Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

I.
Thou wert not, Cassius, and thou couldst not be,
Last of the Romans, though thy memory claim
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Extract from Poetical Essay

Millions to fight compell'd, to fight or die
In mangled heaps on War's red altar lie . . .
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'Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,
Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,
The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,
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I.
Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes,
Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,
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Ariel to Miranda:-- Take
This slave of music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee;
And teach it all the harmony
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Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,
In the pathless dell beneath,
Hark! night ravens loudly sing,
Tidings of despair and death.--
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I.
As from an ancestral oak
Two empty ravens sound their clarion,
Yell by yell, and croak by croak,
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BY MICHING MALLECHO, Esq.

Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch-some sipping tea;
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Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,
The least of which wronged Memory ever makes
Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears.
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Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
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