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23
XIX.
[Or else I seem on a volcano's verge]
Or else I seem on a volcano's verge,And hear the bubbling of the rising fire.
Beneath, the breathless furnaces suspire,
And prisoned whirlwind-blasts, impetuous, urge
Through sluice and vein the spume of fiery surge.
I see the white scurf rising high and higher;
The mountain's pulses throb; my funeral pyre
Awaits the torch; I hear my funeral dirge.
Then I would flee; but, as one in a dream
Stands sick with terror staring at his doom,
Or as the dove fixed by the serpent's gaze;
So from the rising passion powerless seem
My thoughts to fly, but bid the fire consume
Pride, hope, resolve, in one devouring blaze.
Oct. 11th, 1885.
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