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Ere midnight's frown and morning's
smile, ere thou and peace may Upon my heart thy accents sweet
Of peace and pity fell like dew
On flowers half dead ;-thy lips did meet their own repose,
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw For the weary winds are silent, or the Their soft persuasion on my brain, moon is in the deep:
Charming away its dream of pain. Some respite to its turbulence unresting
ocean knows; Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, We are not happy, sweet! our state hath its appointed sleep.
Is strange and full of doubt and fear; Thou in the grave shalt rest—yet till More need of words that ills abate;
Reserve or censure come not near the phantoms flee Which that house and heath and garden No solace left for thee and me.
Our sacred friendship, lest there be made dear to thee erewhile, Thy remembrance, and repentance, and
deep musings are not free From the music of two voices and Gentle and good and mild thou art, the light of one sweet smile. Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT | The mask of scorn, although it be GODWIN
To hide the love thou feel'st for me.
MINE eyes were dim with tears unshed;
TO Yes, I was firm-thus wert not thou;My baffled looks did fear yet dread Yer look on me- take not thine eyes To meet thy looks—I could not know
away, How anxiously they sought to shine
Which feed upon the love within With soothing pity upon mine.
Which is indeed but the reflected ray
of thine own beauty from my spirit To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
thrown. Which preys upon itself alone;
Yet speak to me—thy voice is as the To curse the life which is the cage
tone Of fettered grief that dares not groan, Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear Hiding from many a careless eye
That thou yet lovest me; yet thou The scornèd load of agony.
alone Like one before a mirror, without care
Of aught but thine own features, imaged Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,
thou alone should be, And yet I wear out life in watching To spend years thus, and be rewarded, thee;
As thou, sweet love, requited me A toil so sweet at times, and thou When none were near-Oh! I did wake
indeed From torture for that moment's sake. Art kind when I am sick, and pity me.
And the billows of cloud that around
thee roll We are as clouds that veil the midnight
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous moon;
day, How restlessly they speed, and gleam, where hell and heaven shall leave thee and quiver,
free Streaking the darkness radiantly!—yet To the universe of destiny. Night closes round, and they are lost This world is the nurse of all we know, for ever :
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearsul blow Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant
To a brain unencompassed with nerves strings
of steel; Give various response to each varying when all that we know, or feel, or see, blast,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery. To whose frail frame no second motion brings
The secret things of the grave are there, One mood or modulation like the last. Where all but this frame must surely
be, We rest. —A dream has power to poison Though the fine-wrought eye and the sleep;
wondrous ear We rise. ---One wandering thought
No longer will live to hear or to see pollutes the day;
All that is great and all that is strange We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or
In the boundless realm of unending weep;
change. Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death ? It is the same !--For, be it joy or sorrow. Who painteth the shadows that are
Who listeth the veil of what is to come ? The path of its departure still is free:
beneath Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his
The wide-winding caves of the peopled
tomb ? Nought may endure but Mutability.
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be ON DEATH
With the fears and the love for that
which we see? THERE IS NO WORK, NOR DEVICE, NOR KNOW. LEDGE, NOR WISDOM, IN THE GRAVE, WHITHER
Ecclesiastes. The pale, the cold, and the moony smile A SUMMER EVENING CHURCH. Which the meteor beam of a starless
LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle, Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted | The wind has swept from the wide light,
atmosphere Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's That fits round our steps till their
ray; strength is gone.
And pallid evening twines its beaming
hair O man! hold thee on in courage of soul In duskier braids around the languid Through the stormy shades of thy eyes of day: worldly way,
Silence and twilight, unbeloved of men,
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest
TO COLERIDGE glen.
ΔΑΚΡΥΣΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤMON 'ΑΠΟΤMON They breathe their spells towards the Oh! There are spirits of the air, departing day,
And genii of the evening breeze, Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and and gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees :Light, sound, and motion the
Such lovely ministers to meet potent sway,
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely Responding to the charm with its own
feet. mystery. The winds are still, or the dry church. With mountain winds, and babbling tower grass
springs, Knows not their gentle motions as they And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice Thou too, aërial Pile! whose pinnacles. When they did answer thee; but they Point from one shrine like pyramids of Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love fire,
away. Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells,
And thou hast sought in starry eyes Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and Beams that were never meant for distant spire,
thine, Around whose lessening and invisible Another's wealth :-tame sacrifice height
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine ? Gather among the stars the clouds of Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, night.
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy
demands ? The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres : And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrill. Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine ing sound
hope Half sense, half thought, among the On the false earth's inconstancy? darkness stirs,
Did thine own mind afford no scope Breathed from their wormy beds all Of love, or moving thoughts to thee ? living things around,
That natural scenes or human smiles And mingling with the still night and Could steal the power to wind thee in mute sky
their wiles. Its awsul hush is felt inaudibly.
Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled Thus solemnised and sostened, death is
Whose falsehood left thee brokenmild
hearted; And terrorless as this serenest night :
The glory of the moon is dead; Here could I hope, like some inquiring
Night's ghosts and dreams have now child
departed; Sporting on graves, that death did hide Thine own soul still is true to thee, from human sight
But changed to a foul fiend through Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless
misery sleep That loveliest dreams perpetual watch 'This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever did keep
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase ;-—the mad endea
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep
Would scourge thee to severer pangs. Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Lust, Dark as it is, all change would aggravate. And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in TO WORDSWORTH
That virtue owns a more eternal foe Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know Than force or fraud : old Custom, legal That things depart which never may Crime, return :
And bloody Faith the soulest birth of Childhood and youth, friendship and
time. love's first glow, Have Aed like sweet dreams, leaving
LINES thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
The cold earth slept below, Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone Above the cold sky shone; deplore.
And all around, with a chilling sound, Thou wert as a lone star, whose light From caves of ice and fields of snow, did shine
The breath of night like death did On some frail bark in winter's midnight
Beneath the sinking moon. Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge
stood Above the blind and battling multitude : The wintry hedge was black, In honoured poverty thy voice did weave The green grass was not seen, Songs consecrate to truth and liberty, - | The birds did rest on the bare thorn's Deserting these, thou leavest me to
Whose roots, beside the pathway track, Thus having been, that thou shouldst Had bound their folds o'er many a cease to be.
Which the frost had made between. FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE
Thine eyes glowed in the glare I HATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did Of the moon's dying light; groan
As a fenfire's beam on a sluggish stream, To think that a most unambitious slave, Gleams dimly, so the moon shone Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built raven hair, thy throne
That shook in the wind of night. Where it had stood even
now: thou didst prefer
IV A frail and bloody pomp which time has The moon made thy lips pale, beswept
loved In fragments towards oblivion. Mas- The wind made thy bosom chillsacre,
The night did shed on thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie recovered from a severe pulmonary attack ; Where the bitter breath of the naked the weather was warm and pleasant. He sky
lived near Windsor Forest ; and his life Might visit thee at will.
was spent under its shades or on the water,
meditating subjects for verse. Hitherto, NOTE ON THE EARLY POEMS, BY he had chiefly aimed at extending his
political doctrines, and attempted so MRS. SHELLEY
to do by appeals in prose essays to the The remainder of Shelley's Poems will be people, exhorting them to claim their arranged in the order in which they were rights; but he had now begun to feel that written. Of course, mistakes will occur the time for action was not ripe in England, in placing some of the shorter ones ; for, and that the pen was the only instrument as I have said, many of these were thrown wherewith to prepare the way for better aside, and I never saw them till I had the things. misery of looking over his writings after In the scanty journals kept during those the hand that traced them was dust ; and years I find a record of the books that some were in the hands of others, and I Shelley read during several years. During never saw them till now. The subjects the years of 1814 and 1815 the list is of the poems are often to me an unerring extensive. It includes, in Greek, Homer, guide ; but on other occasions I can only Hesiod, Theocritus, the histories of guess, by finding them in the pages of Thucydides and Herodotus, and Diogenes the same manuscript book that contains Laertius. In Latin, Petronius, Suetonius, poems with the date of whose composition some of the works of Cicero, a large proI am fully conversant. In the present portion of those of Seneca and Livy. In arrangement all his poetical translations English, Milton's Poems, Wordsworth's will be placed together at the end. Excursion, Southey's Madoc and Thalaba,
The loss of his early papers prevents my Locke On the Human Understanding, being able to give any of the poetry of his Bacon's Novum Organum. In Italian, boyhood. Of the few I give as Early Ariosto, Tasso, and Alfieri. In French, Poems, the greater part were published the Reveries d'un Solitaire of Rousseau. with Alastor; some of them were written To these may be added several modern previously, some at the same period. The books of travels. He read few novels. poem beginning “Oh, there are spirits in the air" was addressed in idea to Cole
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816 ridge, whom he never knew; and at whose character he could only guess
THE SUNSET imperfectly, through his writings, and accounts he heard of him from some who THERE late was One within whose knew him well. He regarded his change
subtle being, of opinions as rather an act of will than As light and wind within some delicate conviction, and believed that in his inner
cloud heart he would be haunted by what Shelley That fades amid the blue noon's burning considered the better and holier aspira
sky, tions of his youth. The summer evening Genius and death contended. None that suggested to him the poem written in the churchyard of Lechlade occurred | The sweetness of the joy which made during his voyage up the Thames in 1815.
his breath He had been advised by a physician to live as much as possible in the open air; Fail, like the trances of the summer air, and a fortnight of a bright warm July was
When, with the Lady of his love, who spent in tracing the Thames to its source.
then He never spent a season more tranquilly First knew the unreserve of mingled than the summer of 1815. He had just