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Oh, Death! where is thy sting?

Not when the tides of murder roll,

When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss.
Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this?
When in his hour of pomp and power

His blow the mightiest murders gave,

'Mid nature's cries the sacrifice

Of millions to glut the grave;

When sunk the tyrant desolation's slave;

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Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon thy shrine;
Stern tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine? 15

To know in dissolution's void,

That mortals baubles sunk decay, That everything, but Love, destroyed Must perish with its kindred clay. Perish Ambition's crown,

Perish her sceptered sway;

From Death's pale front fades Pride's fastidious frown.
In Death's damp vault the lurid fires decay,

That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's beam-
That all the cares subside,

Which lurk beneath the tide

Of life's unquiet stream.

Yes! this is victory!

And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky,
To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled;
To baffle the lean passions of their prey,

To sleep within the palace of the dead!
Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne

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His countless courtiers mock the words they say, Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown,

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As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe,
Which props the column of unnatural state,

You the plainings faint and low,

From misery's tortured soul that flow,

Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command

The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land.

You desolation's gory throng

Shall bear from Victory along

To that mysterious strand.

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POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN.1

NUMBER 1.

I.

"TWAS dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,They bodingly presag'd destruction and woe.

1 These six productions are from the very juvenile volume," St. Irvyne; or, the Rosicrucian: a Romance. By a Gentleman of the University of Oxford. London: Printed for J. J. Stockdale, 41, Pall Mall. 1811." Medwin says that some of these verses were written a year or two before the romance itself was composed; and Mr. Rossetti, on this authority, affixes the date 1808 to "those which have no direct connexion with the story of St. Irvyne," namely Numbers 1, 2, and 6. St. Irryne was published in December, 1810, but, according to Shelley's own statement in a letter to Godwin, must have been written not

later than 1809. It is very likely that this was the romance referred to in a letter in Mr. Frederick Locker's possession, addressed by Shelley to Messrs. Longman & Co: the letter is dated "May 7th. 1809," and opens with the words, "It is my intention to complete and publish a Romance, of which I have already written a large portion, before the end of July." I have numbered these Poems, 1 to 6, for convenience of reference, because they have no distinctive titles beyond the word Ballad prefixed to No. 3, and Song prefixed to Nos. 4, 5, and 6. I give them precisely according to Shelley's own edition.

II.

"Twas then that I started!-the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danc'd in the sky;

Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

III.

My heart sank within me-unheeded the war

Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke ;— Unheeded the thunder-peal crash'd in mine earThis heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;

But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

IV.

'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, The ghost of the murder'd Victoria strode;

In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding, She swiftly advanc'd to my lonesome abode.

V.

I wildly then call'd on the tempest to bear me

NUMBER 2.

I.

GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o'er the dark ether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal past?

II.

For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura,
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I brav'd the chill night-tempest's fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echo'd murmurs of death.

III.

And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear;
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.

IV.

On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead;
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.

NUMBER 3.-BALLAD.

I.

THE death-bell beats !

The mountain repeats

The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark monk now

Wraps the cowl round his brow,
As he sits in his lonely cell.

II.

And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky,
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.

And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa's form to its clay.

III.

But that hour is past;

And that hour was the last

Of peace to the dark monk's brain.

Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush'd silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain.

IV.

Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear.

Delight is in store

For her evermore;

But for me is fate, horror, and fear.

V.

Then his eyes wildly roll'd,
When the death-bell toll'd,

And he rag'd in terrific woe.
And he stamp'd on the ground,-

But when ceas'd the sound,

Tears again began to flow.

VI.

And the ice of despair

Chill'd the wild throb of care,

And he sate in mute agony still;

Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill.

VII.

Then he knelt in his cell :

And the horrors of hell

Were delights to his agoniz'd pain,

And he pray'd to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must for ever remain.

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