1818

XLVII.

THE fierce beasts of the woods and wildernesses
Track not the steps of him who drinks of it;
For the light breezes, which for ever fleet
Around its margin, heap the sand thereon.

1818.

XLVIII.

My head is wild with weeping for a grief
Which is the shadow of a gentle mind.
I walk into the air (but no relief

To seek,—or haply, if I sought, to find;
It came unsought); to wonder that a chief
Among men's spirits should be cold and blind.

1818.

XLIX.

FLOURISHING vine, whose kindling clusters glow

Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee;
For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below
The rotting bones of dead antiquity.

1819.

L.

FOLLOW to the deep wood's weeds,
Follow to the wild-briar dingle
Where we sink to intermingle,

And the violet tells her tale

To the odour-scented gale,

For they two have enough to do

Of such work as I and you.

LI.

AND who feels discord now or sorrow?

Love is the universe today :
These are the slaves of dim tomorrow,

Darkening life's labyrinthine way.

1819.

LII.

AT the creation of the earth,
Pleasure, that divinest birth,

From the soil of heaven did rise,
Wrapped in sweet wild melodies-
Like an exhalation wreathing
To the sound of air low-breathing
Through Æolian pines, which make
A shade and shelter to the lake
Whence it rises soft and slow;
Her life-breathing [limbs] did flow
In the harmony divine

Of an ever-lengthening line

Which enwrapped her perfect form
With a beauty clear and warm.

LIII.

A GENTLE story of two lovers young
Who met in innocence and died in sorrow,
And of one selfish heart whose rancour clung
Like curses on them. Are ye slow to borrow
The lore of truth from such a tale?
Or, in this world's deserted vale,
Do ye not see a star of gladness
Pierce the shadows of its sadness,

When ye are cold? that love is a light sent

From heaven, which none shall quench, to cheer the innocent?

LIV.

YE gentle visitations of calm thought

Moods like the memories of happier earth!
Which come arrayed in thoughts of little worth,
Like stars in clouds by the weak winds enwrought,—
But that the clouds depart and stars remain,
While they remain, and ye, alas, depart !

LV.

I AM drunk with the honey-wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls.'
The bats, the dormice, and the moles,
Sleep in the walls or under the sward
Of the desolate castle-yard;

And, when 'tis spilt on the summer earth,
Or its fumes arise among the dew,
Their jocund dreams are full of mirth,
They gibber their joy in sleep; for few
Of the fairies bear those bowls so new.

1819.

LVI.

THE world is dreary,

And I am weary

Of wandering on without thee, Mary;

A joy was erewhile

In thy voice and thy smile,

And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.

LVII.

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.

THY little footsteps on the sands

Of a remote and lonely shore;

The twinkling of thine infant hands,

Where now the worm will feed no more:
Thy mingled look of love and glee
When we returned to gaze on thee.

1819.

LVIII.

My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,
And left me in this dreary world alone?
Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode ;
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale Despair,
Where,

For thine own sake, I cannot follow thee.

LIX.

ONE sung of thee who left the tale untold,

Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting :

Like empty cups of wrought and dædal gold,

Which mock the lips with air when they are thirsting.

AND where is truth?

LX.

On tombs? for such to thee

Has been my heart—and thy dead memory

Has lain from childhood, many a changeful year,
Unchangingly preserved and buried there.

LXI.

IN the cave which wild weeds cover

Wait for thine etherial lover;

For the pallid moon is waning,

O'er the spiral cypress hanging,

And the moon no cloud is staining.

It was once a Roman's chamber,

And the wild weeds twine and clamber'
Where he kept his darkest revels;

It was then a chasm for devils.

1819.

LXII.

THERE is a warm and gentle atmosphere

About the form of one we love, and thus,
As in a tender mist, our spirits are

Wrapped in the . . . of that which is to us
The health of life's own life.

LXIII.

How sweet it is to sit and read the tales

Of mighty poets, and to hear the while
Sweet music, which, when the attention fails
Fills the dim pause!

LXIV.

PEOPLE of England! ye who toil and groan,
Who reap the harvests which are not your own,
Who weave the clothes which your oppressors wear
And for your own take the inclement air ;

Who build warm houses

And are like gods who give them all they have,

And nurse them from the cradle to the grave!

LXV.

WHAT men gain fairly- that they should possess ;
And children may inherit idleness

From him who earns it. This is understood;

Private injustice may be general good.

But he who gains by base and armèd wrong,

Or guilty fraud, or base compliances,
May be despoiled; even as a stolen dress
Is stripped from a convicted thief, and he
Left in the nakedness of infamy.