THE golden gates of sleep unbar Where strength and beauty met together, Kindle their image like a star In a sea of glassy weather. Night, with all thy stars look down,- Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled, Never smiled the inconstant moon The rats in her heart Will have made their nest, And the worms be alive in her golden hair; While the spirit that guides the sun Sits throned in his flaming chair, She shall sleep. On a pair so true. Let eyes not see their own delight ;- Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her! O joy! O fear! what will be done THE BOAT, ON THE SERCHIO. OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the rocks above and the stream below, Day had awakened all things that be, And the matin-bell and the mountain bee: The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, Which fervid from its mountain source It sweeps into the affrighted sea; The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine: Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean. A FRAGMENT. THEY were two cousins, almost like two twins, Nature had razed their love-which could not be And so they grew together, like two flowers Which the same hand will gather-the same clime Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow The very idol of its portraiture; He faints, dissolved into a sense of love; But thou art as a planet sphered above, But thou art Love itself-ruling the motion Of his subjected spirit-such emotion Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May Had not brought forth this morn—your weddingday. ΤΟ ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, From the sphere of our sorrow? GOOD-NIGHT. GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still, Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee Has led me-who knows how? The wandering airs they faint O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain MUSIC. I PANT for the music which is divine, Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound, More, O more !-I am thirsting yet, It loosens the serpent which care has bound The dissolving strain, through every vein, As the scent of a violet withered up, Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, And mist there was none its thirst to slakeAnd the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue As one who drinks from a charmed cup Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, Invites to love with her kiss divine. NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, For the year is but asleep: As an earthquake rocks a corse As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year :-be calm and mild, Trembling hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes. January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers. NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1821. BY THE EDITOR. My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that which sealed our earthly fate; and each poem and each event it records, has a real or mysterious connexion with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that I am incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The heart of the man, abhorred of the poet, Who could peep and botanize upon his mother's grave, does not appear to me less inexplicably framed than that of one who can dissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans drawn from them in the throes of their agony. prophecy on his own destiny, when received among immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanished into emptiness before the fame he inherits. Shelley's favourite taste was boating; when living near the Thames, or by the lake of Geneva, much of his life was spent on the water. On the shore of every lake, or stream, or sea, near which he dwelt, he had a boat moored. He had latterly There are no enjoyed this pleasure again. pleasure-boats on the Arno, and the shallowness of its waters except in winter time, when the stream is too turbid and impetuous for boating, rendered it difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty; he, together with a friend, contrived a boat such as the huntsmen carry about with them in the Maremma, to cross the sluggish but deep streams that intersect the forests, a boat of laths and pitched canvas; it held three persons, and he was often seen on the Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who remonstrated on the danger, and could not understand how any one could take "Ma va The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the baths of San Giuliano. We were not, as our wont had been, alone-friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead ; and when memory recurs to the past, she wanders among tombs: the genius with all his blighting errors and mighty powers; the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, and fearless; and others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his great knowledge and warm sympathy, delight, in-pleasure in an exercise that risked life. struction and solace, have joined him beyond the grave. A few survive who have felt life a desert since he left it. What misfortune can equal death? Change can convert every other into a blessing, or heal its sting-death alone has no cure; it shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread, it destroys its beauty, it casts down our shelter, it exposes us bare to desolation; when those we love have passed into eternity, "life is the desert and the solitude," in which we are forced to linger but never find comfort more. There is much in the Adonais which seems now more applicable to Shelley himself, than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towards his calumniators, are as a per la vita!" they exclaimed. I little thought went down with him to the mouth of the Arno, |