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Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great ; it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
'Twill wrong thee not — thou wouldst, if thou
couldst feel Abjure such envious fame — great Otho died Like thee — he sanctified his country's steel,
At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, In his own blood. A deed it was to bring Tears from all men though full of gentle
pride, Such pride as from impetuous love may spring, That will not be refused its offering.
Dark is the realm of grief: but human things
Those may not know who cannot weep for them.
MADDALO, a Courtier.
Pigna, a Minister.
No access to the Duke! You have not said
ii. 5 bring, Boscombe MS. || buy, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. Tasso. Published by Garnett, 1862. Composed, 1818.
Did you inform his Grace that Signor Pigna
The Lady Leonora cannot know
Venus and Adonis.
In truth I told her, and she smiled and said,
The words are twisted in some double sense
How are the Duke and Duchess occupied ?
Buried in some strange talk. The Duke was lean
ing, His finger on his brow, his lips unclosed. The Princess sate within the window-seat, And so her face was hid; but on her knee Her hands were clasped, veinèd, and pale as snow, And quivering — young Tasso, too, was there.
Thou seest on whom from thine own worshipped
heaven Thou drawest down smiles - they did not rain on
Would they were parching lightnings for his
sake On whom they fell!
I loved — alas ! our life is love ;
And still I love and still I think,
Song. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
Sometimes I see before me flee
still watching it,
LET those who pine in pride or in revenge,
Or think that ill for ill should be repaid,
Ruins the merchants of such thriftless trade,
A massy tower yet overhangs the town,
A scattered group of ruined dwellings now.
Its second ruin through internal strife,
The chain which binds and kills. As death to life, Marenghi, Rossetti || Mazenghi, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Published, vii. xv., by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, i.-xxyiii., by Rossetti, 1870. Composed, 1818.
As winter to fair flowers (though some be poison) So Monarchy succeeds to Freedom's foison.
Was brimming with the blood of feuds forsworn At sacrament; more holy ne'er of old
Etrurians mingled with the shades forlorn Of moon-illumined forests.
And reconciling factions wet their lips
Was Florence the liberticide? that band
Of free and glorious brothers who had planted, Like a green isle 'mid Æthiopian sand,
A nation amid slaveries, disenchanted Of many impious faiths — wise, just — do they, Does Florence, gorge the sated tyrants' prey ?
O foster-nurse of man's abandoned glory,
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendor; Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story,
As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender. The light-invested angel Poesy Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee.