LINES WRITTEN FOR ADONAIS
And ever as he went he swept a lyre
Of unaccustomed shape, and strings
Now like the
of impetuous fire,
Which shakes the forest with its murmurings,
Now like the rush of the aërial wings
Of the enamoured wind among the treen,
Whispering unimaginable things,
And dying on the streams of dew serene, Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during
green.
And the
green
Paradise which western waves Embosom in their ever wailing sweep, Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves, Or to the spirits which within them keep A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep, Die not, but dream of retribution, heard His hymns, and echoing them from steep to steep, Kept
And then came one of sweet and earnest looks,
Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes
Were as the clear and ever living brooks
Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise,
Showing how pure they are: a Paradise
Of happy truth upon his forehead low
Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise
Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow
Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below.
Lines written for Adonais. Published by Garnett, 1862.
His song, though very sweet, was low and faint, A simple strain
A mighty Phantasm, half concealed In darkness of his own exceeding light, Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed, Charioted on the
night Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite.
And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips
The splendor-wingèd chariot of the sun,
eclipse
The armies of the golden stars, each one
Pavilioned in its tent of light — all strewn
Over the chasms of blue night -
FAIREST of the Destinies,
Disarray thy dazzling eyes :
Keener far thy lightnings are
Than the wingèd [bolts] thou bearest,
And the smile thou wearest
Wraps thee as a star
Is wrapped in light.
II
Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn
From Alpheus and the bitter Doris run,
Or could the morning shafts of purest light
Lines Written for Hellas. Published by Garnett, 1862.
Again into the quivers of the Sun
Be gathered — could one thought from its wild
flight
Return into the temple of the brain
Without a change, without a stain, -
Could aught that is, ever again
Be what it once has ceased to be,
Greece might again be free!
A star has fallen
upon
the earth ’Mid the benighted nations,
A quenchless atom of immortal light,
A living spark of Night,
A cresset shaken from the constellations.
Swifter than the thunder fell
To the heart of Earth, the well
Where its pulses flow and beat,
And unextinct in that cold source
Burns, and on course
Guides the sphere which is its prison,
Like an angelic spirit pent
In a form of mortal birth,
Till, as a spirit half arisen
Shatters its charnel, it has rent,
In the rapture of its mirth,
The thin and painted garment of the Earth,
Ruining its chaos — a fierce breath Consuming all its forms of living death.
THE PINE FOREST OF THE CASCINE NEAR
PISA
FIRST DRAFT OF “TO JANE : THE INVITATION, THE
RECOLLECTION"
DEAREST, best and brightest,
To the woods and to the fields !
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the hours of Spring,
Into the winter wandering,
Looks upon the leafless wood;
And the banks all bare and rude
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February's bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains,
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear.
The Pine Forest of the Cascine near Pisa. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away
!
To the wild woods and the plains,
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise !
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled ;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep,
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies, 30 stems, Mrs. Shelley, 1824 || stones, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.
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