I love tranquil solitude, As is quiet, wise, and good; Between thee and me What difference? but thou dost possess I love Love-though he has wings, But, above all other things, Thou art love and life! O come, EVENING. PONTE A MARE, PISA. THE sun is set; the swallows are asleep; There is no dew on the dry grass to-night, Nor damp within the shadow of the trees; The wind is intermitting, dry, and light; And in the inconstant motion of the breeze The dust and straws are driven up and down, And whirled about the pavement of the town. Within the surface of the fleeting river The wrinkled image of the city lay, Immovably unquiet, and for ever It trembles, but it never fades away; Go to the [ You, being changed, will find it then as now. The chasm in which the sun has sunk, is shut Which the keen evening star is shining through. LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth? Art thou not over-bold? What leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starry fold? Ha leapest thou forth as of old? Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead? How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled- "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, Like a frozen chaos uprolled, Till by the spirit of the mighty dead I feed on whom I fed. "Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth, Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, In terror, and blood, and gold, A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. Leave the millions who follow to mould The metal before it be cold, And weave into his shame, which like the dead Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled." MUTABILITY. THE flower that smiles to-day All that we wish to stay, Tempts and then flies; Virtue, how frail it is! Friendship too rare! Love, how it sells poor bliss But we, though soon they fall, Which ours we call. Whilst skies are blue and bright, Whilst eyes that change ere night Whilst yet the calm hours creep, SONNET. POLITICAL GREATNESS. NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, GINEVRA.* WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain The vows to which her lips had sworn assent And so she moved under the bridal veil, The bride-maidens who round her thronging came Envying the unenviable; and others Making the joy which should have been another's Their own by gentle sympathy; and some Sighing to think of an unhappy home; Some few admiring what can ever lure Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat; a thing But they are all dispersed-and lo! she stands * This fragment is part of a poem which Shelley intended to write, founded on a story to be found in the first volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Fiorentino." Alone within the garden now her own; Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells ;- And said "Is this thy faith?" and then as one Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood Of parents, chance, or custom, time, or change, Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech, Our love, we love not :-if the grave, which hides The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart That is another's, could dissever ours, We love not."-" "What! do not the silent hours Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed? Is not that ring"- a pledge, he would have said The golden circle from her finger took Had made her accents weaker and more weak, |