6. All the carth 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. 7. What thou art we know not: what is most like thee? Frorn rainbow clouds there flow not drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 8. Like a poet hidden in the light of thought, 9. Like a high-born maiden in a palace tower, With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower. 10. 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 11. 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 12. Sound of vernal showers on the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, all that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass. 13. 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. 14. Chorus hymenĕ'al, or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all but an empty vaunt- 15. 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? 16. With thy clear keen joyance languor can not be: Shadow of annoyance never came near thee: Thou lovèst; but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. 17. 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 stream? 18. We look before and after, and pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter with some pain is fraught: Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. 19. 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 near. 20 Better than all measures of delight and sound, Better than all treasures that in books are found, SHELLEY. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, a poet of admirable genius, the son and heir of a wealthy baronet in Sussex, England, was born in that county in 1792. He was educated first at Eton, and afterward at Oxford, where he studied hard, but irregularly; incessantly speculated, thought, and read; became entangled in metaphysical difficulties, and, at the age of seventeen, published, with a direct appeal to the heads of the colleges, a pamphlet entitled "The Necessity of Atheism." He was immediately expelled; and his friends being disgusted with him, he was cast on the world a prey to the undisciplined ardor of youth and passion. At the age of eighteen he printed his poem of "Queen Mab,” in which singular poetic beauties are interspersed with many speculative absurdities. Shortly after this he married a young woman of humble station in live, which completed his alienation from his family. After a tour on the continens, during which he visited some of the most magnificent scenes of Switzerland, he settled near Windsor Forest, where he composed his poem, "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude," which contains descriptive passages excelled by none of his subsequent works. His domestic unhappiness soon after induced him to separate from his wife, and the unhappy woman destroyed herself. This event subjected him to much misrepresentation, and by a decree of chancery he was deprived of the guardianship of his two children, on the ground of immorality and atheism. Not long after his wife's death he married the daughter of GoDWIN, authoress of " Frankenstein," and other novels. They resided for a few months in Buckinghamshire, where they made themselves beloved by their charity for the poor. Here he composed the "Revolt of Islam," a poem still more ener getic than " Alastor." In the spring of 1818 he and his family removed to Italy, where they at length settled themselves at Pisa. In that country, with health already failing, SHELLEY produced some of his principal works, in a petied of four years. In July, 1822, when he had not quite completed his 29th year, he was drowned in a storm which he encountered in his yacht on the Gulf of Spezzia. In accordance with his own desire, his body was burned, un der the direction of LORD BYRON and other friends; and the ashes were carried to Rome and deposited in the Protestant burial-ground, near those of a child he had lost in that city. A complete edition of "Shelley's Poetical Works," with notes by his widow, has been published. The above ode to the Skylark bears, perhaps, as pure a poetical stamp as any of his productions. It was written as his mind prompted, listening to the caroling of the bird aloft in the azure sky of Italy. 123. NORVAL. Enter first GLENALVON; and soon after, NORVAL. The latter seems locking off at some distant object. Glenalvon. His port I love; he's in a proper mood Norval. Glen. Thou talk'st it well; no leader of our host Norv. If I should e'er acquire a leader's name, My speech will be less ardent. Novelty Now prompts my tongue, and youthful admiration Of praise pertaining to the great in arms. Glen. You wrong yourself, brave sir; your martial deeds Have rank'd you with the great. But mark me, Norval, Lord Randolph's favor now exalts your youth Above his veterans of famous service. Let me, who know these soldiers, counsel you. Norv. Sir, I have been accustomi'd, all my days, Who borrow friendship's tongue to speak their scorn, Therefore I thank Glenalvon for his counsel, Glen. I did not mean To gall your pride, which now I see is great. Glen. If thus you swell, and frown at high-born men, Glen. [Right.] To bend on soldiers those disdainful eyes As if you took the measure of their minds, What will become of you? Norv. Hast thou no fears for thy presumptuous self! Glen. Ha! dost thou threaten me? Norv. Didst thou not hear? Glen. Unwillingly I did; a nobler foe Had not been question'd thus; but such as thou- Glen. Norv. Norval. So I am; And who is Norval in Glenalvon's eyes? Glen. A peasant's son, a wandering beggar boy; At best no more, even if he speaks the truth. Norv. False as thou art, dost thou suspect my truth! Glen. Thy truth! thou'rt all a lie; and basely false Is the vain-glorious tale thou told'st to Randolph. Norv. If I were chain'd, unarm'd, or bedrid old, Perhaps I should revile; but, as I am, [Crosses R I have no tongue to rail. The humble Norval And make thee sink too soon beneath my sword, Glen. [L.] Dost thou not know Glenalvon born to command Ten thousand slaves like thee? Norv. To have defied thee in another cause; But heaven accelerates its vengeance on thee. Now for my own and Lady Randolph's wrongs! [Both draw their swords. Enter LORD RANDOLPH, R. Lord Randolph. Hold! I command you both! the man that stirs Makes me his foe. Norv. Another voice than thine That threat had vainly sounded, noble Randolph. Glen. Hear him, my lord; he's wondrous condescending! Mark the humility of shepherd Norval! Norv. Now you may scoff in safety. [Both sheathe their swords Lord R. [R.] Speak not thus, Taunting each other, but unfold to me The cause of quarrel; then I judge betwixt you. Norv. Nay, my good lord, though I revere you much, Lord R. Thus far I'll mediate with impartia voice: The ancient foe of Caledonia's land Now waves his banner o'er her frighted fields; Suspend your purpose till your country's arms |