The form of that young maid, in all

Its beauty, was before me still; And oft I thought, if thus to call

Her image to my mind at will, If but the memory of that one Bright look of hers, for ever gone, Was to my heart worth all the rest Of woman-kind, beheld, possest— What would it be, if wholly mine, Within these arms, as in a shrine, Hallow'd by Love, I saw her shineAn idol, worshipp'd by the light

Of her own beauties, day and nightIf 'twas a blessing but to see

And lose again, what would this be?

My oars were lifted, and my boat

Lay rock'd upon the rippling stream; While my vague thoughts, alike afloat,

Drifted through many an idle dream, With all of which, wild and unfix'd As was their aim, that vision mix'd, That bright nymph of the Temple—now,

With the same innocence of brow

She wore within the lighted fane-
Now kindling, through each pulse and vein,
With passion of such deep-felt fire
As Gods might glory to inspire ;-
And now-oh Darkness of the tomb,

;

That must eclipse even light like hers!

Cold, dead, and blackening, 'mid the gloom Of those eternal sepulchres.

Scarce had I turn'd my eyes away

From that dark death-place, at the thought, When by the sound of dashing spray

From a light oar my ear was caught, While past me, through the moonlight, sail'd A little gilded bark that bore

Two female figures, closely veil'd

And mantled, towards that funeral shore. They landed-and the boat again Put off across the watery plain.

Shall I confess - to thee I may—

That never yet hath come the chance Of a new music, a new ray

From woman's voice, from woman's glance, Which let it find me how it might,

In joy or grief—I did not bless, And wander after, as a light

Leading to undreamt happiness. And chiefly now, when hopes so vain Were stirring in my heart and brain, When Fancy had allur'd my soul Into a chase, as vague and far As would be his, who fix'd his goal In the horizon, or some starAny bewilderment, that brought More near to earth my high-flown thought— The faintest glimpse of joy, less pure, Less high and heavenly, but more sure, Came welcome-and was then to me What the first flowery isle must be To vagrant birds blown out to sea.

Quick to the shore I urg'd my bark,

And, by the bursts of moonlight, shed Between the lofty tombs, could mark Those figures, as with hasty tread They glided on-till in the shade Of a small pyramid, which through Some boughs of palm its peak display'd, They vanish'd instant from my view.

I hurried to the spot-no trace
Of life was in that lonely place;
And, had the creed I hold by taught
Of other worlds, I might have thought
Some mocking spirits had from thence
Come in this guise to cheat my sense.

At length, exploring darkly round
The Pyramid's smooth sides, I found
An iron portal-opening high
'Twixt peak and base-and, with a prayer

To the bliss-loving Moon, whose eye Alone beheld me, sprung in there. Downward the narrow stairway led Through many a duct obscure and dread,

A labyrinth for mystery made,

With wanderings onward, backward, round,
And gathering still, where'er it wound,
But deeper density of shade.

Scarce had I ask'd myself, "Can aught
"That man delights in sojourn here?"-
When, suddenly, far off, I caught

A glimpse of light, remote, but clear-
Whose welcome glimmer seem'd to pour
From some alcove or cell, that ended
The long, steep, marble corridor,

Through which I now, all hope, descended. Never did Spartan to his bride

With warier foot at midnight glide.

It seem'd as echo's self were dead
In this dark place, so mute my tread.
Reaching, at length, that light, I saw —

Oh listen to the scene, now rais'd

Before my eyes- then guess the awe,

The still, rapt awe with which I gaz'd, 'Twas a small chapel, lin'd around With the fair, spangling marble, found In many a ruin'd shrine that stands Half seen above the Libyan sands. The walls were richly sculptur'd o'er, And character'd with that dark lore, Of times before the Flood, whose key Was lost in the'"Universal Sea."While on the roof was pictur'd bright The Theban beetle, as he shines, When the Nile's mighty flow declines, And forth the creature springs to light, With life regenerate in his wings :Emblem of vain imaginings! Of a new world, when this is gone, In which the spirit still lives on!

Direct beneath this type, reclin'd
On a black granite altar, lay
A female form, in crystal shrin'd,
And looking fresh as if the ray
Of soul had fled but yesterday.
While in relief, of silv'ry hue,

Grav'd on the altar's front were seen A branch of lotus, broken in two,

As that fair creature's life had been, And a small bird that from its spray Was winging, like her soul, away.

