in after years she was considered as little inferior (if at all so in the part of Lady Randolph) even to Mrs. Siddons.

THE CLOUD.

BY PERCY B. SHELLEY.

I.

I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting

flowers,

From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shades for the leaves when laid In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that

waken

The sweet buds every one,

When rocked to rest on their mother's

breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under,
And then again I dissolve it in rain,

And laugh as

I pass

in thunder.

II.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast ;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,

While I sleep in the arms of the blast. Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers, Lightning my pilot sits,

In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean with gentle motion, This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move In the depths of the purple sea;

VOL. II.

F

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or

stream.

The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

III.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead.
As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings,
An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit

sea beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove.

IV.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;