POETRY.

SHELLEY'S CENTENARY. (AUGUST 4th, 1892.)

WITHIN a narrow span of time, Three princes of the realm of rhyme,

At height of youth or manhood's prime, From earth took wing, To join the fellowship sublime Who, dead, yet sing.

He, first, his earliest wreath who wove Of laurel grown in Latmian grove, Conquered by pain and hapless love Found calmer home, Roofed by the heaven that glows above Eternal Rome.

A. fierier soul, its own fierce prey, And cumbered with more mortal clay, At Missolonghi flamed away, And left the air Reverberating to this day Its loud despair.

Alike remote from Byron's scorn, And Keats's magic as of morn Bursting for ever newly-born On forests old, Waking a hoary world forlorn With touch of gold, Shelley, the cloud-begot, who grew Nourished on air and sun and dew, Into that Essence whence he drew His life and lyre Was fittingly resolved anew Through wave and fire.

'Twas like his rapid soul ! 'Twas meet That he, who brooked not Time's slow feet, With passage thus abrupt and fleet Should hurry hence, Eager the Great Perhaps to greet With Why ? and Whence?

Impatient of the world's fixed way, He ne'er could suffer God's delay, But all the future in a day Would build divine, And the whole past in ruins lay, An emptied shrine. Vain vision ! but the glow, the fire, The passion of benign desire, The glorious yearning, lift him higher Than many a soul That mounts a million paces nigher Its meaner goal.

And power is his, if naught besides, In that thin ether where he rides, Above the roar of human tides To ascend afar, Lost in a storm of light that hides His dizzy car.

Below, the unhasting world toils on, And here and there are victories won, Some dragon slain, some justice done, While, through the skies, A meteor rushing on the sun, He flares and dies.

But, as he cleaves you ether clear, Notes from the unatterupted Sphere He scatters to the enchanted ear Of earth's dim throng, Whose dissonance (loth more endear The showering song.

In other shapes than he forecast

The world is moulded : his fierce blast,—

His wild assault upon the Past, — These things are vain; Revolt is transient : what must last Is that pure strain, Which seems the wandering voices blent Of every virgin element,—

A sound from ocean caverns sent,—

An airy call From the pavilioned firmament O'erdoming all.

And in this world of worldlings, where Souls rust in apathy, and ne'er A great emotion shakes the air, And life flags tame, And rare is noble impulse, rare The impassioned aim, 'Tis no mean fortune to have heard A singer who, if errors blurred His sight, had yet a spirit stirred By vast desire, And ardour fledging the swift word With plumes of fire.

A creature of impetuous breath, Oar torpor deadlier than death He knew not ; whatsoe'er he saith Flashes with life : He spurreth men, he quickeneth To splendid strife.

And in his gusts of song he brings Wild odours shaken from strange wings, And unfamiliar whisperings From far lips blown,

While all the rapturous heart of things Throbs through his own,—

His own that from the burning pyre One who had loved his wind-swept lyre Out of the sharp teeth of the fire Unmolten drew, Beside the sea that in her ire Smote him and slew. WILLIAM WATSON.