GOOD-NIGHT. "GOOD-NIGHT?" No, love! the night is ill Which severs those it should unite; Let us remain together still, That it will be good night. How were the night without thee good, The hearts that on each other beat TIME LONG PAST. LIKE the ghost of a dear friend dead A tone which is now forever fled, There were sweet dreams in the night And, was it sadness or delight, Each day a shadow onward cast Which made us wish it yet might last That time long past. There is regret, almost remorse, For time long past. 'Tis like a child's beloved corse A father watches, till at last Beauty is like remembrance cast From time long past. SONNET. YE hasten to the dead: what seek ye there, Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear? Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess Seeking alike from happiness and woe A refuge in the cavern of grey death? e b O heart and mind and thoughts! what thing do you C. NOTES ON THE POEMS OF 1820. P. 215. Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmæan Mænad. See the Baccha of Euripides. This and the former poem were a drama on the subject of Midas. prize in music. P. 224. written at the request of a friend, to be inserted in Apollo and Pan contended before Tmolus for the P. 252. From Helicon or Himeros. "Iuepos, from which the river Himera was named, is, with some slight shade of difference, a synonym of Love. P. 252. The author has connected many recollections of his visit to Pompeii and Baie with the enthusiasm excited by the intelligence of the proclamation of a constitutional government at Naples. This has given a tinge of picturesque and descriptive imagery to the introductory epodes, which depicture the scenes, and some of the majestic feelings, permanently connected with the scene of this animating event. P. 252. I stood within the city disinterred. Pompeii. P. 253. Of the dead kings of melody. Homer and Virgil. P. 255. From the Eaan. Exa, the Island of Circe. P. 255. The viper's palsying venom. The viper was the armorial device of the Visconti, tyrants of Milan. P. 259. The Tower of Famine. At Pisa there still exists the prison of Ugolino, which goes by the name of "La Torre della Fame:" in the adjoining building the galley-slaves are confined. It is situated near the Ponte al Mare on the Arno. NOTES ON POEMS OF 1820, BY MRS. SHELLEY. We spent the latter part of the year 1819 in Florence, where Shelley passed several hours daily in the Gallery, and made various notes on its ancient works of art. His thoughts were a good deal taken up also by the project of a steamboat, undertaken by a friend, an engineer, to ply between Leghorn and Marseilles, for which he supplied a sum of money. This was a sort of plan to delight Shelley, and he was greatly disappointed when it was thrown aside. There was something in Florence that disagreed excessively with his health, and he suffered far more pain than usual; so much so that we left it sooner than we intended, and removed to Pisa, where we had some friends, and, above all, where we could consult the celebrated Vaccà as to the cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every other medical man, could only guess at that, and gave little hope of immediate relief; he enjoined him to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and to leave his complaint to nature. As he had vainly consulted medical men of the highest repute in England, he was easily persuaded to adopt this advice. Pain and ill-health followed him to the end; but the residence at Pisa agreed with him better than any other, and there in consequence we remained. In the Spring we spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing the house of some friends who were absent on a journey to England. -It was on a beautiful summer evening, while wandering among the lanes whose myrtle hedges were the bowers of the fireflies, that we heard the carolling of the sky-lark which inspired one of the most beautiful of his poems. He addressed the letter to Mrs. Gisborne from this house, which was hers; he had made his study of the workshop of her son, who was an engineer. Mrs. Gisborne had been a friend of my father in her younger days. She was a lady of great accomplishments, and charming from her frank and affectionate nature. She had the most intense love of knowledge, a delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved freshness of mind after a life of considerable adversity. As a favourite friend of my father, we had sought her with eagerness; and the most open and cordial friendship was established between us. Our subsequent stay at the Baths of San Giuliano was shortened by an accident. At the foot of our garden ran the canal that communicated between the Serchio and the Arno. The Serchio overflowed its banks, and, breaking its bounds, this canal also overflowed; all this part of the country is below the level of its rivers, and the consequence was that it was speedily flooded. The rising waters filled the Square of the Baths, in the lower part of which our house was situated.. The canal overflowed in the garden behind; the rising waters on either side at last burst open the doors, and, meeting in the house, rose to the height of six feet. It was a picturesque sight at night to see the peasants driving the cattle from the plains below to the hills above the Baths. A fire was kept up to guide them across the ford; and the forms of the men and the animals showed in dark relief against the red glare of the flame, which was reflected again in the waters that filled the Square. We then removed to Pisa, and took up our abode there for the winter. The extreme mildness of the climate suited Shelley, and his solitude was enlivened by an intercourse with several intimate friends. Chance cast us strangely enough on this quiet half-unpeopled town; but its very peace suited Shelley. Its river, the near mountains, and not distant sea, added to its attractions, and were the objects of many delightful excursions. We feared the south of Italy, and a hotter climate, on account of our child; our former bereavement inspiring us with terror. We seemed to take root here, and moved little afterwards; often, indeed, entertaining projects for visiting other parts of Italy, but still delaying. But for our fears on account of our child, I believe we should have wandered over the world, both being passionately fond of travelling. But human life, besides its great unalterable necessities, is ruled by a thousand lilliputian ties that shackle at the time, although it is difficult to account afterwards for their influence over our destiny. POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821. DIRGE FOR THE YEAR. I. "ORPHAN Hours, the Year is dead! For the Year is but asleep : II. "As an earthquake rocks a corse So white Winter, that rough nurse, Rocks the dead-cold Year to-day; For your Mother in her shroud." III. "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, IV. "January grey is here, Like a sexton by her grave; March with grief doth howl and rave; 1 January 1821. TO NIGHT. I. SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight, Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear II. Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; Kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city and sea and land, III. When I arose and saw the dawn, I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to her rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. |