II

Musa non vultu genus arroganti
Rusticâ natum grege despicata ;
Et suum tristis puerum notavit
Sollicitudo.

III

Indoles illi bene larga; pectus
Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit ;
Et pari tantis meritis beavit
Munere cœlum.

IV

Omne quod moestis habuit miserto Corde largivit, lacrymam; recepit Omne quod cœlo voluit, fidelis Pectus amici.

V

Longius sed tu fuge curiosus Cæteras laudes fuge suspicari ; Cæteras culpas fuge velle tractas Sede tremendâ.

VI

Spe tremescentes recubant in illâ Sede virtutes pariterque culpæ, In sui Patris gremio, tremendâ Sede Deique.

IN HOROLOGIUM

INTER marmoreas Leonora pendula colles
Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas.

Quas manibus premit illa duas insensa papillas
Cur mihi sit digito tangere, amata, nefas?

A DIALOGUE

DEATH

FOR my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,
I come, careworn tenant of life, from the grave,
Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod,
And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny's nod;
I offer a calm habitation to thee,

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
My mansion is damp, cold silence is there,
But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair;
Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,
Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of
Death.

I offer a calm habitation to thee,

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL

Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose;
It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes;

In Horologium. Published by Medwin, Life of Shelley, 1847, dated 1809.

A Dialogue, Esdaile MS. || Death: a Dialogue, Rossetti. Published, without title, by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858, dated 1809.

It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,
Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,
Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,
And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their
prey.
Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o'er,
What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered shore?

DEATH

Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil The shadows that float o'er Eternity's vale;

Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love That will hail their blessed advent to regions above. For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of

my sway,

And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray. Hast thou loved? Then depart from these regions of hate,

And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate. I offer a calm habitation to thee,

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL

Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the ray
Which after thy night introduces the day;
How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest's
breath,

Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of
Death!

I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all,

Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall,
And duty forbids, though I languish to die,
When departure might heave Virtue's breast with
a sigh.

22 o'er, Esdaile MS. || on, Hogg, 1858.

Oh, Death! oh, my friend! snatch this form to thy

shrine,

And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine.

TO THE MOONBEAM

I

MOONBEAM, leave the shadowy vale,
To bathe this burning brow.
Moonbeam, why art thou so pale,
As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale,
Where humble wild flowers grow?
Is it to mimic me?

But that can never be;
For thine orb is bright,

And the clouds are light,

That at intervals shadow the star-studded night.

II

Now all is deathy still on earth;
Nature's tired frame reposes;

And, ere the golden morning's birth

Its radiant hues discloses,

Flies forth its balmy breath.

But mine is the midnight of Death,

And Nature's morn

To my bosom forlorn

Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn.

III

Wretch Suppress the glare of madness
Struggling in thine haggard eye,

To the Moonbeam. Published by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858, and dated 1809.

For the keenest throb of sadness,

Pale Despair's most sickening sigh,
Is but to mimic me;

And this must ever be,

When the twilight of care,

And the night of despair,

Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there.

THE SOLITARY

I

DAR'ST thou amid the varied multitude

To live alone, an isolated thing?

To see the busy beings round thee spring,
And care for none; in thy calm solitude,
A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude
To Zephyr's passing wing?

II

Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,
Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother's hate,
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate
As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love.
He bears a load which nothing can remove,
A killing, withering weight.

III

He smiles 'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery;
He speaks

soul:

the cold words flow not from his

iii. 9 rankle, Esdaile MS. || wake, Hogg, 1858.

The Solitary. Published by Rossetti, 1870, and dated 1810.