(Common ®f)istlr. 245 
He has outsoared the shadow of our night; 
Envy and calumny, and hate and pain, 
And that unrest which men miscall delight, 
Can touch him not and torture not again; 
From the contagion of the world’s slow stain 
He is secure, and now can never mourn 
A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain; 
Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn, 
With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 
Shelley. 
They too, who mid the scornful thoughts that dwell 
In his rich fancy, tinging all its streams, 
As if the Star of Bitterness which fell 
On earth of old, and touched them with its beams, 
Can track a spirit, which, though driven to hate. 
From Nature’s hands came kind, affectionate; 
And which, even now, struck as it is with blight, 
Comes out, at times, in love’s own native light— 
How gladly all, who’ve watched these struggling rays 
Of a bright, ruined spirit through his lays, 
Would here inquire, as from his own frank lips, 
What desolating grief, what wrongs had driven 
That noble nature into cold eclipse— 
Like some fair orb, that, once a sun in heaven, 
And born, not only to surprise, but cheer 
With warmth and lustre all within its sphere, 
Is now so quenched, that, of its grandeur, lasts 
Naught but the wide cold shadow which it casts! 
Moore. 
21* 
