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Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd breath,
With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,
He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of death. III.
O, weep for Adonais-he is dead!
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!
Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
Most musical of mourners, weep again!
He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
O, weep for Adonais !—The quick Dreams,
Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet
They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again.
And one with trembling hand clasps his cold head
She knew not 't was her own; as with no stain
Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain
All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender,
And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose,
“Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Now thou art dead, as if it were a part
Of thee, my Adonais! I would give
All that I am to be as thou now art!
A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift-
A breaking billow;-even whilst we speak
But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart! The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may
His head was bound with pansies over-blown,
Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew
A herd-abandon'd deer, struck by the hunter's dart
All stood aloof, and at his partial moan
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band
Who in another's fate now wept his own, As in the accents of an unknown land He sang new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?" He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's,-Oh! that it should be so!
What softer voice is hushed o'er the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, In mockery of monumental stone,
The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honor'd the departed one; Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.
Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh!
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown
Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung
Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom, when thy fangs o'erflow: Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt-as now.
The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown
Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought,
Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought
And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.
He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night;
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.
He lives, he wakes 't is Death is dead, not he; Mourn not for Adonais.-Thou young Dawn Turn all thy dew to splendor, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone; Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! Cease ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,| Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!
He is made one with Nature: there is heard
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
He is a portion of the loveliness
A new successions to the forms they wear;
And many more, whose names on earth are dark, But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. "Thou art become as one of us," they cry, "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty,
Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!"
Who mourns for Adonais? oh come forth, Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light, lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the
Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre, O, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis naught That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend,-they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gather'd to the kings of thought Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away.
Go thou to Rome,-at once the Paradise,
From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.
VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY EMILIA V
NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF
L'anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinito un Mondo tutto per essa,
(BY A FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR.)
of the circumstances to which it relates; and to a certain other class it must ever remain incomprenensible, from a defect of a common organ of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, “gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sepesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento."
The present Poem appears to have been intended by the Writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza prefixed to the Poem is almost a litera translation from Dante's famous Canzone,
THE writer of the following Lines died at Florence,
Voi, ch' intendendo, il terzo ciel movete, etc. The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of S