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Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies
In darkness? where was lorn Urania
When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,
'Mid list'ning Echoes, in her Paradise

She sate, while one, with soft enamor'd breath,
Rekindled all the fading melodies,

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!
Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed
Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep,
Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;
For he is gone, where all things wise and fair
Descend:-oh, dream not that the amorous Deep
Will yet restore him to the vital air;

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.


Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Lament anew, Urania !-He died,
Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,
Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride,
The priest, the slave, and the liberticide,
Trampled and mock'd with many a lothed rite
Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,
Into the gulf of death; but his clear sprite


He will awake no more, oh, never more!—
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace
The shadow of white Death, and at the door
Invisible Corruption waits to trace

His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;
The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe
Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface
So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law
Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain


O, weep for Adonais !—The quick Dreams,
The passion-winged Ministers of thought,
Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams
Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught
The love which was its music, wander not,
Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,
But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn
their lot

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
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries
"Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead,
See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,
Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies
A tear some dream has loosen'd from his brain.
Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise,

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

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All he had loved, and moulded into thought,
From shape, and hue, and odor, and sweet sound,
Lamented Adonais. Morning sought

Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,
Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimm'd the aerial eyes that kindle day;
Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd,
Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,


The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender,
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;
Like incarnations of the stars, when splendor
Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death,
And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;
Naught we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows
Be as a sword consumed before the sheath
By sightless lightning ?—the intense atom glows

And the wild winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose,

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“Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;
And in my heartless breast and burning brain
That word, that kiss shall all thoughts else survive,
With food of saddest memory kept alive,

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 Love in desolation mask'd ;-a Power
Girt round with weakness; it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;
It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,

A breaking billow;-even whilst we speak
Is it not broken? On the withering flower
The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek

But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart! The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may

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His head was bound with pansies over-blown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew
Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart

Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;

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
Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
The nameless worm would now itself disown:
It felt, yet could escape the magic tone
Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong,
But what was howling in one breast alone,
Silent with expectation of the song,

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.

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The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown

Rose from their thrones built beyond mortal thought,
Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton
Rose pale, his solemn agony had not

Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought
And as he fell, and as he lived and loved,
Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,
Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved:

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;
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain,
And that unrest which men miscall delight,
Can touch him not and torture not again;
From the contagion of the world's slow stain
He is secure, and now can never mourn

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
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;
He is a presence to be felt and known

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
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling

A new successions to the forms they wear;
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;
And bursting in its beauty and its might


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,
The grave, the city, and the wilderness;
And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise.
And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses, dress
The bones of Desolation's nakedness,
Pass, till the Spirit of the spot shall lead
Thy footsteps to a slope of green access,
Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead,

From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread.

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L'anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nell' infinito un Mondo tutto per essa,
diverso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso l'aratro.-HER OWN WORDS.



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,
as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wild-
est of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where
he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and
where it was his hope to have realized a scheme of
life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world
of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practi-
cable in this. His life was singular; less on account
of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than
the ideal tinge which it received from his own char-
acter and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita
Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a cer-
tain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history contempt, but pity.

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

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