The City in the Sea

Lo! Death has reared himself a throneIn a strange city lying aloneFar down within the dim West,Where the good and the bad and the worst and the bestHave gone to their eternal rest.There shrines and palaces and towers(Time—eaten towers that tremble not!)Resemble nothing that is ours.Around, by lifting winds forgot,Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.

No rays from the holy heaven come downOn the long night—time of that town;But light from out the lurid seaStreams up the turrets silently –Gleams up the pinnacles far and free –Up domes – up spires – up kingly halls –Up fanes – up Babylon—like walls –Up shadowy long—forgotten bowersOf sculptured ivy and stone flowers –Up many and many a marvellous shrineWhose wreathed friezes intertwineThe viol, the violet, and the vine.

Resignedly beneath the skyThe melancholy waters lie.So blend the turrets and shadows thereThat all seem pendulous in air,While from a proud tower in the townDeath looks gigantically down.

There open fanes and gaping gravesYawn level with the luminous waves;But not the riches there that lieIn each idol’s diamond eye –Not the gaily—jewelled deadTempt the waters from their bed;For no ripples curl, alas!Along that wilderness of glass –No swellings tell that winds may beUpon some far—off happier sea –No heavings hint that winds have beenOn seas less hideously serene.

But lo, a stir is in the air!The wave – there is a movement there!As if the towers had thrust aside,In slightly sinking, the dull tide –As if their tops had feebly givenA void within the filmy Heaven.The waves have now a redder glow –The hours are breathing faint and low –And when, amid no earthly moans,Down, down that town shall settle hence,Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,Shall do it reverence.

1831                       1845

l. 18, fanes: archaic temples or shrines.