Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The spirit he loves remains;

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,
And his burning plumes outspread,

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 ardors 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, As still as a brooding dove.

IV.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn ;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

Are each paved with the moon and these.

V.

I bind the sun's throne with the burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.

The triumphal arch through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair,
Is the million-colored bow;

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

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;
I change, but I cannot die.

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.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.1

1 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, born in 1792, was the son of Sir Timothy Shelley, and of ancient family. He was educated at Eton and went thence to University College, Oxford, whence he was expelled in 1811 for publishing a tract entitled A Defence Atheism. He then wrote his first important poem, Queen

PRO PATRIA MORI.

WHEN he who adores thee has left but the name
Of his fault and his sorrows behind,

O!

say,
wilt thou weep, when they darken the fame
Of a life that for thee was resigned?

Yes, weep, and however my foes may condemn,
Thy tears shall efface their decree;

For, Heaven can witness, though guilty to them,
I have been but too faithful to thee.

With thee were the dreams of my earliest love;
Every thought of my reason was thine :

In

my last humble prayer to the Spirit above
Thy name shall be mingled with mine!

O blest are the lovers and friends who shall live
The days of thy glory to see;

But the next dearest blessing that Heaven can give Is the pride of thus dying for thee.

THOMAS Moore.

Mab, and not long after married Miss Harriet Westbrooke. This marriage proved very unhappy, and Shelley and his wife soon separated. In 1816 Mrs. Shelley committed suicide, and Shelley then married Mary, the daughter of the celebrated William Godwin and his hardly less celebrated wife, Mary Wollstonecraft. This second marriage was a happy one. Shelley went to Italy, where he passed the rest of his life supported by an allowance from his father, and where he was constantly in the society of Lord Byron. In July, 1822, when he was out sailing, a squall came up, the boat capsized, and Shelley and his companions were drowned. His writings are almost wholly in verse, and many of his poems are of the most perfect and finished beauty. His mind, however, was morbid almost to the verge of disease and this gives a peculiar tone to all his poetry.

I'HE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM FATHERS

THE breaking waves dashed high

On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods, against a stormy sky,
Their giant branches tost ;

And the heavy night hung dark

The hills and waters o'er,

When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,

They, the true-hearted, came,
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame;

They shook the depths of the desert gloom

With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,

And the stars heard, and the sea!

And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang

To the anthem of the free!

The ocean-eagle soared

From his nest by the white wave's foam,
And the rocking pines of the forest roared, –
This was their welcome home!

Why had they come to wither there

Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,

Lit by her deep love's truth;

There was manhood's brow, serenely high,

And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine !

Ay, call it holy ground,

The soil where first they trod !

They have left unstained what there they found

Freedom to worship God!

FELICIA HEMANS.

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.

O FOR the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

The dying hero's call,

That told imperial Charlemagne,
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain
Had wrought his champion's fall.

Sad over earth and ocean sounding,
And England's distant cliffs astounding,
Such are the notes should say