‘Ay, alive and still bold.’ muttered Earth,
’Napoleon’s fierce spirit rolled,
In terror and blood and gold, 35
A torrent of ruin to death from his birth. 
Leave the millions who follow to mould
The metal before it be cold;
And weave into his shame, which like the dead
Shrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.’ 40

***

SONNET:  POLITICAL GREATNESS.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.  There is a transcript, headed “Sonnet to the Republic of Benevento”, in the Harvard manuscript book.]

Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;
Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,
History is but the shadow of their shame, 5
Art veils her glass, or from the pageant starts
As to oblivion their blind millions fleet,
Staining that Heaven with obscene imagery
Of their own likeness.  What are numbers knit
By force or custom?  Man who man would be, 10
Must rule the empire of himself; in it
Must be supreme, establishing his throne
On vanquished will, quelling the anarchy
Of hopes and fears, being himself alone.

***

THE AZIOLA.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley in “The Keepsake”, 1829.]

1. 
’Do you not hear the Aziola cry? 
Methinks she must be nigh,’
Said Mary, as we sate
In dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;
And I, who thought 5
This Aziola was some tedious woman,
Asked, ‘Who is Aziola?’ How elate
I felt to know that it was nothing human,
No mockery of myself to fear or hate: 
And Mary saw my soul, 10
And laughed, and said, ’Disquiet yourself not;
‘Tis nothing but a little downy owl.’

2. 
Sad Aziola! many an eventide
Thy music I had heard
By wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, 15
And fields and marshes wide,—­
Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,
The soul ever stirred;
Unlike and far sweeter than them all. 
Sad Aziola! from that moment I 20
Loved thee and thy sad cry.

NOTES:  4 ere stars]ere the stars editions 1839. 9 or]and editions 1839. 19 them]they editions 1839.

***

A LAMENT.

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

1. 
O world!  O life!  O time! 
On whose last steps I climb,
Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime? 
No more—­Oh, never more! 5