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Beckons the sun from the Eoan wave,
To judge with solemn truth life's ill-apportioned lot?
Of what has been, the Hope of what will be? O Liberty! if such could be thy name
Wert thou disjoined from these, or they from
If thine or theirs were treasures to be bought
Paused, and the Spirit of that mighty singing
When the bolt has pierced its brain; As summer clouds dissolve unburdened of their
As a far taper fades with fading night,
Drooped; o'er it closed the echoes far away Of the great voice which did its flight sustain,
As waves which lately paved his watery way Hiss round a drowner's head in their tempes
I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden,
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,
From her couch of snows
Shepherding her bright fountains.
Her steps paved with green
Which slopes to the western gleams ;
And gliding and springing,
To. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
Arethusa. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, and dated by her, Pisa, 1820.
In murmurs as soft as sleep;
The Earth seemed to love her, And Heaven smiled above her, As she lingered towards the deep.
Then Alpheus bold,
With his trident the mountains strook;
In the rocks with the spasm
All Erymanthus shook.
And the black south wind
The urns of the silent snow,
And earthquake and thunder
The bars of the springs below.
To the brink of the Dorian deep.
"Oh, save me! Oh, guide me,
Fled like a sunny beam;
Behind her descended
With the brackish Dorian stream.
Alpheus rushed behind,
As an eagle pursuing
Down the streams of the cloudy wind.
Under the bowers
Where the Ocean Powers
Sit on their pearled thrones ;
Weave a network of colored light;
Where the shadowy waves Are as green as the forest's night; Outspeeding the shark, And the swordfish dark, Under the ocean foam,
And up through the rifts
They passed to their Dorian home.
And now from their fountains
Down one vale where the morning basks,
They ply their watery tasks.
Beneath the Ortygian shore,
When they love but live no more.
SONG OF PROSERPINE
WHILE GATHERING FLOWERS ON THE PLAIN OF ENNA
SACRED Goddess, Mother Earth,
Thou from whose immortal bosom
If with mists of evening dew
Thou dost nourish these young flowers
Song of Proserpine, Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18391.