XIX |
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XIX
He sate him down at a pillar`s base,
And pass`d his hand athwart his face;
Like one in dreary musing mood,
Declining was his attitude;
His head was drooping on his breast,
Fever`d, throbbing, and opprest;
And o`er his brow, so downward bent,
Oft his beating fingers went,
Hurriedly, as you may see
Your own run over the ivory key,
Ere the measured tone is taken,
By the chords you would awaken.
There he sate all heavily,
As he heard the night-wind sigh.
Was it the wind, through some hollow stone,
Sent that soft and tender moan?
He lifted his head, and he look`d on the sea,
But it was unrippled as glass may be;
He look`d on the long grass — it waved not a blade;
How was that gentle sound convey`d?
He look`d to the banners — each flag lay still,
So did the leaves on Cithæron`s hill,
And he felt not a breath come over his cheek;
What did that sudden sound bespeak?
He turn`d to the left — is he sure of sight?
There sate a lady, youthful and bright!
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