I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee,

But, above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee-

Thou art love and life! O come,
Make once more my heart thy home.

EVENING.

PONTE A MARE, PISA.

THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep;
The bats are flitting fast in the grey air;
The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep;
And evening's breath, wandering here and there
Over the quivering surface of the stream,
Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.

There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,

Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;

And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town.

Within the surface of the fleeting river

The wrinkled image of the city lay,

Immovably unquiet, and for ever

It trembles, but it never fades away;

Go to the [

You, being changed, will find it then as now.

The chasm in which the sun has sunk, is shut
By darkest barriers of enormous cloud,
Like mountain over mountain huddled-but
Growing and moving upwards in a crowd,
And over it a space of watery blue,

Which the keen evening star is shining through.

LINES

WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON

WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?

Art thou not over-bold?

What leapest thou forth as of old

In the light of thy morning mirth,

The last of the flock of the starry fold?

Ha leapest thou forth as of old?

Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,

And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead?

How! is not thy quick heart cold?

What spark is alive on thy hearth?
How! is not his death-knell knolled?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth?
Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O'er the embers covered and cold

Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled-
What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?

"Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told?

It is thou who art over bold."

And the lightning of scorn laughed forth As she sung, "To my bosom I fold

All my sons when their knell is knolled,

And so with living motion all are fed,

And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.

"Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth, "I grow bolder, and still more bold. The dead fill me ten thousand fold

Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth; I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,

Like a frozen chaos uprolled,

Till by the spirit of the mighty dead
My heart grew warm.

I feed on whom I fed.

"Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth, Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled,

In terror, and blood, and gold,

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. Leave the millions who follow to mould

The metal before it be cold,

And weave into his shame, which like the dead Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled."

MUTABILITY.

THE flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;

All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies;
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!

Friendship too rare!

Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!

But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy and all

Which ours we call.

Whilst skies are blue and bright,
Whilst flowers are gay,

Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;

Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou-and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

SONNET.

POLITICAL GREATNESS.

NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts:
History is but the shadow of their shame;
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness. What are numbers, knit
By force or custom? Man who man would be.
Must rule the empire of himself! in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.

GINEVRA.*

WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one
Who staggers forth into the air and sun
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever,
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever

Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train
Of objects and of persons passed like things
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings,
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;

The vows to which her lips had sworn assent
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,
Deafening the lost intelligence within.

And so she moved under the bridal veil,
Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale,
And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth,
And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,—
And of the gold and jewels glittering there
She scarce felt conscious, but the weary glare
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light,
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight.
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud
Was less heavenly fair-her face was bowed,
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair
Which led from the cathedral to the street;
And even as she went her light fair feet
Erased these images.

The bride-maidens who round her thronging came
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame,

Envying the unenviable; and others

Making the joy which should have been another's

Their own by gentle sympathy; and some

Sighing to think of an unhappy home;

Some few admiring what can ever lure

Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure

Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat; a thing
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.

But they are all dispersed-and lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,

* This fragment is part of a poem which Shelley intended to write, founded on a story to be found in the first volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Fiorentino."

Alone within the garden now her own;
And through the sunny air with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage-bells,

Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells ;-
Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems
A mockery of itself-when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,

And said "Is this thy faith?" and then as one
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise
And look upon his day of life with eyes

Which weep in vain that they can dream no more,
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore

To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued
Said-Friend, if earthly violence or ill,
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic will

Of parents, chance, or custom, time, or change,
Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,

Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech,
With all their stings and venom, can impeach

Our love, we love not :-if the grave, which hides
The victim from the tyrant, and divides

The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart
Imperious inquisition to the heart

That is another's, could dissever ours,

We love not."-" "What! do not the silent hours

Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed?

Is not that ring"- a pledge, he would have said
Of broken vows, but she with patient look

The golden circle from her finger took
And said "Accept this token of my faith,
The pledge of vows to be absolved by death;
And I am dead or shall be soon-my knell
Will mix its music with that merry bell;
Does it not sound as if they sweetly said,
'We toll a corpse out of the marriage bed?'
The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn
Will serve unfaded for my bier-so soon
That even the dying violet will not die
Before Ginevra.'" The strong fantasy

Had made her accents weaker and more weak,
And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek,
And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere
Round her, which chilled the burning noon with fear,
Making her but an image of the thought,
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought