TO CONSTANTIA.

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;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,
Makes it wan with her borrowed light.
Such is my heart-roses are fair,

And that at best a withered blossom;

But thy false care did idly wear

Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom !
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth-

DEATH.

THEY die-the dead return not. Misery
Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A youth with hoary hair and haggard eye-
They are names of kindred, friend and lover,
Which he so feebly calls-they all are gone!
Fond wretch, all dead, those vacant names alone,
This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.

Misery, my sweetest friend-O! weep no more!
Thou wilt not be consoled-I wonder not;
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling's door
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory;
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
This most familiar scene, my pain-
These tombs alone remain.

SONNET.-OZYMANDIAS.

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 shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked 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.

ON F. G.

HER voice did quiver as we parted,
Yet knew I not that heart was broken
From which it came, and I departed
Heeding not the words then spoken.
Misery-O Misery,

This world is all too wide for thee.

LINES TO A CRITIC.

HONEY from silkworms who can gather,
Or silk from the yellow bee?
The grass may grow in winter weather
As soon as hate in me.

Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

And men who rail like thee;

An equal passion to repay

They are not coy like me.

Or seek some slave of power and gold,
To be thy dear heart's mate;
Thy love will move that bigot cold,
Sooner than me thy hate.

A passion like the one I prove
Cannot divided be;

I hate thy want of truth and love-
How should I then hate thee?

December, 1817.

LINES.

THAT time is dead for ever, child,
Drowned, frozen, dead for ever!
We look on the past,

And stare aghast

At the spectres wailing, pale, and ghast,
Of hopes which thou and I beguiled
To death on life's dark river.

The stream we gazed on then rolled by; Its waves are unreturning;

But we yet stand

In a lone land,

Like tombs to mark the memory

Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee In the light of life's dim morning.

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1817.

BY THE EDITOR.

THE very illness that oppressed, and the aspect of death which had approached so near Shelley, appears to have kindled to yet keener life the spirit of poetry in his heart. The restless thoughts kept awake by pain clothed themselves in verse. Much was composed during this year. "The Revolt of Islam," written and printed, was a great effort"Rosalind and Helen" was begun-and the fragments and poems I can trace to the same period, show how full of passion and reflection were his solitary hours.

In addition to such poems as have an intelligible aim and shape, many a stray idea and transitory emotion found imperfect and abrupt expression, and then again lost themselves in silence. As he never wandered without a book, and without implements of writing, I find many such in his manuscript books, that scarcely bear record; while some of them, broken and vague as they are, will appear valuable to those who love Shelley's mind, and desire to trace its workings. Thus in the same book that addresses "Constantia, singing," I find these lines:

My spirit like a charmed bark doth swim

Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far away into the regions dim

Of rapture-as a boat with swift sails winging

Its way adown some many-winding river.