But brief the glimpse I now could spare, To the wild, mystic wonders round;

For there was yet one wonder there,
That held me as by witch'ry bound.
The lamp, that through the chamber shed
Its vivid beam, was at the head

Of her who on that altar slept;

And near it stood, when first I cameBending her brow, as if she kept

Sad watch upon its silent flameA female form, as yet so plac'd

Between the lamp's strong glow and me, That I but saw, in outline trac'd,

The shadow of her symmetry.

Yet did my heart-I scarce knew why-
Even at that shadow'd shape beat high.
Nor was it long, ere full in sight
The figure turn'd; and by the light
That touch'd her features, as she bent
Over the crystal monument,

I saw 'twas she-the same-the same-
That lately stood before me, bright'ning
The holy spot, where she but came
And went again, like summer lightning!

Upon the crystal, o'er the breast
Of her who took that silent rest,
There was a cross of silver lying-

Another type of that blest home,
Which hope, and pride, and fear of dying
Build for us in a world to come :-
This silver cross the maiden rais'd
To her pure lips :-then, having gaz'd
Some minutes on that tranquil face,
Sleeping in all death's mournful grace,
Upward she turn'd her brow serene,

As if, intent on heaven, those eyes Saw then nor roof nor cloud between

Their own pure orbits and the skies; And, though her lips no motion made, And that fix'd look was all her speech, I saw that the rapt spirit pray'd

Deeper within than words could reach.

Strange power of Innocence, to turn

To its own hue whate'er comes near, And make even vagrant Passion burn With purer warmth within its sphere! She who, but one short hour before, Had come, like sudden wild-fire, o'er My heart and brain-whom gladly, even From that bright Temple, in the face Of those proud ministers of heaven,

I would have borne, in wild embrace, And risk'd all punishment, divine And human, but to make her mine ;She, she was now before me, thrown By fate itself into my arms

Though but to gaze thus was delight,

Yet seem'd it like a wrong, a guilt,

To win by stealth so pure a sight: And rather than a look profane

Should then have met those thoughtful eyes, Or voice or whisper broke the chain

That link'd her spirit with the skies, I would have gladly, in that place, From which I watch'd her heavenward face, Let my heart break, without one beat That could disturb a prayer so sweet. Gently, as if on every tread,

My life, my more than life, depended, Back through the corridor that led

To this blest scene I now ascended,
And with slow seeking, and some pain,
And many a winding tried in vain,
Emerg❜d to upper air again.

The sun had freshly risen, and down
The marble hills of Araby,
Scatter'd, as from a conqueror's crown,

His beams into that living sea.
There seem'd a glory in his light,

Newly put on as if for pride

Of the high homage paid this night
To his own Isis, his young bride,
Now fading feminine away
In her proud Lord's superior ray.

My mind's first impulse was to fly

At once from this entangling netNew scenes to range, new loves to try, Or, in mirth, wine, and luxury

Of every sense, that night forget. But vain the effort-spell-bound still, I linger'd, without power or will

To turn my eyes from that dark door, Which now enclos'd her 'mong the dead; Oft fancying, through the boughs, that o'er The sunny pile their flickering shed, "Twas her light form again I saw

Starting to earth-still pure and bright,
But wakening, as I hop'd, less awe,

Thus seen by morning's natural light,
Than in that strange, dim cell at night.

But no, alas-she ne'er return'd:

Nor yet-though still I watch-nor yet,

Though the red sun for hours hath burn'd,

And now, in his mid course, hath met

The peak of that eternal pile

He pauses still at noon to bless, Standing beneath his downward smile, Like a great Spirit, shadowless!Nor yet she comes- while here, alone, Saunt'ring through this death-peopled place, Where no heart beats except my own, Or 'neath a palm-tree's shelter thrown, By turns I watch, and rest, and trace These lines, that are to waft to thee My last night's wondrous history.

That time, too—oh, 'tis like a dream—
When from Scamander's holy tide

I sprung as Genius of the Stream,
And bore away that blooming bride,
Who thither came, to yield her charms
(As Phrygian maids are wont, ere wed)
Into the cold Scamander's arms,

But met, and welcom'd mine, instead—
Wondering, as on my neck she fell,
How river-gods could love so well!
Who would have thought that he, who rov'd
Like the first bees of summer then,
Rifling each sweet, nor ever lov'd

But the free hearts, that lov'd again,
Readily as the reed replies

To the least breath that round it sighs-
Is the same dreamer who, last night,
Stood aw'd and breathless at the sight
Of one Egyptian girl; and now
Wanders among these tombs, with brow
Pale, watchful, sad, as though he just,
Himself, had risen from out their dust!

