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That what I thought was an old root which grew
To strange distortion out of the hill side,
Was indeed one of those deluded crew,

With the spent vision of the times that were
And scarce have ceased to be.-"Dost thou behold,”
Said my guide," those spoilers spoiled, Voltaire,

Frederick, and Paul, Catherine, and Leopold, And hoary anarchs, demagogues, and sage

And that the grass, which methought hung so wide"
And white, was but his thin discoloured hair,
And that the holes it vainly sought to hide,

Were or had been eyes:-" If thou canst, forbear
To join the dance, which I had well forborne !"
Said the grim Feature (of my thought aware ;)

"I will unfold that which to this deep scorn
Led me and my companions, and relate
The progress of the pageant since the morn;

"If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate, Follow it thou even to the night, but I Am weary."-Then like one who with the weight

Of his own words is staggered, wearily He paused; and, ere he could resume, I cried, "First, who art thou?"-" Before thy memory,

"I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did and died, And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit Had been with purer sentiment supplied,

"Corruption would not now thus much inherit Of what was once Rousseau,-nor this disguise Stained that which ought to have disdained to wear it ;

"If I have been extinguished, yet there rise A thousand beacons from the spark I bore""And who are those chained to the car?"—" The wise,

"The great, the unforgotten,-they who wore Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light, Signs of thought's empire over thought-their lore "Taught them not this, to know themselves; their Could not repress the mystery within, [might And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night "Caught them ere evening."-"Who is he with chin Upon his breast, and hands crost on his chain?"— "The Child of a fierce hour; he sought to win

"The world, and lost all that it did contain
Of greatness, in its hope destroyed; and more
Of fame and peace than virtue's self can gain

"Without the opportunity which bore Him on its eagle pinions to the peak From which a thousand climbers have before

"Fallen, as Napoleon fell."-I felt my cheek
Alter to see the shadow pass away,
Whose grasp had left the giant world so weak,

That every pigmy kicked it as it lay;
And much I grieved to think how power and will
In opposition rule our mortal day,

And why God made irreconcilable

Good and the means of good; and for despair
I half disdained mine eyes' desire to fill

names which the world thinks always old, "For in the battle life and they did wage, She remained conqueror. I was overcome By my own heart alone, which neither age,

"Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now the tomb Could temper to its object."-" Let them pass," I cried, "the world and its mysterious doom "Is not so much more glorious than it was, That I desire to worship those who drew New figures on its false and fragile glass

"As the old faded."- Figures ever new Rise on the bubble, paint them as you may; We have but thrown, as those before us threw, "Our shadows on it as it past away. But mark how chained to the triumphal chair The mighty phantoms of an elder day;

"All that is mortal of great Plato there Expiates the joy and woe his master knew not: The star that ruled his doom was far too fair,

"And life, where long that flower of Heaven

grew not,

Conquered that heart by love, which gold, or pain, Or age, or sloth, or slavery, could subdue not.

"And near him walk the [
] twain,
The tutor and his pupil, whom Dominion
Followed as tame as vulture in a chain.

"The world was darkened beneath either pinion
Of him whom from the flock of conquerors
Fame singled out for her thunder-bearing minion;
"The other long outlived both woes and wars,
Throned in the thoughts of men, and still had kept
The jealous key of truth's eternal doors,

"If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt
Like lightning out of darkness-he compelled
The Proteus shape of Nature as it slept

"To wake, and lead him to the caves that held The treasure of the secrets of its reign. See the great bards of elder time, who quelled

"The passions which they sung, as by their strain May well be known: their living melody Tempers its own contagion to the vein

"Of those who are infected with it-I Have suffered what I wrote, or viler pain, And so my words have seeds of misery !"

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"And how and by what paths I have been brought To this dread pass, methinks even thou may'st guess;

Why this should be, my mind can compass not;
"Whither the conqueror hurries me, still less ;-
But follow thou, and from spectator turn
Actor or victim in this wretchedness,

"And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn From thee. Now listen:-In the April prime, When all the forest tips began to burn

"With kindling green, touched by the azure clime Of the young year's dawn, I was laid asleep Under a mountain, which from unknown time

"Had yawned into a cavern, high and deep; And from it came a gentle rivulet, Whose water, like clear air, in its calm sweep

"Bent the soft grass, and kept for ever wet The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled the grove

With sounds, which whoso hears must needs forget

"All pleasure and all pain, all hate and love, Which they had known before that hour of rest; A sleeping mother then would dream not of

"Her only child who died upon her breast At eventide a king would mourn no more The crown of which his brows were dispossest

"When the sun lingered o'er his ocean floor, To gild his rival's new prosperity. Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore

"Ills, which if ills can find no cure from thee, The thought of which no other sleep will quell, Nor other music blot from memory,

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"Was filled with magic sounds woven into one Oblivious melody, confusing sense Amid the gliding waves and shadows dun;

"And, as I looked, the bright omnipresence Of morning through the orient cavern flowed, And the sun's image radiantly intense

"Burned on the waters of the well that glowed Like gold, and threaded all the forest's maze With winding paths of emerald fire; there stood

"Amid the sun,-as he amid the blaze Of his own glory, on the vibrating Floor of the fountain-paved with flashing rays,

"A Shape all light, which with one hand did fling Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn, And the invisible rain did ever sing

"A silver music on the mossy lawn; And still before me on the dusky grass, Iris her many-coloured scarf had drawn: "In her right hand she bore a crystal glass, Mantling with bright Nepenthe; the fierce splendour

Fell from her as she moved under the mass

"Out of the deep cavern, with palms so tender,
Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow;
She glided along the river, and did bend her
"Head under the dark boughs, till, like a willow,
Her fair hair swept the bosom of the stream
That whispered with delight to be its pillow.

