And the fierce winds are sinking with weary

wings, Lulled by the motion and murmurings And the long glassy heave of the rocking sea, And overhead glorious, but dreadful to see, The wrecks of the tempest, like vapors of gold, Are consuming in sunrise. The heaped waves

behold The deep calm of blue heaven dilating above, And, like passions made still by the presence of

Love, Beneath the clear surface reflecting it slide Tremulous with soft influence; extending its tide From the Andes to Atlas, round mountain and

isle, Round sea-birds and wrecks, paved with heaven's

azure smile, The wide world of waters is vibrating. Where Is the ship? On the verge of the wave where it

lay One tiger is mingled in ghastly affray With a sea-snake. The foam and the smoke of

the battle Stain the clear air with sunbows. The jar, and

the rattle Of solid bones crushed by the infinite stress Of the snake's adamantine voluminousness; And the hum of the hot blood that spouts and

rains Where the gripe of the tiger has wounded the

veins, Swollen with rage, strength, and effort; the whirl

and the splash

As of some hideous engine whose brazen teeth

smash The thin winds and soft waves into thunder; the

screams

And hissings, crawl fast o'er the smooth ocean

streams, Each sound like a centipede. Near this commo

tion A blue shark is hanging within the blue ocean, The fin-winged tomb of the victor. The other Is winning his way from the fate of his brother, To his own with the speed of despair. Lo! a boat Advances; twelve rowers with the impulse of

thought Urge on the keen keel, — the brine foams. At the

stern Three marksmen stand levelling. Hot bullets

burn In the breast of the tiger, which yet bears him on To his refuge and ruin. One fragment alone 'Tis dwindling and sinking, 'tis now almost gone Of the wreck of the vessel peers out of the sea. With her left hand she grasps it impetuously, With her right hand she sustains her fair infant.

Death, Fear, Love, Beauty, are mixed in the atmosphere, Which trembles and burns with the fervor of dread Around her wild eyes, her bright hand, and her

head, Like a meteor of light o'er the waters ! her child Is yet smiling, and playing, and murmuring ; so

smiled 160 impetuously, Shelley, 1820 || convulsively, Harvard MS.

The false deep ere the storm. Like a sister and

brother The child and the ocean still smile on each other, Whilst

THE CLOUD

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,

From the seas and the streams;
I bear light shade for the leaves when laid

In their noonday dreams.
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken

The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.
I wield the flail of the lashing hail,

And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers,

Lightning my pilot sits;
In a cavern under is fettered the thunder,

It struggles and howls at fits;
Over earth and ocean with gentle motion,

This pilot is guiding me,
The Cloud. Published with Prometheus Unbound.
6 buds, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || birds, Shelley, 1820.

Lured by the love of the genii that move

In the depths of the purple sea ;
Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,

Over the lakes and the plains,
Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,

The Spirit he loves remains ; And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning star shines dead ; As 'on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may

sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea be

neath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,

As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,

Whom mortals call the Moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,

By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

Which only the angels hear,
May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

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.

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

swim,
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 chained to my

chair,

Is the million-colored bow ;
The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

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,