95
The tempest of the... 
Which fervid from its mountain source
Shallow, smooth and strong doth come,—­
Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea; 100
In morning’s smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth 105
Between the marble barriers which it clove
At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm
The wave that died the death which lovers love,
Living in what it sought; as if this spasm
Had not yet passed, the toppling mountains cling, 110
But the clear stream in full enthusiasm
Pours itself on the plain, then wandering
Down one clear path of effluence crystalline
Sends its superfluous waves, that they may fling
At Arno’s feet tribute of corn and wine;
Then, through the pestilential deserts wild
Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine,
It rushes to the Ocean.

NOTES:  58-61 List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic’s long black hair!  Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat’s emotions.’—­editions 1824, 1839. 61-67 Rossetti places these lines conjecturally between lines 51 and 52. 61-65 ‘are evidently an alternative version of 48-51’ (A.C.  Bradley). 95, 96 and stems The tempest of the wanting in editions 1824, 1839. 112 then Boscombe manuscript; until editions 1824, 1839 114 superfluous Boscombe manuscript; clear editions 1824, 1839. 117 pine Boscombe manuscript; fir editions 1824, 1839.

***

MUSIC.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]

1. 
I pant for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain, 5
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.

2. 
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, oh more,—­I am thirsting yet;
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it; 10
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.

3. 
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake,
When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, 15
And mist there was none its thirst to slake—­
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew
On the wings of the wind o’er the waters blue—­

4. 
As one who drinks from a charmed cup
Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, 20
Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,
Invites to love with her kiss divine...