LINES

WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE

DEATH OF NAPOLEON

Published with Hellas, 1821.

WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?

Art thou not over-bold?

What! leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starry fold? Ha! leapest thou forth as of old? Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?

How is not thy quick heart cold?

What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled? And hivest thou still, Mother Earth? Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled; What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?

'Who has known me of old,' replied Earth,

'Or who has my story told? It is thou who art over-bold.' And the lightning of scorn laughed forth As she sung, 'To my bosom I fold

All my sons when their knell is knolled, And so with living motion all are fed, And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.

'Still alive and still bold,' shouted Earth,

I grow bolder, and still more bold. The dead fill me ten thousand-fold Fuller of speed, and splendor, and mirth. I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold, Like a frozen chaos uprolled, Till by the spirit of the mighty dead My heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.

'Ay, alive and still bold,' muttered Earth, Napoleon's fierce spirit rolled, In terror, and blood, and gold,

A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. Leave the millions who follow to mould The metal before it be cold;

And weave into his shame, which like the dead

Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.'

In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;

And I, who thought

This Aziola was some tedious woman,

Asked, Who is Aziola ?' How elate I felt to know that it was nothing human, No mockery of myself to fear or hate! And Mary saw my soul,

And laughed, and said, 'Disquiet yourself not,

'Tis nothing but a little downy owl.'

ΤΟ

Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.

I

ONE word is too often profaned

For me to profane it,

One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.

II

I can give not what men call love,
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the Heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?

REMEMBRANCE

Shelley sent these lines enclosed in a letter to Mrs. Williams: Dear Jane, - If this melancholy old song suits any of your tunes, or any that humor of the moment may dictate, you are welcome to it. Do not say it is mine to any one, even if you think so; indeed, it is from the torn leaf of a book out of date. How are you to-day, and how is Williams? Tell him that I dreamed of nothing but sailing and fishing up coral. Your ever affectionate P. B. S.' It was published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.