xiw. All he had loved, and moulded into thought, From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground, Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day; Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

xW. Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray, Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pined away into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

xWi. Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown For whom should she have waked the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear, Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou Adonais: wan they stand and sere Amid the drooping comrades of their youth, With dew all turn'd to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

xWii. Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth consplain, Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

xWiii. All woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year; . The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere, And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake.

xix. Through wood and streamand, field and hillandOcean, A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst, As it has ever done, with change and motion, From the great morning of the world when first God dawn'd on Chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight, The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

XXI. Alas! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. xxii. He will awake no more, oh, never more! “Wake thou,” cried Misery, . childless Mother, rise Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs." And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes, And all the Echoes whom their sister's song Had held in holy silence, cried: • Arise!” Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

xxWi. . Stay yet a while! speak to me once again; Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive, With food of saddest memory kept alive, Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart!

xxvii. a 0 gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh! where was then wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear? Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when fhy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. XxWiii. • The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; The, vultures to the conqueror's banner true, who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wings rain contagion;–how they fled, When, like Apollo, from his golden bow, The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smiled!-The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them as they go.

xxxii. A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift– A Love in desolation masked;—a Power Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. xxxiii. His head was bound with pansies over-blown, And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart: A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's dart.

The writer of the following Lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was singular; less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-offact history of the circumstances to which it relates;

and to a certain other class it must ever remain incornprehensible, from a defect of a common organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, • gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento.” The present poem appears to have been intended by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza prefixed to the poem is almost a literal translation from Dante's famous Canzone,

Voi, ch' intendendo, il terro ciel movete, etc.

The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. S.

EPIPSYCHIDION.

My Song. I fear that thou wilt find but few
who fitly shall conceive thy reasoning,
Of such hard matter dost thou entertain :
Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring
Thee to base company (as chance may do),
Quite unnware of what thou dost contain, -
I prithee, comfort thy sweet self again, -
My last delight ! tell them that they are dull,
And bid them own that thou art beautiful.

Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, In my heart's temple I suspend to thee These votive wreaths of wither'd memory.

Poor captive hird who, from thy narrow cage, Pourest such music, that it might assuage The rugèed hearts of those who prison'd thee, Were they not deaf to all sweet melody; This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.

High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Beat thine unfeeling bars with vain endeavour, Till those bright plumes of thought, in which array'd It over-soared this low and worldly shade, Lie shatterd; and thy panting, wounded breast Stains with dear blood its unmaternal nest! I weep vain tears: blood would less bitter be, Yet pour'd forth gladlier, could it profit thee.

Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Veijing beneath that radiant form of Woman All that is insupportable in thee Of light, and love, and immortality! Sweet Benediction in the eternal curse! Veil'd Glory of this lampless Universe! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form Among the Dead! Thou Star above the Storm' Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror! Thou Harmony of Nature's art | Thou Mirror In whom, as in the splendour of the Sun, All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on 1 Ay, even the dim words which obscure thee now Flash, lightning-like, with unaccustom'd glow; 1 pray thee that thou blot from this sad song All of its much mortality and wrong, with those clear drops, which start like sacred dew From the twin lights thy sweet soul darkens through, Weeping, till sorrow becomes ecstasy: Then smile on it, so that it may not die.

I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect. Emily, I love thee; though the world by no thin name Will hide that love, from its unvalued shame, Would we two had been twins of the same mother! Or, that the name my heart lent to another Could be a sister's bond for her and thee, Blending two beams of one eternity Yet were one lawful and the other true, These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due,

How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me! I am not thine: I am a part of thee.

Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings; Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own grey style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul form'd to be blest and bless A well of seal'd and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music are, Wanquishing dissonance and gloom? A Star Which moves not in the moving Heavens alone? A smile amid dark frowns? a gentle tone Amid rude voices? a beloved light? A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A lute, which those whom love has taught to play Make music on, to soothe the roughest day, And lull fond grief asleep? A buried treasure? A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure ? A violet-shrouded grave of Woe 7–I measure The world of fancies, seeking one like thee, And find—alas! mine own infirmity.

She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day, Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, In the suspended impulse of its lightness, were less ethereally light: the brightness Of her divinest presence trembles through IIer limbs, as underneath a cloud of dew Embodied in the windless Heaven of June, Amid the splendour-winged stars, the Moon Burns, inextinguishably beautiful : . And from her lips, as from a hyacinth full of honey-dew, a liquid murmur drops, Killing the sense with passion; sweet as stops Of planetary music heard in trance. In her mild lights the starry spirits dance, The sun-beams of those wells which ever leap Under the lightnings of the soul—too deep For the brief fathom-line of thought or sense. The glory of her being, issuing thence, Stains the dead, blank, cold air with a warm shade Of unentangled intermixture, made By Love, of light and motion: one intense Diffusion, one serene Omnipresence, whose flowing outlines mingle in their flowing Around her cheeks and utmost fingers glowing with the unintermitted blood, which there Quivers (as in a fleece of snow-like air The crimson pulse of living morning quiver), Continuously prolong'd, and ending never, Till they are lost, and in that Beauty furl’d which penetrates and clasps and fills the world; Scarce visible from extreme loveliness. Warm fragrance seems to fall from her light dress, And her loose hair; and where some heavy tress The air of her own speed has disentwined, The sweetness seems to satiate the faint wind; And in the soul a wild odour is felt, Beyond the sense, like fiery dews that melt Into the bosom of a frozen bud.—— See where she stands! a mortal shape endued With love and life, and light and deity,