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 thine; XVI. I curse thee-though I hate thee not-O slave! If thou couldst quench the earth-consuming Hell Of which thou art a dæmon, on thy grave This curse should be a blessing. Fare thee well! TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. I. 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, III. Come thou, beloved as thou art; Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart, IV. Fear not the tyrants will rule for ever,1 V. Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle child! Me and thy mother-well we know VI. This hour will in thy memory Be a dream of days forgotten long; We soon shall dwell by the azure sea 1 Compare with Rosalind and Helen, lines 894 to 901 (vol. ii, pages 265-6).—ED. Of serene and golden Italy, Or Greece, the Mother of the free; In their own language, and will mould Of Grecian lore, that by such name CANCELLED PASSAGES OF THE POEM TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. I. THE world is now our dwelling-place; Of what was great and free does keep, Mild thoughts of man's ungentle race II. This lament, The memory of thy grievous wrong Will fade But genius is Omnipotent To hallow ON FANNY GODWIN.1 HER voice did quiver as we parted, 1 See vol. i, page xxxix.-ED. From which it came, and I departed This world is all too wide for thee. LINES. I. THAT time is dead for ever, child, And stare aghast At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast, II. The stream we gazed on then rolled by; But we yet stand In a lone land, Like tombs to mark the memory Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee DEATH. I. THEY die-the dead return not-Misery Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone! Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone, This most familiar scene, my pain- II. 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, отно. I. THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, 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 |