(_For the Mirror_.)
Sleeping in night-mare's thunderstorm-wove lap,
On sunless mountain high above the pole;
With ice for sheets, and lightning for a cap,
And tons of loadstones weighing on his soul;
And eye out-stretched upon some vasty map
Of uncouth worlds, which ever onward roll
To infinite--like Revelation's scroll.
Now falling headlong from his mountain bed
Down sulph'rous space, o'er dismal lakes;
Now held by hand of air--on wings of lead
He tries to rise--gasping--the hands' hold breaks,
And downward he reels through shadows of the dead,
Who cannot die though stalking in hell's flakes,
Falling, he catches his heart-string on some hook, and--wakes.