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Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night

That lives beneath the overhanging rock

That shades the pool- an endless spring of


Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,
Trembling to mingle with its paramour,—
But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day,
Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.
On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill
There is a cave, from which there eddies up
A pale mist, like aërial gossamer,

Whose breath destroys all life; awhile it veils
The rock; then, scattered by the wind, it flies
Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts,
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.
Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life,
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,
Whose branches the air plays among, but not
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace;
But blasted and all wearily they stand,
One to another clinging; their weak boughs
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake
Beneath its blasts a weather-beaten crew!



What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint,
But more melodious than the murmuring wind
Which through the columns of a temple glides?

31 they, Rossetti || these, Garnett.
37 which, Rossetti || that, Garnett.

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It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre,
Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes;
But in their speed they bear along with them
The waning sound, scattering it like dew
Upon the startled sense.


Does he still sing? Methought he rashly cast away his harp When he had lost Eurydice.

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press on

Ah no! Awhile he paused. — As a poor hunted stag A moment shudders on the fearful brink Of a swift stream - the cruel hounds With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound, He plunges in so Orpheus, seized and torn By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief, Mænad-like waved his lyre in the bright air, And wildly shrieked, "Where she is, it is dark!" And then he struck from forth the strings a sound Of deep and fearful melody. Alas!


In times long past, when fair Eurydice

With her bright eyes sat listening by his side,
He gently sang of high and heavenly themes.
As in a brook, fretted with little waves,
By the light airs of spring, each riplet makes
A many-sided mirror for the sun,

While it flows musically through green banks,
Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh,
So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joy
And tender love that fed those sweetest notes,
The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food.
But that is past. Returning from drear Hell,
He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone,
Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain.
Then from the deep and overflowing spring
Of his eternal, ever-moving grief

There rose to Heaven a sound of angry song.
'Tis as a mighty cataract that parts

Two sister rocks with waters swift and strong,
And casts itself with horrid roar and din
Adown a steep; from a perennial source
It ever flows and falls, and breaks the air
With loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar,
And as it falls casts up a vaporous spray
Which the sun clothes in hues of Iris light.

Thus the tempestuous torrent of his grief
Is clothed in sweetest sounds and varying words
Of poesy.
Unlike all human works
It never slackens, and through every change
Wisdom and beauty and the power divine
Of mighty poesy together dwell,
Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seen
A fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky,
Driving along a rack of wingèd clouds,

Which may not pause, but ever hurry on,

As their wild shepherd wills them, while the stars, Twinkling and dim, peep from between the plumes.

91 while, Rossetti || whilst, Garnett.

92 the, Rossetti || their, Garnett.

Anon the sky is cleared, and the high dome
Of serene Heaven, starred with fiery flowers,
Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still moon
Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk,
Rising all bright behind the eastern hills.
I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and not
Of song; but, would I echo his high song,
Nature must lend me words ne'er used before,
Or I must borrow from her perfect works,
To picture forth his perfect attributes.
He does no longer sit upon his throne
Of rock upon a desert herbless plain,
For the evergreen and knotted ilexes,
And cypresses that seldom wave their boughs,
And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit,
And elms dragging along the twisted vines,
Which drop their berries as they follow fast,
And blackthorn bushes with their infant race
Of blushing rose blooms; beeches, to lovers dear,
And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow,
As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit,
Have circled in his throne; and Earth herself
Has sent from her maternal breast a growth
Of starlike flowers and herbs of odors sweet,
To pave the temple that his poesy

Has framed, while near his feet grim lions couch,
And kids, fearless from love, creep near his lair.
Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound.

94 with fiery, Rossetti || with its fiery, Garnett.

102 his, Boscombe MS. || its, Rossetti.

106 that, Garnett || who, Rossetti.

112 willow trees, Rossetti || willows, too, Garnett.

113 huge, Rossetti || long, Garnett.

116 starlike... odors, Rossetti || starry . . . odor, Garnett.

The birds are silent, hanging down their heads,
Perched on the lowest branches of the trees;
Not even the nightingale intrudes a note
In rivalry, but all entranced she listens.


THE season was the childhood of sweet June,
Whose sunny hours from morning until noon
Went creeping through the day with silent feet,
Each with its load of pleasure, slow yet sweet;
Like the long years of blest Eternity
Never to be developed. Joy to thee,
Fiordispina, and thy Cosimo,

For thou the wonders of the depth canst know
Of this unfathomable flood of hours,
Sparkling beneath the heaven which embowers ---

They were two cousins, almost like two twins,
Except that from the catalogue of sins

Nature had rased their love- which could not

But by dissevering their nativity.

And so they grew together like two flowers
Upon one stem, which the same beams and

Lull or awaken in their purple prime,

Which the same hand will gather, the same clime
Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see

Fiordispina. Published, 11-30, by Mrs. Shelley, 1824, 1-82, by Garnett, 1862, and dated, 1820.

11 two, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || to, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

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