Yet so it is-and the same thirst

For something high and pure, above This withering world, which, from the first, Made me drink deep of woman's love

These songs of the Well, as they were called by the ancients, are still common in the Greek isles.

As the one joy, to heaven most near
Of all our hearts can meet with here-
Still burns me up, still keeps awake
A fever nought but death can slake.

Farewell; whatever may befall

Or bright, or dark-thou'lt know it all.

LETTER IV

FROM ORCUS, HIGH PRIEST OF MEMPHIS, TO DECIUS, THE PRÆTORIAN PREFECT.

REJOICE, my friend, rejoice:—the youthful Chief
Of that light Sect which mocks at all belief,
And, gay and godless, makes the present hour
Its only heaven, is now within our power.
Smooth, impious school!—not all the weapons aim'd
At priestly creeds, since first a creed was fram'd,
E'er struck so deep as that sly dart they wield,
The Bacchant's pointed spear in laughing flowers
conceal'd.

And oh, 'twere victory to this heart, as sweet
As any thou canst boast- -even when the feet
Of thy proud war-steed wade through Christian
blood,

To wrap this scoffer in Faith's blinding hood,
And bring him, tam'd and prostrate, to implore
The vilest gods even Egypt's saints adore.
What!-do these sages think, to them alone
The key of this world's happiness is known?
That none but they, who make such proud parade
Of Pleasure's smiling favours, win the maid,
Or that Religion keeps no secret place,

No niche, in her dark fanes, for Love to grace? Fools!-did they know how keen the zest that's given

To earthly joy, when season'd well with heaven;
How Piety's grave mask improves the hue
Of Pleasure's laughing features, half seen through,
And how the Priest, set aptly within reach
Of two rich worlds, traffics for bliss with each,
Would they not, Decius-thou, whom the' ancient
tie

Twixt Sword and Altar makes our best allyWould they not change their creed, their craft, for ours?

Leave the gross daylight joys that, in their bowers, Languish with too much sun, like o'erblown flowers,

For the veil'd loves, the blisses undisplay'd
That slily lurk within the Temple's shade?

And, 'stead of haunting the trim Garden's school-
Where cold Philosophy usurps a rule,
Like the pale moon's, o'er passion's heaving tide,
Till Pleasure's self is chill'd by Wisdom's pride-
Be taught by us, quit shadows for the true,
Substantial joys we sager Priests pursue,
Who, far too wise to theorise on bliss,
Or Pleasure's substance for its shade to miss,
Preach other worlds, but live for only this:-
Thanks to the well-paid Mystery round us flung,
Which, like its type, the golden cloud that hung
O'er Jupiter's love-couch its shade benign,
Round human frailty wraps a veil divine

Still less should they presume, weak wits, that they

Alone despise the craft of us who pray ;—
Still less their creedless vanity deceive
With the fond thought, that we who pray believe.
Believe! - Apis forbid-forbid it, all

Ye monster Gods, before whose shrines we fall—
Deities, fram'd in jest, as if to try

How far gross Man can vulgarise the sky;
How far the same low fancy that combines
Into a drove of brutes yon zodiac's signs,
And turns that Heaven itself into a place
Of sainted sin and deified disgrace,

Can bring Olympus even to shame more deep,
| Stock it with things that earth itself holds cheap,
Fish, flesh, and fowl, the kitchen's sacred brood,
Which Egypt keeps for worship, not for food—
All, worthy idols of a Faith that sees
In dogs, cats, owls, and apes, divinities!

Believe!-oh, Decius, thou, who feel'st no care
For things divine, beyond the soldier's share,
Who takes on trust the faith for which he bleeds,
A good, fierce God to swear by, all he needs—
Little canst thou, whose creed around thee hangs
Loose as thy summer war-cloak, guess the pangs
Of loathing and self-scorn with which a heart,
Stubborn as mine is, acts the zealot's part-
The deep and dire disgust with which I wade
Through the foul juggling of this holy trade-
This mud profound of mystery, where the feet,
At every step, sink deeper in deceit.
Oh! many a time, when, 'mid the Temple's blaze,
O'er prostrate fools the sacred cist I raise,
Did I not keep still proudly in my mind
The power this priestcraft gives me o'er mankind-
A lever, of more might, in skilful hand,
To move this world, than Archimede e'er plann`d—
I should, in vengeance of the shame I feel
At my own mockery, crush the slaves that kneel
Besotted round; and-like that kindred breed
Of reverend, well-drest crocodiles they feed,

At fam'd Arsinoë 1-make my keepers bless, With their last throb, my sharp-fang'd Holiness.

