XXIV
His food was the wild fig and strawberry;

The milky pine-nuts which the autumnal blast Shakes into the tall grass; and such small fry

As from the sea by winter-storms are cast; And the coarse bulbs of iris flowers he found Knotted in clumps under the spongy ground.

XXV

And so were kindled powers and thoughts which

made His solitude less dark. When memory came (For years gone by leave each a deepening shade),

His spirit basked in its internal flame, – As, when the black storm hurries round at night The fisher basks beside his red firelight.

XXVI Yet human hopes and cares and faiths and errors,

Like billows unawakened by the wind, Slept in Marenghi still; but that all terrors,

Weakness, and doubt, had withered in his mind. His couch

XXVII
And, when he saw beneath the sunset's planet

A black ship walk over the crimson ocean, Its pennons streaming on the blasts that fan it,

Its sails and ropes all tense and without motion, Like the dark ghost of the unburied even Striding across the orange-colored heaven,

XXVIII

The thought of his own kind who made the

soul Which sped that winged shape through night

and day, The thought of his own country

LINES WRITTEN FOR JULIAN AND MAD

DALO

WHAT think

you
the dead are ?

Why, dust and clay, What should they be ?

'Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is
Vaulted with radiant vapors ! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought,
Till it dies

and between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful ! but when our ...

Perhaps the only comfort which remains
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,

, The which I make, and call it melody.

Lines written for Julian and Maddalo. Published by Garnett, LINES WRITTEN FOR PROMETHEUS UN.

BOUND

As a violet's gentle eye

Gazes on the azure sky,
Until its hue grows like what it beholds;

As a gray and empty mist

Lies like solid amethyst
Over the western mountain it enfolds,

When the sunset sleeps

Upon its snow;
As a strain of sweetest sound

Wraps itself the wind around,
Until the voiceless wind be music too;

As aught dark, vain and dull,
Basking in what is beautiful,

Is full of light and love.

LINES WRITTEN FOR MONT BLANC

THERE is a voice, not understood by all,
Sent from these desert-caves. It is the roar
Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams call,
Plunging into the vale - it is the blast
Descending on the pines -- the torrents pour.

Lines written for Prometheus Unbound. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 18391

Lines written for Mont Blanc. Published by Garnett, 1862.

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE INDIAN

SERENADE

O PILLOW cold and wet with tears !
Thou breathest sleep no more!

LINES WRITTEN FOR THE ODE TO LIBERTY

WITHIN a cavern of man's trackless spirit

Is throned an Image, so intensely fair That the adventurous thoughts that wander near it

Worship, and as they kneel tremble and wear The splendor of its presence, and the light

Penetrates their dreamlike frame Till they become charged with the strength of flame.

STANZA WRITTEN FOR THE ODE WRITTEN

OCTOBER, 1819

GATHER, oh, gather,
Foeman and friend in love and peace !

Waves sleep together
When the blasts that called them to battle cease.
For fangless Power, grown tame and mild,
Is at play with Freedom's fearless child -
The dove and the serpent reconciled !

Lines written for the Indian Serenade. Published by Rossetti, 1870.

Lines written for the Ode to Liberty. Published by Garnett, 1862.

Stanza written for the Ode written October, 1819. Published in The Times (Rossetti).

LINES CONNECTED WITH EPIPSYCHIDION

HERE, my dear friend, is a new book for you ;
I have already dedicated two
To other friends, one female and one male, -
What you are is a thing that I must veil ;
What can this be to those who praise or rail ?
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the world a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion -- though 'tis in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world — and so
With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.

Free love has this, different from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away. Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes A mirror of the moon like some great glass, Which did distort whatever form might pass, Dashed into fragments by a playful child, Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild ; Giving for one, which it could ne'er express, A thousand images of loveliness.

Lines connected with Epipsychidion. Published, 1–37, 62–91, by Mrs. Shelley, 18392, 1-174, by Garnett (To His Genius. Miscellaneous Fragments), 1862.