That moment is gone for ever,
Like lightning that flashed and died--
Like a snowflake upon the river--
Like a sunbeam upon the tide,
Which the dark shadows hide.
Like lightning that flashed and died--
Like a snowflake upon the river--
Like a sunbeam upon the tide,
Which the dark shadows hide.
Shelley copy
'
'Better--Quite well,' replied
The sleeper. --'What would do _39
You good when suffering and awake?
What cure your head and side? --'
'What would cure, that would kill me, Jane:
And as I must on earth abide
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break
My chain. ' _45
NOTES;
_1, _10 Sleep Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
Sleep on 1832, 1839, 1st edition.
_16 charmed Trelawny manuscript;
chased 1832, editions 1839.
_21 love]woe 1832.
_42 so Trelawny manuscript
'Twould kill me what would cure my pain 1832, editions 1839.
_44 Awhile yet, cj. A. C. Bradley.
***
LINES: 'WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED'.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.
There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts. ]
1.
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead--
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken, _5
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
2.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute, _10
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:--
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges _15
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
3.
When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed. _20
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
4.
Its passions will rock thee _25
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home _30
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
NOTES:
_6 tones edition 1824; notes Trelawny manuscript.
_14 through edition 1824; in Trelawny manuscript.
_16 dead edition 1824; lost Trelawny manuscript.
_23 choose edition 1824; chose Trelawny manuscript.
_25-_32 wanting Trelawny manuscript.
***
TO JANE: THE INVITATION.
[This and the following poem were published together in their original
form as one piece under the title, "The Pine Forest of the Cascine near
Pisa", by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824; reprinted in the same
shape, "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition; republished separately in
their present form, "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition. There is a
copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts. ]
Best and brightest, come away!
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake _5
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born, _10
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains, _15
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. _20
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs--
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find _25
An echo in another's mind,
While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustomed visitor:-- _30
'I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields;--
Reflection, you may come to-morrow,
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. --
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,--
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- _35
I will pay you in the grave,--
Death will listen to your stave.
Expectation too, be off!
To-day is for itself enough; _40
Hope, in pity mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on thy sweet food,
At length I find one moment's good
After long pain--with all your love, _45
This you never told me of. '
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains _50.
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun;
Where the lawns and pastures be, _55
And the sandhills of the sea;--
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers, and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue, _60
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous _65
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
NOTES:
_34 with Trelawny manuscript; of 1839, 2nd edition.
_44 moment's Trelawny manuscript; moment 1839, 2nd edition.
_50 And Trelawny manuscript; To 1839, 2nd edition.
_53 dun Trelawny manuscript; dim 1839, 2nd edition.
***
TO JANE: THE RECOLLECTION.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition.
See the Editor's prefatory note to the preceding. ]
1.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace _5
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
2.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam, _10
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep _15
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise. _20
3.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath, _25
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea, _30
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
4.
How calm it was! --the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker _35
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew. _40
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around _45
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there _50
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
5.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky _55
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day-- _60
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, _65
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen, _70
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath, _75
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed; _80
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind's too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind, _85
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
NOTES:
_6 fled edition. 1824; dead Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition.
_10 Ocean's]Ocean 1839, 2nd edition.
_24 Interlaced, 1839; interlaced; cj. A. C. Bradley.
_28 own; 1839 own, cj. A. C. Bradley.
_42 white Trelawny manuscript; wide 1839, 2nd edition
_87 Shelley's Trelawny manuscript; S--'s 1839, 2nd edition. ]
***
THE PINE FOREST OF THE CASCINE NEAR PISA.
[This, the first draft of "To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection",
was published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824, and reprinted,
"Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition. See Editor's Prefatory Note to
"The Invitation", above. ]
Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow, _5
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering, _10
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February's bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, _15
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains, _20
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains, _25
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun-- _30
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead, _35
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. _40
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep, _45
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies, _50
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude _55
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound _60
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat _65
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life; _70
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;--
And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love _75
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee? _80
We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light _85
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day--
In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air, _90
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament _95
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud. _100
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath _105
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought, _110
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S--'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen. _116.
***
WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE.
[Published by Medwin, "The Athenaeum", October 20, 1832; "Frazer's
Magazine", January 1833. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny
manuscripts. ]
Ariel to Miranda:--Take
This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee,
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou, _5
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain;
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, _10
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,
From life to life, must still pursue
Your happiness;--for thus alone _15
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples, he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea, _20
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity. _30
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps, and served your will;
Now, in humbler, happier lot, _35
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave;--
From you he only dares to crave, _40
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile today, a song tomorrow.
The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep _45
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast, _50
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,--
O that such our death may be! --
Died in sleep, and felt no pain, _55
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully, _60
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learned all harmonies _65
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills, _70
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound, _75
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way. --
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well _80
The Spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray _85
These secrets of an elder day:
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone. _90
NOTES:
_12 Of more than ever]Of love that never 1833.
_46 woods Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
winds 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_58 this Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
that 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_61 thine own Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
its own 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_76 on Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
in 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_90 Jane Trelawny manuscript; friend 1832, 1833, editions 1839.
***
TO JANE: 'THE KEEN STARS WERE TWINKLING'.
[Published in part (lines 7-24) by Medwin (under the title, "An Ariette
for Music. To a Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar"), "The
Athenaeum", November 17, 1832; reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical
Works", 1839, 1st edition. Republished in full (under the title, To
--. ), "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition. The Trelawny manuscript is
headed "To Jane". Mr. C. W. Frederickson of Brooklyn possesses a
transcript in an unknown hand. ]
1.
The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane!
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them _5
Again.
2.
As the moon's soft splendour
O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender _10
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.
3.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
To-night; _15
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
4.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing _20
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
NOTES:
_3 Dear *** 1839, 2nd edition.
