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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.
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;
Tbine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.
This fiend, whose ghasily presence ever

Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chasc;-the mad endeavour

Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

SUPERSTITION. Trou taintest all thou look'st upon! The stars, Which on thy cradle beam'd so brightly sweet, Were gods to the distemper'd playfulness Of thy untutor'd infancy; the trees, The grass, the clouds, the mountains, and the sea, All living things that walk, swim, creep, or fly, Were gods : the sun had homage, and the moon Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, More daring in thy frenzies : every shape, Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild, Which, from sensation's relics, fancy culls; The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, The genii of the elements, the powers That give a shape to nature's varied works, Had life and place in the corrupt belief Of thy blind heart : yet still thy youthful hands Were pure of human blood. Then manhood gave Its strength and ardour to thy frenzied brain; Thine eager gaze scand'd the stupendous scene, Whose wonders mock'd the knowledge of thy pride : Their everlasting and unchanging laws Reproach'd thine ignorance. Awhile thou stoodest Baffled and gloomy; then thou didst sum up The elements of all that thou didst know; The changing seasons, winter's leafless reign, The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, The eternal orbs that beautify the night, The sun-rise, and the setting of the moon, Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, And all their causes, to an abstract point Converging, thou didst give it name, and form, Intelligence, and unity, and power,

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! l'empt not with one last glance thy friend's ungentle

mood : Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares pot 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 mect. The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose, For the weary wiods 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




0! TIERE 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 turn'd from men thy lonely feci.

Thou in the grave sbalı rest-yet till the phantoms flce Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? Which that house and beach and garden made dear to Who lifteth the veil of what is to come? thee ercwhile,

Who painteth the shadows that are beneath Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb? are not free

Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be From the music of two voices, and the light of one with the fears and the love for that which we see?

sweet smile.

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Thou wert warming thy fingers old
O'er the embers cover'd 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 bas my story told ?
It is thou who art over-bold.,
And the lightning of scorn laugh'd forth
As she sung, « To my bosom I fold
All my sons wher their knell is knoll’d,
And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.»

There stands the Tower of Famine. It is built
Upon some prison-homes, whose dwellers rave
For bread, and gold, and blood: pain, link'd to guilt,
Agitates the light flame of their hours,
Until its vital oil is spent or spilt:
There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers
And sacred domes; each marble-ribbed roof,
The brazen-gated temples, and the bowers
Of solitary wealth! The tempest-proof
Pavilions of the dark Italian air,
Are by its presence dimm'd-they stand aloof,
And are withdrawn-so that the world is bare,
As if a spectre, wrapt in shapeless terror,
Amid a company of ladies fair
Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror
Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,
The life of their sweet cyes, with all its error,
Should be absorb'd till they to marble grew.

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THE AZIOLA. « Do you not hear the Aziola cry? Methinks she must be nigh,» Said Mary, as we sate In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought; And I, who thought This Aziola was some tedious woman, Ask'd, «Who is Aziola?, how elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or bate! And Mary saw my soul, And laugh’d and said, · Disquiet yourself not, 'T is nothing but a little downy owl..

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January grey is here,

Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,

March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps—but, О ye hours,

Follow with May's fairest flowers ! January 1st, 1821.

Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate. O conquer


you cannot satiate!
For to your passion I am far more coy
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy
In winter noon. of your antipathy
If I am the Narcissus, you are free
To pinc into a sound with hating me.



I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed :
And on the pedestal these words appear:

My name is Ozymandias, king of kings :
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!,
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Lifr not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread :- behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin destinies; who ever weave
The shadows, which the world calls substance, there.
I knew one who lifted it-he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.


Yg hasten to the dead! What scek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes
Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
O thou quick Heart, which pantest to possess
All that anticipation feigneth fair!
Thou vainly curious mind which wouldst guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou mayst go,
And that which never yet was known would know-
Oh, whither basten ye that thus ye press
With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,
Seeking alike from happiness and woe
A refuge in the cavern of grey death?
O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do you
Hope to inherit in the grave below?

