Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O, cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not to its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy.

The world is weary of the past

O, might it die or rest at last!

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

384

THE SONG OF PAN

FROM the forests and highlands
We come, we come!

From the river-girt islands
Where loud waves are dumb,
Listening to my sweet pipings!

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,

And the lizards below in the grass,

Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing,
And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing
The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings.

The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the nymphs of the woods and waves,
To the edge of the moist river-lawns

And the brink of the dewy caves,

And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,
With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
I sang of the dædal Earth,

And of Heaven, and the Giant Wars,
And Love, and Death, and Birth-
And then I changed my pipings:
Singing how down the vale of Menalus
I pursued a maiden and clasped a reed!
Gods and men, we are all deluded thus:
It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed :
All wept, as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood,
At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

385

THE INDIAN SERENADE

I ARISE from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright:
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet

Hath led me-who knows how!
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream-
And the champak's odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart ;-
As I must on thine,

O belovéd as thou art!

O, lift me from the grass!

I die! I faint! I fail!

Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast-
O, press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last!

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

386

RARELY, RARELY, COMEST THOU

RARELY, rarely comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day
'Tis since thou art fled away.

How shall ever one like me
Win thee back again?
With the joyous and the free
Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false ! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.

As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;
Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not hear.

Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure :

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure;

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.

I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,

And the starry night,

Autumn evening, and the morn

When the golden mists are born.

I love snow, and all the forms
Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms—
Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,
And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;
Between thee and me

What difference?-But thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love-though he has wings,
And like light can flee;

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee

Thou art love and life! O, come,

Make once more my heart thy home!

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

387

I FEAR THY KISSES

I FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden,
Thou needest not fear mine:
My spirit is too deeply laden
Ever to burthen thine.

I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion,
Thou needest not fear mine:

Innocent is the heart's devotion
With which I worship thine.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

388

TO NIGHT

SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave,
Spirit of Night!

Out of the misty eastern cave,

Where all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,

Which make thee terrible and dear-
Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
Star-inwrought!

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day

Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-
Come, long sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried :-
'Wouldst thou me?'

Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noon-tide bee:-
'Shall I nestle near thy side?

Wouldst thou me?'-And I replied :-
No, not thee!

Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon!

Sleep will come when thou art fled.
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, belovéd Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon!

389

FROM THE ARABIC:

AN

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

IMITATION

My faint spirit was sitting in the light
Of thy looks, my love;

It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love.

Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight
Bore thee far from me;

My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,

Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,

Or the death they bear,

The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care;