_7 soft]pale Fred. manuscript.
_10 your 1839, 2nd edition. ;
thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript.
_11 had then 1839, 2nd edition; has 1832, 1839, 1st edition;
hath Fred. manuscript.
_12 Its]Thine Fred. manuscript.
_17 your 1839, 2nd edition;
thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript.
_19 sound]song Fred. manuscript.
_20 your dear 1839, 2nd edition; thy sweet 1832, 1839, 1st edition;
thy soft Fred. manuscript.
***
A DIRGE.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain, _5
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,--
Wail, for the world's wrong!
NOTE:
_6 strain cj. Rossetti; stain edition 1824.
***
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI.
[Published from the Boscombe manuscripts by Dr. Garnett, "Macmillan's
Magazine", June, 1862; reprinted, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light, _5
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I stayed alone
Thinking over every tone _10
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;
And feeling ever--oh, too much! -- _15
The soft vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her _20
That even Fancy dares to claim:--
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone
In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot, _25
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The daemon reassumed his throne
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak _30
I sat and saw the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
O'er some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far; _35
As if to some Elysian star
Sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.
And the wind that winged their flight
From the land came fresh and light, _40
And the scent of winged flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp _45
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought _50
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace!
NOTES:
_11 though silent Relics 1862; though now silent Mac. Mag. 1862.
_31 saw Relics 1862; watched Mac. Mag. 1862.
***
LINES: 'WE MEET NOT AS WE PARTED'.
[Published by Dr. Garnett, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
1.
We meet not as we parted,
We feel more than all may see;
My bosom is heavy-hearted,
And thine full of doubt for me:--
One moment has bound the free. _5
2.
That moment is gone for ever,
Like lightning that flashed and died--
Like a snowflake upon the river--
Like a sunbeam upon the tide,
Which the dark shadows hide. _10
3.
That moment from time was singled
As the first of a life of pain;
The cup of its joy was mingled
--Delusion too sweet though vain!
Too sweet to be mine again. _15
4.
Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden
That its life was crushed by you,
Ye would not have then forbidden
The death which a heart so true
Sought in your briny dew. _20
5.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Methinks too little cost
For a moment so found, so lost! _25
***
THE ISLE.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
There was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven:
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves, _5
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven;--
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave _10
A lake's blue chasm.
***
FRAGMENT: TO THE MOON.
[Published by Dr. Garnett, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven,
To whom alone it has been given
To change and be adored for ever,
Envy not this dim world, for never
But once within its shadow grew _5
One fair as--
***
EPITAPH.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
These are two friends whose lives were undivided;
So let their memory be, now they have glided
Under the grave; let not their bones be parted,
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
***
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
This morn thy gallant bark
Sailed on a sunny sea:
'Tis noon, and tempests dark
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! ah woe!
By Spirits of the deep
Thou'rt cradled on the billow
To thy eternal sleep.
Thou sleep'st upon the shore
Beside the knelling surge,
And Sea-nymphs evermore
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
They come, they come,
The Spirits of the deep,--
While near thy seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.
From far across the sea
I hear a loud lament,
By Echo's voice for thee
From Ocean's caverns sent.
O list! O list!
The Spirits of the deep!
They raise a wail of sorrow,
While I forever weep.
With this last year of the life of Shelley these Notes end. They are
not what I intended them to be. I began with energy, and a burning
desire to impart to the world, in worthy language, the sense I have of
the virtues and genius of the beloved and the lost; my strength has
failed under the task. Recurrence to the past, full of its own deep and
unforgotten joys and sorrows, contrasted with succeeding years of
painful and solitary struggle, has shaken my health. Days of great
suffering have followed my attempts to write, and these again produced
a weakness and languor that spread their sinister influence over these
notes. I dislike speaking of myself, but cannot help apologizing to the
dead, and to the public, for not having executed in the manner I
desired the history I engaged to give of Shelley's writings. (I at one
time feared that the correction of the press might be less exact
through my illness; but I believe that it is nearly free from error.
Some asterisks occur in a few pages, as they did in the volume of
"Posthumous Poems", either because they refer to private concerns, or
because the original manuscript was left imperfect. Did any one see the
papers from which I drew that volume, the wonder would be how any eyes
or patience were capable of extracting it from so confused a mass,
interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sense could only be
deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem rather intuitive than
founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made. )
The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that season
winter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but few
days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extreme
beauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on the
subject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama;
full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He
had recommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a
play. Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, or
whether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings and
wanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he best
loved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside for
one of the most mystical of his poems, the "Triumph of Life", on which
he was employed at the last.
His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among our
friends several sailors. His favourite companion, Edward Ellerker
Williams, of the 8th Light Dragoons, had begun his life in the navy,
and had afterwards entered the army; he had spent several years in
India, and his love for adventure and manly exercises accorded with
Shelley's taste. It was their favourite plan to build a boat such as
they could manage themselves, and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at
every hour and season the pleasure they loved best. Captain Roberts,
R. N. , undertook to build the boat at Genoa, where he was also occupied
in building the "Bolivar" for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open boat,
on a model taken from one of the royal dockyards. I have since heard
that there was a defect in this model, and that it was never seaworthy.
In the month of February, Shelley and his friend went to Spezia to seek
for houses for us. Only one was to be found at all suitable; however, a
trifle such as not finding a house could not stop Shelley; the one
found was to serve for all. It was unfurnished; we sent our furniture
by sea, and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from his
impatience, made our removal. We left Pisa on the 26th of April.
The Bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and divided by a rocky
promontory into a larger and smaller one. The town of Lerici is
situated on the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller bay,
which bears the name of this town, is the village of San Terenzo. Our
house, Casa Magni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the
door, a steep hill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on
which it was situated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house
at the summit of the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being
finished, and it was falling into ruin. He had (and this to the
Italians had seemed a glaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted
up the olives on the hillside, and planted forest trees. These were
mostly young, but the plantation was more in English taste than I ever
elsewhere saw in Italy; some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled
their dark massy foliage, and formed groups which still haunt my
memory, as then they satiated the eye with a sense of loveliness. The
scene was indeed of unimaginable beauty. The blue extent of waters, the
almost landlocked bay, the near castle of Lerici shutting it in to the
east, and distant Porto Venere to the west; the varied forms of the
precipitous rocks that bound in the beach, over which there was only a
winding rugged footpath towards Lerici, and none on the other side; the
tideless sea leaving no sands nor shingle, formed a picture such as one
sees in Salvator Rosa's landscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine
vanished when the sirocco raged--the 'ponente' the wind was called on
that shore. The gales and squalls that hailed our first arrival
surrounded the bay with foam; the howling wind swept round our exposed
house, and the sea roared unremittingly, so that we almost fancied
ourselves on board ship. At other times sunshine and calm invested sea
and sky, and the rich tints of Italian heaven bathed the scene in
bright and ever-varying tints.
The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbours of San
Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived
among. Many a night they passed on the beach, singing, or rather
howling; the women dancing about among the waves that broke at their
feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud wild
chorus. We could get no provisions nearer than Sarzana, at a distance
of three miles and a half off, with the torrent of the Magra between;
and even there the supply was very deficient. Had we been wrecked on an
island of the South Seas, we could scarcely have felt ourselves farther
from civilisation and comfort; but, where the sun shines, the latter
becomes an unnecessary luxury, and we had enough society among
ourselves. Yet I confess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task,
especially as I was suffering in my health, and could not exert myself
actively.
At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was expected with great
impatience. On Monday, 12th May, it came. Williams records the
long-wished-for fact in his journal: 'Cloudy and threatening weather.
M. Maglian called; and after dinner, and while walking with him on the
terrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of Porto
Venere, which proved at length to be Shelley's boat. She had left Genoa
on Thursday last, but had been driven back by the prevailing bad winds.
A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they speak
most highly of her performances. She does indeed excite my surprise and
admiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off the
land to try her: and I find she fetches whatever she looks at. In
short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer. '--It was thus
that short-sighted mortals welcomed Death, he having disguised his grim
form in a pleasing mask! The time of the friends was now spent on the
sea; the weather became fine, and our whole party often passed the
evenings on the water when the wind promised pleasant sailing. Shelley
and Williams made longer excursions; they sailed several times to
Massa. They had engaged one of the seamen who brought her round, a boy,
by name Charles Vivian; and they had not the slightest apprehension of
danger. When the weather was unfavourable, they employed themselves
with alterations in the rigging, and by building a boat of canvas and
reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the other for the
convenience of landing in waters too shallow for the larger vessel.
When Shelley was on board, he had his papers with him; and much of the
"Triumph of Life" was written as he sailed or weltered on that sea
which was soon to engulf him.
The heats set in in the middle of June; the days became excessively
hot. But the sea-breeze cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always
put Shelley in spirits. A long drought had preceded the heat; and
prayers for rain were being put up in the churches, and processions of
relics for the same effect took place in every town. At this time we
received letters announcing the arrival of Leigh Hunt at Genoa. Shelley
was very eager to see him. I was confined to my room by severe illness,
and could not move; it was agreed that Shelley and Williams should go
to Leghorn in the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed our
minds! Living on the sea-shore, the ocean became as a plaything: as a
child may sport with a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest,
and spreads destruction over all, so did we fearlessly and blindly
tamper with danger, and make a game of the terrors of the ocean. Our
Italian neighbours, even, trusted themselves as far as Massa in the
skiff; and the running down the line of coast to Leghorn gave no more
notion of peril than a fair-weather inland navigation would have done
to those who had never seen the sea. Once, some months before, Trelawny
had raised a warning voice as to the difference of our calm bay and the
open sea beyond; but Shelley and his friend, with their one sailor-boy,
thought themselves a match for the storms of the Mediterranean, in a
boat which they looked upon as equal to all it was put to do.
On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow of future ill darkened
the present hour, such was over my mind when they went. During the
whole of our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of coming evil
brooded over my mind, and covered this beautiful place and genial
summer with the shadow of coming misery. I had vainly struggled with
these emotions--they seemed accounted for by my illness; but at this
hour of separation they recurred with renewed violence. I did not
anticipate danger for them, but a vague expectation of evil shook me to
agony, and I could scarcely bring myself to let them go. The day was
calm and clear; and, a fine breeze rising at twelve, they weighed for
Leghorn. They made the run of about fifty miles in seven hours and a
half. The "Bolivar" was in port; and, the regulations of the
Health-office not permitting them to go on shore after sunset, they
borrowed cushions from the larger vessel, and slept on board their
boat.
They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The want of rain was severely
felt in the country. The weather continued sultry and fine. I have
heard that Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits. Not long
before, talking of presentiment, he had said the only one that he ever
found infallible was the certain advent of some evil fortune when he
felt peculiarly joyous. Yet, if ever fate whispered of coming disaster,
such inaudible but not unfelt prognostics hovered around us. The beauty
of the place seemed unearthly in its excess: the distance we were at
from all signs of civilization, the sea at our feet, its murmurs or its
roaring for ever in our ears,--all these things led the mind to brood
over strange thoughts, and, lifting it from everyday life, caused it to
be familiar with the unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us; and each
day, as the voyagers did not return, we grew restless and disquieted,
and yet, strange to say, we were not fearful of the most apparent
danger.
The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt--of
days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took
firmer root even as they were more baseless--was changed to the
certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors
for evermore.
There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains of
those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the
coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them--the law with
respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be
burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague
into Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length,
through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge
d'Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after
the bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in
carrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions,
and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was a
fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and
blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt
relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose.
And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that
remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory
to the world--whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and
good,--to be buried with him!