Port of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may relurn!
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel'st; yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude.
In honour'd poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,—
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou slıouldst cease to be.


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 vanquish'd will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.


I RATED thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most ambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer
A frail and bloody pomp, which time has swept
In fragments towards oblivion. Massacre,
For this I pray'd, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than force or fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of time.


From the Italian of Dante.

Alas! good friend, what profit can you sec
In bating such a hateless thing as me?
There is no sport in late where all the rage
Is on one side. In vain would you assuage
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile,
In which not even conteinpt lurks, to beguile

GUIDO, I would that Lappo, thou, and I,
Led by some strong enchantinent, might ascend

A magic ship, whose charmed sails sliould fly,
With winds at will, where'er our thoughts might wend,
And that no change, nor any eyil chance,
Should mar our joyous voyage; but it might be,
That even satiety should still enhance
Between our hearts their strict community,
And that the bounteous wizard then would place
Vanna and Bice and my gentle love,
Companions of our wandering, and would

With passionate talk, wherever we might rove,
Our time, and each were as content and free
As I believe that thou and I should be.

IV. Out of the lofty cavern wandering He found a tortoise, and cried out—. A treasure !» (For Mercury first made thie tortoisc sing :) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure Over the turf. Jove's profitable son Eyeing him laugh'd, and laughing thus begun :


V. «A useful god-send are you to me now, King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain beast, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know, You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you.

Ταν άλα ταν γλαυκαν όταν άνεμος ατρεμαραλλη,

κ. τ. λ.

WHEN winds that move not its calm surface sweep
The azure sea, I love the land no more,
The smiles of the serene and tranquil deep
Tempt my unquiet mind.—But when the roar
Of ocean's grey abyss resounds, and foam
Gathers upon the sea, and vast waves burst,
I turn from the drear aspect to the home
Of earth and its deep woods, where, interspersed,
When winds blow loud, pines make sweet melody.
Whose house is some lone bark, whose toil the sea,

prey the wandering fish, an evil lot
Has chosen.-But I my languid limbs will fling
Beneath the plane, where the brook's murmuring
Moves the calm spirit, but disturbs it not.

VI. «Better to be at home than out of door ;So come with me, and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when you're dead.» Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, Lifting it from the grass on which it fed, And grasping it in his delighted hold, His treasured prize into the caveru old.

VII. Then scooping with a chisel of grey steel He bored the life and soul out of the beastNot swifter a swift thought of woc or weal Darts through the tumult of a human breast Which thronging cares annoy-not swifter wheel The flashes of its corture and unrest Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia's son All that he did devise hath fearly done.




I. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heaven's dread Supreme-an antique grove Shadowd the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep nigbi, unscen by Gods or Men, And white-arm'd Juno slumber'd sweetly then.


Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief,
She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,
A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,
Who, 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve,
And other glorious actions to achieve.

The babe was born at the first peep of day;
He began playing on the lyre at noon,
And the same evening did he steal away
Apollo's herds;- the fourth day of the moon
On which him bore the venerable May,
From her immortal limbs he leap'd full soon,
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep.

And through the tortoise's hard strong skin
Al proper distances small holes he made,
And fasten'd the cut stems of reeds within,
And with a piece of leather overlaid
The open space and fixed the cubits in,
Fitting the bridge to both, and stretch'd o'er all
Symphonious cords of sheep-yut rhythmical.

When he had wrought the lovely instrument,
He tried the chords, and made division meet,
Preluding with the plectrum; and there went
Up from beneath his band a tumult sweet
Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent
A strain of unpremeditated wit,
Joyous and wild and wanton-such you may
Hear among revellers on a holiday.

He sung low Jove and May of the bright sandal
Dallied in love not quite legitimate;
And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal,
and naming his own name, did celebrate;
His mother's cave and servant-maids lie plano'd all
In plastic verse, her household stuff and state,
Perennial pol, trippet, and brazen pan,-
But singing he conceived another plan.

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