A Sicilian Story :: :: University of Virginia Library

I dreamt, and o'er my enchanted vision pass'd
Shapes of the elder time (beautiful things
That men have died for!) as they stood on earth,
But more ethereal, and each forehead bore
The stamp and character of the starry skies.

First came that Roman Lady from whose bosom
The Gracchi twins were born, gracious Cornelia:
Her raven hair was wreath'd about her brow
Severe, yet fair and lovely. Like a queen
She trod, majestic as when Juno thron'd
Above the Deities, by the side of Jove,
Lends her proud smile celestial, while her Lord
Showers Heaven's bounties on the world below.

Behind her followed an Athenian dame,
(The pale and elegant Aspasia)
Like some fair marble carved by Phidias' hand,
And meant to imitate the nymph or muse:

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Mistress of poetry and song was she,
And fit to be beloved of Pericles.
Shadowed by myrtle boughs she floated onwards.

Then came a dark-brow'd spirit, on whose head
Laurel and withering roses loosely hung:
She held a harp amongst whose chords her hand
Wandered for music—and it came. She sang
A song despairing, and the whispering winds
Seem'd envious of her melody, and streamed
Amidst the wires to rival her, in vain.
Short was the strain, but sweet: Methought it spoke
Of broken hearts, and still and moonlight seas,
Of love, and loneliness, and fancy gone,
And hopes decay'd for ever: and my ear
Caught well remember'd names, ‘Leucadia's rock’
At times, and ‘faithless Phaon:’ Then the form
Pass'd not, but seem'd to melt in air away:
This was the Lesbian Sappho.—Then pass'd by
Another, and another, without names.

At last came one whom none could e'er mistake
Amidst a million: Egypt's dark-eyed Queen:
The love, the spell, the bane of Antony.
O, Cleopatra! who shall speak of thee?
Gaily, but like the Empress of a land

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She mov'd, and light as a wood-nymph in her prime,
And crown'd with costly gems, whose single price
Might buy a kingdom, yet how dim they shone
Beneath the magic of her eye, whose beam
Flash'd love and languishment: Of varying humours
She seem'd, yet subtle in her wildest mood,
As guile were to her passions ministrant.
At last she sank as dead. A noxious worm
Fed on those blue and wandering veins that lac'd
Her rising bosom: aye, did sleep upon
The pillow of Antony, and left behind,
In dark requital for its banquet—death.