The concluding stanzas of the "Adonais" pointed out where the remains
ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay
buried in the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley's ashes were conveyed;
and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur
at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He
selected the hallowed place himself; there is
'the sepulchre,
Oh, not of him, but of our joy! --
. . .
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. '
Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left
behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in
Shelley's fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so
mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner
all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that
remains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it
invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied
may regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse all
such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it now
seems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figures
his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen
upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away,
no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched the
vessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its
homeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore,
when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and several
larger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Roberts
looked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except
their little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he could
scarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have
been driven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation
made as to the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found,
through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in
ten fathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as had
floated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had been
placed when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Roberts
possessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy,
and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the
Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked. )--who but will regard as a
prophecy the last stanza of the "Adonais"?
'The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven,
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. '
Putney, May 1, 1839.
THE COMPLETE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
VOLUME 3
OXFORD EDITION.
INCLUDING MATERIALS NEVER BEFORE
PRINTED IN ANY EDITION OF THE POEMS.
EDITED WITH TEXTUAL NOTES
BY
THOMAS HUTCHINSON, M. A.
EDITOR OF THE OXFORD WORDSWORTH.
1914.
CONTENTS.
TRANSLATIONS.
HYMN TO MERCURY. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.
HOMER'S HYMN TO CASTOR AND POLLUX.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE SUN.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH: MOTHER OF ALL.
HOMER'S HYMN TO MINERVA.
HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS.
THE CYCLOPS: A SATYRIC DRAMA. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.
EPIGRAMS:
1. TO STELLA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
2. KISSING HELENA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
3. SPIRIT OF PLATO. FROM THE GREEK.
4. CIRCUMSTANCE. FROM THE GREEK.
FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS. FROM THE GREEK OF BION.
FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
FROM VERGIL'S TENTH ECLOGUE.
THE SAME.
'Better--Quite well,' replied
The sleeper. --'What would do _39
You good when suffering and awake?
What cure your head and side? --'
'What would cure, that would kill me, Jane:
And as I must on earth abide
Awhile, yet tempt me not to break
My chain. ' _45
NOTES;
_1, _10 Sleep Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
Sleep on 1832, 1839, 1st edition.
_16 charmed Trelawny manuscript;
chased 1832, editions 1839.
_21 love]woe 1832.
_42 so Trelawny manuscript
'Twould kill me what would cure my pain 1832, editions 1839.
_44 Awhile yet, cj. A. C. Bradley.
***
LINES: 'WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED'.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.
There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts. ]
1.
When the lamp is shattered
The light in the dust lies dead--
When the cloud is scattered
The rainbow's glory is shed.
When the lute is broken, _5
Sweet tones are remembered not;
When the lips have spoken,
Loved accents are soon forgot.
2.
As music and splendour
Survive not the lamp and the lute, _10
The heart's echoes render
No song when the spirit is mute:--
No song but sad dirges,
Like the wind through a ruined cell,
Or the mournful surges _15
That ring the dead seaman's knell.
3.
When hearts have once mingled
Love first leaves the well-built nest;
The weak one is singled
To endure what it once possessed. _20
O Love! who bewailest
The frailty of all things here,
Why choose you the frailest
For your cradle, your home, and your bier?
4.
Its passions will rock thee _25
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky.
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home _30
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.
NOTES:
_6 tones edition 1824; notes Trelawny manuscript.
_14 through edition 1824; in Trelawny manuscript.
_16 dead edition 1824; lost Trelawny manuscript.
_23 choose edition 1824; chose Trelawny manuscript.
_25-_32 wanting Trelawny manuscript.
***
TO JANE: THE INVITATION.
[This and the following poem were published together in their original
form as one piece under the title, "The Pine Forest of the Cascine near
Pisa", by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824; reprinted in the same
shape, "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition; republished separately in
their present form, "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition. There is a
copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts. ]
Best and brightest, come away!
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake _5
In its cradle on the brake.
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born, _10
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains, _15
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. _20
Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs--
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find _25
An echo in another's mind,
While the touch of Nature's art
Harmonizes heart to heart.
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustomed visitor:-- _30
'I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields;--
Reflection, you may come to-morrow,
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow. --
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,--
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,-- _35
I will pay you in the grave,--
Death will listen to your stave.
Expectation too, be off!
To-day is for itself enough; _40
Hope, in pity mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on thy sweet food,
At length I find one moment's good
After long pain--with all your love, _45
This you never told me of. '
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains,
And the pools where winter rains _50.
Image all their roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Of sapless green and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun;
Where the lawns and pastures be, _55
And the sandhills of the sea;--
Where the melting hoar-frost wets
The daisy-star that never sets,
And wind-flowers, and violets,
Which yet join not scent to hue, _60
Crown the pale year weak and new;
When the night is left behind
In the deep east, dun and blind,
And the blue noon is over us,
And the multitudinous _65
Billows murmur at our feet,
Where the earth and ocean meet,
And all things seem only one
In the universal sun.
NOTES:
_34 with Trelawny manuscript; of 1839, 2nd edition.
_44 moment's Trelawny manuscript; moment 1839, 2nd edition.
_50 And Trelawny manuscript; To 1839, 2nd edition.
_53 dun Trelawny manuscript; dim 1839, 2nd edition.
***
TO JANE: THE RECOLLECTION.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition.
See the Editor's prefatory note to the preceding. ]
1.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead,
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
Up,--to thy wonted work! come, trace _5
The epitaph of glory fled,--
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow.
2.
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam, _10
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep,
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the bosom of the deep _15
The smile of Heaven lay;
It seemed as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies,
Which scattered from above the sun
A light of Paradise. _20
3.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced;
And, soothed by every azure breath, _25
That under Heaven is blown,
To harmonies and hues beneath,
As tender as its own,
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,
Like green waves on the sea, _30
As still as in the silent deep
The ocean woods may be.
