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Sweet lamp! my moth-like muse has burnt its wings;
EXISTENCE IN SPACE.
Life, like a dome of many-colored glass,
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it ;
For thee to disdain it.
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
And the Heaven's reject not?
Of the night for the morrow;
From the sphere of our sorrow.
TO A LADY WITH A GUITAR.
Ariel to Miranda :-Take This slave of music, for the sake Of him who is the slave of thee; And teach it all the harmony In which thou canst, and only thou, Make the delighted spirit glow, Till joy denies itself again, And, too intense, is turned to pain. For by permission and command Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, Poor Ariel sends this silent token Of more than ever can be spoken : Your guadian spirit, Ariel, who From life to life must still pursue Your happiness, for thus alone Can Ariel ever find his own : From Prospero's enchanted cell, As the mighty verses tell, To the throne of Naples he Lit you o'er the trackless sea, Flitting on, your prow before, Like a living meteor : When you die, the silent moon In her interlunar swoon, Is not sadder in her cell Than deserted Ariel : When you live again on earth, Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea Of life from your nativity. Many changes have been run, Since Ferdinand and you begun Your course of love, and Ariel still Has track'd your steps and serv'd your will. Now in humbler, happier lot, This is all remember d not; And now, alas! the poor sprite is Imprisoned for some fault of his In a body like a grave. From you, he only dares to crave, For his service and his sorrow, A smile to-day-a song to-morrow.
The artist who this idol wrought, To echo all harmonious thought, Fell'd a tree, while on the steep The woods were in their winter sleep, Rock'd in that repose divine On the wind-swept Appenine : And dreaming, some of autumn past, And some of spring approaching fast, And some of April buds and showers, And some of songs in July bowers, And all of love : and so this treeO that such our death may be!— Died in sleep, and felt no pain, To live in happier form again: From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star, The artist wrought this lov'd Guitar, And taught it justly to reply To all who question skilfully, In language gentle as thine own; Whispering in enamor'd tone Sweet oracles of woods and dells, And summer winds in sylvan cells; For it had learnt all harmonies Of the plains and of the skies, Of the forest and the mountains, And the many-voicèd fountains, The clearest echoes of the hills, The softest notes of falling rills, The melodies of birds and bees, The murmuring of summer seas, And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound,
This is a Catullian melody of the first water. The transform. ation of the dreaming wood of the tree into a guitar was proba. bly suggested by Catullus's Dedication of the Galley,-a poem with which I know he was conversant, and which was particu. larly calculated to please him ; for it records the consecration of a favorite old sea-boat to the Dioscuri. The modern poet's imagination beats the ancient; but Catullus equals him in graceful flow; and there is one very Shelleian passage in the original :
Ubi iste, post phaselus, antea fuit
For of old, what now you see