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Hopes that not vainly thou, and living fires
Of mind, as radiant and as pure as thou
Have shone upon the paths of men
Surpassing Spirit, to that world, where thou
Art destined an eternal war to wage
With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot
The germs of misery from the human heart.
Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe
The thorny pillow of unhappy crime,
Whose impotence an easy pardon gains,
Watching its wanderings as a friend's disease;
Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy
Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will,
When fenced by power and master of the world.
Thou art sincere and good; of resolute mind,
Free from heart-withering custom's cold control,
Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued.

Earth's pride and meanness could not vanquish thee,

And therefore art thou worthy of the boon
Which thou hast now received; virtue shall keep
Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod,
And many days of beaming hope shall bless
Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love.
Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy

Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
Light, life and rapture from thy smile.

The Dæmon called its wingèd ministers. Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car, That rolled beside the crystal battlement, Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness.

305 ministers || messengers, MS. cancelled.

The burning wheels inflame

The steep descent of Heaven's untrodden way.
Fast and far the chariot flew.

The mighty globes that rolled
Around the gate of the Eternal Fane
Lessened by slow degrees, and soon appeared
Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs,

That, ministering on the solar power,

With borrowed light, pursued their narrower way.

Earth floated then below.

The chariot paused a moment; The Spirit then descended; And from the earth departing The shadows with swift wings Speeded like thought upon the light of Heaven.

The Body and the Soul united then ; A gentle start convulsed Ianthe's frame; Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained. She looked around in wonder and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love, And the bright beaming stars

That through the casement shone.



THERE was a youth, who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and gray before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel

Which burned within him, withering up his prime And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. Not his the load of any secret crime,

For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same ;
Not his the thirst for glory or command,

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame;
Nor evil joys, which fire the vulgar breast
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame,

Had left within his soul their dark unrest;
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he,-Philosophy's accepted guest.

For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone;
Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave.

Prince Athanase. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Composed,

What sorrow strange, and shadowy, and unknown, Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through man


If with a human sadness he did groan,

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed;
And such a glorious consolation find

In others' joy, when all their own is dead.
He loved, and labored for his kind in grief,
And yet, unlike all others, it is said,

That from such toil he never found relief.
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief,

His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate.
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse
The strength of wealth or thought to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

But, like a steward in honest dealings tried
With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise,
His riches and his cares he did divide.

19 strange, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || deep, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise;

What he dared do or think, though men might


He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes;

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,
And to his friends
Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart,

all loved him well

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And mortal hate their thousand voices
They passed like aimless arrows from his ear;
Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;
If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes
He neither spurned nor hated, though with fell

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To those, or them, or any whom life's sphere
May comprehend within its wide array.
What sadness made that vernal spirit sere? -

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He knew not. Though his life, day after day,
Was failing like an unreplenished stream,
Though in his eyes a cloud and burden lay,

Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam
Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds,
Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods; And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour,

Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

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