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Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded


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 con

vex 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.

Like a high-born maiden

In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden

Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her


Like a glow-worm golden

In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden

Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it

from the view.


Like a rose embower'd

In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,

Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-

winged thieves.

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,

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.

Sound of vernal showers

On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,

All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth

Teach us, sprite or bird,

What sweet thoughts are thine ;
I have never heard

Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal,

Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all

But an empty vaunt-
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden


What objects are the fountains

Of thy happy strain ?
What fields, or waves, or mountains ?

What shapes of sky or plain ?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance

of pain ?

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

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

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.

With thy clear keen joyance

Languor cannot be :
Shadow of annoyance

Never came near thee :
Thou lovest; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

Waking or asleep,

Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep

Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal


My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burther thine.

We look before and after,

And pine for what is not :
Our sincerest laughter

With some pain is Tranght:
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of

saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn

Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born

Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever could come

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.


Better than all measures

Of delight and sound,
Better than all treasures

That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the

Teach me half the gladness

That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness

From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

Shelley.Born 1792, Died 1822.

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.

I arise from dreams of Thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Has led me—who knows how ?
To thy chamber-window, Sweet!
The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine
O beloved as thou art!
O lift mo from the grass !
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas !
My heart beats loud and fast;
O! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

Shelley.-Born 1792, Died 1822.

1365.— TO THE NIGHT. Swiftly walk over the western warc,

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-in wrought! 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

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

1363.-I FEAR THY KISSES. I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden ; Thou needest not fear mine;

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.

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 noir

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.

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 muteNo 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. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave thee naked to laughter, When leaves fall and cold winds come.

Shelley.--Born 1792, Died 1822.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,
Thoa 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.


One word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd

For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair

For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dea:

Than that from another.

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.

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.


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

I sit upon the sands alone ;
The lightning of the noon-tide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion-
How sweet! did any heart now share in my

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'd-
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;
Others I see whom these surround-

Smiling they live, and call life pleasure; To me that cup has been dealt in another

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.

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

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,
Fellid a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rock'd in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine ;

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


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.

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere ;
Destroyer and Preserver; Hear, O hear !
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's

commotion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are

shed Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven

and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning; there are

spread On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim

verge Of the horizon to the zenith's heightThe locks of the approaching storm. Thou

dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: 0

hear ! Thou who didst waken from his summer

dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay Lull’d by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azaro moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them !

Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far

below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which

wear 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

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,


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 : () 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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