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'Twas likest heaven, ere yet day's purple stream Their own deep fire-soon as the woman came
Ebbs o'er the western forest, while the gleam Into that hall, she shrieked the spirit's name
Of the unrisen moon among the clouds

And fell; and vanished slowly from the sight.
Is gathering,—when with many a golden beam Darkness arose from her dissolving frame,
The thronging constellations rush in crowds, Which gathering filled that dome of woven light,
Paving with fire the sky and the marmoreal floods. Blotting its sphered stars with supernatural night.
Like what may be conceived of this vast dome, Then first, two glittering lights were seen to glide
When from the depths which thought can seldom In circles on the amethystine floor,
Genius beholds it rise, his native home, (pierce, Small serpent eyes wailing from side to side,
Girt by the desarts of the universe:

Like meteors on a river's grassy shore,
Yet, nor in paintings light, or mightier verse, They round each other rolled, dilating more
Or sculpture's marble language, can invest

And more, then rose commingling into one,
That shape to mortal sense,-such glooms immerse One clear and mighty planet, hanging o'er
That incommunicable sight, and rest

A cloud of deepest shadow, which was thrown
Upon the labouring brain, and overburthened breast. Athwart the glowing steps, and the crystalline

Winding among the lawny islands fair,
Whose blossomy forests starred the shadowy deep, The cloud which rested on that cone of flame
The wingless boat paused where an ivory stair Was cloven; beneath the planet sate a form,
Its fretwork in the crystal sea did sleep,

Fairer than tongue can speak, or thought may frame,
Encirclivg that vast fane's aerial heap:

The radiance of whose limbs rose-like and warm
We disembarked, and through a portal wide Flowed forth, and did with softest light inform
We past,-whose roof, of moonstone carved, did keep The shadowy dome, the sculptures and the state
A glimmering o'er the forms on every side, [eyed. Of those assembled shapes--with clinging charm,
Sculptures like life and thought; immoveable,deep- Sinking upon their hearts and mine. He sate

Majestic, yet most mild-calm, yet compassionate.
We came to a vast hall, whose glorious roof (sheen
Was diamond, which had drunk the lightning's
In darkness, and now poured it through the woof

Of spell-enwoven clouds bung there to screen
Its blinding splendour,-through such veil was seen “Lo, where red morning through the woods
That work of subtlest power divine and rare; Is burning o'er the dew;" said Rosalind. [tlood
Orb above orb, with starry shapes between,

And with these words they rose, and towards the
And horned moons, and meteors strange and fair, of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind
On night-black columns poised-one hollow he- With equal steps and fingers intertwined;

Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore

Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses
Ten thousand columns in that quivering light Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies,
Distinct,-between whose shafts wound far

away And with their shadows the clear depths below,
The long and labyrinthine aisles more bright And where a little terrace from its bowers,
With their own radiance than the heaven of day; Of blooming myrtle and saint lemon-flowers,
And on the jasper walls around there lay

Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er
Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought,

The liquid marble of the windless lake;
Which did the spirit's history display ;

And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar,
A tale of passionate change, divinely taught, Under the leaves which their green garments make,
Which in their winged dance unconscious Genii They come: 'tis Helen's home, and clean and white,

Like one which tyrants spare on our own land

In some such solitude; its casements bright
Beneath there sate on many a sapphire throne

Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun,
The great, who had departed from mankind;

And even within 'ıwas scarce like Italy.
A mighty senate;—some whose white hair shone


And when she saw how all things there were plan-
Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful, and blind.
Some, female forms, whose gestures beamed with

As in an English hoine, dim memory
Disturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as one

Whose mind is where his body cannot be,
And ardent youths, and children bright and fair;

Till Helen led her where her child yet slept,
And some had lyres, whose strings were intertwined
With pale and clinging flames, which ever there

And said, “ Observe, that brow was Lionel's,
Walked, faint yet thrilling sounds, that pierced the

Those lips were his, and so he ever kept crystal air.

One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it.

