And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet: Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget! II. A breathless awe, like the swift change The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven By the enchantment of thy strain, And on my shoulders wings are woven, To follow its sublime career, Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are passed and disappear. III. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings; The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quickThe blood is listening in my frame; And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes; My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, IV. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody.- Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. TO CONSTANTIA. I. THE rose that drinks the fountain dew II. Such is my heart-roses are fair, And that at best a withered blossom; But thy false care did idly wear Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ; And fed with love, like air and dew, FRAGMENT: TO ONE SINGING.1 My spirit like a charmèd bark doth swim Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing, 1 If these lines also allude to the singing of Claire, which is known to have delighted Shelley, she has Far away into the regions dim Of rapture as a boat, with swift sails winging Its way adown some many-winding river. LINES TO WILLIAM GODWIN. MIGHTY eagle! thou that soarest The embattled tempests' warning! TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR.' I. THY Country's curse is on thee, darkest crest II. Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice sold, Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks overthrown, And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's throne. the honour of a very august connexion, namely with Asia in Prometheus Unbound. Compare the fragment with the song at the end of Act ii.-ED. 1 On his depriving Shelley of the custody of his children. See vol. i, page xl.-ED. The star-chamber, Mrs. Shelley says.—ED. III. And, whilst that sure slow Angel which aye stands Watching the beck of Mutability Delays to execute her high commands, And, though a nation weeps, spares thine and thee, IV. O let a father's curse be on thy soul, And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb; Be both, on thy grey head, a leaden cowl To weigh thee down to thine approaching doom! V. I curse thee by a parent's outraged love, By hopes long cherished and too lately lost, By gentle feelings thou couldst never prove, By griefs which thy stern nature never crossed; VI. By those infantine smiles of happy light, Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth, Quenched even when kindled, in untimely night, Hiding the promise of a lovely birth; VII. By those unpractised accents of young speech, Which he who is a father thought to frame To gentlest lore, such as the wisest teachThou strike the lyre of mind! O grief and shame! VIII. By all the happy see in children's growth- IX. By all the days under an hireling's care, Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless! X. By the false cant which on their innocent lips Must hang like poison on an opening bloom, By the dark creeds which cover with eclipse Their pathway from the cradle to the tomb XI. By thy most impious Hell, and all its terror; By all the grief, the madness, and the guilt Of thine impostures, which must be their errorThat sand on which thy crumbling power is built XII. By thy complicity with lust and hate Thy thirst for tears-thy hunger after goldThe ready frauds which ever on thee waitThe servile arts in which thou hast grown old XIII. By thy most killing sneer, and by thy smileBy all the arts and snares of thy black den, And-for thou canst outweep the crocodileBy thy false tears-those millstones braining men XIV. By all the hate which checks a father's loveBy all the scorn which kills a father's careBy those most impious hands which dared remove Nature's high bounds-by thee-and by despair |