To lighten a strange load!"-No human ear Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, And with a soft and equal pressure pressed That cold lean hand. "Dost thou remember yet, When the curved moon, then lingering in the west, Paused in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year—sure thou dost not forget! Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Is faithful now-the story of the feast; From death and dark forgetfulness released.” 'TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings Stands up before its mother bright and mild, To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green, and flowers burst forth like starry beams: The grass in the warm sun did start and move, How many a spirit then puts on the pinions And his own steps-and over wide dominions Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than storms !—the wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past. 'TWAS at this season that Prince Athanase Passed the white Alps. Those eagle-baffling mountains The waterfalls were voiceless; for their fountains THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls In Spring, which moves the unawakened forest, That which from thee they should implore. The weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts The strong have broken:-yet where shall any seek A garment, whom thou clothest not? HER hair was brown; her sphered eyes were brown, Yet, when the spirit flashed beneath, there came III. OTHO. THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, Rests the full splendour of his sacred fame; 'Twill wrong thee not: thou wouldst, if thou couldst feel, Abjure such envious fame. Great Otho died Like thee: he sanctified his country's steel, At once the tyrant and tyrannicide, In his own blood. A deed it was to wring 1817. Tears from all men- -though full of gentle pride, Dark is the realm of grief: but human things IV. TO MARY SHELLEY. O MARY dear, that you were here! Singing love to its lone mate In the ivy bower disconsolate, sky Mary dear, come to me soon! I am not well whilst thou art far. Mary dear, that you were here! Este, September 1818. THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE. One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody. And as a vale is watered by a flood, Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Struggling with darkness-as a tuberose Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie Like clouds above the flower from which they rose The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, Was interfused upon the silentness. Heard her within their slumbers; the abyss And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, Of one serene and unapproachèd star, The heaven where it would perish), and every form That worshiped in the temple of the night, Was awed into delight, and by the charm Girt as with an interminable zone; Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion Out of their dreams. In every soul but one. Harmony became love And so this man returned with axe and saw Was each a Wood-nymph, and kept ever green Singing the winds to sleep, or weeping oft 1818. Into her mother's bosom sweet and soft,- They spread themselves into the loveliness Surrounded by the columns and the towers Odours, and gleams, and murmurs, which the lute Stirs as it sails, now grave and now acute, Wakening the leaves and waves, ere it has passed, One accent never to return again. The world is full of Woodmen who expel VI. 1818. O MIGHTY mind, in whose deep stream this age VII. SILENCE! Oh well are Death and Sleep and Thou Are swallowed up. Yet spare me, Spirit, pity me! This wandering melody until it rests .... 1818. VIII. THE fierce beasts of the woods and wildernesses |