Was borne amid the crowd, as through the sky One of the million leaves of summer's bier; Old age and youth, manhood and infancy, Mixed in one mighty torrent did appear: Some flying from the thing they feared, and some Seeking the object of another's fear; And others, as with steps towards the tomb, Pored on the trodden worms that crawled beneath, And others mournfully within the gloom Of their own shadow walked and called it death; And some fled from it as it were a ghost, Half fainting in the affliction of vain breath. But more, with motions which each other crossed, Pursued or spurned the shadows the clouds threw, Or birds within the noon-day ether lost, Upon that path where flowers never grew-- And weary with vain toil and faint for thirst, Heard not the fountains, whose melodious dew Out of their mossy cells for ever burst; Nor felt the breeze which from the forest told Of grassy paths, and wood-lawn interspersed, With over-arching elms, and caverns cold, And violet banks where sweet dreams brood;--but they Pursued their serious folly as of old. Here let us break the chain of rhymes that are unbroken in the text, to notice the extraordinary skill with which the rhythm has been woven in one paragraph, suggesting by recurrences of sound the passing of a multitude, which is presented at the same time to the eye of fancy by accumulated images. The next eleven triplets introduce the presiding genius of the pageant. Students of Petrarch's "Trionfi" will not fail to note what Shelley owes to that poet, and how he has transmuted the definite imagery of mediaeval symbolism into something metaphysical and mystic. And as I gazed, methought that in the way The throng grew wilder, as the woods of June When the south wind shakes the extinguished day; And a cold glare, intenser than the noon But icy cold, obscured with blinding light The sun, as he the stars. Like the young moon-- When on the sunlit limits of the night Her white shell trembles amid crimson air, And whilst the sleeping tempest gathers might,-- Doth, as the herald of its coming, bear The ghost of its dead mother, whose dim form Bends in dark ether from her infant's chair; So came a chariot on the silent storm Of its own rushing splendour, and a Shape So sate within, as one whom years deform, Beneath a dusky hood and double cape, Crouching within the shadow of a tomb. And o'er what seemed the head a cloud-like crape Was bent, a dun and faint ethereal gloom Tempering the light. Upon the chariot beam A Janus-visaged Shadow did assume The guidance of that wonder-winged team; The shapes which drew it in thick lightnings Were lost:--I heard alone on the air's soft stream