Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee,

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home

Leave the naked to laughter,

When leaves fall and cold winds come.

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.

(With what truth I may say—

Roma! Roma! Roma!

Non è più come era prima!)

My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume
Which its lustre faintly hid,
Here its ashes find a tomb,

But beneath this pyramid

Thou art not-if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother's grief and mine.

Where art thou, my gentle child?
Let me think thy spirit feeds,
Within its life intense and mild,

The love of living leaves and weeds,
Among these tombs and ruins wild;--

Let me think that through low seeds
Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass,
Into their hues and scents may pass
A portion--

June, 1819.

AN ALLEGORY.

A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant

Stands yawning on the highway of the life Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt;

Around it rages an unceasing strife

Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky.

And many passed it by with careless tread,
Not knowing that a shadowy [
Tracks every traveller even to where the dead
Wait peacefully for their companion new;
But others, by more curious humour led,

Pause to examine, these are very few, And they learn little there, except to know That shadows follow them where'er they go.

MUTABILITY.

THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies;

What is this world's delight? Lightning that mocks the night,

Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss

For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,

Survive their joy and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,

Whilst flowers are gay, Whilst eyes that change ere night

Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep, Dream thou-and from thy sleep

Then wake to weep.

FROM THE ARABIC.

AN IMITATION.

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;

It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight
Bore thee far from me;

My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;

In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee,

Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee.