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. I must add a few words concerning the contents of this volume. "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. All his poems which were scattered in periodical works are collected in this volume, and I have added a reprint of "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude:" the difficulty with which a copy can be obtained is the cause of its republication. 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 them; 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. I feel secure that the lovers of Shelley's poetry (who know how, more than any 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. The size of this collection has prevented the insertion of any prose pieces. They will hereafter appear in a separate publication. MARY W. SHELLEY. LONDON, June 1, 1824. Which steal like streams along a field Through some cathedral window, but Long did she gaze, and silently, 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 And poured the magic of her gaze The broad and yellow moon Moved not the moonlight's line: The Fairy's frame was slight, yon That catches but the palest tinge of The day-stars of their age; -Soul of Stars! your balmiest influence shed! Elements! your wrath suspend! Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds That circle thy domain ! Let not a breath be seen to stir Around yon grass-grown ruin's height, Let even the restless gossamer Sleep on the moveless air! Soul of Ianthe! thou, Judged alone worthy of the envied boon, That waits the good and the sincere; that waits Those who have struggled, and with resolute will Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, burst the chains, The icy chains of custom, and have shone Each stain of earthliness Upon the couch the body lay Its features were fixed and meaning- Yet animal life was there, Pants for its sempiternal heritage, on; Fleets through its sad duration rapidly: Then like an useless and worn-out machine, Rots, perishes, and passes. FAIRY Spirit! who hast dived so deep; Spirit! who hast soared so high; Thou the fearless, thou the mild, Accept the boon thy worth hath earned, Ascend the car with me. SPIRIT Do I dream? Is this new feeling But a visioned ghost of slumber? The thoughts and actions of a well-spent Eddied above the mountain's loftiest peak, Was traced a line of lightning. The utmost verge of earth, Lowered o'er the silver sea. Far, far below the chariot's path, The mirror of its stillness showed |