PERCY B. SHELLEY. 1792-1822.

How wonderful is Death!

Death and his brother Sleep.

Queen Mab. i.

Power, like a desolating pestilence,

Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,

Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.

Heaven's ebon vault,

Studded with stars unutterably bright,

Ibid. iii.

Thro' which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,

Seems like a canopy which love has spread

To curtain her sleeping world.

Ibid. iv.

Then black despair,

The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.

The Revolt of Islam. Dedication. St. vi.

With hue like that when some great painter dips His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and Ibid. Canto v. St. xxiii.

eclipse.

1 Compare Bacon, Essay xx. Empire, ante, p. 142.

Given or returned.

All love is sweet,

Common as light is love,

And its familiar voice wearies not ever.

They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier still.1

Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5.

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

The work of their own hearts, and that must be

Our chastisement or recompense.

Julian and Maddalo.

Most wretched men

Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.'

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

Ibid.

Stanzas, written in Dejection, near Naples. That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon. The Cloud. iv. A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.

Adonais. xxxii.

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of eternity. Ibid. liii.

I See Rochefoucauld, ante, p. 223.

2 And poets by their sufferings grow,

As if there were no more to do,

To make a poet excellent,

But only want and discontent.

Butler's Fragments.

540

Shelley.-Davies. — Barrett.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;

Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Poems written in 1821. To —.

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!
Poems written in 1821. To -

SCROPE DAVIES.

Babylon in all its desolation is a sight not so awful as that of the human mind in ruins. Letter to Thomas Raikes, May 25, 1835.

EATON S. BARRETT. 1785-1820.

Not she with trait'rous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave,
Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

Woman. Part i. Ed. 1822.1

1 Not she with trait'rous kiss her Master stung,
Not she denied him with unfaithful tongue;
She, when apostles fled, could danger brave,
Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

From the original edition of 1810.

MISS FANNY STEERS.

The last link is broken

That bound me to thee,

And the words thou hast spoken

Have rendered me free.

Song.

JOSEPH RODMAN DRAKE. 1795-1820.

When Freedom from her mountain height

Unfurled her standard to the air,

She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white,
With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given;

Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,

And all thy hues were born in heaven. Forever float that standard sheet!

Where breathes the foe but falls before us, With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,

And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

The American Flag.

FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794-1835.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the North-wind's breath, And stars to set ; — but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! The Hour of Death.

Alas! for love, if thou art all,

And naught beyond, O Earth!

The Graves of a Household.

Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.

The breaking waves dash'd high

The Palm Tree.

On a stern and rock-bound coast;

And the woods, against a stormy sky,

Their giant branches toss'd.

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England.

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod,

They have left unstain'd what there they found,—

Freedom to worship God.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;

The flame that lit the battle's wreck

Shone round him o'er the dead.

Ibid.

Casabianca.