LONE MOUNTAIN

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 come 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.