Say, is it to be borne, that scoffers, vain
Of their own freedom from the altar's chain,
Should mock thus all that thou thy blood hast sold,
And I my truth, pride, freedom, to uphold?
It must not be :-think'st thou that Christian sect,
Whose followers, quick as broken waves, erect
Their crests anew and swell into a tide,

That threats to sweep away our shrines of pride

And howl sad dirges to the answering breeze,
O'er their dead Gods, their mortal Deities-
Amphibious, hybrid things, that died as men,
Drown'd, hang'd, empal'd, to rise, as gods, again ;—
Ask them, what mighty secret lurks below
This seven-fold mystery-can they tell thee? No;
Gravely they keep that only secret, well
And fairly kept-that they have none to tell;
And, dup'd themselves, console their humbled pride
By duping thenceforth all mankind beside.

But, to my point-a youth of this vain school,
But one, whom Doubt itself hath fail'd to cool
Down to that freezing point where Priests despair
Of any spark from the' altar catching there-
Hath, some nights since-it was, methinks, the night
That follow'd the full Moon's great annual rite―
Through the dark, winding ducts, that downward
stray

To these earth-hidden temples, track'd his way,
Just at that hour when, round the Shrine, and me,
The choir of blooming nymphs thou long'st to see,
Sing their last night-hymn in the Sanctuary.
The clangour of the marvellous Gate, that stands
At the Well's lowest depth-which none but hands
Of new, untaught adventurers, from above,
Who know not the safe path, e'er dare to move-
Gave signal that a foot profane was nigh :
"Twas the Greek youth, who, by that morning's sky,
Had been observ'd, curiously wand'ring round
The mighty fanes of our sepulchral ground.

Instant, the' Initiate's Trials were prepar'd,—
The Fire, Air, Water; all that Orpheus dar'd,
That Plato, that the bright-hair'd Samian 2 pass'd,
With trembling hope, to come to-what, at last?
Go, ask the dupes of Priestcraft! question him
Who, 'mid terrific sounds and spectres dim,
Walks at Eleusis; ask of those, who brave
The dazzling miracles of Mithra's Cave,
With its seven starry gates; ask all who keep
Those terrible night-mysteries, where they weep

1 For the trinkets with which the sacred Crocodiles were ornamented, see the Epicurean, chap. x.

time

That earliest master of our craft sublime

So many minor Mysteries, imps of fraud,
From the great Orphic Egg have wing'd abroad,
That, still to' uphold our Temple's ancient boast,
And seem most holy, we must cheat the most;
Work the best miracles, wrap nonsense round
In pomp and darkness, till it seems profound;
Play on the hopes, the terrors of mankind,
With changeful skill; and make the human mind
Like our own Sanctuary, where no ray,
But by the Priest's permission, wins its ray-
Where through the gloom as wave our wizard-rods,
Monsters, at will, are conjur'd into Gods;
While Reason, like a grave-fac'd mummy, stands,
With her arms swath'd in hieroglyphic bands.
But chiefly in that skill with which we use
Man's wildest passions for Religion's views,
Yoking them to her car like fiery steeds,
Lies the main art in which our craft succeeds.
And oh ! be blest, ye men of yore, whose toil
Hath, for her use, scoop'd out from Egypt's soil
This hidden Paradise, this mine of fanes,
Gardens, and palaces, where Pleasure reigns
In a rich, sunless empire of her own,
With all earth's luxuries lighting up her throne ;-
A realm for mystery made, which undermines
The Nile itself, and, 'neath the Twelve Great Shrines
That keep Initiation's holy rite,

Spreads its long labyrinths of unearthly light,
A light that knows no change-its brooks that run
Too deep for day, its gardens without sun,
Where soul and sense, by turns, are charm'd, sur-

pris'd,

And all that bard or prophet e'er devis'd For man's Elysium, priests have realis'd.

Here, at this moment-all his trials past,
And heart and nerve unshrinking to the last-
Our new Initiate roves-as yet left free
To wander through this realm of mystery;

2 Pythagoras.