XXVI.

"Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,

Now thou art dead, as if it were a part

Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!

XXXII.

A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift-
A Love in desolation mask'd;-a Power
Girt round with weakness;-it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,

A breaking billow;-even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek

XXVII.

"O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh! where was then Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear? Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer.

XXVIII.

"The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; The vultures, to the conqueror's banner true, Who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wings rain contagion;-how they fled, When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smiled!-The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go.

XXIX.

"The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gather'd into death without a dawn, And the immortal stars awake again; So is it in the world of living men: A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shared its light Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night."

XXX.

Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow; from her wiles Ierne sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue.

XXXI.

'Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Acteon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

break.

XXXIII.

His head was bound with pansies over-blown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart

Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart;

A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's dart

XXXIV.

All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band

Who in another's fate now wept his own; As in the accents of an unknown land He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?" He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's,-Oh! that it should

be so!

XXXV.

What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, In mockery of monumental stone,

The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honor'd the departed one; Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.

XXXVI.

Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh!

What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,

Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

XXXVII.

Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom, when thy fangs o'erflow: Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt-as now.

The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown

Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton

Rose pale, his solemn agony had not

Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought

And as he fell, and as he lived and loved,
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,
Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved:

clay.

XL.

He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

XLI.

He lives, he wakes-'t is Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais.-Thou young Dawn Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air, Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!

XLII.

He is made one with Nature: there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;
He is a presence to be felt and known

In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

XLIII.

He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling
there

All new successions to the forms they wear;
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight
'To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;
And bursting in its beauty and its might

XLVI.

And many more, whose names on earth are dark,
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die
So long as fire outlives the parent spark,
Rose, robed in dazzling immortality.

Thou art become as one of us," they cry,
"It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long
Swung blind in unascended majesty,

Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song.

Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!"

XLVII.

Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth ; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink.

XLVIII.

Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, O, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend,-they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gather'd to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away.

XLIX.

Go thou to Rome, at once the Paradise,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness;
And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress
The bones of Desolation's nakedness,
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access,
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead,

EPIPSYCHIDION.

My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few
Who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning,
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain;
Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring
Thee to base company (as chance may do),
Quite unaware of what thou dost contain,
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again,

My last delight! tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.

SWEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of wither'd memory.

Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, Pourest such music, that it might assuage The rugged hearts of those who prison'd thee, Were they not deaf to all sweet melody; This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.

High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever
Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavor,

Till those bright plumes of thought, in which array'd
It over-soared this low and worldly shade,
Lie shatter'd; and thy panting, wounded breast
Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest!
I weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be,
Yet pour'd forth gladlier, could it profit thee.

Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of Woman
All that is insupportable in thee
Of light, and love, and immortality!
Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse!
Veil'd Glory of this lampless Universe!

Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form
Among the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm!
Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror!
Thou Harmony of Nature's art! Thou Mirror
In whom, as in the splendor of the Sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on!
Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now
Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustom'd glow;
I pray thee that thou blot from this sad song
All of its much mortality and wrong,
With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew
From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through,
Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy:
Then smile on it, so that it may not die.

I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin name Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame, Would we two had been twins of the same mother! Or, that the name my heart lent to another Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, Blending two beams of one eternity!

Yet were one lawful and the other true,

These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me!

I am not thine: I am a part of thee.

Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings, Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own gray style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul form'd to be blest and bless? A well of seal'd and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music are, Vanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star Which moves not in the moving Heavens alone? A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone Amid rude voices? a beloved light?

A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight?

A lute, which those whom love has taught to play
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day,
And lull fond grief asleep? A buried treasure?
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure?
A violet-shrouded grave of Woe?—I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find-alas! mine own infirmity.

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way,
And lured me towards sweet Death: as Night by Day,
Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope,
Led into light, life, peace. An antelope,
In the suspended impulse of its lightness,
Were less ethereally light: the brightness

Of her divinest presence trembles through
Her limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew
Embodied in the windless Heaven of June,
Amid the splendor-winged stars, the Moon
Burns, inextinguishably beautiful:
And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full
Of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops,
Killing the sense with passion; sweet as stops
Of planetary music heard in trance.
In her mild lights the starry spirits dance,
The sunbeams of those wells which ever leap
Under the lightnings of the soul-too deep
For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense.
The glory of her being, issuing thence,

Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade
Of unentangled intermixture, made

By Love, of light and motion: one intense
Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence,
Whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing
Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing
With the unintermitted blood, which there
Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air
Continuously prolong'd, and ending never,
The crimson pulse of living morning quiver),
Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furl'd
Which penetrates and clasps and fills the world;
Scarce visible from extreme loveliness.

Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress,
And her loose hair; and where some heavy tress
The air of her own speed has disentwined,
The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind;
And in the soul a wild odor is felt,
Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt
Into the bosom of a frozen bud.-
See where she stands! a mortal shape endued
With love and life, and light and deity,

And motion which may change but cannot die;
An image of some bright Eternity;
A shadow of some golden dream; a Splendor
Leaving the third sphere pilotless; a tender
Reflection of the eternal Moon of Love,
Under whose motions life's dull billows move;
A Metaphor of Spring and Youth and Morning;
A Vision like incarnate April, warning,
With smiles and tears, Frost the Anatomy
Into his summer grave.

Ah, woe is me!

What have I dared? where am I lifted? how
Shall I descend, and perish not? I know
That Love makes all things equal: I have heard
By mine own heart this joyous truth averr'd:
The spirit of the worm beneath the sod,
In love and worship blends itself with God.

Spouse! Sister! Angel! Pilot of the Fate
Whose course has been so starless! O too late
Beloved! O too soon adored, by me!
For in the fields of immortality

My spirit should at first have worshipp'd thine,
A divine presence in a place divine;

Or should have moved beside it on this earth,
A shadow of that substance, from its birth;
But not as now:-I love thee; yes, I feel
That on the fountain of my heart a seal
Is set, to keep its waters pure and bright
For thee, since in those tears thou hast delight.
We are we not form'd, as notes of music are,
For one another, though dissimilar;
Such difference without discord, as can make
Those sweetest sounds, in which all spirits shake
As trembling leaves in a continuous air?

Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare Beacon the rocks on which high hearts are wreckt. I never was attach'd to that great sect, Whose doctrine is, that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion, though it is in the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world, and so With one chain'd friend, perhaps a jealous foe, The dreariest and the longest journey go.

tread,

True Love in this differs from gold and clay, 'That to divide is not to take away. Love is like understanding, that grows bright, Gazing on many truths; 'tis like thy light, Imagination! which from earth and sky, And from the depths of human phantasy, As from a thousand prisms and mirrors, fills The Universe with glorious beams, and kills Error, the worm, with many a sunlike arrow Of its reverberated lightning. Narrow The heart that loves, the brain that contemplates, The life that wears, the spirit that creates One object, and one form, and builds thereby A sepulchre for its Eternity.

Mind from its object differs most in this:
Evil from good; misery from happiness;
The baser from the nobler; the impure
And frail, from what is clear and must endure.
If you divide suffering and dross, you may
Diminish till it is consumed away;

If you divide pleasure and love and thought,
Each part exceeds the whole; and we know not
How much, while any yet remains unshared,
Of pleasure may be gain'd, of sorrow spared:
This truth is that deep well, whence sages draw
The unenvied light of hope; the eternal law
By which those live, to whom this world of life-
Is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife
Tills for the promise of a later birth
The wilderness of this Elysian earth.

There was a Being whom my spirit oft
Met on its vision'd wanderings, far aloft,
In the clear golden prime of my youth's dawn,
Upon the fairy isles of sunny lawn,
Amid the enchanted mountains, and the caves
Of divine sleep, and on the air-like waves
Of wonder-level dream, whose tremulous floor
Paved her light steps;-on an imagined shore,
Under the gray beak of some promontory
She met me, robed in such exceeding glory,
That I beheld her not. In solitudes

Her voice came to me through the whispering woods.
And from the fountains, and the odors deep
Of flowers, which, like lips murmuring in their sleep
Of the sweet kisses which had lull'd them there,
Breathed but of her to the enamor'd air;
And from the breezes, whether low or loud,
And from the rain of every passing cloud,
And from the singing of the summer-birds,
And from all sounds, all silence. In the words
Of antique verse and high romance,-in form,
Sound, color-in whatever checks that Storm
Which with the shatter'd present chokes the past ;.
And in that best philosophy, whose taste
Makes this cold common hell, our life, a doom
As glorious as a fiery martyrdom ;
Her Spirit was the harmony of truth.—

Then, from the caverns of my dreamy youth
I sprang, as one sandall'd with plumes of fire,
And towards the loadstar of my one desire,
I flitted, like a dizzy moth, whose flight

Is as a dead leaf's in the owlet light,
When it would seek in Hesper's setting sphere-
A radiant death, a fiery sepulchre,

As if it were a lamp of earthly flame.-
But She, whom prayers or tears then could not tame,
Past, like a God throned on a winged planet,
Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it,
Into the dreary cone of our life's shade;
And as a man with mighty loss dismay'd,

I would have follow'd, though the grave between
Yawn'd like a gulf whose spectres are unseen:
When a voice said:-" O Thou of hearts the weakest.
The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest."
Then I-"where?" the world's echo answer'd "where!"
And in that silence, and in my despair,

I question'd every tongueless wind that flew
Over my tower of mourning, if it knew