Upon that boundless plain, below, The setting sun's last rays were shed, And gave a mild and sober glow, Where all were still, asleep, or dead; Vast ruins in the midst were spread, 200 Pillars and pediments sublime, Where the grey moss had form'd a bed, And clothed the crumbling spoils of time. There was I fix'd, I know not how, Condemn'd for untold years to stay: Yet years were not;--one dreadful _now_ Endured no change of night or day; The same mild evening's sleeping ray Shone softly-solemn and serene, And all that time I gazed away, 210 The setting sun's sad rays were seen. At length a moment's sleep stole on-- Again came my commission'd foes; Again through sea and land we're gone, No peace, no respite, no repose: Above the dark broad sea we rose, We ran through bleak and frozen land; I had no strength their strength t' oppose, An infant in a giant's hand. They placed me where those streamers play, 220 Those nimble beams of brilliant light; It would the stoutest heart dismay, To see, to feel, that dreadful sight: So swift, so pure, so cold, so bright, They pierced my frame with icy wound, And, all that half-year's polar night, Those dancing streamers wrapp'd me round. Slowly that darkness pass'd away, When down upon the earth I fell;-- Some hurried sleep was mine by day; 230 But, soon as toll'd the evening bell, They forced me on, where ever dwell Far-distant men in cities fair, Cities of whom no trav'lers tell, Nor feet but mine were wanderers there. Their watchmen stare, and stand aghast, As on we hurry through the dark; The watch-light blinks as we go past, The watch-dog shrinks and fears to bark; The watch-tower's bell sounds shrill; and, hark! 240 The free wind blows--we've left the town-- A wide sepulchral ground I mark, And on a tombstone place me down. What monuments of mighty dead! What tombs of various kinds are found! And stones erect their shadows shed On humble graves, with wickers bound; Some risen fresh, above the ground, Some level with the native clay, What sleeping millions wait the sound, 250 "Arise, ye dead, and come away!" Alas! they stay not for that call; Spare me this wo! ye demons, spare!-- They come! the shrouded shadows all-- 'Tis more than mortal brain can bear; Rustling they rise, they sternly glare At man, upheld by vital breath; Who, led by wicked fiends, should dare To join the shadowy troops of death!