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56
IL
Thou on whose stream ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like éarth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled bows of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and Hghtning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some flerce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith’s height
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and flre, and hail will burst; O hearl
111.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ’s bay,
An saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave’s intenser day,
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