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Of the rent ice-cliff which the sunbeams by others, yet the effect of the whole was call,

fascinating and delightful. Plunging into the vale—it is the blast

Mont Blanc was inspired by a view of Descending on the pines—the torrents that mountain and its surrounding peaks

and valleys, as he lingered on the Bridge pour.

of Arve on his way through the Valley of

Chamouni. Shelley makes the following FRAGMENT : HOME mention of this poem in his publication of Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes Letters from Switserland: “ The poem

the History of Six Weeks' Tour, and and joys,

entitled Mont Blanc is written by the The least of which wronged Memory author of the two letters from Chamouni ever makes

and Vevai. It was composed under the Bitterer than all thine unremembered immediate impression of the deep and tears.

powerful feelings excited by the objects which it attempts to describe ; and, as an

undisciplined overflowing of the soul, rests FRAGMENT : HELEN AND

its claim to approbation on an attenipt to HENRY

imitate the untamable wildness and inac.

cessible solemnity from which those feelA SHOVEL of his ashes took

ings sprang." From the hearth's obscurest nook,

This was an eventful year, and less Muttering mysteries as she went. time was given to study than usual. In Helen and Henry knew that Granny the list of his reading I find, in Greek, Was as much afraid of ghosts as any, Theocritus, the Prometheus of Æschylus, And so they followed hard

several of Plutarch's Lives, and the works But Helen clung to her brother's arm,

of Lucian. In Latin, Lucretius, Pliny's And her own spasm made her shake.

Letters, the Annals and Germany of
Tacitus, In French, the History of the

French Revolution by Lacretelle. NOTE ON POEMS OF 1816, BY read for the first time, this year, MonMRS, SHELLEY

taigne's Essays, and regarded them ever

after as one of the most elightful and SHELLEY wrote little during this year. | instructive books in the world. The list is The poem entitled The Sunset was written scanty in English works : Locke's Essay, in the Spring of the year, while still resid- Political Justice, and Coleridge's Lay ing at Bishopgate. He spent the summer Sermon, form nearly the whole. It was on the shores of the Lake of Geneva. his frequent habit to read aloud to me in The Hymn to Intellectual Beauty was con- the evening ; in this way we read, this ceived during his voyage round the lake year, the New Testament, Paradise Lost, with Lord Byron. He occupied himself Spenser's Faery Qucen, and Don Quixote. during this voyage by reading the Nouvelle Héloïse for the first time. The reading it on the very spot where the scenes are laid POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817 added to the interest; and he was at once surprised and charmed by the passionate

MARIANNE'S DREAM eloquence and earnest enthralling interest that pervade this work. There was something in the character of Saint-Preux, in his abnegation of self, and in the worship A PALE dream came to a Lady fair, he paid to Love, that coincided with

And said, A boon, a boon, I pray! Shelley's own disposition ; and, though I know the secrets of the air, differing in many of the views and shocked And things are lost in the glare of day,








Which I can make the sleeping see, But the very weeds that blossomed If they will put their trust in me.

there Were moveless, and each mighty

rock And thou shalt know of things unknown, Stood on its basis steadfastly ;

If thou wilt let me rest between The Anchor was The veiny lids, whose fringe is thrown

high. Over thine eyes so dark and sheen: And half in hope, and half in fright,

VIII The Lady closed her eyes so bright.

But piled around, with summits hid III

In lines of cloud at intervals, At first all deadly shapes were driven Stood many a mountain pyramid Tumultuously across her sleep,

Among whose everlasting walls And o'er the vast cope of bending heaven Two mighty cities shone, and ever

All ghastly-visaged clouds did sweep; Through the red mist their domes did And the Lady ever looked to spy

quiver. If the golden sun shone forth on high.





On two dread mountains, from whose And as towards the east she turned,

crest, She saw aloft in the morning air, Which now with hues of sunrise burned, Would ne'er have hung her dizzy nest,

Might seem, the eagle, for her brood, A great black Anchor rising there ;

Those tower-encircled cities stood. And wherever the Lady turned her eyes, A vision strange such towers to see, It hung before her in the skies.

Sculptured and wrought so gorgeously,

Where human art could never be. The sky was blue as the summer sea,

The depths were cloudless overhead, The air was calm as it could be, And columns framed of marble white,

There was no sight or sound of dread, And giant fanes, dome over dome But that black Anchor floating still Piled, and triumphant gates, all bright Over the piny eastern hill.

With workmanship, which could not


From touch of mortal instrument, The Lady grew sick with a weight of Shot o'er the vales, or lustre lent fear,

From its own shapes magnificent.
To see that Anchor ever hanging,
And veiled her eyes ; she then did hear

The sound as of a dim low clanging,
And looked abroad if she might know But still the Lady heard that clang
Was it aught else, or but the flow Filling the wide air far away ;
Of the blood in her own veins, to and fro. And still the mist whose light did


Among the mountains shook alway, There was a mist in the sunless air, So that the Lady's heart beat fast, Which shook as it were with an earth. As half in joy, and half aghast, quake's shock,

On those high domes her look she cast




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Sudden, from out that city sprung

At last her plank an eddy crost, A light that made the earth grow red; And bore her to the city's wall, Two flames that each with quivering Which now the flood had reached almost; tongue

It might the stoutest heart appal Licked its high domes, and overhead To hear the fire roar and hiss Among those mighty towers and fanes Through the domes of those mighty Dropped fire, as a volcano rains

palaces. Its sulphurous ruin on the plains.