You cannot see bis eyes, they are two wells
One seal was vacant in the midst, a throne

Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet.”
Reared on a pyramid, like sculptured flame

But Rosalind could bear do more, and wept
Distinct, with circling steps, wbich rested on A shower of burning tears, which fell upon

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His face, and so his opening lashes shone

Wilt thou be, when the sea-mew With tears unlike his own, as he did leap

Flies, as once before it flew, In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.

O'er thine isles depopulate,

And all is in its antient state, So Rosalind and Helen lived together

Save where many a palace gate Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again,

With green sea-flowers overgrown Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather

Like a rock of ocean's own, They wandered in their youth, through sun and rain.

Topples o'er the abandoned sea And after many years, for human things

As the tides change sullenly.
Change even like the ocean and the wind,

The fisher on his watery way,
Her daughter was restored to Rosalind,
And in their circle thence some visitings,

Wandering at the close of day, Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene:

Will spread his sail and seize his car A lovely child she was, of looks serene,

Till he pass the gloomy shore, And motions which o'er things indifferent shed

Lest thy dead should, from their sleep The grace and gentleness from whence they came.

Bursting o'er the starlight deep, And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed

Lead a rapid masque of death

O'er the waters of his path.
From the same flowers of thought, until each mind
Like springs which mingle in one flood became,
And in their union soon their parents saw

Those who alone thy towers behold The shadow of the peace denied to them.

Quivering through aerial gold,

As I now behold them here,
And Rosalind, for when the living stem
Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall,

Would imagine not they were
Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe

Sepulchres, where human forms, The pale survivors followed her remains

Like pollution-nourished worms, Beyond the region of dissolving rains,

To the corpse of greatness cling, Up the cold mountain she was wont to call

Murdered, and now mouldering: Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice

But if Freedom should awake They raised a pyramid of lasting ice,

In her omnipotence, and shake Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun,

From the Celtic Anarch's hold Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,

All the keys of dungeons cold, The last, when it had sunk; and through the night

Where a hundred cities lie The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round

Chained like thee, ingloriously, Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home,

Thou and all thy sister band Whose sad inhabitants each

Might adorn this sunny land, year With willing steps climbing that rugged height,

Twiping memories of old time

With new virtues more sublime; And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound With amaranth flowers,which, in the clime's despite,

If not, perish thou and they, Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light:

Clouds which stain truth's rising day Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom

By her sun consumed away, Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.

Earth can spare ye: while like flowers,

In the waste of years and hours, Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,

From your dust new nations spring Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led With more kindly blossoming. Into the peace of his dominion cold:

Perish ! let there only be She died among her kindred, being old.

Floating o'er thy hearthless sea, And know, that if love die not in the dead

As the garment of thy sky As in the living, none of mortal kind

Clothes the world immortally,
Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.

One remembrance, more sublime
Than the tattered pall of time,

Which scarce hides thy visage wan; LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGA

That a tempest-cleaving swan

Of the songs of Albion,
Sun-girt City, thou hast been

Driven from his ancestral streams Ocean's child, and then his queen;

By the might of evil dreams, Now is come a darker day,

Found a nest in thee; and ocean And thou soon must be his prey,

Welcomed him with such emotion If the power that raised thee here

That its joy grew his, and sprung Hallow so thy watery bier.

From his lips like music flung A less drear ruin then than now,

O'er a mighty thunder-fit, With thy conquest-branded brow

Chastening terror: what though yet Stooping to the slave of slaves

Poesy's unfailing river, From thy throne, among the waves

Which through Albion winds for ever,

would come,

Lashing with melodious wave

Over all between the Po Many a sacred poet's grave,

And the eastern Alpine snow, Mourn its latest nursling Aled !

Under the mighty Austrian. What though thou with all thy dead

Sin smiled so as Sin only can, Scarce can for this fame repay

And since that time, aye long before, Aught thine own,-oh, rather say,

Both have ruled from shore to shore, Though thy sins and slaveries foul

That incestuous pair, who follow Overcloud a sunlike soul!

