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.

He smiles

III

'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery; He speaks the cold words flow not from his

soul;

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

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

He acts like others, drains the genial bowl, Yet, yet he longs—although he fears — to die; He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly, Dull life's extremest goal.

TO DEATH

DEATH! where is thy victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul?
O Death! where is thy sting?

Not when the tides of murder roll,

When nations groan that kings may bask in

bliss,

Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this
When in his hour of pomp and power

His blow the mightiest murderer gave,
Mid Nature's cries the sacrifice

Of millions to glut the grave—

When sunk the tyrant desolation's slave, Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon thy shrine,

Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine?

To know in dissolution's void

That mortals' baubles sunk decay;

To Death, Esdaile MS. || Death Vanquished, Rossetti. Published, without title, by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858, and dated 1810.

10 murderer, Esdaile MS. || murders, Hogg, 1858.

That everything, but Love, destroyed
Must perish with its kindred clay,
Perish Ambition's crown,

Perish her sceptred sway;

From Death's pale front fades Pride's fastidious frown;

In Death's damp vault the lurid fires decay,
That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's beam a;
That all the cares subside,

Which lurk beneath the tide

Of life's unquiet stream; -
Yes! this is victory!

And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky,
To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled;
To baffle the lean passions of their prey;

To sleep within the palace of the dead! Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne His countless courtiers mock the words they say, Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown,

As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe
Which props the column of unnatural state!
You the plainings faint and low,

From misery's tortured soul that flow,
Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command
The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land!
You desolation's gory throng
Shall bear from victory along

To that mysterious strand.

LOVE'S ROSE

I

HOPES, that swell in youthful breasts,
Live not through the waste of time?
Love's rose a host of thorns invests;
Cold, ungenial is the clime,

Where its honors blow.

Youth says,

"The purple flowers are mine," Which die the while they glow.

II

Dear the boon to Fancy given,

Retracted whilst it's granted: Sweet the rose which lives in heaven, Although on earth 'tis planted,

Where its honors blow,

While by earth's slaves the leaves are riven
Which die the while they glow.

III

Age cannot Love destroy,

But perfidy can blast the flower,
Even when in most unwary hour
It blooms in Fancy's bower.

Age cannot Love destroy,

But perfidy can rend the shrine

In which its vermeil splendors shine.

Love's Rose. Rossetti || Published, without title, by Hogg,

of Shelley, 1858, dated 1810.

i. 2 not through, Esdaile MS. || they this, Hogg, 1858.

Life