***

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821.

DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, and dated January 1, 1821.]

1. 
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.

2. 
As an earthquake rocks a corse
In its coffin in the clay,
So White Winter, that rough nurse,
Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; 10
Solemn Hours! wail aloud
For your mother in her shroud.

3. 
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:—­be calm and mild,
Trembling Hours, she will arise
With new love within her eyes.

4. 
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, O ye Hours! 
Follow with May’s fairest flowers.

***

TO NIGHT.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.  There is a transcript in the Harvard manuscript book.]

1. 
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, 5
’Which make thee terrible and dear,—­
Swift be thy flight!

2. 
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!

3. 
When I arose and saw the dawn, 15
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. 20

4. 
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me? 
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noontide bee, 25
Shall I nestle near thy side? 
Wouldst thou me?—­And I replied,
No, not thee!

5. 
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon—­ 30
Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night—­
Swift be thine approaching flight,
Come soon, soon! 35