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So in the caverns of the forest green,
Or by the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen
By summer woodmen. And, when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war,
The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,
Hanging upon the peaked wave afar,
Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star
Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,
Whilst all the constellations of the sky
Seemed reeling through the storm; they did but seem
For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,
And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, And far o'er southern waves immovably
Belted Orion hangs-warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm."O summer eve! with power divine, bestowing
On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm
Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness,
Of fevered brains oppressed with grief and madness
And these soft waves murmuring a gentle sadness,
And the far sighings of yon piny dale
Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here.-
To lighten a strange load!"-No human ear
Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran,
Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake,
Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake,
And with a soft and equal pressure pressed
That cold lean hand. "Dost thou remember yet, When the curved moon, then lingering in the west,
Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year-sure thou dost not forget!
Then Plato's words of light in thee and me
Is faithful now-the story of the feast;
From death and dark forgetfulness released."
'TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings
So stood before the Sun, which shone and smiled
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green, and flowers burst forth like starry beams; The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene. How many a one, though none be near to love, Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror-or the Spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green!
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps-and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
'TWAS at this season that Prince Athanase
Passed the white Alps. Those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow. Beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless; for their fountains
Or, by the curdling winds-like brazen wings
THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all
Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls
Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls
Investeth it; and, when the heavens are blue,
Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear
Among the towers of men;
Thou ever soarest and as soft air
In Spring, which moves the unawakened forest,
That which from thee they should implore. The weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts
The strong have broken :-yet where shall any seek
A garment, whom thou clothest not?
HER hair was brown; her spherèd eyes were brown,
Yet, when the spirit flashed beneath, there came
THE rose, that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
Such is my heart :-roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom;
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom,
No, Music, thou art not the God of Love;
THE silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild; Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child, Is laid asleep in flowers.
To thirst, and find no fill-to wail, and wander With short unsteady steps-to pause and ponderTo feel the blood run through the veins, and tingle Where busy thought and blind sensation mingleTo nurse the image of unfelt caresses,
Till dim imagination just possesses
The half-created shadow.
WEALTH and dominion fade into the mass
The things which are immortal, and surpass All that frail stuff which will be or which was. 1817.
My thoughts arise and fade in solitude;
The verse that would invest them melts away Like moonlight in the heaven of spreading day. How beautiful they were! how firm they stood, Flecking the starry sky like woven pearl!
THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, "Last of the Romans,"-though thy memory claim
From Brutus his own glory, and on thee
Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail Amid his cowering senate with thy name; Though thou and he were great, it will avail To thine own fame that Otho's should not fail.
'Twill wrong thee not: thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame. Great Otho died
Like thee: he sanctified his country's steel,
In his own blood. A deed it was to wring
Tears from all men-though full of gentle pride,
Dark is the realm of grief: but human things
TO MARY SHELLEY.
O MARY dear, that you were here!
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate