2. 
Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, 10
Dares fearless to perish defending her brood,
Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches
Thirsting—­ay, thirsting for blood;
And demands, like mankind, his brother for food;
Yet more lenient, more gentle than they; 15
For hunger, not glory, the prey
Must perish.  Revenge does not howl in the dead. 
Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer’s head.

3. 
Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains,
And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air, 20
Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains,
Though a fiercer than tiger is there. 
Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair,
Though its shadow eclipses the day,
And the darkness of deepest dismay 25
Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around,
And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

4. 
They came to the fountain to draw from its stream
Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see;
They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam, 30
Then perished, and perished like me. 
For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee;
The most tenderly loved of my soul
Are slaves to his hated control. 
He pursues me, he blasts me!  ’Tis in vain that I fly:  35 —
What remains, but to curse him,—­to curse him and die?

***

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1809-10.  The poem, with title as above, is included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. 
Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes,
Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,
In which the warm current of love never freezes,
As it rises unmingled with selfishness there,
Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, 5
Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise,
Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.

2. 
Or where the stern warrior, his country defending,
Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour,
Or o’er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending, 10
Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore
Plants Liberty’s flag on the slave-peopled shore,
With victory’s cry, with the shout of the free,
Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee.

3. 
For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning, 15
Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain,
When to others the wished-for arrival of morning
Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain;
But regret is an insult—­to grieve is in vain: 
And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair 20
Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there?