Tyrants as the sun the swallow, As the ghost of Homer clings

As Repentance follows Crime,
Round Scamander's wasting springs;

And as changes follow Time.
As divinest Shakespeare's might
Fills Avon and the world with light

In thine halls the lamp of learning, Like omniscient power, which he

Padua, now no more is burning ; Imaged ’mid mortality;

Like a meteor, whose wild way As the love from Petrarch's urn

Is lost over the grave of day, Yet amid yon hills doth burn,

It gleams betrayed and to betray: A quenchless lamp, by which the heart

Once remotest nations came Sees things unearthly; so thou art,

To adore that sacred flame, Mighty spirit: so shall be

When it lit not many a hearth The city that did refuge thee.

On this cold and gloomy earth:

Now new fires from antique light Lo, the sun floats up the sky

Spring beneath the wide world's might; Like thought-winged liberty,

But their spark lies dead in thee, Till the universal light

Trampled out by tyranny. Seems to level plain and height;

As the Norway woodman quells, From the sea a mist has spread,

In the depth of piny dells, And the beams of morn lie dead

One light flame among the brakes, On the towers of Venice now,

While the boundless forest shakes, Like its glory long ago.

And its mighty trunks are torn By the skirts of that grey cloud

By the fire thus lowly born: Many-domed Padua proud

The spark beneath his feet is dead, Stands, a peopled solitude,

He starts to see the flames it fed, 'Mid the harvest shining plain,

Howling through the darkened sky Where the peasant heaps his grain

With myriad tongues victoriously, In the garner of his foe,

And sinks down in fear: so thou, And the milk-white oxen slow

O tyranny, beholdest now With the purple vintage strain,

Light around thee, and thou hearest Heaped upon the creaking wain,

The loud flames ascend, and fearest: That the brutal Celt may swill

Grovel on the earth: aye, hide
Drunken sleep with savage will;

In the dust thy purple pride!
And the sicle to the sword
Lies unchanged, though many a lord,

Noon descends around me now:
Like a weed whose shade is poison,

'Tis the noon of autumu's glow, Overgrows this region's foizon,

When a soft and purple mist Sheaves of whom are ripe to come

Like a vaporous amethyst, To destruction's harvest home:

Or an air-dissolved star Men must reap the things they sow,

Mingling light and fragrance, far Force from force must ever flow,

From the curved horizon's bound Or worse! but 'tis a bitter woe

To the point of heaven's profound, That love or reason cannot change

Fills the overflowing sky; The despot's rage, the slave's revenge.

And the plains that silent lie

Underneath, the leaves unsodden Padua, thou within whose walls

Where the infant frost has trodden Those mute guests at festivals,

With his morning-winged feet, Son and Mother, Death and Sin,

Whose bright print is gleaming yet; Played at dice for Ezzelin,

And the red and golden vines, Till Death cried, “I win, I win!"

Piercing with their trellised lines And Sin cursed to lose the wager,

The rough, dark-skirted wilderness; But Death promised, to assuage her,

The dun and bladed grass no less, That he would petition for

Pointing from this hoary tower Her to be made Vice-Emperor,

In the windless air; the flower When the destined years were o'er,

Glimmering at my feet; the line


I calle


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Of the olive-sandaled Apennine

And the love which heals all strife
In the south dimly islanded;

Circling, like the breath of life,
And the Alps, whose snows are spread

All things in that sweet abode
High between the clouds and sun;

With its own mild brotherhood:
And of living things each one ;

They, not it would change; and soon
And my spirit which so long

Every sprite beneath the moon
Darkened this swift stream of song,

Would repent its envy vain,
Interpenetrated lie

And the earth grow young again,
By the glory of the sky:
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odour, or the soul of all

Which from heaven like dew doth fall

The awful shadow of some unseen power
Or the mind which feeds this verse,

Floats though unseen among us; visiting
Peopling the lone universe.

This various world with as inconstant wing

As summer winds that creep from flower to lower;
Noon descends, and after noon

Like moonbeams that behind some piny mountain
Autumn's evening meets me soon,

It visits with inconstant glance (shower,
Leading the infantine moon,

Each human heart and countenance;
And that one star, which to her

Like hues and harmonies of evening,
Almost seems to minister

Like clouds in starlight widely spread,
Half the crimson light she brings

Like memory of music fled,
From the sunset's radiant springs:

Like aught that for its grace may be
And the soft dreams of the morn,

Dear, and yet dearer for its mystery.
Spirit of Beauty, that dost consecrate

With thine own hues all thou dost shine upon

Of human thought or form, where art thou gone?
Why dost thou pass away and leave our state,
This dim vast vale of tears, vacant and desolate?

