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Thou seest on whom from thine own worshipped heaven
Thou drawest down smiles-they did not rain on thee.
Would they were parching lightnings for his sake
On whom they fell!
I loved-alas! our life is love;
But when we cease to breathe and move
I do suppose love ceases too.
I thought, but not as now I do,
Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore,
And still I love and still I think,
And if I think, my thoughts come fast,
Song. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
Sometimes I see before me flee
still watching it,
LET those who pine in pride or in revenge,
A massy tower yet overhangs the town,
Another scene ere wise Etruria knew
Its second ruin through internal strife, And tyrants through the breach of discord threw The chain which binds and kills. As death to life,
Marenghi, Rossetti || Mazenghi, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Published, vii.-xv., by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, i.-xxviii., by Rossetti, 1870. Composed, 1818.
As winter to fair flowers (though some be poison) So Monarchy succeeds to Freedom's foison.
In Pisa's church a cup of sculptured gold
Was brimming with the blood of feuds forsworn At sacrament; more holy ne'er of old
Etrurians mingled with the shades forlorn Of moon-illumined forests.
And reconciling factions wet their lips
With that dread wine, and swear to keep each
Undarkened by their country's last eclipse.
Was Florence the liberticide? that band
Of free and glorious brothers who had planted, Like a green isle 'mid Æthiopian sand,
A nation amid slaveries, disenchanted Of many impious faiths-wise, just — do they, Does Florence, gorge the sated tyrants' prey?
O foster-nurse of man's abandoned glory,
Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendor; Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story, As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender. The light-invested angel Poesy
Was drawn from the dim world to welcome thee.
And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught
was this thy crime?
Yes; and on Pisa's marble walls the twine
A beast of subtler venom now doth make
The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare,
And love and freedom blossom but to wither; And good and ill like vines entangled are,
So that their grapes may oft be plucked together.
Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then make
No record of his crime remains in story,
But if the morning bright as evening shone,
For when by sound of trumpet was declared
So much of water with him as might wet His lips, which speech divided not, he went Alone, as you may guess, to banishment.
Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast,
He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold, Month after month endured; it was a feast Whene'er he found those globes of deep-red gold
Which in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear, Suspended in their emerald atmosphere.
And in the roofless huts of vast morasses,
He housed himself. There is a point of strand
Near Vado's tower and town; and on one side The treacherous marsh divides it from the land, Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, And on the other creeps eternally, Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea.