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And she cried, "Ply the oar;
Put off gayly from shore!” —
As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail specked their path

O'er the sea.

And from isle, tower and rock,
The blue beacon cloud broke
And though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast

From the lee.

“ And fear'st thou, and fear'st thou?

And see'st thou, and hear'st thou ?

And drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,

I and thou?"

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover,
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure

Soft and low;

While around the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered and shifted

To and fro.

IV In the court of the fortress Beside the pale portress, Like a bloodhound well beaten The bridegroom stands, eaten

By shame ;

On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the gray tyrant father;
To his voice the mad weather

Seems tame;

And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last

Of his name !

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WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?

Art thou not over-bold ?

What ! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth,
The last of the flock of the starry fold ?

Ha ! leapest thou forth as of old ?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,
And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead ?

How! is not thy quick heart cold?

What spark is alive on thy hearth?

How! is not his death-knell knolled ?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth ?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old

O'er the embers covered and cold
Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled;
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead ?

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“ Who has known me of old,” replied Earth,

6 Or who has my story told ?

It is thou who art over-bold."
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth
As she sung, “ To my bosom I fold

, All my sons when their knell is knolled, Lines written on hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon. Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || Written on hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon, Shelley, 1821. Published with Hellas, 1821.

ü. 8 dost thou, Rossetti.

And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.

“Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth,

grow bolder, and still more bold.
The dead fill me ten thousand-fold
Fuler of speed, and splendor, and mirth.
I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,

Like a frozen chaos uprolled,
Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm.

I feed on whom I fed.


“Ay, alive and still bold,” muttered Earth,

“ Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,

In terror, and blood, and gold,
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.
Leave the millions who follow to mould

The metal before it be cold;
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.”




Non happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms

arts, Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame; Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,

Sonnet. Political Greatness, Mrs. Shelley, 1824 || Sonnet to the Republic of Benevento, Harvard MS. Published by Mrs. Shelley,

History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.



The golden gates of sleep unbar

Where strength and beauty, met together, Kindle their image like a star

In a sea of glassy weather!
Night, with all thy stars look down;

Darkness, weep thy holiest dew;
Never smiled the inconstant moon

On a pair so true. Let

eyes not see their own delight ;Haste, swift hour, and thy flight

Oft renew.


Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her !

Holy stars, permit no wrong! And return to wake the sleeper,

Dawn, -ere it be long.

6 the || its, Harvard MS. A Bridal Song. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

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