POEMS OF SHELLEY

OZYMANDIAS OF EGYPT

I MET a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter'd visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp'd on these lifeless things,

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The hand that mock'd them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

ΙΟ

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!".
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION NEAR
NAPLES

THE sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon's transparent might:
The breath of the moist earth is light
Around its unexpanded buds;

Like many a voice of one delight—

The winds', the birds', the ocean-floods'-
The city's voice itself is soft like Solitude's.

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I see the deep's untrampled floor

With green and purple sea-weeds strown;

I see the waves upon the shore

Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone;

The lightning of the noon-tide ocean

Is flashing round me, and a tone

Arises from its measured motion

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,

Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content, surpassing wealth,
The sage in meditation found,

IO

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And walk'd with inward glory crown'd

Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure;

Others I see whom these surround

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Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Yet now despair itself is mild

Even as the winds and waters are;

I could lie down like a tired child,

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And weep away the life of care

Which I have borne, and yet must bear,-

Till death like sleep might steal on me,

And I might feel in the warm air

My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.

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LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS

MANY a green isle needs must be
In the deep wide sea of Misery,
Or the mariner, worn and wan,
Never thus could voyage on

Day and night, and night and day,
Drifting on his dreary way,
With the solid darkness black
Closing round his vessel's track;
Whilst above, the sunless sky
Big with clouds, hangs heavily,
And behind the tempest fleet
Hurries on with lightning feet,
Riving sail, and cord, and plank,
Till the ship has almost drank

Death from the o'er-brimming deep;

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With which the legion'd rooks did hail
The Sun's uprise majestical:

Gathering round with wings all hoar,

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Through the dewy mist they soar

Like gray shades, till the eastern heaven

Bursts; and then,- -as clouds of even
Fleck'd with fire and azure, lie
In the unfathomable sky,-
So their plumes of purple grain
Starr'd with drops of golden rain
Gleam above the sunlight woods,
As in silent multitudes
On the morning's fitful gale
Through the broken mist they sail;
And the vapors cloven and gleaming
Follow down the dark steep streaming,
Till all is bright, and clear, and still
Round the solitary hill.

Beneath is spread like a green sea
The waveless plain of Lombardy,
Bounded by the vaporous air,
Islanded by cities fair;
Underneath Day's azure eyes,
Ocean's nursling, Venice lies,-
A peopled labyrinth of walls,
Amphitrite's destined halls,
Which her hoary sire now paves
With his blue and beaming waves.

Lo! the sun upsprings behind,
Broad, red, radiant, half-reclined
On the level quivering line

Of the waters crystalline;

And before that chasm of light,

As within a furnace bright,

Column, tower, and dome, and spire,

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