4.
How calm it was! --the silence there
By such a chain was bound
That even the busy woodpecker _35
Made stiller by her sound
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew. _40
There seemed from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste,
To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,--
A spirit interfused around _45
A thrilling, silent life,--
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;
And still I felt the centre of
The magic circle there _50
Was one fair form that filled with love
The lifeless atmosphere.
5.
We paused beside the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,--
Each seemed as 'twere a little sky _55
Gulfed in a world below;
A firmament of purple light
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And purer than the day-- _60
In which the lovely forests grew,
As in the upper air,
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any spreading there.
There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, _65
And through the dark green wood
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Out of a speckled cloud.
Sweet views which in our world above
Can never well be seen, _70
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath
With an Elysian glow,
An atmosphere without a breath, _75
A softer day below.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast,
Its every leaf and lineament
With more than truth expressed; _80
Until an envious wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought,
Which from the mind's too faithful eye
Blots one dear image out.
Though thou art ever fair and kind, _85
The forests ever green,
Less oft is peace in Shelley's mind,
Than calm in waters, seen.
NOTES:
_6 fled edition. 1824; dead Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition.
_10 Ocean's]Ocean 1839, 2nd edition.
_24 Interlaced, 1839; interlaced; cj. A. C. Bradley.
_28 own; 1839 own, cj. A. C. Bradley.
_42 white Trelawny manuscript; wide 1839, 2nd edition
_87 Shelley's Trelawny manuscript; S--'s 1839, 2nd edition. ]
***
THE PINE FOREST OF THE CASCINE NEAR PISA.
[This, the first draft of "To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection",
was published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824, and reprinted,
"Poetical Works", 1839, 1st edition. See Editor's Prefatory Note to
"The Invitation", above. ]
Dearest, best and brightest,
Come away,
To the woods and to the fields!
Dearer than this fairest day
Which, like thee to those in sorrow, _5
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake
In its cradle in the brake.
The eldest of the Hours of Spring,
Into the Winter wandering, _10
Looks upon the leafless wood,
And the banks all bare and rude;
Found, it seems, this halcyon Morn
In February's bosom born,
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, _15
Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free;
And waked to music all the fountains,
And breathed upon the rigid mountains, _20
And made the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,
Awake! arise! and come away!
To the wild woods and the plains, _25
To the pools where winter rains
Image all the roof of leaves,
Where the pine its garland weaves
Sapless, gray, and ivy dun
Round stems that never kiss the sun-- _30
To the sandhills of the sea,
Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,
All beautiful and bright as thou,
The loveliest and the last, is dead, _35
Rise, Memory, and write its praise!
And do thy wonted work and trace
The epitaph of glory fled;
For now the Earth has changed its face,
A frown is on the Heaven's brow. _40
We wandered to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The lightest wind was in its nest,
The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep, _45
The clouds were gone to play,
And on the woods, and on the deep
The smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were one
Sent from beyond the skies, _50
Which shed to earth above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,
The giants of the waste,
Tortured by storms to shapes as rude _55
With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was--the silence there
By such a chain was bound,
That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound _60
The inviolable quietness;
The breath of peace we drew
With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat _65
Of the white mountain's waste
To the bright flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced;--
A spirit interfused around,
A thinking, silent life; _70
To momentary peace it bound
Our mortal nature's strife;--
And still, it seemed, the centre of
The magic circle there,
Was one whose being filled with love _75
The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grew
Under that ilex-tree
As beautiful in scent and hue
As ever fed the bee? _80
We stood beneath the pools that lie
Under the forest bough,
And each seemed like a sky
Gulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light _85
Which in the dark earth lay,
More boundless than the depth of night,
And clearer than the day--
In which the massy forests grew
As in the upper air, _90
More perfect both in shape and hue
Than any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lent
To the dark water's breast
Its every leaf and lineament _95
With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,
And through the dark green crowd
The white sun twinkling like the dawn
Under a speckled cloud. _100
Sweet views, which in our world above
Can never well be seen,
Were imaged by the water's love
Of that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath _105
With an Elysian air,
An atmosphere without a breath,
A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,
Like an unwelcome thought, _110
Which from my mind's too faithful eye
Blots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,
The forest ever green,
But less of peace in S--'s mind,
Than calm in waters, seen. _116.
***
WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE.
[Published by Medwin, "The Athenaeum", October 20, 1832; "Frazer's
Magazine", January 1833. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny
manuscripts. ]
Ariel to Miranda:--Take
This slave of Music, for the sake
Of him who is the slave of thee,
And teach it all the harmony
In which thou canst, and only thou, _5
Make the delighted spirit glow,
Till joy denies itself again,
And, too intense, is turned to pain;
For by permission and command
Of thine own Prince Ferdinand, _10
Poor Ariel sends this silent token
Of more than ever can be spoken;
Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,
From life to life, must still pursue
Your happiness;--for thus alone _15
Can Ariel ever find his own.
From Prospero's enchanted cell,
As the mighty verses tell,
To the throne of Naples, he
Lit you o'er the trackless sea, _20
Flitting on, your prow before,
Like a living meteor.
When you die, the silent Moon,
In her interlunar swoon,
Is not sadder in her cell
Than deserted Ariel.
When you live again on earth,
Like an unseen star of birth,
Ariel guides you o'er the sea
Of life from your nativity. _30
Many changes have been run
Since Ferdinand and you begun
Your course of love, and Ariel still
Has tracked your steps, and served your will;
Now, in humbler, happier lot, _35
This is all remembered not;
And now, alas! the poor sprite is
Imprisoned, for some fault of his,
In a body like a grave;--
From you he only dares to crave, _40
For his service and his sorrow,
A smile today, a song tomorrow.
