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At level of whose feet an altar slept,
To be approach'd on either side by steps
And marble balustrade, and patient travail
To count with toil the innumerable degrees.
Towards the altar sober-pac'd I went,
Repressing haste as too unholy there;
And, coming nearer, saw beside the shrine
One ministering; and there arose a flame
When in mid-day the sickening east-wind

Shifts sudden to the south, the small warm rain
Melts out the frozen incense from all flowers,
And fills the air with so much pleasant health

That even the dying man forgets his shroud ;-
Even so that lofty sacrificial fire,

Sending forth Maian incense, spread around
Forgetfulness of everything but bliss,
And clouded all the altar with soft smoke;
From whose white fragrant curtains thus I heard
Language pronounc'd: "If thou canst not ascend
These steps, die on that marble where thou art.
Thy flesh, near cousin to the common dust,
Will parch for lack of nutriment; thy bones
Will wither in few years, and vanish so
That not the quickest eye could find a grain
Of what thou now art on that pavement cold.
The sands of thy short life are spent this hour,
And no hand in the universe can turn
Thy hourglass, if these gummed leaves be burnt
Ere thou canst mount up these immortal steps."
I heard, I look'd: two senses both at once,
So fine, so subtle, felt the tyranny

Of that fierce threat and the hard task proposed.
Prodigious seem'd the toil; the leaves were yet
Burning, when suddenly a palsied chill

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Struck from the paved level up my limbs,
And was ascending quick to put cold grasp
Upon those streams that pulse beside the throat.
I shriek'd, and the sharp anguish of my shriek
Stung my own ears; I strove hard to escape
The numbness, strove to gain the lowest step.
Slow, heavy, deadly was my pace: the cold
Grew stifling, suffocating at the heart;
And when I clasp'd my hands I felt them not.
One minute before death my ic'd foot touch'd
The lowest stair; and, as it touch'd, life seem'd
To pour in at the toes; I mounted up
As once fair angels on a ladder flew

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From the green turf to heaven. "Holy Power,"
Cry'd I, approaching near the horned shrine,
"What am I that should so be sav'd from death?
What am I that another death come not
To choke my utterance, sacrilegious, here?"
Then said the veiled shadow: "Thou hast felt

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What 'tis to die and live again before

Thy fated hour; that thou hadst power to do so

Is thine own safety; thou hast dated on

Thy doom." "High Prophetess," said I, "purge off, 145 Benign, if so it please thee, my mind's film."

"None can usurp this height," return'd that shade,

"But those to whom the miseries of the world

Are misery, and will not let them rest.

All else who find a haven in the world,

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Where they may thoughtless sleep away their days,

If by a chance into this fane they come,
Rot on the pavement where thou rottedst half."

"Are there not thousands in the world," said I,
Encourag'd by the sooth voice of the shade,
"Who love their fellows even to the death,

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Who feel the giant agony of the world,
And more, like slaves to poor humanity,
Labour for mortal good? I sure should see
Other men here, but I am here alone."

"Those whom thou spakest of are no visionaries,"

Rejoin'd that voice; "they are no dreamers weak;
They seek no wonder but the human face,
No music but a happy-noted voice:

They come not here, they have no thought to

come;

And thou art here, for thou art less than they.
What benefit canst thou do, or all thy tribe,

To the great world? Thou art a dreaming thing,
A fever of thyself: think of the earth;

What bliss, even in hope, is there for thee?

What haven? every creature hath its home,
Every sole man hath days of joy and pain,
Whether his labours be sublime or low-
The pain alone, the joy alone, distinct:
Only the dreamer venoms all his days,

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Bearing more woe than all his sins deserve.

Therefore, that happiness be somewhat shared,
Such things as thou art are admitted oft

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Aye, and could weep for love of such award."
So answer'd I, continuing, "If it please,

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Majestic shadow, tell me where I am,

Whose altar this, for whom this incense curls;
What image this whose face I cannot see

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For the broad marble knees; and who thou art,
Of accent feminine so courteous ?"

Then the tall shade, in drooping linen veil'd,
Spoke out, so much more earnest, that her breath
Stirr'd the thin folds of gauze that drooping hung
About a golden censer from her hand.

Pendent; and by her voice I knew she shed
Long-treasured tears. "This temple, sad and lone,
Is all spar'd from the thunder of a war
Foughten long since by giant hierarchy
Against rebellion: this old image here,
Whose carved features wrinkled as he fell,
Is Saturn's; I, Moneta, left supreme,
Sole goddess of this desolation."

I had no words to answer, for my tongue,
Useless, could find about its roofed home
No syllable of a fit majesty

To make rejoinder to Moneta's mourn :
There was a silence, while the altar's blaze
Was fainting for sweet food. I look'd thereon,
And on the paved floor, where nigh were piled
Faggots of cinnamon, and many heaps

Of other crisped spicewood: then again
I look'd upon the altar, and its horns
Whiten'd with ashes, and its languorous flame,
And then upon the offerings again;
And so, by turns, till sad Moneta cry'd:
"The sacrifice is done, but not the less
Will I be kind to thee for thy good will.
My power, which to me is still a curse,
Shall be to thee a wonder; for the scenes
Still swooning vivid through my globed brain,
With an electral changing misery,

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Thou shalt with these dull mortal eyes behold
Free from all pain, if wonder pain thee not."
As near as an immortal's sphered words
Could to a mother's soften were these last:
And yet I had a terror of her robes,
And chiefly of the veils that from her brow
Hung pale, and curtain'd her in mysteries,

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That made my heart too small to hold its blood.
This saw that Goddess, and with sacred hand
Parted the veils. Then saw I a wan face,

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Not pin'd by human sorrows, but bright-blanch'd
By an immortal sickness which kills not;

It works a constant change, which happy death
Can put no end to; deathwards progressing
To no death was that visage; it had past
The lilly and the snow; and beyond these
I must not think now, though I saw that face.
But for her eyes I should have fled away;
They held me back with a benignant light,
Soft, mitigated by divinest lids

Half-clos'd, and visionless entire they seem'd

Of all external things; they saw me not,

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But in blank splendour beam'd, like the mild moon, 245

Who comforts those she sees not, who knows not

What eyes are upward cast. As I had found
A grain of gold upon a mountain's side,

And, twing'd with avarice, strain'd out my eyes
To search its sullen entrails rich with ore,
So, at the view of sad Moneta's brow,
I ask'd to see what things the hollow brow
Behind environ'd: what high tragedy

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In the dark secret chambers of her skull

Was acting, that could give so dread a stress

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To her cold lips, and fill with such a light

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