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THAT time is dead forever, child,
We look on the past,
At the spectres wailing, pale and ghast,
The stream we gazed on then, rolled by ;
But we yet stand
Like tombs to mark the memory
Of hopes and fears, which fade and flee
THEY die the dead return not. Misery
They are the names of kindred, friend and lover, Which he so feebly calls; they all are gone Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
Lines. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Composed November 5.
ii. 6 flee fly, Rossetti.
Death. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
This most familiar scene, my pain,
Misery, my sweetest friend, oh, weep no more!
Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
I MET a traveller from an antique land
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear-
Sonnet. Ozymandias. Published by Hunt in The Examiner, January 11, 1818, with Rosalind and Helen, 1819.
LINES TO A CRITIC
HONEY from silkworms who can gather,
Hate men who cant, and men who pray,
An equal passion to repay
Or seek some slave of power and gold,
Thy love will move that bigot cold
A passion like the one I prove
I hate thy want of truth and love —
How should I then hate thee?
Lines to a Critic. Published by Hunt in The Liberal, No. III 1823.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818
SONNET: TO THE NILE
MONTH after month the gathered rains descend
On Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend; Girt there with blasts and meteors, Tempest dwells
By Nile's aërial urn, with rapid spells Urging those waters to their mighty end. O'er Egypt's land of Memory floods are level, And they are thine, O Nile!— and well thou knowest
That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evil, And fruits and poisons, spring where'er thou flowest.
Beware, O Man! for knowledge must to thee Like the great flood to Egypt ever be.
Sonnet: To the Nile. Published in The St. James's Magazine, March, 1876. Composed February 4.
5 fields of moist snow half, Hunt MS. || loosened snows no more, Hunt MS. cancelled.
PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES
LISTEN, listen, Mary mine,
To the whisper of the Apennine,
It bursts on the roof like the thunder's roar,
Heard in its raging ebb and flow
By the captives pent in the cave below.
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray,
On the dim starlight then is spread,
WILT thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yet
Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom,
That joy, once lost, is pain.
Passage of the Apennines. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Composed May 4.
The Past. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.