On such a picture of repose.

All, all was tranquil, all was still,
Save when the music of the rill,
Or distant waterfall,

At intervals broke on the ear,

Which Echo's self was charmed to hear,
And ceased her babbling call.

With every charm the landscape glowed
Which partial Nature's hand bestowed ;
Nor could the mimic hand of art
Such beauties or such hues impart.

Light clouds in fleeting livery gay
Hung, painted in grotesque array,
Upon the western sky;
Forgetful of the approaching dawn,
The peasants danced upon the lawn,
For the vintage time was nigh.
How jocund to the tabor's sound

O'er the smooth, trembling turf they bound,
In every measure light and free,

The very soul of harmony!
Grace in each attitude, they move,
They thrill to amorous ecstasy,

Light as the dewdrops of the morn,
That hang upon the blossomed thorn,
Subdued by the power of resistless Love.
Ah! days of innocence, of joy,
Of rapture that knows no alloy,
Haste on, ye roseate hours,

Free from the world's tumultuous cares,
From pale distrust, from hopes and fears,
Baneful concomitants of time,

'Tis yours, beneath this favored clime,

Your pathway strewn with flowers,

20 where

21 Or a

23 pleased

36 The smooth turf trembling as they

So that from faith no succor she may borrow,

But, guided by my spirit blind
And in a magic snare entwined,

She may now seek Cyprian.
Begin, while I in silence bind

My voice, when thy sweet song thou hast began.

A VOICE (within)

What is the glory far above

All else in human life?

ALL

Love! love!

[While these words are sung, the DEMON goes out at one door, and JUSTINA enters at another.

THE FIRST VOICE

There is no form in which the fire

Of love its traces has impressed not. Man lives far more in love's desire

Than by life's breath, soon possessed not.

If all that lives must love or die,
All shapes on earth, or sea, or sky,
With one consent to Heaven cry
That the glory far above

Thou melancholy thought which art
So flattering and so sweet, to thee

36 flattering, Boscombe MS. || fluttering, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

MAGICO PRODIGIOSO

When did I give the liberty
Thus to afflict my heart?

What is the cause of this new power
Which doth my fevered being move,
Momently raging more and more?
What subtle pain is kindled now
Which from my heart doth overflow
Into my senses?

231

ALL

Love, O, love!

JUSTINA

'Tis that enamoured nightingale
Who gives me the reply ;
He ever tells the same soft tale
Of passion and of constancy
To his mate, who, rapt and fond,
Listening sits, a bough beyond.

Be silent, Nightingale — no more
Make me think, in hearing thee
Thus tenderly thy love deplore,

If a bird can feel his so,
What a man would feel for me.
And, voluptuous Vine, O thou
Who seekest most when least pursuing, –
To the trunk thou interlacest
Art the verdure which embracest,
And the weight which is its ruin, -
No more, with green embraces, Vine,
Make me think on what thou lovest,
For whilst thus thy boughs entwine,
63 whilst thus, Rossetti || whilst thou thus, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

....

Upborne on pleasure's downy wing,

To quaff a long unfading spring,

And beat with light and careless step the ground;
The fairest flowers too soon grow sere,
Too soon shall tempests blast the year,
And sin's eternal winter reign around.

But see, what forms are those,
Scarce seen by glimpse of dim twilight,
Wandering o'er the mountain's height?
They swiftly haste to the vale below.
One wraps his mantle around his brow,
As if to hide his woes;

And as his steed impetuous flies,

What strange fire flashes from his eyes!

The far off city's murmuring sound

Was borne on the breeze which floated around;

Noble Padua's lofty spire

Scarce glowed with the sunbeam's latest fire,

Yet dashed the travellers on ;

Ere night o'er the earth was spread,

Full many a mile they must have sped,
Ere their destined course was run.
Welcome was the moonbeam's ray,
Which slept upon the towers so gray.
But, hark! a convent's vesper bell -
It seemed to be a very spell!

The stranger checked his courser's rein,
And listened to the mournful sound;
Listened - and paused

A thrill of pity and of pain

and paused again;

Through his inmost soul had passed,

While gushed the tear-drops silently and fast.

A crowd was at the convent gate,

The gate was opened wide ;
No longer on his steed he sate,
But mingled with the tide.

He felt a solemn awe and dread,

As he the chapel entered;

Dim was the light from the pale moon beaming,
As it fell on the saint-cyphered panes,

Or, from the western window streaming,
Tinged the pillars with varied stains.

To the eye of enthusiasm strange forms were gliding
In each dusky recess of the aisle ;

And indefined shades in succession were striding
O'er the coignes 1 of the gothic pile.

The pillars to the vaulted roof

In airy lightness rose ;

Now they mount to the rich Gothic ceiling aloof,

And exquisite tracery disclose.

The altar illumined now darts its bright rays,

The train passed in-brilliant array ;

On the shrine Saint Pietro's rich ornaments blaze,
And rival the brilliance of day.

Hark! - now the loud organ swells full on the ear

So sweetly mellow, chaste, and clear;

Melting, kindling, raising, firing,
Delighting now, and now inspiring,

Peal upon peal the music floats;

Now they list still as death to the dying notes;

Whilst the soft voices of the choir,

Exalt the soul from base desire,

Till it mounts on unearthly pinions free,

Dissolved in heavenly ecstasy.

Now a dead stillness reigned around,
Uninterrupted by a sound;

Save when in deadened response ran
The last faint echoes down the aisle,
Reverberated through the pile,
As within the pale the holy man,
With voice devout and saintly look,

Slow chanted from the sacred book,

1 Buttress or coign of vantage. Macbeth.
97 pillared pile