XXX. "For me the world is grown too void and cold, With steps thus slow-therefore shall ye behold XXXI. "Then suddenly I stood a winged Thought His realm around one mighty Fane is spread, Calm dwellings of the free and happy dead, Where I am sent to lead !" These winged words she said, XXXII. And with the silence of her eloquent smile, Bade us embark in her divine canoe; On the swift breath of morn, the vessel flew O'er the bright whirlpools of that fountain fair, Whose shores receded fast, while we seemed lingering there XXXIII. Till down that mighty stream, dark, calm, and fleet, Borne like a cloud through morn, and noon, and even, Of the vast stream, a long and labyrinthine maze. XXXIV. A scene of joy and wonder to behold That river's shapes and shadows changing ever, Or when the moonlight poured a holier day, One vast and glittering lake around green islands lay. XXXV. Morn, noon, and even, that boat of pearl outran With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets proud, The homes of the departed, dimly frowned O'er the bright waves which girt their dark foundations round. XXXVI. Sometimes between the wide and flowering meadows, Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs were bright Like swift and lovely dreams that walk the waves of sleep. XXXVII. And ever as we sailed, our minds were full And in quick smiles whose light would come and go, XXXVIII. Three days and nights we sailed, as thought and feeling On the fourth day, wild as a wind-wrought sea XXXIX. Steady and swift, where the waves rolled like mountains Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did pour Tumultuous floods from their ten thousand fountains, The thunder of whose earth-uplifting roar Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from the shore, Calm as a shade the boat of that fair child Securely fled, that rapid stress before, Amid the topmost spray, and sunbows wild, Wreathed in the silver mist: in joy and pride we smiled. XL. The torrent of that wide and raging river Between two heavens, that windless waveless lake ; XLI. Motionless resting on the lake awhile, I saw its marge of snow-bright mountains rear The Temple of the Spirit; on the sound Which issued thence, drawn nearer and more near, Like the swift moon this glorious earth around, The charmed boat approached, and there its haven found. NOTE. EXTRACTED FROM PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THIS POEM. "I trust," says Shelley, "that the reader will carefully distinguish between those opinions which have a dramatic propriety in reference to the characters which they are designed to elucidate, and such as are properly my own. The erroneous and degrading idea which men have conceived of a Supreme Being, for instance, is spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself. The belief which some superstitious persons whom I have brought upon the stage, entertain of the Deity, as injurious to the character of his benevolence, is widely different from my own. In recommending also a great and important change in the spirit which animates the social institutions of mankind, I have avoided all flattery to those violent and malignant passions of our nature, which are ever on the watch to mingle with and to alloy the most beneficial innovations. There is no quarter given to Revenge, or Envy, or Prejudice. Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law which should govern the moral world." 1818. ROSALIND AND HELEN. Rosalind, Helen and her Child. Scene, the shore of the Lake of Como. HELEN. COME hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'Tis long since thou and I have met; Come sit by me. I see thee stand None doth behold us now: the power If thou depart in scorn: oh! come, And we are exiles. Talk with me Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Which altered friendship leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse. That cannot be ! Rosalind speak, Speak to me. Leave me not.- When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted,—de not frown: I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken : ROSALIND. Is it a dream, or do I see And hear frail Helen? I would flee But weep for thee: mine own strange grief Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness What to the evil world is due, Till our mournful talk be done. HELEN. Alas! not there; I cannot bear Even here where now we meet. It stirs Less like our own. The ghost of peace ROSALIND. Thou lead, my sweet, And I will follow. HENRY. "Tis Fenici's seat. Where are you going? This is not the way, Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow Close to the little river. |