Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced,

And soothed, by every azure breath
That under heaven is blown,

To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own;

Now all the tree-tops lay asleep

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 with 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 The lifeless atmosphere.

V.

We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough.

Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below:

A firmament of purple light

Which in the dark earth lay, More boundless than the depth of night,

And purer than the day—

In which the lovely forests grew

2 February 1822.

As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.

There lay the glade, the neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark-green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen

Were imaged in the water's love
Of that fair forest green;

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 expressed;

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,
And forests ever green,

Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind
Than calm in water seen.

WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE.

Ariel to Miranda.-Take

This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;

And teach it all the harmony

In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,

And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For, by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,

Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own..
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon

Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth,—
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has tracked your steps and served your will.

Now, in humbler happier lot,

This is all remembered not;

And now, alas! the poor Sprite is
Imprisoned for some fault of his
In a body like a grave:

From you he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine,
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,

And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love. And so this tree-

Oh that such our death may be !-
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,

To live in happier form again:

From which, beneath heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells.
For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,

The melodies of birds and bees,

The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.
All this it knows; but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The Spirit that inhabits it.
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.

A DIRGE.

ROUGH wind that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;

Wild wind when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods whose branches stain,

Deep caves and dreary main,

Wail for the world's wrong!

TO JANE.

THE keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane:

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.

As the moon's soft splendour

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

Though the sound overpowers.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

VOL. II.

T