  SHELLEYLOVER of Man, if not of God, the Sea That took thy latest breath, and fondly bore Its music round the world from shore to shore, Will never cease to make lament for thee; For thou wert of its spirit, tameless, free, At war with ermined Custom, and the hoar Enslavements of a venerated lore,— At deadly feud with all the Powers that be. Supreme Enchanter, lord of rhythmic sound, Child of Imagination, born for flight, Loved of all poets, and by all men crowned The foe of every form of savage might, Thou wert the true Prometheus unbound, Whose genius shaped an Era's golden height. BORNE on the wavelets of thy fluent notes, Impassioned little minstrel of the cage, My spirit like a happy sea-gull floats, Unheedful of the clamor and the rage Of storms that menace ruin as they pass, Impatient for the freedom of the plain, Crusted and polished like a sea of glass, Whereon they shout their wild and weird refrain. There is no touch of winter in thy song, No wail of winds, my yellow-coated friend; All beauties of the Spring to thee belong, All bloomy charms and all the scents that lend A drowsy gladness to the summer hours. Again I hear swift rivulets descend The mountain slopes, like children loosed from school; Again I see the lily on the pool, And hear the whispered loves of leaves and flowers. Not only through the golden hours of day, From early dawn till dusk, melodious sprite, Do thy delicious trills and quavers stray Around the quiet chamber where I write, But often in the slumbrous hush of night, When moonbeams silver o'er the pendant swing, On which thy head thou pillowest 'neath thy wing, Thou wakest, and again thy transports ring, As if thy soul wert skyward seeking flight. Blow, all ye winds, and at my window tap, Like sheeted ghosts, with icy finger-tips; Press hard against the pane your whitened lips, And at the outer portal louder rap; My songster hears you not: a higher note, A more reverbant, more delirious strain, Issues exultant from his quivering throat, And reaches to the people on the street, Who pause, look up, take step, and pause again, Retiring slowly with unwilling feet. O that thou couldst to me this hour impart The secret of thy unremitting joy! The music that dilates thy little heart No frost can chill, no doubt, no fear destroy. Here, seated listless in my easy chair, I can but yield to phantasy and dream, And gird my spirit with a jewelled beam Of soft enchantment, hopeful that a share Of thy divine emotion, happy bird, By which my holiest thoughts are often stirred, May slip into my verse and warble there. HOW beautiful she was, the little maiden, Scarce twelve years old, Who faded like a fading star, love laden, Her love untold. I knew not, I who far outran her days, How much I erred In making much of her endearing ways, How much I stirred The fount of her affection with my praise. No sunrise fairer is than was her face, No moonlit skies More lovely than the tenderness and grace That filled her eyes. Her presence harmonized all dissonance, And ever wore A charm akin to music and romance, And faery lore. Poor child! among her hidden notes one said She dreamed of me, And fancied that she saw me lying dead, Drowned in the sea, But that no dream it was the tears she shed. When life's white rose its latest leaf was shedding, And o'er her broke The sobs of mourners in her chamber treading, Vaguely she spoke: He knew not of my weeping at his wedding! Those simple words, in whispered cadence spoken, All winds repeat; I shudder at the tale which they betoken, My lost Laleet! I hear them in the surging of the billow, Through storm and gloom; They pierce me from the rustle of the willow That shades her tomb And drops a denser shadow on my pillow. Ye softest harmonies of air and ocean, Of mount and vale, Rehearse, to love-led maids, her heart's devotion Till suns shall fail And orphaned planets lose the joy of motion. |
|
