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For round the walls are hung dread engines,


As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch
Ixion or the Titan :-or the quick
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic,
To convince Atheist, Turk or Heretic,
Or those in philanthropic council met,
Who thought to pay some interest for the debt
They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation,
By giving a faint foretaste of damnation 30
To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser and the rest
Who made our land an island of the bless'd,
When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her

fire On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with Empire:With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and

spike and jag, Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn

40 Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep ;—and other strange and

dread Magical forms the brick floor overspreadProteus transformed to metal did not make More figures, or more strange; nor did he

take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood; And forms of unimaginable wood, To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and

grooved blocks,

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The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.-Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am

able To catalogize in this verse of mine:- . A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine, But quicksilver ; that dew which the gnomes

drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the dæmons of the earthquake, who 60 Reply to them in lava—cry halloo ! And call out to the cities o'er their head, Roofs, towers and shrines, the dying and the

dead, Crash through the chinks of earth—and then

all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk—within The walnut bowl it lies, veinèd and thin, In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon

rains The inmost shower of its white fire—the breeze

70 Is still—blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver—for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood—I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat:A hollow screw with cogs-Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,-if so He fears not I should do more mischief.—Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam - boats, frigates, and machinery

quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical

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Instruments, for plans nautical and statical;
A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass
With ink in it;-a china cup that was
What it will never be again, I think,
A thing from which sweet lips were wont to

The liquor doctors rail at—and which I
Will quaff in spite of them--and when we die
We'll toss up who died first of drinking tea, 90
And cry out,—“ heads or tails ? " where'er we

be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three

books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,—disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near those a most inexplicable thing, 100 With lead in the middle- I'm conjecturing How to make Henry understand ; but noI'll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme.

And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind

· If Shelley had acquired in his boyhood and carried into maturity the ordinary schoolboy's pronunciation lograthims, this couplet would be less impeachable on the score of rhyme than it must remain on the supposition that he pronounced the word properly. To the eye and the punctilious ear the rhyme is ab. solutely indefensible.-ED.

Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and

grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews 110 Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content;I sit—and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them-Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound; I heed him more than them—the thunder

smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloke Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean ;-and the vines 120 Are trembling wide in all their trellised linesThe murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast ;—the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of heaven smiles, like the eye of

Love On the unquiet world ;-while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the

war Of worms? the shriek of the world's carrion

- 130 Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise?


You are not here! the quaint witch Memory

sees In vacant chairs, your absent images, And points where once you sat, and now should

be But are not.-I demand if ever we Shall meet as then we met; and she replies, Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes ;

“I know the past alone—but summon home
“My sister Hope,—she speaks of all to come.”
But I, an old diviner, who knew well 140
Every false verse of that sweet oracle,
Turned to the sad enchantress once again,
And sought a respite from my gentle pain,
In citing every passage o'er and o'er
Of our communion-how on the sea-shore
We watched the ocean and the sky together,
Under the roof of blue Italian weather ;1.
How I ran home through last year's thunder-

And felt the transverse lightning linger warm
Upon my cheek—and how we often made 150
Feasts for each other, where good will out-

weighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As well it might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be ;—and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not,-or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe, and sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world :—and then anatomize 160 The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years ;—or widely guess The issue of the earth's great business, When we shall be as we no longer areLike babbling gossips safe, who hear the war Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;—or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme,—in joy and pain

1 In Epipsychidion the same line, with a difference of one word, occurs with the same rhyme :

We two will rise, and sit, and walk together,

Under the roof of blue Ionian weather. -ED,

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