In ages dead, a troglodyte, At the hollow roots of a monster height,-- That grew from the heart of the world to light,-- I dwelt in caverns: over me Were mountains older than the moon; And forests vaster than the sea, And gulfs, that the earthquake's hand had hewn, Hung under me. And late and soon I heard the daemon of change that sighed A cosmic language of mystery; While life sat silent, primeval-eyed, With the infant spirit of prophecy. Gaunt stars glared down on the Titan peaks; And the gaunter glare of the cratered streaks Of the sunset's ruin heard condor shrieks. The roar of cataracts hurled in air, And the hurricane laying his thunders bare, And rush of battling beasts,--whose lair Was the antechamber of nadir-gloom,-- Were my outworld joys. But who shall tell The awe of the depths that heard the boom Of the iron rivers that fashioned Hell! THE CITY OF DARKNESS Wide-walled it stands in heathen lands Beside a mystic sea, With streets strange-trod of many a god, And templed blasphemy. Far in the night, a rose of light It shines beside the sea; But overhead an unknown dread Impends eternally. There is a sound above, around Of music by the sea; And weird and wide the torches glide Of pagan revelry. There is a noise as of a voice That calls beneath the sea; And all the deep grows pale with sleep And vague expectancy. Then slowly up--as from a cup Seethes poison--lifts the sea; Wild mass on mass, as in black glass, The town glows fiery. Red-lit it glowers like Hell's dark towers Set in the iron sea; And monster swarms with awful forms Roll though it cloudily. Still overhead the unknown dread, Whose shadow dyes the sea, At wrath-winged wait behind its gate Till God shall set it free. A taloned flash, an earthquake crash, And, lo! upon the sea, Black wall on wall, a giant pall, Night settles hideously. And where it burned, a rose inurned, Red in the vasty sea, The phantasm of the dread above Sits in immensity. TRANSMUTATION To me all beauty that I see Is melody made visible: An earth-translated state, may be, Of music heard in Heaven or Hell. Out of some love-impassioned strain Of saints, the rose evolved its bloom; And, dreaming of it here again, Perhaps re-lives it as perfume. Out of some chant that demons sing Of hate and pain, the sunset grew; And, haply, still remembering, Re-lives it here as some wild hue. THE END FIVE HUNDRED AND FIFTY COPIES OF THIS BOOK (THIRTY-FIVE COPIES OF WHICH ARE ON HANDMADE PAPER) WERE PRINTED DURING MARCH BY JOHN WILSON AND SON CAMBRIDGE