Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story, As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender : The light-invested angel Poesy Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee. And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught By loftiest meditations; marble knew The sculptor's fearless soul-and as he wrought, The grace of his own power and freedom grew. And more than all, heroic, just, sublime Thou wert among the false-was this thy crime? Yes; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine Of direst weeds hangs garlanded-the snake Inhabits its wrecked palaces;-in thine A beast of subtler venom now doth make Its lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, And thus thy victim's fate is as thine own. The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare, And love and freedom blossoms but to wither; And good and ill like vines entangled are, So that their grapes may oft be plucked together; Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make Thy heart rejoice for dead Mazenghi's sake. No record of his crime remains in story, But if the morning bright as evening shone, It was some high and holy deed, by glory Pursued into forgetfulness, which won From the blind crowd he made secure and free The patriot's meed, toil, death, and infamy. For when by sound of trumpet was declared A price upon his life, and there was set A penalty of blood on all who shared So much of water with him as might wet His lips, which speech divided nothe went Alone, as you may guess, to banishment. Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast, He hid himself, and hunger, cold, and toil, Month after month endured; it was a feast Whene'er he found those globes of deep red gold Which in the woods the strawberrytree doth bear, Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. And in the roofless huts of vast mo rasses, Deserted by the fever-stricken serf, All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses, And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf, And where the huge and speckled aloe made, Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade, He housed himself. There is a point of strand Near Veda's tower and town; and on one side The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, And on the other creeps eternally, THE WOODMAN AND THE A WOODMAN whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody; And as a vale is watered by a flood, WRITTEN ON HEARING THE WHAT! alive and so bold, oh earth? Ha leapest thou forth as of old? Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead? How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled, And livest thou still, Mother Earth? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fledWhat, Mother, dost thou laugh now he is dead? "Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told? It is thou who art over bold." And the lightning of scorn laughed forth As she sung, "To my bosom I fold All my sons when their knell is knolled; And so with living motion all are fed, And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead. "Still alive and still bold," shouted Earth, "I grow bolder and still more bold. The dead fill me ten thousand fold Fuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth, I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, Till by the spirit of the mighty dead "Ay, alive, and still bold," muttered Earth, THE WANING MOON. AND like a dying lady, lean and pale, Who totters forth, wrapt in a gauzy veil, Out of her chamber, led by the insane And feeble wanderings of her fading brain, The moon arose up in the murky earth, A white and shapeless mass. EPITAPH. THESE are two friends whose lives were undivided, So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single hearted. INVOCATION TO MISERY. Come, be happy !-sit near me: Misery! we have known each other, 'Tis an evil lot, and yet If love lives when pleasure dies, There our tent shall be the willow, Us to slumber, deep and dull. Thou art murmuring, thou art weeping, Hasten to the bridal bedUnderneath the grave 'tis spread: In darkness may our love be hid, Oblivion be our coverlid We may rest, and none forbid. Clasp me till our hearts be grown We may dream, in that long sleep, Thou mayst dream of her with me. Let us laugh, and make our mirth, All the wide world beside us Shadows shifting from a scene- WITH A GUITAR. THE artist who this idol wrought, The artist wrought that loved Guitar, THE MAGNETIC LADY TO SLEEP on! sleep on! forget thy pain: My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; Seal thee from thine hour of woe; And brood on thee, but may not blend With thine. Sleep on! sleep on! I love thee not; Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of morn; And forget me, for I can never Be thine. Like a cloud big with a May shower, Speaks like a second youth again. By mine thy being is to its deep Possest. The spell is done. How feel you now? Better-Quite well, replied The sleeper. What would do You good when suffering and awake? What cure your head and side?— 'Twould kill me what would cure my pain; And as I must on earth abide Awhile, yet tempt me not to break My chain. TO THE QUEEN OF MY SHALL we roam, my love, This poem is considered doubtful; but it was published by Captain Medwin as Shelley's. |