To keep through life the posture of the grave

Fourteen small broidered berries on the hern Of Circe's mantle, each of magic gold; Fourteen of lone Calypso's tears that rolled Into the sea, for pearls to come to them; Fourteen clear signs of omen in the gem With which Medea human fate …

The hollow sea-shell, which for years hath stood On dusty shelves, when held against the ear Proclaims its stormy parent, and we hear The faint, far murmur of the breaking flood. We hear the sea. The Sea? It is the blood In our own veins, …

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

'Tis the night—the night Of the grave's delight, And the warlocks are at their play! Ye think that without, The wild winds shout, But no, it is they—it is they!

Good Christian People, I have not come here to preach a sermon; I have come here to die.