Which clanged alone the mountain's marble brow, FRAGMENT IV. Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Invests it; and when heavens are blue Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, That which from thee they should implore:-the weak The strong have broken-yet where shall any seek A garment whom thou clothest not? LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. Leghorn, July 1, 1820. THE spider spreads her webs, whether she be But a soft cell, where when that fades away, Which in those hearts which most remember me Whoever should behold me now, I wist, To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Its way over the sea, and sport therein; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such Ixion or the Titan:-or the quick Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic; Or those in philosophic councils met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt By giving a faint foretaste of damnation To Shakspeare, Sidney, Spenser and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire: With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay As panthers sleep:-and other strange and dread Or heap himself in such a horrid mass |