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I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ;

I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,
And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1361.-TO A SKYLARK.

Hail to thee, blithe spirit!

Bird thou never wert,

That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still, and higher,

From the earth thou springest

Like a cloud of fire;

The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever, singest.

In the golden lightening

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run,

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;

Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight,

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen are the arrows

Of that silver sphere,

Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud

The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?

From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see,

As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

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My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
Thou needest not fear mine;

Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1364.-LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another's being mingle-
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the carth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea-
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1365.-TO THE NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western wave, Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,-
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was

gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest
Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee

Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me ?-And I replied
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-

Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1366.-THE FLIGHT OF LOVE.

When the lamp is shatter'd,
The light in the dust lies dead;
When the cloud is scatter'd,
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken,

Sweet tones are remember'd not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,
The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute-
No song but sad dirges,

Like the wind through a ruin'd cell,
Or the mournful surges

That ring the dead seaman's knell.

When hearts have once mingled,

Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled

To endure what it once possest.

O Love! who bewailest

The frailty of all things here,

Why choose you the frailest

For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

Its passions will rock thee

As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee

Like the sun from a wintry sky.

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I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1368.-INVOCATION.

Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day 'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.
Spirit false thou hast forgot
All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismay'd;
Even the sighs of grief
Reproach thee, that thou art not near,
And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure;

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure ;—

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves drest
And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.

I love snow and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,
Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me

What diff'rence? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee;
But above all other things,
Spirit, I love thee-

Thou art love and life! O come!
Make once more my heart thy home!
Shelley.-Dorn 1792, Died 1822.

1369.-STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR NAPLES.

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent light:
The breath of the moist air is light
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'. The City's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

I see the Deep's untrampled floor
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore

Like light dissolved in star-showers
thrown :

I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motionHow sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health, Nor peace within nor calm around, Nor that Content surpassing wealth The sage in meditation found, And walk'd with inward glory crown'dNor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure; Others I see whom these surroundSmiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another

measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.
Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1370.-OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT.

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.
Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1371.-TO A LADY, WITH A GUITAR. Ariel to Miranda :-Take

This slave of music, for the sake
Of him, who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again
And, too intense, is turn'd to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness, for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own;
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor..
When you die, the silent Moon
In her interlunar swoon
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel;

When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen Star of birth
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity:
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has track'd your steps and served your

will.

Now in humbler, happier lot,

This is all remember'd not;

And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprison'd for some fault of his
In a body like a grave-
From you he only dares to crave
For his service and his sorrow
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.
The artist who this viol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
Fell'd a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rock'd in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;

And dreaming, some of autumn past,
And some of spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,-
O that such our death may be !-
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar;
And taught it justly to reply
To all who question skilfully
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamour'd tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
-For it had learnt all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voicéd fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way:
-All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as it answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest holiest tone
For one beloved Friend alone.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1372.-ODE TO THE WEST WIND.

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingéd seeds, where they lie cold and
low,

Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odours plain and hill:

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The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear
And tremble and despoil themselves: O hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and
share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than Thou, O uncontrollable! If even

I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip the skyey speed
Scarce seem'd a vision, I would ne'er have

striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. O lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd

One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is :
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,

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