DEDICATION. There is no danger to a man that knows CHAPMAN. TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY.. I. So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; (If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom), Its doubtful promise thus I would unite With thy beloved name, thou child of love and light. II. The toil which stole from thee so many an hour Is ended-and the fruit is at thy feet. No longer where the woods to frame a bower Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat III. Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear friend, when first I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep. A fresh May-dawn it was, 2 IV. And then I clasped my hands, and looked around; The selfish and the strong still tyrannize Without reproach or check." I then controlled V. And from that hour did I with earnest thought I cared to learn-but from that secret store A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. VI. Alas that love should be a blight and snare 3 To those who seek all sympathies in one!- Yet never found I one not false to me, Hard hearts and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crushed and withered mine-that could not be Aught but a lifeless clod, until revived by thee. ↑ VII. Thou friend, whose presence on my wintry heart Wisdom In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain To meet thee, from the woes which had begirt it long! VIII. No more alone through the world's wilderness, IX. Now has descended a serener hour, And, with inconstant fortune, friends return; Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn: X. Is it that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again, Though it might shake the Anarch Custom's reign, And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway, Holier than was Amphion's? I would fain Reply in hope-but I am worn away, And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. XI. And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak: Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears: 9 XII. They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,- Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim The shelter, from thy sire, of an immortal name. XIII. One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, And Faith and Custom and low-thoughted cares, Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place. XIV. Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind! If there must be no response to my cry— If men must rise and stamp, with fury blind, On his pure name who loves them, thou and I, Sweet friend, can look from our tranquillity Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night,— Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight, That burn from year to year with unextinguished light. CANTO I. I. WHEN the last hope of trampled France had failed Like a brief dream of unremaining glory, From visions of despair I rose, and scaled The peak of an aërial promontory, Whose caverned base with the vexed surge was hoary; And saw the golden dawn break forth, and waken Each cloud and every wave :—but transitory The calm: for sudden the firm earth was shaken As if by the last wreck its frame were overtaken. II. So as I stood, one blast of muttering thunder Was heard; one horrible repose did keep The forests and the floods, and all around Darkness more dread than night was poured upon the ground. III. Hark! 'tis the rushing of a wind that sweeps Earth and the ocean. See! the lightnings yawn Deluging heaven with fire, and the lashed deeps Glitter and boil beneath! It rages on, One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves upthrown, Lightning and hail, and darkness eddying by! There is a pause—the sea-birds, that were gone Into their caves to shriek, come forth to spy What calm has fallen on earth, what light is in the sky. |