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XLIII. He is a portion of the loveliness Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there, All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks it's flight To it's own likeness, as each mass may bear;
And bursting in it's beauty and it's might
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there
XLV. The inheritors of unfulfilled renown Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale, his solemn agony had not Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he lived and loved Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,
Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved : Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.
XLVI. And many more, whose names on Earth are dark But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. “ Thou art become as one of us,” they cry, " It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long "Swung blind in unascended majesty,
“ Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. “ Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!"
And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink
Who waged contention with their time's decay,
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead,
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.
Here pause : these graves are all too young as yet
Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.
LII. The One remains, the many change and pass ; Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! Follow where all is filed Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?
'Tis Adonais calls ! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together,
The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
CANCELLED PASSAGES OF ADONAIS.
PASSAGES OF THE PREFACE
The expression of my indignation and sympathy. I will allow myself a first and last word on the subject of calumny as it relates to me. As an author I have dared and invited censure. If I understand myself, I have written neither for profit nor for fame. I have employed my poetical compositions and publications simply as the instruments of that sympathy between myself and others which the ardent and unbounded love I cherished for my kind incited me to acquire. I expected all sorts of stupidity and insolent contempt from those ...
... These compositions (excepting the tragedy of the “Cenci,” which was written rather to try my powers, than to unburthen my full heart) are insufficiently... commendation than perhaps they deserve, even from their bitterest enemies; but they have not attained any corresponding popularity. As a man, I shrink from notice and regard; the ebb and flow of the world vexes me; I desire to be left in peace. Persecution, contumely, and calumny, have been heaped upon me in profuse measure; and domestic conspiracy and legal oppression have violated in my person the most sacred rights of nature and humanity. The bigot will say it was the recompence of my errors; the man of the world will call it the result of my imprudence; but never upon one head. ..
... Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thieftaker in despair, so an
an unsuccessful author turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame, doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations, is ill-qualified to assign its true value to the sneer of this world. He knows not that such stuff as this is of the abortive and monstrous births which time consumes as fast as it produces. He sees the truth and falsehood, the merits and demerits, of his case inextricably entangled. . . No personal offence should have drawn from me this public comment upon such stuff...
... The offence of this poor victim, seems to have consisted solely in his intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, and some other enemies of despotism and superstition. My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to crack, and will take a deal of killing. I do not know much of Mr. Hazlitt, but...
... I knew personally but little of Keats; but on the news of his situation I wrote to him, suggesting the propriety of trying the Italian climate, and inviting him to join me. Unfortunately he did not allow me. . .
PASSAGES OF THE POEM.
of impetuous fire,
And dying on the streams of dew serene,
And the green Paradise which western waves