And the sand-hills of the sea ;- Billows murmur at our feet, Where the earth and ocean meet, And all things seem only one In the universal sun. February, 1822. TO JANE-THE RECOLLECTION. I. Now the last day of many days, The loveliest and the last, is dead, The epitaph of glory fled,— 60 65 5 II. We wandered to the Pine Forest The tempest in its home. 10 The whispering waves were half asleep, And on the bosom of the deep, The smile of Heaven lay; It seemed as if the hour were one Which scattered from above the sun 15 20 25 30 To the soft flower beneath our feet, A thrilling silent life, Our mortal nature's strife; And still I felt the centre of The magic circle there Was one fair form that filled with love The lifeless atmosphere. V. We paused beside the pools that lie 45 50 More perfect both in shape and hue Than any spreading there. There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, And through the dark green wood The white sun twinkling like the dawn Out of a speckled cloud. Sweet views which in our world above Can never well be seen, Were imaged by the water's love Of that fair forest green. And all was interfused beneath With an elysian glow, 65 70 An atmosphere without a breath, 75 A softer day below. Like one beloved the scene had lent To the dark water's breast Its every leaf and lineament With more than truth expressed; 80 Until an envious wind crept by, Like an unwelcome thought, Which from the mind's too faithful eye Though thou art ever fair and kind, The forests ever green, Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind, 85 February, 1822. WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE. ARIEL to Miranda. - Take This slave of Music, for the sake In which thou canst, and only thou, And, too intense, is turned to pain; 5 IO 15 Can Ariel ever find his own. Lit you o'er the trackless sea, When you die, the silent Moon, Is not sadder in her cell When you live again on earth, Many changes have been run, Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has tracked your steps, and served your Now, in humbler, happier lot, This is all remembered not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is From you he only dares to crave, The artist who this idol wrought, will; 35 40 45 The woods were in their winter sleep, Rocked in that repose divine On the wind-swept Apennine; |