ΤΟ MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, Love itself shall slumber on. LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 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, Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, How! is not thy quick heart cold? What spark is alive on thy hearth? How! is not his death-knell knolled? And livest thou still, Mother Earth? Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled— "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 All my sons when their knell is knolled, 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 splendour, and mirth; Till by the spirit of the mighty dead I feed on whom I fed. "Ay, alive and still bold," muttered Earth, 66 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." TO-MORROW. WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow? Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,— In thy place-ah! well-a-day! We find the thing we fled-To-day. GINEVRA.* WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one Who staggers forth into the air and sun Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain *This fragment is a poem which Shelley intended to write founded on a story to be found in the first volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Fiorentino." Of objects and of persons passed like things Ginevra from the nuptial altar went; The vows to which her lips had sworn assent And so she moved under the bridal veil, The bride-maidens who round her thronging came, Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame, Envying the unenviable; and others Making the joy which should have been another's Their own by gentle sympathy; and some Some few admiring what can ever lure But they are all dispersed-and lo! she stands And said "Is this thy faith?" and then as one Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood Of parents, chance, or custom, time, or change, |