Imatges de pÓgina
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THE

POETICAL WORKS

OP

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

TO HARRIET
Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world,
Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn!
Whose is the warm and partial praise,
Virtue's most sweet reward !
Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul
Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow!
Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on,
And loved mankind the more !
Harriet ! on thine :—thou wert my purer mind;
Thou wert the inspiration of my song;

Thine are these early wilding flowers,

Though garlanded by me.
Then press into thy breast this pledge of love,
And know, though time may change and years may roll,

Each flow'ret gathered in my heart
It consecrates to thine.

QUEEN MAB.

I.

How wonderful is Death,

Death and his brother Sleep !
One, pale as yonder waning moon,

With lips of lurid blue;
The other, rosy as the morn
When throned on ocean's wave,

It blushes o'er the world :
Yet both so passing wonderful !

B

Hath then the gloomy Power
Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres

Seized on her sinless soul

Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view

Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snom, That lovely outline, which is fair

As breathing marble, perish ?

Must putrefaction's breath
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight

But loathsomeness and ruin?

Spare nothing but a gloomy theme,
On which the lightest heart might moralize ?

Or is it only a sweet slumber

Stealing o'er sensation,
Which the breath of roseate morning

Chaseth into darkness ?

Will Ianthe wake again,
And give that faithful bosom joy
Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch
Light, life, and rapture, from her smile ?

Yes ! she will wake again,
Although her glowing limbs are motionless,

And silent those sweet lips,

Once breathing eloquence
That might have soothed a tiger's rage,
Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror.

Her dewy eyes are closed,
And on their lids, whose texture fine
Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath,

The baby Sleep is pillowed :
Her golden tresses shade

The bosom's stainless pride,
Curling like tendrils of the parasite

Around a marble column.

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Hark! whence that rushing soundt

'Tis like the wondrous strain
That round a lonely ruin swells,
Which, wandering on the echoing shore,

The enthusiast hears at evening:
'Tis softer than the west wind's sigh;
"Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes
Of that strange lyre whose strings
The genii of the breezes sweep:

Those lines of rainbow light

Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedral window, but the teinte

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