PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere

Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst : O hear !

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Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams

The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss, and flowers

So sweet, the sense faints picturing them ! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray \vith fear, And tremble and despoil themselves : O hear !

��IV

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee; A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

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