FRAGMENT: "ALAS! THIS IS NOT WHAT I THOUGHT LIFE WAS."1 NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820, BY MRS. SHELLEY WE spent the latter part of the year 1819 in Florence, where Shelley passed Alas! this is not what I thought life several hours daily in the Gallery, and was. made various notes on its ancient works I knew that there were crimes and evil of art. His thoughts were a good deal men, Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering, through the rugged glen. In mine own heart I saw as in a glass I went among my kind, with triple brass Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, 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 To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful had some friends, and, above all, where mass ! we could consult the celebrated Vaccà as to the cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every other medical man, could only FRAGMENT: MILTON'S SPIRIT guess at that, and gave little hope of As immediate relief; he enjoined him to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and to leave his complaint to Nature. 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 skylark 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 | putian ties that shackle at the time, alfreshness of mind after a life of consider- though it is difficult to account afterwards able adversity. As a favourite friend of for their influence over our destiny. my father, we had sought her with eagerness; and the most open and cordial friendship was established between us. Our 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 But wandered over the world, both being 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 III As the wild air stirs and sways So the breath of these rude days Rocks the year :-be calm and mild, IV January gray is here, Like a sexton by her grave; March with grief doth howl and rave, TO NIGHT I SWIFTLY walk over the western wave, |