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And on my shoulders wings are woven,
Beyond the mighty moons that wane
Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers
O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings,
Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings.
As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies,
I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee,
Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song
Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong,
Now 'tis the breath of summer night,
Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight.
THE rose that drinks the fountain dew
Grows pale and blue with altered hue-
Such is my heart-roses are fair,
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom ;
FRAGMENT: TO ONE SINGING.
My spirit like a charmèd bark doth swim.
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing, Far away into the regions dim
Of rapture-as a boat, with swift sails winging Its way adown some many-winding river.
LINES TO WILLIAM GODWIN.
MIGHTY eagle! thou that soarest
And amid the light of morning
TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR.
THY Country's curse is on thee, darkest crest
Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice sold,
Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's throne.
And, whilst that sure slow Angel which aye stands
Watching the beck of Mutability
Delays to execute her high commands,
And, though a nation weeps, spares thine and thee,
O let a father's curse be on thy soul,
And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb; Be both, on thy grey head, a leaden cowl
To weigh thee down to thine approaching doom!
I curse thee by a parent's outraged love,
By those infantine smiles of happy light,
Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth, Quenched even when kindled, in untimely night, Hiding the promise of a lovely birth;
By those unpractised accents of young speech,
Thou strike the lyre of mind! O grief and shame!
By all the happy see in children's growth-
Source of the sweetest hopes and saddest fears
By all the days under an hireling's care,
Sadder than orphans, yet not fatherless!
By the false cant which on their innocent lips
By thy most impious Hell, and all its terror;
By thy complicity with lust and hate
Thy thirst for tears-thy hunger after gold-
By thy most killing sneer, and by thy smile-
By thy false tears-those millstones braining men
By all the hate which checks a father's love-
Yes, the despair which bids a father groan,
And cry-my children are no longer mineThe blood within those veins may be mine own, But-Tyrant-their polluted souls are thine;
I curse thee-though I hate thee not-O slave!
This curse should be a blessing.
Fare thee well!
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.
THE billows on the beach are leaping around it,
The sea looks black, and the clouds that bound it
Come with me, thou delightful child,
Come with me, though the wave is wild,
And the winds are loose, we must not, stay,
They have taken thy brother and sister dear,
They have withered the smile and dried the tear
Come thou, beloved as thou art;
Near thy sweet mother's anxious heart,
Fear not the tyrants will rule for ever,
They stand on the brink of that raging river,
Whose waves they have tainted with death. It is fed from the depth of a thousand dells, Around them it foams and rages and swells; And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, Like wrecks on the surge of eternity.
Rest, rest, and shriek not, thou gentle child!
There sit between us two, thou dearest-