III.

And o'er the marble hush of those large brows, Dread with the awe of the Olympian nod, A giant laurel spread its breathless boughs, The prophet-tree of the dark Pythian god, Shadowing the doom of thrones!

What, in such hour of rest and scene of joy, Stirs in the cells of that unfathom'd brain? Comes back one memory of the musing boy, Lone gazing o'er the yet unmeasured main, Whose waifs are human bones?