As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,

Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has tracked your steps and served your will;
Now in humbler, happier lot,

This is all remembered not;

And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave.

From you, he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,

And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree

Oh, that such our death may

be!

Died in sleep, and felt no pain,

To live in happier form again:

From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,

The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learned all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;

61 its own, Medwin, 1832.

It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.

TO JANE

I

THE keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear Jane.

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till

Again.

II

As the moon's soft splendor

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

90 For our beloved Jane, Trelawny MS. || For our belovèd friend, Medwin, 1832; For one beloved friend, Palgrave.

To Jane, Trelawny MS. || ii.-iv., An Ariette for Music. To a Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar. The Athenæum, November 17, 1832, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. i.-iv., To—. Mrs. Shelley, 18392. Published by Medwin and Mrs. Shelley, as above. i. 3 Dear... Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

ii. 4 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392, || thy Medwin, 1832.

5 had then, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || has, Medwin, 1832.

III

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later
To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

IV

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

EPITAPH

THESE are two friends whose lives were undivided; So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.

THE ISLE

THERE was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven;

iii. 5 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy, Medwin, 1832.

iv. 2 your dear, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy sweet, Medwin, 1832. Epitaph. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

3 the || their, Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

The Isle. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,

Each a gem engraven ;

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.

A DIRGE

ROUGH wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for

song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long;

Sad storm, whose tears are vain,

Bare woods whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main, -

Wail, for the world's wrong.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI

SHE left me at the silent time

When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,

And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,

A Dirge. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

6 strain, Rossetti conj. || stain, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici. Macmillan's Magazine, June, 1862.

Published by Garnett,