TO JANE THE RECOLLECTION. I. Now the last day of many days, The loveliest and the last, is dead, The epitaph of glory fled, For now the Earth has changed its face, A frown is on the Heaven's brow. II. We wandered to the Pine Forest That skirts the Ocean's foam, And on the bosom of the deep, The smile of Heaven lay; It seemed as if the hour were one Sent from beyond the skies, Which scattered from above the sun A light of Paradise. III. We paused amid the pines that stood. The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude And soothed by every azure breath, Like green waves on the sea, As still as in the silent deep The ocean woods may be. IV. How calm it was! the silence there By such a chain was bound That even the busy woodpecker Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness; The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less The calm that round us grew. There seemed from the remotest seat Of the white mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet, A magic circle traced,— A spirit interfused around, A thrilling silent life, To momentary peace it bound Our mortal nature's strife ; And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there, Was one fair form that filled with love V. We paused beside the pools that lie Each seemed as 'twere a little sky A firmament of purple light, Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night, In which the lovely forests grew As in the upper air, More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green wood 379 The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Were imaged by the water's love And all was interfused beneath With an elysian glow, An atmosphere without a breath, A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast, Its every leaf and lineament With more than truth exprest; Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from the mind's too faithful eye Blots one dear image out. Though thou art ever fair and kind, The forest ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE. ARIEL to Miranda. - Take This slave of Music, for the sake In which thou canst, and only thou, And, too intense, is turned to pain ; Your happiness; for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own. From Prospero's inchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples, he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, |