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It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before
By those who tempt it to betray
These secrets of an elder day.
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone.

TO JANE

I

THE keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane.

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them

Again.

II

As the moon's soft splendor

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So

your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

90 For our beloved Jane, Trelawny MS. || For our beloved friend, Medwin, 1832; For one beloved friend, Palgrave.

To a To Jane, Trelawny MS. || ii.-iv., An Ariette for Music. Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar. The Athenæum, November 17, 1832, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. i.-iv., To. Mrs. Shelley, 18392. Published by Medwin and Mrs. Shelley, as above.

i. 3 Dear. . . Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

ii. 4 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392, || thy Medwin, 1832.

5 had then, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || has, Medwin, 1832.

III

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later

To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter

Delight.

IV

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

EPITAPH

THESE are two friends whose lives were undivided; So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.

THE ISLE

THERE was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven ;

iii. 5 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy, Medwin, 1832.

iv. 2 your dear, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy sweet, Medwin, 1832.

Epitaph. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

3 the || their, Mrs. Shelley, 18392.

The Isle. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven ;

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.

A DIRGE

ROUGH wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for
song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,-
Wail, for the world's wrong.

LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI

SHE left me at the silent time

When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light,
Hovered in the purple night,

A Dirge. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

6 strain, Rossetti conj. || stain, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici. Macmillan's Magazine, June, 1862.

Published by Garnett,

Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I stayed alone
Thinking over every tone
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,

Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;

And feeling ever - oh, too much! -
The soft vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her
That even Fancy dares to claim:-
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone

In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot,
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The dæmon reassumed his throne

In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak

I sat and saw the vessels glide

Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
O'er some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far;
As if to some Elysian star
They sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.

37 They, Rossetti || omit, Garnett, 1862.

And the wind that winged their flight
From the land came fresh and light,
And the scent of wingèd flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace!

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