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THE PHANTOM LAND. PART III. 



THE angel answered not, but led me thence 

 To where one, resting on a riven rock, 

 Drew my keen gaze : his features to my sense 

 Seemed exquisitely chiselled from some block 

 Of pure, pale marble ; and his brow immense 

 Rose over eyes whose brightness was intense. 

 He claimed no kindred with the vulgar flock. 



The desperation of sublime despair 

 Remorse, that eats its way into the soul 

 Scorn's lofty look, and Hate's malignant glare, 

 And stubborn Pride which nothing could control. 

 Dwelt in his eye, and lip, and haughty air, 

 And trembling hand effeminately fair. 

 He wept, but answering tears had ceased to roll. 



He seemed to think himself alone, though round 

 There stood a gloomy-melancholy throng ; 

 He saw them not, or else with pride profound 

 Would not appear to see them. But ere long 

 He snatched his harp that lay upon the ground, 

 Swept its loud chords, and singing to the sound, 

 Rolled from the rock a cataract of song. 



Wild was the measure of his lofty lay : 



And such fierce wrath, such anger malcontent, 



Such wounded pride, such scorn, such deep dismay, 



And poignant pathos filled his loud lament, 



The phantoms lingering round to hear him play 



Could not endure it and so slunk away. 



Impetuous was his song, and thus it went : 



" Is this, alas ! the soul's eternal sleep ? 



Is this death's tranquil and unconscious dream ? 



The cloud is past away ! the mystery deep 



Is rent to its foundation and 'twould seem 



That death is nothing other than a leap 



Into more full existence from life's steep. 



What men call death is life and life the dream. 



" This is no region of forgetfulness : 

 This is no bed of down for my sad ghost : 

 Millions of bitter thoughts my soul distress, 

 And those 1 would forget torment me most, 

 And like fierce dogs that round their keeper press, 

 Bark in my ears with fury merciless, 

 Heightening the horrors of the infernal coast 

 M.M.No. 107- 4 B 



