"Borne onward. I among the multitude

Was swept-me, sweetest flowers delayed not long; Me, not the shadow nor the solitude;

"Me, not that falling stream's Lethean song;

Me, not the phantom of that early form,
Which moved upon its motion-but among

"The thickest billows of that living storm
I plunged, and bared my bosom to the clime
Of that cold light, whose airs too soon deform.

"Before the chariot had begun to climb
The opposing steep of that mysterious dell,
Behold a wonder worthy of the rhyme

"Of him who from the lowest depths of hell, Through every paradise and through all glory, Love led serene, and who returned to tell

"The words of hate and care; the wondrous story How all things are transfigured except Love; (For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary,

"The world can hear not the sweet notes that move The sphere whose light is melody to lovers) A wonder worthy of his rhyme-the grove

"Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, The earth was grey with phantoms, and the air Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers

"A flock of vampire-bats before the glare Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening,

Strange night upon some Indian vale;-thus were

Phantoms diffused around; and some did fling Shadows of shadows, yet unlike themselves, Behind them; some like eaglets on the wing

"Were lost in the white day; others like elves
Danced in a thousand unimagined shapes
Upon the sunny streams and grassy shelves;

"And others sate chattering like restless apes
On vulgar hands, [

Some made a cradle of the ermined capes

"Of kingly mantles; some across the tire
Of pontiffs rode, like demons; others payeu
Under the crown which girt with empire

636

THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE.

"A baby's or an idiot's brow, and made

Their nests in it. The old anatomies

Sate hatching their bare broods under the shade

"Of demon wings, and laughed from their dead eyes To re-assume the delegated power,

Arrayed in which those worms did monarchise,

"Who made this earth their charnel. Others more Humble, like falcons, sat upon the fist

Of common men, and round their heads did soar;

"Or like small gnats and flies, as thick as mist
On evening marshes, thronged about the brow
Of lawyers, statesmen, priest, and theorist ;-

"And others, like discoloured flakes of snow
On fairest bosoms and the sunniest hair,
Fell, and were melted by the youthful glow

"Which they extinguished; and, like tears, they were
A veil to those from whose faint lids they rained
In drops of sorrow.

I became aware

"Of whence those forms proceeded which thus stained
The track in which we moved. After brief space,
From every form the beauty slowly waned;

"From every firmest limb and fairest face
The strength and freshness fell like dust, and left
The action and the shape without the grace

"Of life. The marble brow of youth was cleft

With care; and in those eyes where once hope shone
Desire, like a lioness bereft

"Of her last cub, glared ere it died; each one
Of that great crowd sent forth incessantly

These shadows, numerous as the dead leaves blown

"In autumn evening from a poplar tree,
Each like himself and like each other were
At first; but some distorted seemed to be

"Obscure clouds, moulded by the casual air;
And of this stuff the car's creative ray
Wrapt all the busy phantoms that were there,

"As the sun shapes the clouds; thus on the way
Mask after mask fell from the countenance
And form of all; and long before the day

"Was old, the joy which waked like heaven's glance The sleepers in the oblivious valley died;

And some grew weary of the ghastly dance,

"And fell, as I have fallen, by the way-side ;Those soonest from whose forms most shadows past, And least of strength and beauty did abide."

"Then, what is life?" I cried.

ΤΟ

THE keen stars were twinkling,

And the fair moon was rising among them,

Dear ***

!

The guitar was tinkling,

But the notes were not sweet till you sung them

Again.

As the moon's soft splendour

O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven

Is thrown,

So your voice most tender

To the strings without soul had then given

Its own.

The stars will awaken,

Though the moon sleep a full hour later,

To-night;

No leaf will be shaken

Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.

Though the sound overpowers,

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing

A tone

Of some world far from ours,

Where music and moonlight and feeling

Are one.

HERE, my dear friend, is a new book for you;
I have already dedicated two

To other friends, one female and one male,
What you are, is a thing that I must veil;
What can this be to those who praise or rail
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the world a mistress or a friend,

And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion-though it is the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road

Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread
Who travel to their home among the dead,
By the broad highway of the world-and so
With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.

Free love has this, different from gold and clay
That to divide is not to take away.
Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes
A mirror of the moon; like some great glass,
Which did distort whatever form might pass,
Dashed into fragments by a playful child,
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild,
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,
A thousand images of loveliness.

If I were one whom the loud world held wise,

I should disdain to quote authorities
In the support of this kind of love ;-
Why there is first the God in heaven above,
Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be
Reviewed I hear in the next Quarterly;

These fragments do not properly belong to the poems of 1822 They are gleanings from Shelley's manuscript books and papers; pre served not only because they are beautiful in themselves, but affording indications of his feelings ani virtues

And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece;
And Jesus Christ himself did never cease
To urge all living things to love each other.
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother
The Devil of disunion in their souls.

It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm,
A happy and auspicious bird of calm,
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean;
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,
Lifts its bold head into the world's pure air,
And blooms most radiantly when others die.
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity
And, with the light and odour of its bloom,
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb;
Whose coming is as light and music are
'Mid dissonance and gloom-a star

Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone,
A smile among dark frowns-a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a beloved light,

A solitude, a refuge, a delight.

If I had but a friend! why I have three,
Even by my own confession; there may be
Some more, for what I know; for 'tis my mind
To call my friends all who are wise and kind,
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few,
But none can ever be more dear than you.
Why should they be? my muse has lost her wings,
Or, like a dying swan, who soars and sings,

I should describe you in heroic style,

But as it is-are you not void of guile?

A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless;

A well of sealed and secret happiness;

A lute, which those whom love has taught to play Make music on, to cheer the roughest day?

II.

TO WILLIAM SHELLEY.

THY little footsteps on the sands
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands

Where now the worm will feed no more:

Thy mingled look of love and glee
When we returned to gaze on thee.