our former bereavement inspiring us with terror. We seemed to take root here, and moved little afterwards; often, indeed, entertaining projects for visiting other parts of Italy, but still delaying. But for our fears on account of our child, I believe we should have wandered over the world, both being passionately fond of travelling. But human life, besides its great unalterable necessities, is ruled by a thousand lilliputian ties that shackle at the time, although it is difficult to account afterwards for their influence over our destiny.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824, and dated January 1, 1821.]
Orphan Hours, the Year is dead,
Come and sigh, come and weep!
Merry Hours, smile instead,
For the Year is but asleep.
See, it smiles as it is sleeping, 5
Mocking your untimely weeping.
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold Year today; 10
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.
As the wild air stirs and sways
The tree-swung cradle of a child,
So the breath of these rude days 15
Rocks the Year:—becalm and mild,
Trembling Hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.
January gray is here,
Like a sexton by her grave; 20
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps—but, ye Hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.
TO NIGHT
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. There is a transcript in the Harvard MS. Book.]
Swiftly walk o'er[1] 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, 5
Which make thee terrible and dear,—
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; 10
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!
- ↑ To Night—1 o'er Harvard MS.; over edd. 1824, 1839.
