But none ever trembled and panted with bliss In the garden, the field, or the wilder ness, Like a doe in the noontide with love's sweet want, As the companionless Sensitive Plant. The snowdrop, and then the violet, wet, odour, sent From the turf, like the voice and the instrument. NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY Shelley loved the People; and respected them as often more virtuous, as always more suffering, and therefore more deserving of sympathy, than the great. He believed that a clash between the two classes of society was inevitable, and he eagerly ranged himself on the people's side. He had an idea of publishing a series of poems adapted expressly to commemorate their circumstances and wrongs. He wrote a few; but, in those days of prosecution for libel, they could And their breath was mixed with fresh not be printed. They are not among the best of his productions, a writer being always shackled when he endeavours to write down to the comprehension of those who could not understand or feel a highly imaginative style; but they show his earnestness, and with what heartfelt compassion he went home to the direct point of injury-that oppression is detestable as being the parent of starvation, nakedness, and ignorance. Besides these outpourings of compassion and indignation, he had meant to adorn the cause he loved with loftier poetry of glory and triumph: such is the scope of the Ode to the Assertors of Liberty. He sketched also a new version of our national anthem, as addressed to Liberty. Then the pied wind-flowers and the And narcissi, the fairest among them all, recess, Till they die of their own dear loveliness; And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale, That the light of its tremulous bells is seen Through their pavilions of tender green; And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, It was felt like an odour within the sense; Were all paved with daisies and delicate bells As fair as the fabulous asphodels, And flowrets which drooping as day drooped too Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue, And the rose like a nymph to the bath To roof the glow-worm from the even addrest, Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting air The soul of her beauty and love lay bare: ing dew. And the wand-like lily, which lifted up, Can first lull, and at last must awaken As a Mænad, its moonlight-coloured it), When Heaven's blithe winds had un folded them, As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem, Shone smiling to Heaven, and every offe And the jessamine faint, and the sweet Shared joy in the light of the gentle sun; tuberose, The sweetest flower for scent that blows; And all rare blossoms from every clime Grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream whose inconstant bosom Was prankt under boughs of embowering blossom, With golden and green light, slanting through Their heaven of many a tangled hue, Broad water lilies lay tremulously, With a motion of sweet sound and radiance. Like young lovers whom youth and love make dear Wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, Received more than all, it loved more than ever, Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver, For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower; And the sinuous paths of lawn and of Radiance and odour are not its dower; moss, Which led through the garden along and across, Some open at once to the sun and the breeze, Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees, It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full, It desires what it has not, the beautiful! The light winds which from unsustaining wings Shed the music of many murmurings; The beams which dart from many a star Of the flowers whose hues they bear The plumed insects swift and free, The unseen clouds of the dew, which lie And snatches of its Elysian chant The Sensitive Plant was the earliest PART SECOND There was a Power in this sweet place, Then wander like spirits among the An Eve in this Eden; a ruling grace Which to the flowers did they waken or dream, spheres, Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears; The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea o'er the warm earth glide, In which every sound, and odour, and beam, Move, as reeds in a single stream; Each and all like ministering angels were For the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear, Was as God is to the starry scheme. A Lady, the wonder of her kind, Which, dilating, had moulded her mien Like a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean, Tended the garden from morn to even : Whilst the lagging hours of the day Like the lamps of the air when night went by Like windless clouds o'er a tender sky. And when evening descended from heaven above, walks forth, Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth! She had no companion of mortal race, And the Earth was all rest, and the air But her tremulous breath and her flush was all love, ing face And delight, tho' less bright, was far Told, whilst the morn kissed the sleep more deep, from her eyes And the day's veil fell from the world That her dreams were less slumber than of sleep, Paradise: And the beasts, and the birds, and the As if some bright Spirit for her sweet insects were drowned sake In an ocean of dreams without a sound; Had deserted heaven while the stars Whose waves never mark, tho' they ever impress were awake, As if yet around her he lingering were, The light sand which paves it, conscious- Tho' the veil of daylight concealed him ness; (Only overhead the sweet nightingale Ever sang more sweet as the day might fail, from her. Her step seemed to pity the grass it prest; breast, That the coming and going of the wind The sweet lips of the flowers, and harm Brought pleasure there and left passion behind. And wherever her airy footstep trod, Her trailing hair from the grassy sod Erased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep, Like a sunny storm o'er the dark green deep. not, did she Make her attendant angels be. And many an antenatal tomb, Where butterflies dream of the life to come, She left clinging round the smooth and dark Edge of the odorous cedar bark. I doubt not the flowers of that garden This fairest creature from earliest spring sweet Rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet; I doubt not they felt the spirit that came From her glowing fingers thro' all their frame. She sprinkled bright water from the stream On those that were faint with the sunny Three days the flowers of the garden fair, beam; And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder showers. She lifted their heads with her tender hands, Like stars when the moon is awakened, were, Or the waves of Baiæ, ere luminous And on the fourth, the Sensitive Plant And sustained them with rods and osier Felt the sound of the funeral chaunt, bands; If the flowers had been her own infants she Could never have nursed them more tenderly. The weary sound and the heavy breath, And all killing insects and gnawing And the silent motions of passing death, their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan. But the bee and the beamlike ephemeris Like the corpse of her who had been its Were bent and tangled across the walks ; And the leafless network of parasite bowers soul, Which at first was lovely as if in sleep, Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap To make men tremble who never weep. Swift summer into the autumn flowed, And frost in the mist of the morning rode, Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright, Mocking the spoil of the secret night. The rose leaves, like flakes of crimson And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank, |