The artist who this idol wrought,
To echo all harmonious thought,
Felled a tree, while on the steep _45
The woods were in their winter sleep,
Rocked in that repose divine
On the wind-swept Apennine;
And dreaming, some of Autumn past,
And some of Spring approaching fast, _50
And some of April buds and showers,
And some of songs in July bowers,
And all of love; and so this tree,--
O that such our death may be! --
Died in sleep, and felt no pain, _55
To live in happier form again:
From which, beneath Heaven's fairest star,
The artist wrought this loved Guitar,
And taught it justly to reply,
To all who question skilfully, _60
In language gentle as thine own;
Whispering in enamoured tone
Sweet oracles of woods and dells,
And summer winds in sylvan cells;
For it had learned all harmonies _65
Of the plains and of the skies,
Of the forests and the mountains,
And the many-voiced fountains;
The clearest echoes of the hills,
The softest notes of falling rills, _70
The melodies of birds and bees,
The murmuring of summer seas,
And pattering rain, and breathing dew,
And airs of evening; and it knew
That seldom-heard mysterious sound, _75
Which, driven on its diurnal round,
As it floats through boundless day,
Our world enkindles on its way. --
All this it knows, but will not tell
To those who cannot question well _80
The Spirit that inhabits it;
It talks according to the wit
Of its companions; and no more
Is heard than has been felt before,
By those who tempt it to betray _85
These secrets of an elder day:
But, sweetly as its answers will
Flatter hands of perfect skill,
It keeps its highest, holiest tone
For our beloved Jane alone. _90
NOTES:
_12 Of more than ever]Of love that never 1833.
_46 woods Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
winds 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_58 this Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
that 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_61 thine own Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
its own 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_76 on Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition;
in 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition.
_90 Jane Trelawny manuscript; friend 1832, 1833, editions 1839.
***
TO JANE: 'THE KEEN STARS WERE TWINKLING'.
[Published in part (lines 7-24) by Medwin (under the title, "An Ariette
for Music. To a Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar"), "The
Athenaeum", November 17, 1832; reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, "Poetical
Works", 1839, 1st edition. Republished in full (under the title, To
--. ), "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition. The Trelawny manuscript is
headed "To Jane". Mr. C. W. Frederickson of Brooklyn possesses a
transcript in an unknown hand. ]
1.
The keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane!
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them _5
Again.
2.
As the moon's soft splendour
O'er the faint cold starlight of Heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender _10
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.
3.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
To-night; _15
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
4.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing _20
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
NOTES:
_3 Dear *** 1839, 2nd edition.
_7 soft]pale Fred. manuscript.
_10 your 1839, 2nd edition. ;
thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript.
_11 had then 1839, 2nd edition; has 1832, 1839, 1st edition;
hath Fred. manuscript.
_12 Its]Thine Fred. manuscript.
_17 your 1839, 2nd edition;
thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript.
_19 sound]song Fred. manuscript.
_20 your dear 1839, 2nd edition; thy sweet 1832, 1839, 1st edition;
thy soft Fred. manuscript.
***
A DIRGE.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain, _5
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,--
Wail, for the world's wrong!
NOTE:
_6 strain cj. Rossetti; stain edition 1824.
***
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI.
[Published from the Boscombe manuscripts by Dr. Garnett, "Macmillan's
Magazine", June, 1862; reprinted, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
She left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
The azure path of Heaven's steep,
And like an albatross asleep,
Balanced on her wings of light, _5
Hovered in the purple night,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
In the chambers of the West.
She left me, and I stayed alone
Thinking over every tone _10
Which, though silent to the ear,
The enchanted heart could hear,
Like notes which die when born, but still
Haunt the echoes of the hill;
And feeling ever--oh, too much! -- _15
The soft vibration of her touch,
As if her gentle hand, even now,
Lightly trembled on my brow;
And thus, although she absent were,
Memory gave me all of her _20
That even Fancy dares to claim:--
Her presence had made weak and tame
All passions, and I lived alone
In the time which is our own;
The past and future were forgot, _25
As they had been, and would be, not.
But soon, the guardian angel gone,
The daemon reassumed his throne
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
My thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak _30
I sat and saw the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
Like spirit-winged chariots sent
O'er some serenest element
For ministrations strange and far; _35
As if to some Elysian star
Sailed for drink to medicine
Such sweet and bitter pain as mine.
And the wind that winged their flight
From the land came fresh and light, _40
And the scent of winged flowers,
And the coolness of the hours
Of dew, and sweet warmth left by day,
Were scattered o'er the twinkling bay.
And the fisher with his lamp _45
And spear about the low rocks damp
Crept, and struck the fish which came
To worship the delusive flame.
Too happy they, whose pleasure sought
Extinguishes all sense and thought _50
Of the regret that pleasure leaves,
Destroying life alone, not peace!
NOTES:
_11 though silent Relics 1862; though now silent Mac. Mag. 1862.
_31 saw Relics 1862; watched Mac. Mag. 1862.
***
LINES: 'WE MEET NOT AS WE PARTED'.
[Published by Dr. Garnett, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
1.
We meet not as we parted,
We feel more than all may see;
My bosom is heavy-hearted,
And thine full of doubt for me:--
One moment has bound the free. _5
2.
That moment is gone for ever,
Like lightning that flashed and died--
Like a snowflake upon the river--
Like a sunbeam upon the tide,
Which the dark shadows hide. _10
3.
That moment from time was singled
As the first of a life of pain;
The cup of its joy was mingled
--Delusion too sweet though vain!
Too sweet to be mine again. _15
4.
Sweet lips, could my heart have hidden
That its life was crushed by you,
Ye would not have then forbidden
The death which a heart so true
Sought in your briny dew. _20
5.
. . .
. . .
. . .
Methinks too little cost
For a moment so found, so lost! _25
***
THE ISLE.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
There was a little lawny islet
By anemone and violet,
Like mosaic, paven:
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves, _5
Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,
Each a gem engraven;--
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave _10
A lake's blue chasm.
