Shelley, born of faith and passion, Nobler far than gain and fashion; Daring eaglet arm'd with lightning, Firing soon thy native nest, Still the eternal blaze is brightening Ocean where thy pinions rest.
Heroes, prophets, bards, and sages, Gods and men of climes and ages, Conquerors of lifelong sorrow, Torment that ye made your throne, Help, Oh! help in us the morrow, Full of triumph like your own.
"If aught on earth assault may bide Of ceaseless time and shifting tide, Beloved! I swear to thee It is the truth of hearts that love, United in a world above The moment's misty sea.
"Oh! sweeter than the light of dawn, Than music in the woods withdrawn From clamours of the crowd, A new creation all our own, Unvisited by scoff or groan, Is faith in silence vow'd.
"Two hearts by reason nobly sad, Nor rashly blind, nor lightly glad, Possess they not a bliss In their communion, felt and full, Beyond all custom's deadly rule? For life is only this.
"In sighs we met, in sighs and sobs, Such grief as from the wretched robs The hope to heaven allied: Great calm was ours, a strength severe, Though wet with many a scalding tear, When soul to soul replied.
"Of thy dark eyes and gentle speech, The memory has a power to teach What know not many wise. New stars may rise, the ancient fade, But not for us, my own pale maid, Be lost that pure surprise--
"The pure delight, the awful change, Chief miracle in wonder's range, That binds the twain in one; While fear, foes, friends, and angry Fate, And all that wreck our mortal state Shall pass, like motes i' the sun.
"In his fine frame the throstle feels The music that his note reveals; And spite of shafts and nets, How better is the dying bird Than some dumb stone that ne'er was heard, That arrow never threats?
"Disdaining man, the mountains rise; Is love less kindred with the skies, Or less their Maker's will? The strains, without a human cause, Flow on, unheeding lies and laws-- Will hearts for words be still?
"What cliffs oppose, what oceans roll, What frowns o'ershade the weeping soul, Alas! were long to tell. But something is there more than these, Than frowns and coldness, rocks and seas: Until its hour--farewell!"
So sang the vassal bard by night, Beneath his high-born lady's light That from her turret shone. Next morning in the forest glade His corpse was found. Her brother's blade Had cut his bosom's bone.