« AnteriorContinuar »
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.
And who feels discord now or sorrow?
Love is the universe to-day:
These are the slaves of dim to-morrow,
Darkening life's labyrinthine way.
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, tocheer the innocent?
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.
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!
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.
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.
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
(With what truth I may say—
"Roma! Roma! Roma!
Noqc piu come era prima!")
My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume
Which its lustre faintly hid!
Here its ashes find a tomb;
But beneath this pyramid
Thou art not;—if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother's grief and mine.
Where art thou, my gentle child?
Let me think thy spirit feeds, .
With its life intense and mild,
The love of living leaves and weeds,
Among these tombs and ruins wild;—
Let me think that, through low seeds
Of the sweet flowers and sunny grass,
Into their hues and scents may pass
A portion . , ,
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,
For thine own sake, I cannot follow thee.
When a lover clasps his fairest,
Then be our dread sport the rarest.
Their caresses were like the chaff
In the tempest, and be our laugh
His despair—her epitaph!
When a mother clasps her child,
Watch till dusty Death has piled
His cold ashes on the clay;
She has loved it many a day—
She remains,—it fades away.
One sung of thee who left the tale untold,
Like the false dawns which perish in the bursting:
Like empty cups of wrought and daedal gold,
Which mock the lips with air when they are thirsting.
And where is truth? 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.
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,
Where he kept his darkest revels,
And the wild weeds twine and clamber;
It was then a chasm for devils.
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.
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!
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 armed 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.
Wake the serpent not—lest he
Should not know the way to go.
Let him crawl, which yet lies sleeping,
Through the deep grass of the meadow.
Not a bee shall hear him creeping;
Not a May-fly shall awaken,
From its cradling blue-bell shaken;
Not the starlight, as he's sliding
Through the grass with silent gliding.
Rome has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin:
Nature is alone undying.
THE fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the grey and beamless atmosphere.
ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI,
IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY.
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.
Yet it is less the horror than the grace
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone,
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face'
Are graven, till the characters be grown