***
FRAGMENT: TO THE MOON.
[Published by Dr. Garnett, "Relics of Shelley", 1862. ]
Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven,
To whom alone it has been given
To change and be adored for ever,
Envy not this dim world, for never
But once within its shadow grew _5
One fair as--
***
EPITAPH.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
These are two friends whose lives were undivided;
So let their memory be, now they have glided
Under the grave; let not their bones be parted,
For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
***
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
This morn thy gallant bark
Sailed on a sunny sea:
'Tis noon, and tempests dark
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! ah woe!
By Spirits of the deep
Thou'rt cradled on the billow
To thy eternal sleep.
Thou sleep'st upon the shore
Beside the knelling surge,
And Sea-nymphs evermore
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
They come, they come,
The Spirits of the deep,--
While near thy seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.
From far across the sea
I hear a loud lament,
By Echo's voice for thee
From Ocean's caverns sent.
O list! O list!
The Spirits of the deep!
They raise a wail of sorrow,
While I forever weep.
With this last year of the life of Shelley these Notes end. They are
not what I intended them to be. I began with energy, and a burning
desire to impart to the world, in worthy language, the sense I have of
the virtues and genius of the beloved and the lost; my strength has
failed under the task. Recurrence to the past, full of its own deep and
unforgotten joys and sorrows, contrasted with succeeding years of
painful and solitary struggle, has shaken my health. Days of great
suffering have followed my attempts to write, and these again produced
a weakness and languor that spread their sinister influence over these
notes. I dislike speaking of myself, but cannot help apologizing to the
dead, and to the public, for not having executed in the manner I
desired the history I engaged to give of Shelley's writings. (I at one
time feared that the correction of the press might be less exact
through my illness; but I believe that it is nearly free from error.
Some asterisks occur in a few pages, as they did in the volume of
"Posthumous Poems", either because they refer to private concerns, or
because the original manuscript was left imperfect. Did any one see the
papers from which I drew that volume, the wonder would be how any eyes
or patience were capable of extracting it from so confused a mass,
interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sense could only be
deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem rather intuitive than
founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made. )
The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that season
winter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but few
days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extreme
beauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on the
subject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama;
full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He
had recommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a
play. Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, or
whether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings and
wanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he best
loved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside for
one of the most mystical of his poems, the "Triumph of Life", on which
he was employed at the last.
His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among our
friends several sailors. His favourite companion, Edward Ellerker
Williams, of the 8th Light Dragoons, had begun his life in the navy,
and had afterwards entered the army; he had spent several years in
India, and his love for adventure and manly exercises accorded with
Shelley's taste. It was their favourite plan to build a boat such as
they could manage themselves, and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at
every hour and season the pleasure they loved best. Captain Roberts,
R. N. , undertook to build the boat at Genoa, where he was also occupied
in building the "Bolivar" for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open boat,
on a model taken from one of the royal dockyards. I have since heard
that there was a defect in this model, and that it was never seaworthy.
In the month of February, Shelley and his friend went to Spezia to seek
for houses for us. Only one was to be found at all suitable; however, a
trifle such as not finding a house could not stop Shelley; the one
found was to serve for all. It was unfurnished; we sent our furniture
by sea, and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from his
impatience, made our removal. We left Pisa on the 26th of April.
The Bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and divided by a rocky
promontory into a larger and smaller one. The town of Lerici is
situated on the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller bay,
which bears the name of this town, is the village of San Terenzo. Our
house, Casa Magni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the
door, a steep hill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on
which it was situated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house
at the summit of the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being
finished, and it was falling into ruin. He had (and this to the
Italians had seemed a glaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted
up the olives on the hillside, and planted forest trees. These were
mostly young, but the plantation was more in English taste than I ever
elsewhere saw in Italy; some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled
their dark massy foliage, and formed groups which still haunt my
memory, as then they satiated the eye with a sense of loveliness. The
scene was indeed of unimaginable beauty. The blue extent of waters, the
almost landlocked bay, the near castle of Lerici shutting it in to the
east, and distant Porto Venere to the west; the varied forms of the
precipitous rocks that bound in the beach, over which there was only a
winding rugged footpath towards Lerici, and none on the other side; the
tideless sea leaving no sands nor shingle, formed a picture such as one
sees in Salvator Rosa's landscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine
vanished when the sirocco raged--the 'ponente' the wind was called on
that shore. The gales and squalls that hailed our first arrival
surrounded the bay with foam; the howling wind swept round our exposed
house, and the sea roared unremittingly, so that we almost fancied
ourselves on board ship. At other times sunshine and calm invested sea
and sky, and the rich tints of Italian heaven bathed the scene in
bright and ever-varying tints.
The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbours of San
Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived
among. Many a night they passed on the beach, singing, or rather
howling; the women dancing about among the waves that broke at their
feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud wild
chorus. We could get no provisions nearer than Sarzana, at a distance
of three miles and a half off, with the torrent of the Magra between;
and even there the supply was very deficient. Had we been wrecked on an
island of the South Seas, we could scarcely have felt ourselves farther
from civilisation and comfort; but, where the sun shines, the latter
becomes an unnecessary luxury, and we had enough society among
ourselves. Yet I confess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task,
especially as I was suffering in my health, and could not exert myself
actively.
At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was expected with great
impatience. On Monday, 12th May, it came. Williams records the
long-wished-for fact in his journal: 'Cloudy and threatening weather.
M. Maglian called; and after dinner, and while walking with him on the
terrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of Porto
Venere, which proved at length to be Shelley's boat. She had left Genoa
on Thursday last, but had been driven back by the prevailing bad winds.
