Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/212

Rh

not dream, but yet fantastic thought Wrought such wild changes on the spirit's harp, It seemed that slumber ruled. A structure rose, Deep-founded and gigantic. Strangely blent Its orders seemed. The solemn Gothic arch— The obelisk antique—the turret proud In castellated pomp—the palace dome— The grated dungeon—and the peasant's cot— Were grouped within its walls. A throne was there; A king, with all his gay and courtly train, In robes of splendour, and a vassal throng, Eager to do their bidding, and to wear A gilded servitude. The back-gound seemed Darkened by misery's pencil. Famine cast A tinge of paleness o'er the brow of toil, While Poverty, to soothe her naked babes, Shrieked forth a broken song. Then came a groan— A rush—as if of thunder. The grey rocks From yawning clefts breathed forth volcanic flames, While the huge fabric, parting at its base, A ruin seemed. A miserable mass Of tortured life rolled through the burning gates, And spread destruction o'er the scorching soil, Like Etna's lava-stream.