XIX For it was filled with sculptures rarest, Of winged shapes, whose legions range XX And as she looked, still lovelier grew Of his own mind did there endure, After the touch, whose power had braided She looked, XXI the flames were dim, the flood Grew tranquil as a woodland river Winding through hills in solitude; Those marble shapes then seemed to quiver, And their fair limbs to float in motion, Like weeds unfolding in the ocean; XXII And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, The statues gave a joyous scream, Lifted the Lady from the stream. XXIII The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the dream did creep; TO CONSTANTIA SINGING I THUS to be lost and thus to sink and die, Perchance were death indeed! - Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odor it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget! II A breathless awe, like the swift change To Constantia. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. of heaven seems rent and cloven The cope By the enchantment of thy strain ; And on my shoulders wings are woven To follow its sublime career Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of Nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are passed and disappear. III Her voice is hovering o'er my soul—it lingers My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, IV I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Whilst, like the world-surrounding air, thy song Flows on, and fills all things with melody. Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, On which, like one in trance upborne, Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR I THY country's curse is on thee, darkest crest II Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice sold, Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks overthrown, And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruction's throne. III And, whilst that sure slow Angel, which aye stands Watching the beck of Mutability, Delays to execute her high commands, And, though a nation weeps, spares thine and thee, IV Oh, let a father's curse be on thy soul, And let a daughter's hope be on thy tomb; To the Lord Chancellor. Published without title by Mrs. Shelley, v.-ix. and xiv., 18391, and with title, i.-xvi., 18392. The authorities enumerated below support the text except in cases noted. iii. 1 sure slow, Harvard MS., Mrs. Shelley, transcripts (Forman, Frederickson1) || slow sure, Mrs. Shelley, transcripts (Forman, Frederickson2), 18392. iii. 1 Angel, which aye || cancelled, by Shelley, for Fate which ever, Frederickson1. Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden cowl To weigh thee down to thine approaching doom! V I curse thee! By a parent's outraged love, VI By those infantine smiles of happy light, Which were a fire within a stranger's hearth, Quenched even when kindled, — in untimely night, Hiding the promise of a lovely birth ; VII By those unpractised accents of young speech, To gentlest lore, such as the wisest teach - VIII By all the happy see in children's growth, That undeveloped flower of budding years — Sweetness and sadness interwoven both, Source of the sweetest hopes and saddest fears iv. 3 Be || And, Mrs. Shelley, transcript (Forman) 18392. 4 thine | thy, Mrs. Shelley, transcript (Forman). vi. 4 promises of lovely, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. vii. 3 lore || love, Mrs. Shelley, transcripts (Frederickson1,2). viii. 3 intermingled, Mrs. Shelley, transcript (Frederickson2). 4 the saddest, Mrs. Shelley, transcript (Frederickson1). |