Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/723

 But when I speak—thou dost not say What thou ne'er left'st unsaid; And now I feel, as well I may, Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, All cold and all serene— I still might press thy silent heart, And where thy smiles have been. While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have, Thou seemest still mine own; But there—I lay thee in thy grave, And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art, Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart In thinking too of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore!

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

1792-1822

605. Hymn of Pan

From the forests and highlands We come, we come; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings.