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PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 1792-1822.
How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep. Queen Mab. \.
Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton. ibid. Hi.
Heaven's ebon vault, Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love has spread To curtain her sleeping world. Ibid. iv.
Then black despair, The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone.
The Revolt of Islam. Dedication, Stanza 6.
With hue like that when some great painter dips
Canto v. Stanza 23.
Kings are like stars, — they rise and set, they have
The moon of Mahomet
The cross leads generations on. Chorus from n<:ias.
That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon. The Cloud, iv.
1 Compare Bacon, Essay xx., Empire. Page 138.
All love is sweet,
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier Still.1 Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5.
Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts, and that must be
Our chastisement or recompense. Julian and Maddah.
Most wretched men Are cradled into poetry by wrong; They learn in suffering what they teach in song.a Ibid.
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.
Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples.
The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow. Adonais. xxx.
A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift. Ibid, xxxii.
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity. Ibid. liii.
1 The pleasure of love is in loving. We are much happier in the passion we feel, than in that we inspire. — Rochefoucauld, Maxims 259.
1 And poets by their sufferings grow,
Live within the sense they quicken.
The desire of the moth for the star,
You lie-- under a mistake,
Say what I think.
Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.' A Defence q/`Po¢zr_y.
O, it ’s a snug little island!
They see nothing wrong in the rule that to the vio
tors belong the spoils of the enemy. Speech in the United States Senate, January, 1832
1 Compare Campbell. Page 442.
FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794-1835.
The stately homes of England!
How beautiful they stand, Amid their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land! The Homes of England.
The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and roek-hound coast ; And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.
Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod;
Freedom to worship God. Ibid.
Through the lahurnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossheds at its feet. The Palm Tree.
They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee; Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.
The Graves of a Household. Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth! Ibid.
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whenee all but him had fled;
Shone round him o'er the dead. Casahianca. 496 HEMANS. —BELLAMY. —DA VlES.
Leaves have their time to fall,
And stars to set; — but all,
The Hour of Death.
Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done. TyroUte Evening Song.
In the busy haunts of men.
Tale of the Seeret Trihunal. Parti.
Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now! Siege of Valencia, Seene ix.
O, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone;
Where is my brother gone? The Child's First Grief.
I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
The Voice of Spring.
G. W. BELLAMY.
Old Simon the eellarer keeps a rare store
Of Malmsey and Malvoisie. Simon the Cellarer.
Babylon in all its desolation is a sight not so awful as that of the human mind in ruins.
Letter to Thomas Baikes, May 25, 1835.