Ask why the sunlight not forever

Weaves rainbows o'er yon mountain river;
Why aught should fail and fade that once is shewo;

Why fear and dream and death and birth
Cast on the daylight of this earth

Such gloom, why man has such a scope
For love and hate, despondency and hope?

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(Which like winged winds had borne To that silent isle, which lies 'Mid remembered agonies, The frail bark of this lone being.) Pass, to other sufferers fleeing, And its antient pilot, Pain, Sits beside the helm again.



As if


To F

No voice from some sublimer world hath ever

To sage or poet these responses given:

Therefore the names of Demon, Ghost, and Hed.
Remain the records of their vain endeavour: (ven,
Frail spells, whose uttered charm might not avail to
From all we hear and all we see, (sever

Doubt, chance, and mutability,
Thy light alone, like mist o'er mountains driven,

Or music by the night wind sent
Through strings of some still instrument,

Or moonlight on a midnight stream,
Gives grace and truth to life's unquiet dream.


Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony:
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulph: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folded wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell 'mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine:
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,



Love, hope, and self-esteem, like clouds, depart

And come, for some uncertain moments lent.

Man were immortal, and omnipotent,
Didst thou, unknown and awful as thou art, (heart
Keep with thy glorious train firm state within his

Thou messenger of sympathies

That wax and wane in lover's eyes ;
Thou, that to human thought art nourishment,

Like darkness to a dying flame !
Depart not as thy shadow came:

Depart not, less the grave should be,
Like life and fear, a dark reality.

While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped

Poets could but find the same Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin, With as little toil as they,

And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Would they ever change their hue Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.

As the light camelions do, I called on poisonous names with which our youth Suiting it to every ray

I was not heard : I saw them not: [is fed : Twenty times a day?

When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing

Poets are on this cold earth,
All vital things that wake to bring

As camelions might be News of birds and blossoming,

Hidden from their early birth Sudden, thy shadow fell on me:

In a cave beneath the sea; I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstacy!

Where light is camelions change,

Where love is not poets do: I vowed that I would dedicate my powers

Fame is love disguised: if few
To thee and thine: have I not kept the vow? Find either, never think it strange

With beating heart and streaming eyes, even now That poets range.
I call the phantoms of a thousand hours [bowers
Each from his voiceless grave: they have in visioned

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power
Of studious zeal or loves delight

A poet's free and heavenly mind : Outwatched with me the envious night:

If bright camelions should devour They know that never joy illumed my brow,

Any food but beams and wind, Unlinked with hope that thou wouldst free They would grow as earthly soon This world from its dark slavery,

As their brother lizards are. That thou, O awful Loveliness,

Children of a sunnier star, Wouldst give whate'er these words cannot express.

Spirits from beyond the moon,

O, refuse the boon!
The day becomes more solemn and serene

When noon is past: there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,

Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been !

Thus let thy power, which like the truth O, wild West Wind, thou breath of autumn's being,
Of nature on my passive youth

Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Descended, to my onward life supply

Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Its calm, to one who worships thee,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, And every form containing thee,

Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Whom, Spirit fair, thy spells did bind

Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
To fear himself, and love all human kind.

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse

within its


until SONNET.

Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill I met a traveller from an antique land,

(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone With living hues and odours, plain and hill: Stand in the desart. Near them, on the sand, Wild spirit which art moving every where; Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, Destroyer and preserver; hear, O hear! And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive,stamped on these lifeless things, Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's comThe hand that mocked them and the heart that fed: motion, And on the pedestal these words appear:

Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, “ My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean, Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair !"

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

On the blue surface of thine airy surge, Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

Like the bright hair uplifted from the head The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Of some Serce mænad, even from the dim verge

of the horizon to the zenith's height, AN EXHORTATION.

The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Camelions feed on light and air:

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Poets' food is love and fame:

Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, If in this wide world of care

Vaulted with all thy congregated might



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