And, ere the hoar-frost vanished, he (For years gone by leave each a deepen could read Its pictured footprints, as on spots of lawn ing shade), His spirit basked in its internal flame,- Its delicate brief touch in silence weaves As, when the black storm hurries round The likeness of the wood's remembered leaves. XXII And many a fresh Spring-morn would he awaken While yet the unrisen sun made glow, like iron Quivering in crimson fire, the peaks unshaken at night, Of mountains and blue isles which Slept in Marenghi still; but that all And in the moonless nights, when the dim ocean Heaved underneath the heaven, . . Starting from dreams . . . Communed with the immeasurable world; And felt his life beyond his limbs dilated, XXVII And, when he saw beneath the sunset's planet A black ship walk over the crimson ocean, Till his mind grew like that it contem- Its pennons streaming on the blasts that fan it, Its sails and ropes all tense and with out motion, Like the dark ghost of the unburied even Striding across the orange-coloured heaven, XXVIII The thought of his own kind who made the soul Which sped that winged shape through night and day,— The thought of his own country. . . FLOURISHING vine, whose kindling clusters glow Beneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee; Why dost thou curb not thine own For thou dost shroud a ruin, and below sacred rage? The rotting bones of dead antiquity. NOTE ON POEMS OF 1818, BY MRS. SHELLEY WE often hear of persons disappointed by a first visit to Italy. This was not Shelley's case. The aspect of its nature, its sunny vegetation of the country, and the noble sky, its majestic storms, of the luxuriant marble-built cities, enchanted him. The sight of the works of art was full enjoyment and wonder. He had not studied pictures or statues before; he now did so with the eye of taste, that referred not to the rules of schools, but to those of Nature and truth. The first entrance to Rome opened to him a scene of remains of antique grandeur that far surpassed his expectations; and the unspeakable beauty of Naples and its environs added to the impression he received of the transcendent and glorious beauty of Italy. Our winter was spent at Naples. Here he wrote the fragments of Marenghi and The Woodman and the Nightingale, which he afterwards threw aside. At this time, Shelley suffered greatly in health. He put himself under the care of a medical man, who promised great things, and made him endure severe bodily pain, without any good results. Constant and poignant physical suffering exhausted him; and though he preserved the appearance of cheerfulness, and often greatly enjoyed our wanderings in the environs of Naples, and our excursions on its sunny sea, yet many hours were passed when his thoughts, shadowed by illness, became gloomy, and then he escaped to solitude, and in verses, which he hid from fear of wounding me, poured forth morbid but too natural bursts of discontent and sadness. One looks back with unspeakable regret and gnawing remorse to such periods; fancying that, had one been more alive to the nature of his feelings, and more attentive to soothe them, such would not have existed. And yet, enjoying as he appeared to do every sight or influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine that any melancholy he showed was aught but the effect of the constant pain to which he was a martyr. We lived in utter solitude. And such is often not the nurse of cheerfulness; for then, at least with those who have been exposed to adversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too intently; while the society of the enlightened, the witty, and the wise, enables us to forget ourselves by making us the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a portion of the philosophy of happiness. Shelley never liked society in numbers,— it harassed and wearied him; but neither did he like loneliness, and usually, when alone, sheltered himself against memory and reflection in a book. But, with one or two whom he loved, he gave way to He wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious conversation expounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence. If an argument arose, no man ever argued better. was clear, logical, and earnest, in supporting his own views; attentive, patient, and impartial, while listening to those on the adverse side. Had not a wall of prejudice been raised at this time between him and his countrymen, how many would have sought the acquaintance of one whom to know was to love and to revere! How many of the more enlightened of his contemporaries have since regretted that they did not seek him! how very few knew his worth while he lived! and, of those few, several were withheld by timidity or envy from declaring their sense of it. But no man was ever more enthusiastically loved -more looked up to, as one superior to his fellows in intellectual endowments and moral worth, by the few who knew him well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to appreciate his superiority. His excellence is now acknowledged; but, even while admitted, not duly appreciated. For who, except those who were acquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied benevolence, his generosity, his systematic forbearance? And still less is his vast superiority in intellectual attainments sufficiently understood-his sagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, his prodigious memory. All these, as displayed in conversation, were known to few while he lived, and are now silent in the tomb : "Ahi orbo mondo ingrato! Gran cagion hai di dover pianger meco, POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819 LINES WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRA TION I CORPSES are cold in the tomb; Stones on the pavement are dumb ; Abortions are dead in the womb, |