'Twixt those twin worlds,-the world of Sleep, which gave
No dream to warn,-the tidal world of Death,
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth,-
Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the wave,
Rose from this couch that morn. Ah! did he brave
Only the sea?-or did man's deed of hell
Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable? . . .
No eye discerned, nor any power might save.
When that mist cleared, O Shelley! what dread veil
Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling Truth
Reigned sovereign guide through thy brief ageless youth?
Was the Truth thy Truth, Shelley?-Hush! All-Hail!
Past doubt, thou gav'st it; and in Truth's bright sphere
Art first of praisers, being most praisèd here.