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Though many a gifted mind we meet, Each billow, as brightly or darkly it dows,
Though fairest forms we see,

Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep. To live with them is far less sweet

So closely our whims on our miseries tread, Than to remember thee, Mary!

That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be

'dried; And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup if existence would


With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise, I saw from the Beach.

Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy,

And the short brilliant folly that flashes and I saw from the beach, when the morning was

dies! shining, A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on;

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount, I came, when the sun o'er that beach was de

Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full clining,

of play, The bark was still there, but the waters were

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount, gone! And neglected his task for the flowers on the

way. Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,

Thus some who, like me, should have drawn So passing the spring-tide of joy we have

and have tasted known:

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs Their time with the flowers on the margin have

wasted, And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! alone! But pledge me the goblet while Idleness

weaves Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see The close of our day, the calm eve of our One bright drop or two, that has fall’n on the night;

leaves Give me back, give me back the wild freshness From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

of morning, Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's

best light

from us,

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's re

turning, When passion first waked a new life through

St. Jerome's Love. his frame, And his soul like the wood that grows precious

Who is the maid my spirit seeks, in burning

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?

Has she Love's roses on her cheeks? Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite

Is hers an eye of this world's light? flame!


wan and sunk with midnight prayer Are the pale looks of her I love; Or if, at times, a light be there,

Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my soul's elect, This Life is all chequer'd with

From those who seek their Maker's shrine Pleasures and Woes.

In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,

As if themselves were things divine! This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and No - heaven but faintly warms the breast


That beats beneath a broider'd veil; That chase one another, like waves of the And she who comes in glittering vest


To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

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Percy Bysshe Shelley, der älteste Sohn von Sir Thomas Shelley, Baronet von Castle-Garing, ward am 4. August 1792 zu Field-Place in Sussex geboren, studirte zu Eton und Oxford und ward von der Universität relegirt, wegen einer Schrift über die Nothwendigkeit des Atheismus, in Folge

deren ihn auch sein Vater verstiess. Er liess sich nun zu Marlow nieder und vermählte sich; der Kampf mit den Verhältnissen und eine unglückliche Ehe trieben ihn aber aus England fort. Seine Gattin starb 1817 vor Gram. Shelley ging nach Italien, kehrte darauf ihn sein Vaterland zurück, ward aber von seinen Verwandten verfolgt. Er verheirathete sich nun zum zweiten Male, nahm seinen Aufenthalt von Neuem in Italien, nicht weit von Livorno, und lebte literarischen Beschäftigungen. Eine freundlichere Zukunft lächelte ihm, da ertrank er auf einer Fahrt im Golf von Spezzia , am 8. Juli 1822. Lord Byron liess seine aufgefischte Leiche am Meergestade verbrennen und die Asche in Rom neben der Pyramide des Cestius beisetzen.

Shelley's erschienenen Werke denn Vieles, das er hinterliess, ist nicht durch den Druck veröffentlicht worden bestehen aus: The Revolt of Islam, ein episches Gedicht, the Cenci, eine Tragödie, Prometheus Unbound, ein lyrisches Drama, Queen Mab, on didactisches Gedicht (gegen dessen nochmalige Veröffentlichung er sich später erklärte), Alastor, ein didactisches Gedicht, Adonais, eine Elegie auf Keats, Hellas, ein lyrisches Drama und Poesieen gemischten Inhaltes. Ausführlicheres über sein Leben findet sich in: The Shelley Papers etc. By T. Medwin; London 1833.

Shelley besass ungemeine Kenntnisse fast in allen Fächern des menschlichen Wissens, dabei tiefen Scharfsinn und grossen Geschmack; aber das Schwanken seines Geistes und der Kampf seiner Philosophie mit der Poesie um die Oberherrschaft in den Leistungen des Dichters gestattete nicht, seinen Gedichten durch innere Ruhe die Vollendung, deren sie bedurften, zu geben. Das glühendste Gefühl für alles Edle und Grosse waltete in ihm; sein Atheismus war eigentlich nur eine Art von Pantheismus und wurde von seinen Feinden falsch verstanden und mit Unrecht verschricen; aber der Wunsch, seinen Ansichten Bahn zu brechen und ihnen den Vorrang zu verschaffen, liess ihn oft zu weit gehen und er musste der Menge unzugänglich und unverständlich werden, da er selber nicht ruhig und klar genug war. Seine Richtung ist mehr elegisch zu nennen; sein Bestreben trieb ihn aber nur zu oft speculativen Meditationen zu, in welchen er sich zu sehr verwirrte.

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, The Cloud.

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, I bring fresh showers for thirsting flowers

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, In their noon-day dreams.

And his burning plumes outspread,
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning-star shines dead When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,

As on the jag of a mountain crag,
As she dances about the sun.

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
I wield the fail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings. And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea And laugh as I pass in thunder.


Its ardours of rest and of love, I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall And their great pines groan aghast;

From the depth of heaven above, And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.

As still as a brooding dove.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits,

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder,

Whom mortals call the moon,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, By the midnight breezes strewn;
This pilot is guiding me,

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Lured by the love of the genii that move

Which only the angels hear, In the depths of the purple sea;

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, The stars peep behind her and peer; Over the lakes and the plains,

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

Where light is, chameleons change;

Where love is not, poets do:

Fame is love disguised -- if few Find either, never think it strange That poets range.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,

And the moon's with a girdle of pearl; The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and

When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

Over a torrent sea,
Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch through which I march

With hurricane, fire, and snow,
When the powers of the air are chain'd to my

chair, Is the million-colour'd bow; The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

Yet dare not stain with wealth or power

A poet's free and heavenly mind: If bright chameleons should devour

Any food but beams and wind, They would grow as earthly soon

As their brother lizards are.

Children of a sunnier star, Spirits from beyond the moon, 0, refuse the boon!

The flower that smiles to-day

To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay,

Tempts and then flies:
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

I am the daughter of earth and water,

And the nursling of the sky;
I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

I change, but I cannot die.
For after the rain, when with never a stain,

The pavilion of heaven is bare,
And the winds and sunbeams with their convex

gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from

the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. .

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An Exhortation.

Chameleons feed on light and air;

Poets' food is love and fame: If in this wide world of care

Poets could but find the same With as little toil as they,

Would they ever change their hue

As the light chameleons do,
Suiting it to every ray
Twenty times a-day?

To Night. Swiftly walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave, Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear,

Swift be thy flight!

Poets are on this cold earth,

As chameleons might be, Hidden from their early birth

In a cave beneath the sea,

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