And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair 20 ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG то THE GRASS OF A Seeks Heaven to mix with its own GRAVE [Published (without title) by Hogg, Life of Shelley, 1858; dated 1809-10. The poem, with title as above, is included in the Esdaile MS. Book.] kindred there? IV But still 'twas some Spirit of kindness descending To share in the load of mortality's 10 Oh! To Where patriotism red with his guiltreeking gore Plants Liberty's flag on the slave peopled shore, Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for a tear shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. LOVE 35 And oh! when on the blest, reviving, Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou Lulling the slaves of interest to repose Oh, 1 In thy dear beam till every bond of sense 16 Became enamoured13 Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill, Like June's warm breath, athwart thee fly, O'er each idea then to steal, When other passions die? Felt it in some wild noonday dream, When sitting by the lonely stream, 20 Where Silence says, 'Mine is the dell'; And not a murmur from the plain, And not an echo from the fell, Disputes her silent reign. ON A FÊTE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT [Published by Rossetti, Complete P. W. of P. B. S., 1870; dated 1811.] By the mossy brink, With me the Prince shall sit and think; Shall muse in visioned Regency, Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty. TO MARY WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION [Published by Rossetti, Complete P. W. of P. B. S., 1870; dated 1810-11.] I MAIDEN, quench the glare of sorrow As that which mocks concealing, II For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield Bend to another's will-become a thing 20 Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live. She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eve When first her soul began indeed to grieve: Then he was here; now he is very far. 40 The sweetness of the balmy evening A sorrow o'er her agèd soul did fling, Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled tear: A balm was in the poison of the sting. This aged sufferer for many a year Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed 46 More senseless than the sword of A sigh-and turning round, clasped battlefield William to her breast! |