"As one enamoured is upborne in dream
O'er lily-paven lakes 'mid silver mist,
To wondrous music, so this shape might seem

"Partly to tread the waves with feet which kissed
The dancing foam; partly to glide along
The air which roughened the moist amethyst,

"Or the faint morning beams that fell among The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees; And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song

"Of leaves, and winds, and waves, and birds, and bees,

And falling drops moved to a measure new,
Yet sweet, as on the summer evening breeze,

"Up from the lake a shape of golden dew Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon, Dances i' the wind, where never eagle flew ;

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Show whence I came, and where I am, and why- The grassy vesture of the desert, played, Pass not away upon the passing stream.

"Arise and quench thy thirst, was her reply.
And as a shut lily, stricken by the wand
Of dewy morning's vital alchemy,

"I rose; and, bending at her sweet command,
Touched with faint lips the cup she raised,
And suddenly my brain became as sand,

"Where the first wave had more than half erased The track of deer on desert Labrador; Whilst the wolf, from which they fled amazed,

"Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore, Until the second bursts;-so on my sight Burst a new vision, never seen before,

"And the fair shape waned in the coming light, As veil by veil the silent splendour drops From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite

"Of sun-rise, ere it tinge the mountain tops; And as the presence of that fairest planet, Although unseen, is felt by one who hopes

"That his day's path may end, as he began it, In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it,

"Or the soft note in which his dear lament The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress That turned his weary slumber to content;*

"So knew I in that light's severe excess The presence of that shape which on the stream Moved, as I moved along the wilderness,

"More dimly than a day-appearing dream, The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep;

A light of heaven, whose half-extinguished beam

"Through the sick day in which we wake to weep, Glimmers, for ever sought, for ever lost; So did that shape its obscure tenour keep

The favourite song, "Stanco di pascolar le pecorelle," is a Brescian national air.

Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance;

"Others stood gazing, till within the shade Of the great mountain its light left them dim; Others outspeeded it; and others made

"Circles around it, like the clouds that swim Round the high moon in a bright sea of air; And more did follow, with exulting hymn,

"The chariot and the captives fettered there:-But all like bubbles on an eddying flood Fell into the same track at last, and were

"Borne onward. I among the multitude Was swept-me, sweetest flowers delayed not long; Me, not the shadow nor the solitude;

"Me, not that falling stream's Lethean song;
Me, not the phantom of that early form,
Which moved upon its motion-but among

"The thickest billows of that living storm
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform.

"Before the chariot had begun to climb
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell,
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme

"Of him who from the lowest depths of hell, Through every paradise and through all glory, Love led serene, and who returned to tell

"The words of hate and care; the wondrous story How all things are transfigured except Love; (For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary, "The world can hear not the sweet notes that move The sphere whose light is melody to lovers) A wonder worthy of his rhyme-the grove "Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, The earth was grey with phantoms, and the air Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers

"A flock of vampire-bats before the glare Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, Strange night upon some Indian vale;—thus were

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HERE, my dear friend, is a new book for you;
I have already dedicated two

To other friends, one female and one male,
What you are, is a thing that I must veil ;
What can this be to those who praise or rail?
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the world a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion-though it is the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread
Who travel to their home among the dead,
By the broad highway of the world—and so
With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.

Free love has this, different from gold and clay,
That to divide is not to take away.
Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes
A mirror of the moon; like some great glass,
Which did distort whatever form might pass,
Dashed into fragments by a playful child,
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild,
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,
A thousand images of loveliness.

If I were one whom the loud world held wise,

I should disdain to quote authorities
In the support of this kind of love ;-
Why there is first the God in heaven above,

These fragments do not properly belong to the poems of 1822. They are gleanings from Shelley's manuscript books and papers; preserved not only because they are beautiful in themselves, but as affording indications of his feelings and virtues.

Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be
Reviewed I hear in the next Quarterly;
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece;
And Jesus Christ himself did never cease
To urge all living things to love each other,
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother
The Devil of disunion in their souls.

It is a sweet thing friendship, a dear balm,
A happy and auspicious bird of calm,
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean ;
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,
Lifts its bold head into the world's pure air,
And blooms most radiantly when others die,
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity;
And, with the light and odour of its bloom,
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb ;
Whose coming is as light and music are
'Mid dissonance and gloom-a star
Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone,
A smile among dark frowns-a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a beloved light,

A solitude, a refuge, a delight.

If I had but a friend! why I have three,
Even by my own confession; there may be
Some more, for what I know; for 'tis my mind
To call my friends all who are wise and kind,
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few,
But none can ever be more dear than you.
Why should they be? my muse has lost her wings,
Or like a dying swan who soars and sings
I should describe you in heroic style,
But as it is are you not void of guile?
A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless;
A well of sealed and secret happiness;

A lute, which those whom love has taught to play
Make music on, to cheer the roughest day?

*

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