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The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and
swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings.
And when sunset may breathe, from the
lit sea beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

Build up the blue dome of air,
I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Like a child from the womb, like a
ghost from the tomb,

I arise and unbuild it again.
1820. 1820.

"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me! And bid the deep hide me, For he grasps me now by the hair!" The loud Ocean heard, To its blue depth stirred, And divided at her prayer; And under the water

The Earth's white daughter
Fled like a sunny beam;

Behind her descended
Her billows, unblended
With the brackish Dorian stream:-
Like a gloomy stain
On the emerald main
Alpheus rushed behind,-
As an eagle pursuing
A dove to its ruin

Down the streams of the cloudy wind.