A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they speak
most highly of her performances. She does indeed excite my surprise and
admiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off the
land to try her: and I find she fetches whatever she looks at. In
short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer. '--It was thus
that short-sighted mortals welcomed Death, he having disguised his grim
form in a pleasing mask! The time of the friends was now spent on the
sea; the weather became fine, and our whole party often passed the
evenings on the water when the wind promised pleasant sailing. Shelley
and Williams made longer excursions; they sailed several times to
Massa. They had engaged one of the seamen who brought her round, a boy,
by name Charles Vivian; and they had not the slightest apprehension of
danger. When the weather was unfavourable, they employed themselves
with alterations in the rigging, and by building a boat of canvas and
reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the other for the
convenience of landing in waters too shallow for the larger vessel.
When Shelley was on board, he had his papers with him; and much of the
"Triumph of Life" was written as he sailed or weltered on that sea
which was soon to engulf him.
The heats set in in the middle of June; the days became excessively
hot. But the sea-breeze cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always
put Shelley in spirits. A long drought had preceded the heat; and
prayers for rain were being put up in the churches, and processions of
relics for the same effect took place in every town. At this time we
received letters announcing the arrival of Leigh Hunt at Genoa. Shelley
was very eager to see him. I was confined to my room by severe illness,
and could not move; it was agreed that Shelley and Williams should go
to Leghorn in the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed our
minds! Living on the sea-shore, the ocean became as a plaything: as a
child may sport with a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest,
and spreads destruction over all, so did we fearlessly and blindly
tamper with danger, and make a game of the terrors of the ocean. Our
Italian neighbours, even, trusted themselves as far as Massa in the
skiff; and the running down the line of coast to Leghorn gave no more
notion of peril than a fair-weather inland navigation would have done
to those who had never seen the sea. Once, some months before, Trelawny
had raised a warning voice as to the difference of our calm bay and the
open sea beyond; but Shelley and his friend, with their one sailor-boy,
thought themselves a match for the storms of the Mediterranean, in a
boat which they looked upon as equal to all it was put to do.
On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow of future ill darkened
the present hour, such was over my mind when they went. During the
whole of our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of coming evil
brooded over my mind, and covered this beautiful place and genial
summer with the shadow of coming misery. I had vainly struggled with
these emotions--they seemed accounted for by my illness; but at this
hour of separation they recurred with renewed violence. I did not
anticipate danger for them, but a vague expectation of evil shook me to
agony, and I could scarcely bring myself to let them go. The day was
calm and clear; and, a fine breeze rising at twelve, they weighed for
Leghorn. They made the run of about fifty miles in seven hours and a
half. The "Bolivar" was in port; and, the regulations of the
Health-office not permitting them to go on shore after sunset, they
borrowed cushions from the larger vessel, and slept on board their
boat.
They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The want of rain was severely
felt in the country. The weather continued sultry and fine. I have
heard that Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits. Not long
before, talking of presentiment, he had said the only one that he ever
found infallible was the certain advent of some evil fortune when he
felt peculiarly joyous. Yet, if ever fate whispered of coming disaster,
such inaudible but not unfelt prognostics hovered around us. The beauty
of the place seemed unearthly in its excess: the distance we were at
from all signs of civilization, the sea at our feet, its murmurs or its
roaring for ever in our ears,--all these things led the mind to brood
over strange thoughts, and, lifting it from everyday life, caused it to
be familiar with the unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us; and each
day, as the voyagers did not return, we grew restless and disquieted,
and yet, strange to say, we were not fearful of the most apparent
danger.
The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt--of
days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took
firmer root even as they were more baseless--was changed to the
certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors
for evermore.
There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains of
those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the
coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them--the law with
respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be
burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague
into Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length,
through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge
d'Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after
the bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in
carrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions,
and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was a
fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and
blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt
relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose.
And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that
remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory
to the world--whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and
good,--to be buried with him!
The concluding stanzas of the "Adonais" pointed out where the remains
ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay
buried in the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley's ashes were conveyed;
and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur
at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He
selected the hallowed place himself; there is
'the sepulchre,
Oh, not of him, but of our joy! --
. . .
And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
Pavilioning the dust of him who planned
This refuge for his memory, doth stand
Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,
A field is spread, on which a newer band
Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death,
Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. '
Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left
behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in
Shelley's fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so
mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner
all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that
remains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it
invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied
may regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse all
such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it now
seems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figures
his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen
upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away,
no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched the
vessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its
homeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore,
when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and several
larger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Roberts
looked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except
their little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he could
scarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have
been driven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation
made as to the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found,
through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in
ten fathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as had
floated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had been
placed when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Roberts
possessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy,
and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the
Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked. )--who but will regard as a
prophecy the last stanza of the "Adonais"?
'The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven,
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. '
Putney, May 1, 1839.
THE COMPLETE
POETICAL WORKS
OF
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
VOLUME 3
OXFORD EDITION.
INCLUDING MATERIALS NEVER BEFORE
PRINTED IN ANY EDITION OF THE POEMS.
EDITED WITH TEXTUAL NOTES
BY
THOMAS HUTCHINSON, M. A.
EDITOR OF THE OXFORD WORDSWORTH.
1914.
CONTENTS.
TRANSLATIONS.
HYMN TO MERCURY. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.
HOMER'S HYMN TO CASTOR AND POLLUX.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE MOON.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE SUN.
HOMER'S HYMN TO THE EARTH: MOTHER OF ALL.
HOMER'S HYMN TO MINERVA.
HOMER'S HYMN TO VENUS.
THE CYCLOPS: A SATYRIC DRAMA. TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF EURIPIDES.
EPIGRAMS:
1. TO STELLA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
2. KISSING HELENA. FROM THE GREEK OF PLATO.
3. SPIRIT OF PLATO. FROM THE GREEK.
4. CIRCUMSTANCE. FROM THE GREEK.
FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ADONIS. FROM THE GREEK OF BION.
FRAGMENT OF THE ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF BION. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
PAN, ECHO, AND THE SATYR. FROM THE GREEK OF MOSCHUS.
FROM VERGIL'S TENTH ECLOGUE.
THE SAME.
