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Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced,

And soothed by every azure breath,
That under heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own;
Now all the treetops lay asleep,

Like green waves on the sea,
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.


How calm it was! - the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;

The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
There seemed, from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,

A spirit interfused around,
A thrilling silent life,
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of

The magic circle there

Was one fair form that filled with love The lifeless atmosphere.

iv. 4 with, Rossetti.

10 white, Trelawny MS. || wide, Mrs. Shelley, 18392.


We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough, -
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light,
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,

And purer than the day,

In which the lovely forests grew,

As in the upper air,

More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighboring lawn,
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn

Out of a speckled cloud.

Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A softer day below.

Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast,
Its every leaf and lineament

With more than truth expressed;
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,

v. 13 and the, Rossetti.

Which from the mind's too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.

Though thou art ever fair and kind,

The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
Than calm in waters seen.


ARIEL to Miranda : Take
This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou,
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain.
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand,
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who
From life to life must still pursue
Your happiness,—for thus alone
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,

v. 34 The | And, Rossetti.


35 Shelley's ||- Trelawny MS., S―'s, Mrs. Shelley, 18392. 36 waters, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || water, Trelawny MS.

With a Guitar: to Jane. Trelawny MS. || 43–90 With a Guitar. Athenæum, October 20, 1832; 1-42 To A. B. with a Guitar. Fraser's, January, 1833; To a Lady with a Guitar, Mrs. Shelley, 18392. Published by Medwin, as above, 1832-33.

12 Of love that never, Fraser, 1833.

As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples he
o'er the trackless sea,
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.

When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,

Is not sadder in her cell

Than deserted Ariel.

When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity.
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun

Your course of love, and Ariel still

Has tracked your steps and served your will;

Now in humbler, happier lot,

This is all remembered not;

And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave.

From you, he only dares to crave,
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile to-day, a song to-morrow.

The artist who this idol wrought
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,

And some of Spring approaching fast,
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree —
Oh, that such our death may be!
Died in sleep, and felt no pain,
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully,
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells ;
For it had learned all harmonies
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills,
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way.
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well
The spirit that inhabits it;

61 its own, Medwin, 1832.

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