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scribe. Some of the minor poems— The Cloud,' 'The Skylark,' &c.—are imbued with a fine lyrical and poetic spirit. One striking peculiarity of his style is his constant personification of inanimate objects. In • The Cenci' we have a strong and almost terrible illustration of this feature of his poetry:
'Tis twilight, and at sunset blackest night. The Flight of the Hours in ‘Prometheus' is equally vivid, and touched with a wild inimitable grace:
hese are the immortal Hours,
Opening of Queen Mab.
Seized on her sinless soul? Death and his brother sleep!
Must then that peerless form One, pale as yonder waning moon, Which love and admiration cannot view With lips of lurid blue;
Without a beating heart, those azure veis The other, rosy as the morn
Which steal like streams along a field of When, throned on ocean's wave,
snow, It blushes o'er the world:
That lovely outline, which is fair Yet both so passing wonderful !
As breathing marble, perish ?
Must putrefaction's breath Hath then the gloomy Power,
Leave nothing of this heavenly sight Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres, But loathsomeness and ruin?
Spare nothing but a gloomy theme Which, wandering on the echoing On which the lightest heart might moral- shore, ise ?
The enthusiast hears at evening! Or is it only a sweet slumber
"Tis softer than the west wind's sign: Stealing o'er sensation,
'Tis wilder than the unmeasured notes Which the breath of roseate morning Of that strange lyre whose 8. rings Chaseth into darkness ?
The genii of the breezes sweep. Will Ianthe wake again,
Those lines of rainbow light And give that faithful bosom joy
Are like the moonbeams when they fall Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Through some cathedral window, but the Light, life, and rapture from her smile? teints
Are such as may not find Her dewy eyes are closed,
Comparison on earth. And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs be- Behold the chariot of the fairy queen! neath,
Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; The baby Sleep is pillowed :
Their filmy pennons at her word they Her golden tresses shade
furl, The bosom's stainless pride,': And stop obedient to the reins or light: Curling like tendrils of the parasite These the queen of spells drew in ; Around a marble column.
She spread a charm around the spot,
And leaning graceful from the ethereal Hark! whence that rushing sound ?
car, 'Tis like the wondrous strain
Long did she gaze, and silently, That round a lonely ruin swells,
Upon the slumbering maid.
The Cloud. *
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet birds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the green plains under;
And laugh as I pass in thunder.
And their great pines groan aghast;
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Lightning, my pilot, sits;
It struggles and howls at fits;
This pilot is guiding me, * 'The odes To the Skylark and The Cloud, in the opinion of many critics, bear a parer poetical stamp than any other of his prodactions. They were written as his mind prompted. listening to the carolling of the bird aloft in the azure sky of Italy; or marking the cloud as it sped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. His extreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectual pursuits, and rendered his mind keenly alive to every perception of outward objects. as well as his internal sensations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of human life, the disappointments we meet, and the galling sense of our own mistakes and errors, fraught with pain; to escape from such he delivered up his soul to poetry, and felt happy when he sheltered himself from the influence of human sympathies in the wildest regions of fancy.'-MRS. SHELLEY, Pref. to Poet. Works.
Lured by the love of the genii-that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The spirit he loves remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
And his burning plumes outspread,
When the morning-star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
In the light of its golden wings;
Its ardours of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
Whom mortals call the Moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
Like a gwarm of golden bees,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl ;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-coloured bow ;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
To a Skylark.
Bird thou never wert,
Pourest thy full heart
Higher still, and higher,
From the earth thou springest,
The blue deep thou wingest,
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
Thon dost float and run,
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
In the broad daylight
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
In the white dawn clear,
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
From one lonely cloud
What is most like thee?
Drops so bright to see,
Like a poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Til the world is wrought
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soul in secret hour
Like a glowworm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue
Like a rose embowered
In its own green leaves,
Till the scent it gives
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine;
Praise of love or wine
Or triumphal chant,
But an empty vaunt-
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain ?
What shapes ' sky or plain ?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be :
Never came near thee:
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Than we mortals dream,
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
Not to shed a tear,
Better than all measures
Of delight and sound,
That in books are found,
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
From my lips would flow,