LIBERTY. THE fiery mountains answer each other; From a single cloud the lightning flashes, An hundred are shuddering and tottering; the sound But keener thy gaze than the lightning's glare, From billow and mountain and exhalation And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night AN ALLEGORY. A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant Stands yawning on the highway of the life Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt And many passed it by with careless tread, Tracks every traveller even to where the dead Pause to examine,-these are very few, THE TOWER OF FAMINE.❤ AMID the desolation of a city, Which was the cradle, and is now the grave, Until its vital oil is spent or spilt: There stands the pile, a tower amid the towers Are by its presence dimmed-they stand aloof, Should glide and glow, till it became a mirror SONNET. YE hasten to the dead! What seek ye there, All that anticipation feigneth fair! Thou vainly curious Mind which wouldest guess With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path, A refuge in the cavern of grey death? O heart, and mind, and thoughts! What thing do you Hope to inherit in the grave below? * At Pisa there still exists the prison of Ugolino, which goes oy the name of "La Torre della Fame:" in the adjoining bulding the galley-slaves are confined. It is situated near the Ponte al Mare on the Arno. POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. EPIPSYCHIDION: VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY EMILIA V. NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF "L'anima amante si slancia furio del creato, e si crea nel infinito un Mondo tutto per essa, diverso assai da questo oscuro e pauroso baratro."— Her own words. My Song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Of such hard matter dost thou entertain; Whence, if by misadventure, chance should bring I prithee comfort thy sweet self again, ADVERTISEMENT. THE writer of the following lines died at Florence, as he was preparing for a voyage to one of the wildest of the Sporades, which he had bought, and where he had fitted up the ruins of an old building, and where it was his hope to have realised a scheme of life, suited perhaps to that happier and better world of which he is now an inhabitant, but hardly practicable in this. His life was singular; less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which it received from his own character and feelings. The present Poem, like the Vita Nuova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain class of readers without a matter-of-fact history of the circumstances to which it relates; and to a certain other class it must ever remain incomprehensible, from a defect of a common organ قلة S. of perception for the ideas of which it treats. Not but that, gran vergogna sarebbe a colui, che rimasse cosa sotto veste di figura, o di colore rettorico: e domandato non sapesse denudare le sue parole da cotal veste, in guisa che avessero verace intendimento. The present poem appears to have been intended by the writer as the dedication to some longer one. The stanza on the preceding page is almost a literal translation from Dante's famous canzone Voi ch' intendendo, il terzo ciel movete, &c. The presumptuous application of the concluding lines to his own composition will raise a smile at the expense of my unfortunate friend: be it a smile not of contempt, but pity. EPIPSYCHIDION. SWEET Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, High, spirit-winged Heart! who dost for ever Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human, Of light, and love, and immortality! Thou Moon beyond the clouds! Thou living Form قية Thou Wonder, and thou Beauty, and thou Terror With those clear drops, which start like sacred dew I never thought before my death to see I love thee; though the world by no thin name Or, that the name my heart lent to another Yet were one lawful and the other true, These names, though dear, could paint not, as is due, How beyond refuge I am thine. Ah me! I am not thine: I am a part of thee. Sweet Lamp! my moth-like Muse has burnt its wings, Or, like a dying swan who soars and sings, Young Love should teach Time, in his own grey style, All that thou art. Art thou not void of guile, A lovely soul formed to be blest and bless! A well of sealed and secret happiness, Whose waters like blithe light and music are, A Solitude, a Refuge, a Delight? A lute, which those whom love has taught to play She met me, Stranger, upon life's rough way, And lured me towards sweet Death; as Night by Day, Winter by Spring, or Sorrow by swift Hope, Led into light, life, peace. An antelope, |