SONG OF PROSERPINE. WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE PLAIN OF ENNA. SACRED Goddess, Mother Earth, Thou from whose immortal bosom, If with mists of evening dew Thou dost nourish these young flowers Till they grow, in scent and hue, Fairest children of the hours, Breathe thine influence most divine On thine own child, Proserpine. Poems of Home Life. TO MARY SHELLEY. O MARY dear, that you were here Singing love to its lone mate Mary dear, come to me soon, O Mary dear, that you were here; TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. (With what truth I may say- Non è più come era prima!) My lost William, thou in whom Thou art not-if a thing divine Where art thou, my gentle child? The love of living leaves and weeds, Let me think that through low seeds 1819. TO WILLIAM SHELLEY. THY little footsteps on the sands The twinkling of thine infant hands, Thy mingled look of love and glee When we returned to gaze on thee. LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE. LEGHORN, July 1, 1820. THE spider spreads her webs, whether she be The silkworm in the dark green mulberry leaves Which in those hearts which must remember me Whoever should behold me now, I wist, Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, For round the walls are hung dread engines, such To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, Or those in philanthropic council met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and groovèd blocks, The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.-Upon the table To catalogize in this verse of mine : A pretty bowl of wood-not full of wine, |