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xv. Yes, the despair which bids a father groan,
And cry—my children are no longer mineThe blood within those veins may be mine own, But — Tyrant — their polluted souls are
This curse should be a blessing. Fare thee
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
The billows on the beach are leaping around it,
The bark is weak and frail, The sea looks black, and the clouds that bound it
Darkly strew the gale. Come with me, thou delightful child, Come with me, though the wave is wild, And the winds are loose, we must not stay, Or the slaves of the law may rend thee away.
II. They have taken thy brother and sister dear,
They have made them unfit for thee; They have withered the smile and dried the tear
Which should have been sacred to me. To a blighting faith and a cause of crime They have bound them slaves in youthly prime, And they will curse my name and thee Because we are fearless and free.
Come thou, beloved as thou art;
Another sleepeth still
Which thou with joy shalt fill,
Or the priests of the evil faith;
Whose waves they have tainted with death. It is fed from the depth of a thousand dells, Around them it foams and rages and swells; And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, Like wrecks on the surge of eternity.
Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle child ! · The rocking of the boat thou fearest, And the cold spray and the clamour wild ?
There sit between us two, thou dearest-
This hour will in thy memory
Be a dream of days forgotten long; We soon shall dwell by the azure sea
i Compare with Rosalind and Helen, lines 894 to 901 (vol. ii, pages 265-6). —ED.
Of serene and golden Italy,
And I will teach thine infant tongue
CANCELLED PASSAGES OF THE POEM
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
The world is now our dwelling-place;
Of what was great and free does keep,
Shall our contented exile reap;
In cynic smiles ? Child! we shall weep.
ON FANNY GODWIN."
HER voice did quiver as we parted,
1 See vol. i, page xxxix.—ED.
From which it came, and I departed
That time is dead for ever, child,
We look on the past
And stare aghast
To death on life's dark river.
But we yet stand
In a lone land,
THEY die—the dead return not-Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over, A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eyeThey are the names of kindred, friend and
lover, Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone !
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names
Misery, my sweetest friend--oh! weep no
more! Thou wilt not be consoled. I wonder not! For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door Watch the calm sunset with them, and this
spot Was even as bright and calm, but transitory, And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain-
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not
Last of the Romans, though thy memory
claim From Brutus his own glory—and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
Amid his cowering senate with thy name, Though thou and he were great-it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
II. 'Twill wrong thee not-thou wouldst, if thou
couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame-great Otho died