With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . e in desolation masked ; — a PowerGirt round with weakness ; — it can scarce upliftThe weight of the superincumbent hour;It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speakIs it not broken ? On the withering flowerThe killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheekThe life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. XXXIIIHis head was bound with pansies overblown,And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;And a light
With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . e in desolation masked ; — a PowerGirt round with weakness ; — it can scarce upliftThe weight of the superincumbent hour;It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,A breaking billow ; — even whilst we speakIs it not broken ? On the withering flowerThe killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheekThe life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. XXXIIIHis head was bound with pansies overblown,And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,Round whose rude shaft dark ivy tresses grewYet dripping with the forests noonday dew,Yibrated, as the ever-beating heartShook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crewHe came the last, neglected and apart:A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunters dart. XXXIV All stood aloof, and at his partial moanSmiled through their tears; well knew that gentle bandWho in anothers fate now wept his own;As in the accents of an unknown sung new sorrow, sad Urania scanned[ 234 ] T)EH1ND Shelleyshouse ill — See Letter from Pisa, p. 248. THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 The Strangers mien, and murmured : Who art thou ? He answered not, but with a sudden handMade bare his branded and ensanguined brow,Which was like Cains or Christs — oh, that it shouldbe so! XXXV What softer voice is hushed over the dead ? ^Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown ?What form leans sadly oer the white mockery of monumental heavy heart heaving without a moan ?If it be He, who, gentlest of the , soothed, loved, honoured the departed one;Let me not vex, with inharmonious silence of that hearts accepted sacrifice. XXXVI Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh !What deaf and viperous murderer could crownLifes early cup with such a draught of woe ?The nameless worm would now itself disown:It felt, yet could escape the magic t
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