ΔΑΚΡΥΣΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ.

OH, there are spirits of the air,

And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair As star-beams among twilight trees! Such lovely ministers to meet

Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth; - tame sacrifice

To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks or lips, may answer thy demands?

Ah, wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee,
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?
To. Shelley, 1816 || To Coleridge, note on the Early Poems,
Mrs. Shelley, 18391. Published with Alastor, 1816.

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead; Night's ghost and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase; - the mad endeavor
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

TO

YET look on me - take not thine eyes away,
Which feed upon the love within mine own,
Which is indeed but the reflected ray
Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown.
Yet speak to me - thy voice is as the tone
Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear

That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone
Like one before a mirror, without care
Of aught but thine own features, imaged there;
And yet I wear out life in watching thee;

A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed Art kind when I am sick, and pity me.

To

-. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1839.

STANZAS. APRIL, 1814

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,

Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of

even.

Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness

soon,

And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not! the time is past! every voice cries, Away!

Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood;

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay;

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and

come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float

around thine head;

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet;

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost

that binds the dead,

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own repose,

For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;

Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest - yet till the phantoms flee,

Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free

From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

TO HARRIET

THY look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;

Thy gentle words are drops of balm

In life's too bitter bowl;

No grief is mine, but that alone
These choicest blessings I have known.

To Harriet. Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887. Composed May, 1814.

Harriet! if all who long to live

In the warm sunshine of thine eye, That price beyond all pain must give, Beneath thy scorn to die; Then hear thy chosen own too late His heart most worthy of thy hate.

Be thou, then, one among mankind
Whose heart is harder not for state,
Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind,
Amid a world of hate;
And by a slight endurance seal
A fellow-being's lasting weal.

For pale with anguish is his cheek,

His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, Thy name is struggling ere he speak, Weak is each trembling limb; In mercy let him not endure The misery of a fatal cure.

Oh, trust for once no erring guide!
Bid the remorseless feeling flee ;
'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,
'Tis anything but thee;
Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,
And pity if thou canst not love.