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Or as the moonlight fills the open sky
Like clouds above the flower from which they
The singing of that happy nightingale
In this sweet forest, from the golden close
Of evening till the star of dawn may fail,
Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss
Of the circumfluous waters; every sphere
And every wind of the mute atmosphere,
And every beast stretched in its rugged cave,
Which is its cradle; ever from below
Of one serene and unapproachèd star,
Itself how low, how high beyond all height
The heaven where it would perish! - and every
That worshipped in the temple of the night
Was awed into delight, and by the charm
Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm
Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivion
And so this man returned with axe and saw
Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever green
With jagged leaves, and from the forest tops
Into their mother's bosom, sweet and soft,
They spread themselves into the loveliness
49 their her, Rossetti.
Make a green space among the silent bowers,
All overwrought with branch-like traceries
Odors and gleams and murmurs, which the lute
Wakening the leaves and waves ere it has passed
One accent never to return again.
The world is full of Woodmen who expel
THOU wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be, Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim From Brutus his own glory, and on thee
Rests the full splendor of his sacred fame;
Otho. Published, i., ii., by Mrs. Shelley, 18391, iii., by Garnett, 1862. Composed, 1817.
Nor he who dared make the foul tyrant quail
"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 bring Tears from all men though full of gentle
Such pride as from impetuous love may spring,
Dark is the realm of grief: but human things Those may not know who cannot weep for them.
MADDALO, a Courtier.
PIGNA, a Minister.
No access to the Duke! You have not said
That the Count Maddalo would speak with
ii. 5 bring, Boscombe MS. || buy, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.
Did you inform his Grace that Signor Pigna
The Lady Leonora cannot know
That I have written a sonnet to her fame,
You should not take my gold and serve me not.
In truth I told her, and she smiled and said, "If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy,
Art the Adonis whom I love, and he
The Erymanthian boar that wounded him."
Oh, trust to me, Signor Malpiglio,
Those nods and smiles were favors worth the zechin.
The words are twisted in some double sense
How are the Duke and Duchess occupied ?
Buried in some strange talk. The Duke was leaning,
His finger on his brow, his lips unclosed.