hand Or life's sweet load in quietude to bear While millions famish even in Luxury's hall, Nature's primaeval loveliness has And Tyranny, high raised, stern lowers on all? Let Misery linger speechless, pale | Our primal parents from their bower and lean; of bliss I am the friend of the unfriended (Reared by Thine hand) for errors not poor, 35 their own 25 Let me not madly stain their righteous By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, cause in gore. foreknown? Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness. TO IANTHE [Published by Dowden, Life of Shelley, 1887. Composed September, 1813.] I LOVE thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake; Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek, |