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From out the chamber where the women kept ;
Their tears fell on the dear companion cold
Of pleasures now departed; then was knolled
The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived,
And finding death their penitent had shrived,
Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon
A vulture has just feasted to the bone.
And then the mourning-women came. —

Old winter was gone
In his weakness back to the mountains hoar,

And the spring came down
From the planet that hovers upon the shore

Where the sea of sunlight encroaches
On the limits of wintry night;
If the land, and the air, and the sea,

Rejoice not when spring approaches,
We did not rejoice in thee,


She is still, she is cold

On the bridal couch.
One step to the white death-bed,

And one to the bier,
And one to the charnel — and one, oh where?

The dark arrow fled
In the noon.

Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled,

The rats in her heart
Will have made their nest,

And the worms be alive in her golden hair;
While the spirit that guides the sun
Sits throned in his flaming chair,

She shall sleep.


OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;

Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,

And the oars, and the sails; but tis sleeping fast Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.

The stars burned out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there;
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods,

And the rocks above and the stream below,
And the vapors in their multitudes,

And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of aëry gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.

Day had awakened all things that be, -
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,

And the milkmaid's song and mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee.
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn;

The Boat on the Serchio. Published, 1-61, 88–118, by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, and dated, July, 1821, Revised and enlarged by Rossetti, 1870.

Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,

Like lamps which a student forgets to trim; The beetle forgot to wind his horn;

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill; Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, Night's dreams and terrors, every one, Fled from the brains which are their prey From the lamp’s death to the morning ray.

All rose to do the task He set to each,

Who shaped us to his ends and not our own; The million rose to learn, and one to teach What none yet ever knew or can be known.

And many rose Whose woe was such that fear became desire ; Melchior and Lionel were not


those ; They from the throng of men had stepped aside, And made their home under the green hillside. It was that hill, whose intervening brow

Screens Lucca from the Pisan's envious eye, Which the circumfluous plain waving below,

Like a wide lake of green fertility, With streams and fields and marshes bare,

Divides from the far Apennines, which lie Islanded in the immeasurable air.

“ What think you, as she lies in her green cove,
Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ?
If morning dreams are true, why I should guess
That she was dreaming of our idleness,
And of the miles of watery way
We should have led her by this time of day.”

33 nor, Rossetti.

“Never mind," said Lionel,
“Give care to the winds, they can bear it well

About yon poplar tops ; and see !
The white clouds are driving merrily,
And the stars we miss this morn will light
More willingly our return to-night.
How it whistles, Dominic's long black hair!
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair;
Hear how it sings into the air.'

of us and of our lazy motions,”
Impatiently said Melchior,
“ If I can guess a boat's emotions ;

And how we ought, two hours before, To have been the devil knows where." And then, in such transalpine Tuscan As would have killed a Della-Cruscan,

So, Lionel according to his art

Weaving his idle words, Melchior said :

“ She dreams that we are not yet out of bed; We'll put a soul into her, and a heart Which like a dove chased by a dove shall beat."

“Ay, heave the ballast overboard, And stow the eatables in the aft locker." “ Would not this keg be best a little lowered ?” “No, now all's right.” “Those bottles of warm


58-61 :

List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair ;
How it scatters Dominic's long black hair,
Singing of us, and our lazy motions,
If I can guess a boat's emotions.

Mrs. Shelley, 1821.

(Give me some straw) — must be stowed tenderly;
Such as we used, in summer after six,
To cram in great-coat pockets, and to mix
Hard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton,
And, couched on stolen hay in those green har-

bors Farmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called ar.

bors, Would.feast till eight.”

With a bottle in one hand, As if his very soul were at a stand, Lionel stood, when Melchior brought him steady,“Sit at the helm — fasten this sheet — all ready!”

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,

The living breath is fresh behind, As with dews and sunrise fed

Comes the laughing morning wind. The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Serchio's torrent fierce, Then flags with intermitting course,

And hangs upon the wave, and stems

The tempest of the
Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come, -
Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea;

In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

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