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Murmuring, Where is Doria? Fair Milan,
The viper's palsying venom, lifts her heel
Florence! beneath the sun,
Of cities fairest one,
Blushes within her bower for Freedom's expec
From eyes of quenchless hope
Rome tears the priestly cope,
As ruling once by power, so now by admiration, -
For the high prize lost on Philippi's shore :
EPODE I B
Hear ye the march as of the Earth-born Forms
Inwrought with emblems of barbaric pride?
The serene Heaven which wraps our Eden wide With iron light is dyed,
The Anarchs of the North lead forth their legions
Like Chaos o'er creation, uncreating;
An hundred tribes nourished on strange religions And lawless slaveries, down the aërial regions Of the white Alps, desolating,
Famished wolves that bide no waiting, Blotting the glowing footsteps of old glory, Trampling our columned cities into dust, Their dull and savage lust
On Beauty's corse to sickness satiating They come! The fields they tread look black and hoary
With fire from their red feet the streams run
EPODE II в
Great Spirit, deepest Love!
All things which live and are, within the Italian
Who spreadest heaven around it,
Whose woods, rocks, waves, surround it;
Who sittest in thy star, o'er Ocean's western floor;
The sunbeams and the showers distil its foison
Oh, bid those beams be each a blinding brand
Of lightning! bid those showers be dews of poison!
Bid the Earth's plenty kill!
Bid thy bright Heaven above,
Whilst light and darkness bound it,
To make it ours and thine!
Or with thine harmonizing ardors fill
And raise thy sons, as o'er the prone horizon
Then clouds from sunbeams, antelopes from leopards,
And frowns and fears from Thee,
Would not more swiftly flee,
Than Celtic wolves from the Ausonian shep
Whatever, Spirit, from thy starry shrine
THE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are
And the year
On the earth, her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Come, Months, come away,
In your saddest array ;
Of the dead cold year,
Autumn. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play
Of the dead cold year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.
DEATH is here, and death is there,
All around, within, beneath,
Above, is death- and we are death.
Death has set his mark and seal
First our pleasures die—and then
Death. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
These are dead, the debt is due,
All things that we love and cherish,
Love itself would, did they not.
THE fiery mountains answer each other,
Their thunderings are echoed from zone to zone;
From a single cloud the lightning flashes,
But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare, And swifter thy step than the earthquake's tramp; Thou deafenest the rage of the ocean; thy stare Makes blind the volcanoes; the sun's bright lamp To thine is a fen-fire damp.
Liberty. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.