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And from thy touch like fire doth leap.
A breathless awe, like the swift change
Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Thou breathest now in fast ascending num
bers. 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
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 quick
The blood is listening in my frame;, And thronging shadows, fast and thick,
Fall on my overflowing eyes ;
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy Flows on, and fills all things with melody.
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne,
Secure o’er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.
Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Which when the starry waters sleep, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms
bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous
In the pleasant air of noon
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
Such is my heart—roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom ;
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ;
FRAGMENT: TO ONE SINGING. My spirit like a charmed 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
And amid the light of morning
The embattled tempests' warning!
TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR."
Thy country's curse is on thee, darkest crest
Of that foul, knotted, many-headed worm Which rends our Mother's bosom-Priestly Pest!
Masked Resurrection of a buried Form !?
Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice sold, Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks over
thrown, 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 Promethcus 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.
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,
And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb;
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;
Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth, Quenched even when kindled, in untimely night,
Hiding the promise of a lovely birth;
By those unpractised accents of young speech,
Which he who is a father thought to frame
That undeveloped flower of budding years,
By all the days under an hireling's care,
Of dull constraint and bitter heaviness,O wretched ye if ever any were,—
Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless !
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
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 error-That sand on which thy.crumbling power is
By thy complicity with lust and hạte
Thy thirst for tears—thy hunger after goldThe ready frauds which ever on thee wait
The servilearts in which thou hast grownold
By thy most killing sneer, and by thy smile
By 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 love
By all the scorn which kills a father's careBy those most impious hands which dared
remove Nature's high bounds—by thee—and by