TO IANTHE

I LOVE thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake;
Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek,
Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak,
Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake
But more when o'er thy fitful slumber bending
Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart,
Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending,
All that thy passive eyes can feel impart:
More, when some feeble lineaments of her,

;

Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, As with deep love I read thy face, recur,— More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom; Dearest when most thy tender traits express The image of thy mother's loveliness.

STANZA

WRITTEN AT BRACKNELL

THY dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thy gentle words stir poison there;
Thou hast disturbed the only rest
That was the portion of despair!
Subdued to Duty's hard control,

I could have borne my wayward lot:
The chains that bind this ruined soul

Had cankered then - but crushed it not.

To Ianthe. Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887. Composed September, 1813.

Stanza. Published by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858. Composed March, 1814.

ΤΟ

ΔΑΚΡΥΣΙ ΔΙΟΙΣΩ ΠΟΤΜΟΝ 'ΑΠΟΤΜΟΝ.

Он, there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair

As star-beams among twilight trees!
Such lovely ministers to meet

Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.

With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice

Of these inexplicable things,

Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice When they did answer thee; but they Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.

And thou hast sought in starry eyes

Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth; - tame sacrifice

To a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks or lips, may answer thy demands?

Ah, wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind afford no scope

Of love, or moving thoughts to thee,
That natural scenes or human smiles

Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?

To. Shelley, 1816 || To Coleridge, note on the Early Poems, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. Published with Alastor, 1816.

Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled

Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead;

Night's ghost and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee,

But changed to a foul fiend through misery.

This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase; the mad endeavor

Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.

YET look on me

ΤΟ

take not thine eyes away,

Which feed upon the love within mine own, Which is indeed but the reflected ray

Of

Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown.
Yet speak to me

thy voice is as the tone my heart's echo, and I think I hear That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone Like one before a mirror, without care

Of aught but thine own features, imaged there; And yet I wear out life in watching thee;

A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed Art kind when I am sick, and pity me.

Το

Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

STANZAS. APRIL, 1814

AWAY! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of

even.

Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness

soon,

And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not the time is past! every voice cries, Away!

Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood;

Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay;

Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;

Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;

Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and

come,

And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head;

The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet;

Stanzas. Published with Alastor, 1816. Composed at Bracknell.

i. 2 drunk, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || drank, Shelley, 1816.

tear, Shelley, 1816 || glance, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.

But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,"

Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud-shadows of midnight possess their own

repose,

For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;

Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows ;

Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep.

Thou in the grave shalt rest—yet till the phantoms flee,

Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,

Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free

From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

TO HARRIET

THY look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life's too bitter bowl;

No grief is mine, but that alone

These choicest blessings I have known.

To Harriet. Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887. Composed May, 1814.