I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake;
Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek,
Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak,
Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake;
But more when o’er thy fitful slumber bending _5
Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart,
Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending,
All that thy passive eyes can feel impart:
More, when some feeble lineaments of her,
Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, _10
As with deep love I read thy face, recur,—
More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom;
Dearest when most thy tender traits express
The image of thy mother’s loveliness.
***
SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
[Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 58.]
See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast;
It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale—is fast.
Paler is yon maiden; _5
Faster is her heart’s decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away.
***
FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
[Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 56.]
The Elements respect their Maker’s seal!
Still Like the scathed pine tree’s height,
Braving the tempests of the night
Have I ‘scaped the flickering flame.
Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands _5
Of faded grandeur, which the brands
Of the tempest-shaken air
Have riven on the desolate heath;
Yet it stands majestic even in death,
And rears its wild form there. _10,
***