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Hopes that not vainly thou, and living fires
Earth's pride and meanness could not vanquish thee,
And therefore art thou worthy of the boon
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
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.
The mighty globes that rolled
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,
Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame;
Had left within his soul their dark unrest;
For none than he a purer heart could have,
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;
In others' joy, when all their own is dead.
That from such toil he never found relief.
His soul had wedded wisdom, and her dower
Pitying the tumult of their dark estate.
Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
But, like a steward in honest dealings tried
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,
all loved him well
And mortal hate their thousand voices
If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;
To those, or them, or any whom life's sphere
He knew not. Though his life, day after day,
Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam
Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods; And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour,
Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,