We saw the strong man still and low, And near him on the sea-weed lay- For her pale arms a babe had prest, Yet not undone the clasp. Her very tresses had been flung To wrap the fair child's form, Where still their wet long streamers hung, And beautiful, midst that wild scene, Like slumbers, trustingly serene, In melancholy grace. Deep in her bosom lay his head, Oh! human love, whose yearning heart Through all things vainly true, So stamps upon thy mortal part Its passionate adieu Surely thou hast another lot, There is some home for thee, Where thou shalt rest, remembering not The moaning of the sea! F. Hemans. XXXVII. THE CLOUD. 1. BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, And whiten the green plains under, II. I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. III. The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, When the morning star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardours of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, IV. That orbéd maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, V. I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, VI. I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky : I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores ; For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb.. I arise and unbuild it again. P. B. Shelley. XXXVIII. A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON, AGED THREE YEARS AND FIVE MONTHS. HOU happy, happy elf! (But stop,-first let me kiss away that tear)— Thou tiny image of myself! (My love, he's poking peas into his ear!) Thou merry, laughing sprite ! With spirits feather-light, Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin— (Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!) F Thou little tricksy Puck! With antic toys so funnily bestuck, Light as the singing bird that wings the air(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!) Thou darling of thy sire! (Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore a-fire !) Thou imp of mirth and joy! In Love's dear chain so strong and bright a link, Thou cherub-but of earth; Fit playfellow for Fays, by moonlight pale, (That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!) Thy father's pride and hope! (He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope !) With pure heart newly stamped from Nature's mint— (Where did he learn that squint ?) Thou young domestic dove! (He'll have that jug off, with another shove !) Dear nurseling of the Hymeneal nest ! (Are those torn clothes his best?) Little epitome of man! (He'll climb upon the table, that's his plan !) Touched with the beauteous tints of dawning life(He's got a knife!) Thou enviable being No storms, no clouds, in thy blue sky foreseeing, Play on, play on, My elfin John! |