几乎一口气岩石楼梯搬,但是the growing tide from verge to verge, Heaving salt fragrance on the midnight air, Climbed with a murmurous and fitful surge. A hoary mist rose up and slowly sheathed The dripping walls and portal granite-stepped, And sank into the inner court, and crept From column unto column thickly wreathed. In that dead hour of darkness before dawn, When hearts beat fainter, and the hands of death Are strengthened,--with lips white and drawn And feverish lids and scarcely moving breath, The hapless mother, tender Chione, Beside the earth-cold figure of her child, After long bursts of weeping sharp and wild Lay broken, silent in her agony. At first in waking horror racked and bound She lay, and then a gradual stupor grew About her soul and wrapped her round and round Like death, and then she sprang to life anew Out of a darkness clammy as the tomb; And, touched by memory or some spirit hand, She seemed to keep a pathway down a land Of monstrous shadow and Cimmerian gloom. A waste of cloudy and perpetual night-- And yet there seemed a teeming presence there Of life that gathered onward in thick flight, Unseen, but multitudinous. Aware Of something also on her path she was That drew her heart forth with a tender cry. She hurried with drooped ear and eager eye, And called on the foul shapes to let her pass. For down the sloping darkness far ahead She saw a little figure slight and small, With yearning arms and shadowy curls outspread, Running at frightened speed; and it would fall And rise, sobbing; and through the ghostly sleet The cry came: 'Mother! Mother!' and she wist The tender eyes were blinded by the mist, And the rough stones were bruising the small feet. And when she lifted a keen cry and clave Forthright the gathering horror of the place, Mad with her love and pity, a dark wave Of clapping shadows swept about her face, And beat her back, and when she gained her breath, Athwart an awful vale a grizzled steam Was rising from a mute and murky stream, As cold and cavernous as the eye of death. And near the ripple stood the little shade, And many hovering ghosts drew near him, some That seemed to peer out of the mist and fade With eyes of soft and shadowing pity, dumb; But others closed him round with eager sighs And sweet insistence, striving to caress And comfort him; but grieving none the less, He reached her heartstrings with his tender cries. And silently across the horrid flow, The shapeless bark and pallid chalklike arms Of him that oared it, dumbly to and fro, Went gliding, and the struggling ghosts in swarms Leaped in and passed, but myriads more behind Crowded the dismal beaches. One might hear A tumult of entreaty thin and clear Rise like the whistle of a winter wind. And still the little figure stood beside The hideous stream, and toward the whispering prow Held forth his tender tremulous hands, and cried, Now to the awful ferryman, and now To her that battled with the shades in vain. Sometimes impending over all her sight The spongy dark and the phantasmal flight Of things half-shapen passed and hid the plain. And sometimes in a gust a sort of wind Drove by, and where its power was hurled, She saw across the twilight, jarred and thinned, Those gloomy meadows of the under world, Where never sunlight was, nor grass, nor trees, And the dim pathways from the Stygian shore, Sombre and swart and barren, wandered o'er By countless melancholy companies. And farther still upon the utmost rim Of the drear waste, whereto the roadways led, She saw in piling outline, huge and dim, The walled and towered dwellings of the dead And the grim house of Hades. Then she broke Once more fierce-footed through the noisome press; But ere she reached the goal of her distress, Her pierced heart seemed to shatter, and she woke. It seemed as she had been entombed for years, And came again to living with a start. There was an awful echoing in her ears And a great deadness pressing at her heart. She shuddered and with terror seemed to freeze, Lip-shrunken and wide-eyed a moment's space, And then she touched the little lifeless face, And kissed it, and rose up upon her knees. And round her still the silence seemed to teem With the foul shadows of her dream beguiled-- No dream, she thought; it could not be a dream, But her child called for her; her child, her child!-- She clasped her quivering fingers white and spare, And knelt low down, and bending her fair head Unto the lower gods who rule the dead, Touched them with tender homage and this prayer: O gloomy masters of the dark demesne, Hades, and thou whom the dread deity Bore onc