Page:An English Garner Ingatherings from Our History and Literature (Volume 1 1877).pdf/290

 And that which was of wonder most, The Phoenix left sweet Araby; And on a cedar in this coast, Built up her tomb of spicery. As I conjecture by the same, Prepared to take her dying flame.

In midst and centre of this plot, I saw one grovelling on the grass; A man or stone, I knew not what. No stone; of man, the figure was. And yet I could not count him one, More than the image made of stone.

At length I might perceive him rear His body on his elbows' end: Earthly and pale with ghastly cheer, Upon his knees he upward tend; Seeming like one in uncouth stound, To be ascending out the ground.

A grievous sigh forthwith he throws, As might have torn the vital strings; Then down his cheeks the tears so flows As doth the stream of many springs. So thunder rends the cloud in twain, And makes a passage for the rain.