fault each appearance in the sky, and the varied phenomena of heaven and earth filled him with deep emotion. He made his study and reading-room of the shadowed copse, the stream, the lake, and the water-fall. Ill health and continual pain preyed upon his powers; and the solitude in which we lived, particularly on our first arrival in Italy, although congenial to his feelings, must frequently have weighed upon his spirits: those beautiful and affecting Lines, written in Dejection at Naples,' were composed at such an interval; but, when in health, his spirits were buoyant and youthful to an extraordinary degree. "Such was his love for nature, that every page of his poetry is associated in the minds of his friends with the loveliest scenes of the countries which he inhabited. In early life he visited the most beautiful parts of this country and Ireland. Afterwards the Alps of Switzerland became his inspirers. 'Prometheus Unbound' was written among the deserted and flower-grown ruins of Rome; and, when he made his home under the Pisan hills, their roofless recesses harboured him as he composed 'The Witch of Atlas,' 'Adonais,' and 'Hellas.' In the wild but beautiful Bay of Spezia, the winds and waves. which he loved became his playmates. His days were chiefly spent on the water; the management of his boat, its alterations and improvements, were his principal occupation. At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the calm sea, he often went alone in his little shallop to the rocky caves that bordered it, and, sitting beneath their shelter, wrote 'The Triumph of Life,' the last of his productions. The beauty but strangeness of this lonely place, the refined pleasure which he felt in the companionship of a few selected friends, our entire sequestration from the rest of the world, all contributed to render this period of his life one of continued enjoyment. I am convinced that the two months we passed there were the happiest he had ever known his health even rapidly improved, and he was never better than when I last saw him, full of spirits and joy, embark for Leghorn, that he might there welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy. I was to have accompanied him, but illness confined me to my room, and thus put the seal on my misfortune. His vessel bore out of sight with a favourable wind, and I remained awaiting his return by the breakers of that sea which was about to engulf him. "He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind offices towards his friend, and enjoying with keen delight the renewal of their intercourse. He then embarked with Mr. Williams, the chosen and beloved sharer of his pleasures and of his fate, to return to us. We waited for them in vain; the sea by its restless moaning seemed to desire to inform us of what we would not learn:—but a veil may be drawn over such misery. The real anguish of these mo. ments transcended all the fictions that the most glowing imagination ever pourtrayed: our seclusion, the savage nature of the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our immediate vicinity to the troubled sea, combined to imbue with strange horror our days of uncertainty. The truth was at last known,-a truth that made our loved and lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every heart echoed the deep lament; and my only consolation was in the praise and earnest love that each voice bestowed and each countenance demonstrated for him we had lost, not, I fondly hope, for ever: his unearthly and elevated nature is a pledge of the continuation of his being, although in an altered form. Rome received his ashes; they are deposited beneath its weed-grown wall, and 'the world's sole monument' is enriched by his remains. "Julian and Maddalo,' 'The Witch of Atlas,' and most of the Translations, were written some years ago, and, with the exception of the Cyclops,' and the scenes from the 'Magico Prodigioso,' may be considered as having received the author's ultimate corrections. The Triumph of Life' was his last work, and was left in so unfinished a state, that I arranged it in its present form with great difficulty. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the occasion, and never retouched, I found among his manuscript books, and have carefully copied : I have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the date of their composition. "I do not know whether the critics will reprehend the insertion of some of the most imperfect among these; but I frankly own, that I have been more actuated by the fear lest any monument of his genius should escape me, than the wish of presenting nothing but what was complete to the fastidious reader. feel secure that the Lovers of Shelley's Poetry (who know how more than any other poet of the present day every line and word he wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will pardon and thank me: I consecrate this volume to them. 66 'London, June 1, 1824." "MARY W. SHELLEY. I The above outline of Mr. Shelley's life and writings is taken from an edition of his Poetical Works, published at Paris in 1829, by A. and W. Galig nani, J. W. TO HARRIET ** Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world, Virtue's most sweet reward? Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul Harriet on thine :-thou wert my purer mind; Thou wert the inspiration of my song; Thine are these early wilding flowers, Though garlanded by me. Then press unto thy breast this pledge of love, And know, though time may change and years may roll, Each flowret gathered in my heart It consecrates to thine. QUEEN MAB. I. How wonderful is Death, When throned on ocean's wave Hath then the gloomy Power Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view As breathing marble, perish? Leave nothing of this heavenly sight Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Will Ianthe wake again, And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life, and rapture from her smile? Yes! she will wake again, Although her glowing limbs are motionless, Once breathing eloquence, That might have soothed a tiger's rage, Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. B Her dewy eyes are closed, And on their lids, whose texture fine Her golden tresses shade Curling like tendrils of the parasite Hark! whence that rushing sound? Are like the moonbeams when they fall Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen! Upon the slumbering maid. Oh! not the visioned poet in his dreams, When silvery clouds float through the wildered brain, When every sight of lovely, wild and grand Astonishes, enraptures, elevates, When fancy at a glance combines As that which reined the coursers of the air, The broad and yellow moon Shone dimly through her form That form of fauntless symmetry; ? |