A FRAGMENT THEY were two cousins, almost like two twins, Nature had razed their love-which could not be And so they grew together, like two flowers Which the same hand will gather-the same clime Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow The very idol of its portraiture; He faints, dissolved into a sense of love; But thou art as a planet sphered above, But thou art Love itself-ruling the motion Of his subjected spirit: such emotion Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May Had not brought forth this morn-your weddingday. ΤΟ ONE word is too often profaned One feeling too falsely disdained For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, The devotion to something afar GOOD-NIGHT. GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill Then it will be good night. How can I call the lone night good, To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night. A LAMENT. O WORLD! O life! O time! Trembling at that where I had stood before; Out of the day and night A joy has taken flight: Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar, Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight No more Oh, never more! SONNET. POLITICAL GREATNESS. NOR happiness, nor majesty, nor fame, DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. ORPHAN hours, the year is dead, Come and sigh, come and weep! Merry hours, smile instead, For the year is but asleep: As an earthquake rocks a corse As the wild air stirs and sways The tree-swung cradle of a child, So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year :-be calm and mild, Trembling hours; she will arise With new love within her eyes. January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; February bears the bier, March with grief doth howl and rave, And April weeps-but, O ye hours! Follow with May's fairest flowers. NOTE ON THE POEMS OF 1821. BY THE EDITOR. My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that which sealed our earthly fate; and each poem and each event it records, has a real or mysterious connexion with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that I am incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The heart of the man, abhorred of the poet, Who could peep and botanize upon his mother's grave, does not appear to me less inexplicably framed than that of one who can dissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans drawn from them in the throes of their agony. prophecy on his own destiny, when received among immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanished into emptiness before the fame he inherits. Shelley's favourite taste was boating; when living near the Thames, or by the lake of Geneva, much of his life was spent on the water. On the shore of every lake, or stream, or sea, near which he dwelt, he had a boat moored. He had latterly There are no enjoyed this pleasure again. pleasure-boats on the Arno, and the shallowness of its waters except in winter time, when the stream is too turbid and impetuous for boating, rendered it difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty; he, together with a friend, contrived a boat such as the huntsmen carry about with them in the Maremma, to cross the sluggish but deep streams that intersect the forests, a boat of laths and pitched canvas; it held three persons, and he was often seen on the Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who remonstrated on the danger, and could not understand how any one could take "Ma va The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the baths of San Giuliano. We were not, as our wont had been, alone-friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead; and when memory recurs to the past, she wanders among tombs: the genius with all his blighting errors and mighty powers; the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, and fearless; and others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his great knowledge and warm sympathy, delight, in-pleasure in an exercise that risked life. struction and solace, have joined him beyond the grave. A few survive who have felt life a desert since he left it. What misfortune can equal death? Change can convert every other into a blessing, or heal its sting-death alone has no cure; it shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread, it destroys its beauty, it casts down our shelter, it exposes us bare to desolation; when those we love have passed into eternity, "life is the desert and the solitude," in which we are forced to linger-drenched clothes made Shelley faint. Once I but never find comfort more. There is much in the Adonais which seems now more applicable to Shelley himself, than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towards his calumniators, are as a per la vita!" they exclaimed. I little thought how true their words would prove. He once ventured with a friend, on the glassy sea of a calm day, down the Arno and round the coast, to Leghorn, which by keeping close in shore was very practicable. They returned to Pisa by the canal, when, missing the direct cut, they got entangled among weeds, and the boat upset ; a wetting was all the harm done, except that the intense cold of his went down with him to the mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and swift, met the tideless sea and disturbed its sluggish waters; it was a waste and dreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point surrounded by waves that broke idly though perpetually around; it was z scene very similar to Lido, of which he had said, I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when we removed to the baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano, four miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks sheltered, by trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day, multitudes of ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the fire-flies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at noon day kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and more attached to the part of the country where chance appeared to cast us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm, situated on the height of one of the near hills, surrounded by chesnut and pine woods, and overlooking a wide extent of country; or of settling still further in the maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us. It is the nature of that poetry however which overflows from the soul oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed by the weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has recourse to the solace of expression in verse. Still Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers, instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on the shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy; Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided there were returned to England; and Monte Nero being the resort of many English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony of chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside at Via Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores of the Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was a vague idea; but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see whether it would be feasible to spend a summer there. The beauty of the bay enchanted him-we saw no house to suit us-but the notion took root, and many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to urge him to execute it. He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a periodical work, in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect of good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society, and instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not intend himself joining in the work; partly from pride, not wishing to have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with the compositions of more popular writers; and, also, because he might feel shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends were to be compromised; by those opinions, carried even to their utmost extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction not only true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement and happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might, meanwhile, either really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his thoughts, and this evil he resolved to avoid. And thus I went lamenting, when I saw The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth * * I bore it to my chamber, and I planted The mitigated influences of air And light revived the plant, and from it grew Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair, Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, O'erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere Of vital warmth, infolded it anew, And every impulse sent to every part The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong, Even if the sun and air had smiled not on it; For one wept o'er it all the winter long Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it To leave the gentle lips on which it slept, Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept. Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers On which he wept, the while the savage storm Waked by the darkest of December's hours Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm, The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers, The fish were frozen in the pools, the form Of every summer plant was dead [ Whilst this January, 1822. * J |