The eddy whirled her round and round

Before a gorgeous gate, which stood And hark! a rush as if the deep

Piercing the clouds of smoke which Had burst its bonds; she looked

bound behind

Its aëry arch with light like blood; And saw over the western steep

She looked on that gate of marble clear, A raging flood descend, and wind

With wonder that extinguished fear. Through that wide vale; she felt no fear, But said within herself, 'Tis clear These towers are Nature's own, and she For it was filled with sculptures rarest, To save them has sent forth the sea.

Of forms most beautiful and strange, XIV

Like nothing human, but the fairest And now those raging billows came

Of winged shapes, whose legions range Where that fair Lady sate, and she

Throughout the sleep of those that are, Was borne towards the showering flame Like this same Lady, good and fair. By the wild waves heaped tumultuously

And as she looked, still lovelier grew And on a little plank, the flow

Those marble forms;—the sculptor Of the whirlpool bore her to and fro.

Was a strong spirit, and the hue The flames were fiercely vomited

Of his own mind did there endure From every tower and every dome,

After the touch, whose power had And dreary light did widely shed

braided O'er that vast flood's suspended foam, Such grace, was in some sad change Beneath the smoke which hung its night

faded. On the stained cope of heaven's light.

She looked, the flames were dim, the

flood The plank whereon that Lady sate Grew tranquil as a woodland river Was driven through the chasms, about Winding through hills in solitude; and about,

Those marble shapes then seemed to Between the peaks so desolate

quiver, of the drowning mountains, in and And their fair limbs to float in motion, out,

Like weeds unfolding in the ocean. As the thistle-beard on a whirlwind

sailsWhile the flood was filling those hollow And their lips moved; one seemed to vales.









When suddenly the mountains crackt, Upon the verge of nature's utmost And through the chasm the flood did sphere, break

Till the world's shadowy walls are With an earth-uplifting cataract :

past and disappear. The statues gave a joyous scream, And on its wings the pale thin dream Listed the Lady from the stream. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it

lingers XXIII

O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling The dizzy flight of that phantom pale

wings, Waked the fair Lady from her sleep, The blood and life within those snowy And she arose, while from the veil

fingers Of her dark eyes the dream did creep, Teach witchcraft to the instrumental And she walked about as one who knew

strings. That sleep has sights as clear and true My brain is wild, my breath comes As any waking eyes can view.

quickThe blood is listening in my frame,

And thronging shadows, fast and thick, TO CONSTANTIA, SINGING

Fall on my overflowing eyes ;
My heart is quivering like a flame;

As morning dew, that in the sunbeam Thus to be lost and thus to sink and die,

dies, Perchance were death indeed !-Con

I am dissolved in these consuming stantia, turn!

ecstasies. In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn

I have no lise, Constantia, now, but thee, Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Whilst, like the world - surrounding Within thy breath, and on thy hair, air, thy song like odour it is yet,

Flows on, and fills all things with And from thy touch like fire doth leap. melody.Even while I write, my burning Now is thy voice a tempest swift and cheeks are wet,

strong, Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, On which, like one in trance upborne, but not forget!

Secure o'er rocks and waves I sweep, Rejoicing like a cloud of morn.

Now 'tis the breath of summer night, A breathless awe, like the swift change which when the starry waters sleep,

Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Round western isles, with incenseWild, sweet, but uncommunicably

blossoms bright, strange,

Lingering, suspends my soul in its Thou breathest now in fast ascending voluptuous flight.

The cope of heaven seems rent and

By the enchantment of thy strain,
And on my shoulders wings are woven,
To follow its sublime career,

The rose that drinks the fountain dew Beyond the mighty moons that wane In the pleasant air of noon,




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Grows pale and blue with altered hue

"MIGHTY EAGLE” In the gaze of the nightly moon;

SUPPOSED TO BE ADDRESSED TO For the planet of frost, so cold and

WILLIAM GODWIN bright, Makes it wan with her borrowed light. Mighty eagle ! thou that soarest

O'er the misty mountain forest,

And amid the light of morning Such is my heart—roses are fair,

Like a cloud of glory hiest, And that at best a withered blossom;

And when night descends defiest

The embattled tempests' warning ! But thy false care did idly wear Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;

TO THE LORD CHANCELLOR And fed with love, like air and dew, Its growth

The country's curse is on thee, darkest


Of that foul, knotted, many-headed

worm My spirit like a charmed bark doth | Which rends our Mother's bosom swim

Priestly Pest ! Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet

Masked Resurrection of a buried singing,

Far away into the regions dim
Of rapture—as a boat, with swift
sails winging

Thy country's curse is on thee! Justice Its way adown some many - winding

sold, river.

Truth trampled, Nature's landmarks


And heaps of fraud-accumulated gold, A FRAGMENT : TO MUSIC Plead, loud as thunder, at Destruc

tion's throne. Silver key of the fountain of tears, Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild ;

And, whilst that sure slow Angel which Softest grave of a thousand fears, Where their mother, Care, like a

Watching the beck of Mutability drowsy child,

Delays to execute her high commands, Is laid asleep in flowers.

And, thcugh a nation weeps, spares

thine and thee,

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No, Music, thou art not the “ food of

Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet

Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.

O let a father's curse be on thy soul,
And let a daughter's hope be on thy

Be both, on thy gray head, a leaden

cowl To weigh thee down to thine ap

proaching doom !

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