THIS is that hill of awe That Persian Sindbad saw, -- The mount magnetic; And on its seaward face, Scattered along its base, The wrecks prophetic. Here comes the argosies Blown by each idle breeze, To and fro shifting; Yet to the hill of Fate All drawing, soon or late, -- Day by day drifting; -- Drifting forever here Barks that for many a year Braved wind and weather; Shallops but yesterday Launched on yon shining bay, -- Drawn all together. This is the end of all: Sun thyself by the wall, O poorer Hindbad! Envy not Sindbad's fame: Here come alike the same, Hindbad and Sindbad. |