I leave a white and turbid wake: pale waters, paler cheeks, where'er I sail. The envious billows sidelong swell to whelm my track, let them; but first I pass.

Yonder, by the ever-brimming goblet's rim, the warm waves blush like wine. The gold brow plumbs the blue. The diver sun-- slow dived from noon,--goes down; my soul mounts up! she wearies with her endless hill. Is, then, the crown to heavy that I wear? this Iron crown of Lombardy. Yet it is bright with many a gem; I, the wearer, see not its far flashings, but darkly feel that I wear that, that dazzingly confounds. 'Tis iron--that I know--not gold. 'Tis split ,too--that I feel; the jagged edge galls me so, my brain seems to beat against solid metal; aye, steel skull, mine; the sort that needs no helmet in the most brain-battering fight!