of thy prime,
     Thy hand has plucked the bitter flower of death;
     But this will dower thee with Elysian breath,
     That fade into a never-fading clime. 
     Dear to the Gods are those that do like thee
     A solemn duty! for the tyranny
     Of kings is feeble to the soul that dares
     Defy them to fulfil its sacred cares: 
     And weak against a mighty will are men. 
     O, Torch between two brothers! in whose gleam
     Our slaughtered House doth shine as one again,
     Tho’ severed by the sword; now may thy dream
     Kindle desire in thee for us, and thou,
     Forgetting not thy lover and his vow,
     Leaving no human memory forgot,
     Shalt cross, not unattended, the dark stream
     Which runs by thee in sleep and ripples not. 
     The large stars glitter thro’ the anxious night,
     And the deep sky broods low to look at thee: 
     The air is hush’d and dark o’er land and sea,
     And all is waiting for the morrow light: 
     So do thy kindred spirits wait for thee. 
     O Sister! soft as on the downward rill,
     Will those first daybeams from the distant hill
     Fall on the smoothness of thy placid brow,
     Like this calm sweetness breathing thro’ me now: 
     And when the fated sounds shall wake thine eyes,
     Wilt thou, confiding in the supreme will,
     In all thy maiden steadfastness arise,
     Firm to obey and earnest to fulfil;
     Remembering the night thou didst not sleep,
     And this same brooding sky beheld thee creep,
     Defiant of unnatural decree,
     To where I lay upon the outcast land;
     Before the iron gates upon the plain;
     A wretched, graveless ghost, whose wailing chill
     Came to thy darkened door imploring thee;
     Yearning for burial like my brother slain; —
     And all was dared for love and piety! 
     This thought will nerve again thy virgin hand
     To serve its purpose and its destiny.’

     She woke, they led her forth, and all was still.

     Swathed round in mist and crown’d with cloud,
     O Mountain! hid from peak to base —
     Caught up into the heavens and clasped
     In white ethereal arms that make
     Thy mystery of size sublime! 
     What eye or thought can measure now
     Thy grand dilating loftiness! 
     What giant crest dispute with thee
     Supremacy of air and sky! 
     What fabled height with thee compare! 
     Not those vine-terraced hills that seethe
     The lava in their fiery cusps;
     Nor that high-climbing robe of snow,
     Whose summits touch the morning star,
     And breathe the thinnest air of life;
     Nor crocus-couching Ida, warm
     With Juno’s latest nuptial lure;
     Nor Tenedos whose dreamy eye
     Still looks upon beleaguered Troy;
     Nor yet Olympus crown’d