SONNET: POLITICAL GREATNESS.1

NOR happiness, por majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or

arts,

Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes

tame;

Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame,
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,

Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be,
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.

THE AZIOLA.

I.

"Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh," Said Mary, as we sate

In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;
And I, who thought

This Aziola was some tedious woman,
Asked, "Who is Aziola ?" How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate :
And Mary saw my soul,

And laughed, and said, "Disquiet yourself not; 'Tis nothing but a little downy owl."

1 In the Harvard manuscript book this is called by Shelley Sonnet, to the Republic of Benevento.—ED.

II.

Sad Aziola! many an eventide
Thy music I had heard

By wood and stream, meadow and mountainside,

And fields and marshes wide,

Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirred;

Unlike and far sweeter than them all.
Sad Aziola! from that moment I
Loved thee and thy sad cry.

A LAMENT.

I.

Он, world! oh, life! oh, time!
On whose last steps I climb

Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
No more-0, never more!

II.

Out of the day and night

A joy has taken flight;

Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight

No more-0, never more!

REMEMBRANCE.

I.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight-
Swifter fer than youth's delight-

Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone—

As the wood when leaves are shed,
As the night when sleep is fled,
As the heart when joy is dead,
I am left lone, alone.

II.

The swallow summer comes again-
The owlet night resumes his reign-
But the wild-swan youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou.
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.

III.

Lilies for a bridal bed

Roses for a matron's head-
Violets for a maiden dead-

Pansies let my flowers be:

On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear-
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.

TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.

I.

THE serpent is shut out from paradise.

The wounded deer must seek the herb no

more

In which its heart-cure lies:

The widowed dove must cease to haunt a

bower

Like that from which its mate with feigned sighs

Fled in the April hour.

I too must seldom seek again Near happy friends a mitigated pain.

II.

Of hatred I am proud,-with scorn content; Indifference, that once hurt me, now is

grown

Itself indifferent.

But, not to speak of love, pity alone Can break a spirit already more than bent. The miserable one

Turns the mind's poison into food,— Its medicine is tears, its evil good.

III.

Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,

Dear friends, dear friend! know that I only fly

Your looks, because they stir

Griefs that should sleep, and hopes that
cannot die:

The very comfort that they minister
I scarce can bear, yet I,

So deeply is the arrow gone,
Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.

IV.

When I return to my cold home, you ask
Why I am not as I have ever been.
You spoil me for the task

Of acting a forced part in life's dull

scene,

Of wearing on my brow the idle mask
Of author, great or mean,

In the world's carnival. I sought
Peace thus, and but in you I found it not.

V.

Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lot With various flowers, and every one still said,

"She loves me- -loves me not."

And if this meant a vision long since fled— If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thoughtIf it meant, but I dread

To speak what you may know too well: Still there was truth in the sad oracle.

VI.

The crane o'er seas and forests seeks her home; No bird so wild but has its quiet nest, When it no more would roam;

The sleepless billows on the ocean's breast Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam, And thus at length find rest. Doubtless there is a place of peace Where my weak heart and all its throbs will

cease.

VII.

I asked her, yesterday, if she believed
That I had resolution. One who had
Would ne'er have thus relieved

His heart with words,-but what his judg-
ment bade

Would do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.
These verses are too sad

To send to you, but that I know,
Happy yourself, you feel another's woe.