(We see it o'er the flood of cloud, Which sunrise from its eastern caves Drives, wrinkling into golden waves, Hung with its precipices proud –
From that gray stone where first we met) There now who knows the dead feel nought? Should be my grave; for he who yet
Is my soul's soul once said: ""Twere sweet 'Mid stars and lightnings to abide,
And winds, and lulling snows that beat With their soft flakes the mountain wide, Where weary meteor lamps repose,
And languid storms their pinions close, And all things strong and bright and pure, And ever during, aye endure.
Who knows, if one were buried there, But these things might our spirits make, Amid the all-surrounding air,
Their own eternity partake?"
Then 'twas a wild and playful saying
At which I laughed or seemed to laugh.
They were his words now heed my praying, And let them be my epitaph.
Thy memory for a term may be
My monument. Wilt remember me? I know thou wilt; and canst forgive, Whilst in this erring world to live My soul disdained not, that I thought Its lying forms were worthy aught, And much less thee.
Oh, speak not so!
But come to me and pour thy woe
551 Where When, Shelley, 1819.
Into this heart, full though it be, Aye overflowing with its own.
I thought that grief had severed me From all beside who weep and groan, Its likeness upon earth to be
Its express image; but thou art
More wretched. Sweet, we will not part Henceforth, if death be not division; If so, the dead feel no contrition. But wilt thou hear, since last we parted, All that has left me broken-hearted?
Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn Which sinks again in darkness, like the light Of early love, soon lost in total night.
Alas! Italian winds are mild,
But my bosom is cold wintry cold;
When the warm air weaves, among the fresh
Soft music, my poor brain is wild,
And I am weak like a nursling child,
Though my soul with grief is gray and old.
Weep not at thine own words, though they must
Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well Rememberest when we met no more; And, though I dwelt with Lionel, That friendless caution pierced me sore With grief; a wound my spirit bore Indignantly but when he died,
With him lay dead both hope and pride.
Alas! all hope is buried now.
But then men dreamed the aged earth Was laboring in that mighty birth Which many a poet and a sage Has aye foreseen the happy age When truth and love shall dwell below Among the works and ways of men ; Which on this world not power but will Even now is wanting to fulfil.
Among mankind what thence befell
Of strife, how vain, is known too well; When Liberty's dear pæan fell
'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel,
Though of great wealth and lineage high, Yet through those dungeon walls there came Thy thrilling light, O Liberty!
And as the meteor's midnight flame Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth Flashed on his visionary youth,
And filled him, not with love, but faith, And hope, and courage mute in death;
For love and life in him were twins,
In every other First life, then love, its course begins,
Though they be children of one mother; And so through this dark world they fleet Divided, till in death they meet;
But he loved all things ever. Then
He passed amid the strife of men,
And stood at the throne of armed power
Pleading for a world of woe.
Secure as one on a rock-built tower
O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro, 'Mid the passions wild of humankind He stood, like a spirit calming them; For, it was said, his words could bind Like music the lulled crowd, and stem That torrent of unquiet dream Which mortals truth and reason deem, But is revenge and fear and pride. Joyous he was; and hope and peace On all who heard him did abide, Raining like dew from his sweet talk, As where the evening star may walk Along the brink of the gloomy seas, Liquid mists of splendor quiver. His very gestures touched to tears The unpersuaded tyrant, never So moved before; his presence stung The torturers with their victim's pain, And none knew how; and through their ears The subtle witchcraft of his tongue
Unlocked the hearts of those who keep
650 With their victim's pain the torturers, Fleay conj., Rossetti.
Gold, the world's bond of slavery.
Men wondered, and some sneered to see One sow what he could never reap;
For he is rich, they said, and young,
And might drink from the depths of luxury. If he seeks fame, fame never crowned The champion of a trampled creed ; If he seeks power, power is enthroned 'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil Those who would sit near power must toil; And such, there sitting, all may see. What seeks he? All that others seek He casts away, like a vile weed Which the sea casts unreturningly.
That poor and hungry men should break The laws which wreak them toil and scorn We understand; but Lionel,
We know, is rich and nobly born. So wondered they; yet all men loved Young Lionel, though few approved ; All but the priests, whose hatred fell Like the unseen blight of a smiling day, The withering honey-dew which clings Under the bright green buds of May Whilst they unfold their emerald wings; For he made verses wild and queer On the strange creeds priests hold so dear Because they bring them land and gold. Of devils and saints and all such gear He made tales which whoso heard or read Would laugh till he were almost dead. So this grew a proverb: "Don't get old
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