing is left but dust and clay
Of all that was divine;
My name and my memory pass away,
But dawn and dusk of one fair day
Are called by mortals mine.


My First to-night in young Haidee
Is so surpassing fair,

That, though my Second precious be,
It shows all faded there;

And let my Whole be never twined
To shame those beaming charms,

A richer one she cannot find
Than fond Affection’s arms.



HE who can make my First to roll
When not a breath is blowing,

May very slightly turn my Whole
To set a mountain going.

He who can curb my Second's will
When she's inclined for roving,

May turn my Whole more slightly still
To cure the moon of moving !


AcRoss my First, with flash and roar,
The stately vessel glides alone;
And silent on the crowded shore
There kneels an aged crone,
Watching my Second’s parting smile
As he looks farewell to his native isle.

My Whole comes back to other eyes
With beauteous change of fruits and flowers;
But black to her are those bright skies,
And sad those joyous bowers;
Alas! my First is dark and deep,
And my Second cannot hear her weep


SIR EUSTACE goes to the far Crusade
In radiant armour dressed;

And my First is graven on his blade,
And broidered on his breast.

And a flush is on his cheek and brow,
And a fever in his blood,

As he stands upon my Second now,
And gazes on the flood.

Away, away !—the canvas drives
Like a sea-bird's rustling wing;

My Whole hath a score of Moslem lives
Upon its twanging string.


My First came forth in booted state,
For far Valencia bound ;

And smiled to feel my Second's weight,
And hear its creaking sound.

“And here's a jailer sweet,” quoth he,
“You cannot bribe or cozen;

To keep one ward in custody,
Wise men will forge a dozen.”

But daybreak saw a lady ride
My Whole across the plain,

With a handsome cavalier beside,
To hold her bridle-rein :

And “Blessing on the bonds,” quoth he,
“Which wrinkled age imposes,

If woman must your prisoner be,
Your chain should be of roses.”

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