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?
How is not his death-knel! 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 fled-
What, Mother, do you 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.

GINEVRA..

WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one
Who staggers forth into the air and sun
From the dark chamber of a mortal fever,
Bewildered, and incapable, and ever
Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain
Of usual shapes, till the familiar train
Of objects and of persons passed like things
Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings,
Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;

The vows to which her lips had sworn assent
Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,
Deafening the lost intelligence within.

And so she moved under the bridal veil,
Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale,
And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth,
And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,-
And of the gold and jewels glittering there
She scarce felt conscious, but the weary glare
Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light,
Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight.
A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud
Was less heavenly fair-her face was bowed,
And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair
Were mirrored in the polished marble stair
Which led from the cathedral to the street ;
And even as she went her light fair feet
Erased these images.

The bride-maidens who round her thronging came,
Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame,
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
Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.

But they are all dispersed-and lo! she stands
Looking in idle grief on her white hands,
Alone within the garden now her own;
And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,
The music of the merry marriage-bells,
Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;-
Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams
That he is dreaming, until slumber seems
A mockery of itself-when suddenly
Antonio stood before her, pale as she.
With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,
He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,
And said "Is this thy faith?" and then as one
Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun
With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise
And look upon his day of life with eyes
Which weep in vain that they can dream no more,
Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore

To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood
Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued
Said-Friend, if earthly violence or ill,
Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannie will

*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."

A LAMENT.

SWIFTER far than summer's flight,
Swifter far than youth's delight,
Swifter far than happy night,

Art thou come and gone :
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow Summer comes again,
The owlet Night resumes her reign,
But the wild swan Youth is fain

To fly with thee, false as thou.
My heart each day desires the morrow,
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow,
Vainly would my winter borrow

Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed,
Roses for a matron's head,
Violets for a maiden dead,

Pansies let my flowers be:
On the living grave I bear,
Scatter them without a tear,
Let no friend, however dear,

Waste one hope, one fear for me.

THE BOAT,

ON THE SERCHIO.

OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream,
Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,
The helm sways idly, hither and thither;
Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast,
And the oars and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast,
Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.

The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,
And the thin white moon lay withering there,
To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,
The owl and the bat fled drowsily.
Day had kindled the dewy woods

And the rocks above and the stream below,
And the vapours in their multitudes,
And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow,
And clothed with light of aery gold
The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.

Day had awakened all things that be,
The lark and the thrush and the swallow free;

And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,

And the matin-bell and the mountain bee:
Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn,
Glow-worms went out on the river's brim,
Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:
The beetle forgot to wind his horn,

The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:
Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun,
Night's dreams and terrors, every one,
Fled from the brains which are their prey,
From the lamp's death to the morning ray.

List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair;
How it scatters Dominic's long black hair!
Singing of us, and our lazy motions,
If I can guess a boat's emotions."_

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,
The living breath is fresh behind,
As, with dews and sunrise fed,
Comes the laughing morning wind ;-
The sails are full, the boat makes head
Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave,

Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come,—
Swift as fire, tempestuously

It sweeps into the affrighted sea;
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine: Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean.

A FRAGMENT.

THEY were two cousins, almost like two twins,
Except that from the catalogue of sins
Nature had razed their love—which could not be
But by dissevering their nativity.

And so they grew together, like two flowers
Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers
Lull or awaken in their purple prime,

Which the same hand will gather-the same clime
Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see
All those who love, and who e'er loved like thee,
Fiordispina? Scarcely Cosimo,

Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow
The ardours of a vision which obscure

The very idol of its portraiture;

He faints, dissolved into a sense of love;

But thou art as a planet sphered above,

But thou art Love itself-ruling the motion

Of his subjected spirit: such emotion

Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May

Had not brought forth this morn-your weddingday.

ΤΟ

ONE word is too often profaned
For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And Pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar

From the sphere of our sorrow?

GOOD-NIGHT.

GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood,
That it will be good night.

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR.

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Has led me who knows how?
To thy chamber window, sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!

I die, I faint, I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast,
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last.

MUSIC.

I PANT for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine.
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain,
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound, More, O more!-I am thirsting yet,

It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart, to stifle it;

The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

As the scent of a violet withered up,

Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, And mist there was none its thirst to slake And the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue

As one who drinks from a charmed cup

Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, Invites to love with her kiss divine.