But now o’er all the marsh, dazzling to view, Soars an immeasurable vault of blue, Intense, profound. The only living thing A solitary gull upon the wing Or hermit-bird whereof the shadow falls Over the desert meres at intervals, Or red-legged chevalier, or hern, wild-eyed With crest of three white plumes upraised in pride. But soon the sun so beats upon the plain That the poor, weary wanderer is fain To loose and lift her folded neckerchief, So from the burning heat to find relief. Yet grows the torment ever more and more; The sun ascending higher than before, Till, as a starvèd lion’s eye devours The Abyssinian desert that he scours, Yon lidless orb the very zenith gains And pours a flood of fire o’er all the plains. Now were it sweet beneath a beech to slumber! Now, like a swarm of hornets without number,-- An angry swarm, fierce darting high and low,-- Or liks the hot sparks from a grindstone, grow The pitiless rays; and Love’s poor pilgrim, worn And gasping, and by weariness o’erborne, Forth from her bodice draws its golden pin, So that her panting bosom shows within. All dazzling white, like the campanulas That bloom beside the summer sea, it was, And, like twin-billows in a brooklet, full. Anon, the solitary scene and dull Loses a little of its sadness, and A lake shows on the limit of the land,-- A spacious lake, whose wavelets dance and shine,-- While shrubs of golden-herb and jessamine On the dark shore appear to soar aloft Until they cast a shadow cool and soft. It seems to the poor maid a heavenly vision, A heartening glimpse into the land elysian. And soon, afar, by that blue wave she sees A town with circling walls and palaces, And fountains gay, and churches without end, And slender spires that to the sun ascend, And ships and lesser sailing-craft, sun-bright, Entering the port; and the wind seemeth light. So that the oriflambs and streamers all Languidly round the masts arise and fall. “A miracle!” the maiden thought, and now Wipes the abundant moisture from her brow, And, with new hope, toward the town doth fare, Deeming the Maries’ tomb is surely there. Alas! alas! be her flight ne’er so speedy, A change will pass upon the scene. Already The sweet illusion seems to fade and flit; Recedes the vision as she follows it. An airy show, the substance of a dream, By spirit woven out of a sunbeam, And all its fair hues borrowed from the sky,-- The filmy fabric wavers presently, And melts away, and like a mist is gone. Bewildered by the heat, and quite alone,