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With a bottle in one hand,

As if his very soul were at a stand, Lionel stood-when Melchior brought him steady

"Sit at the helm-fasten this sheetall ready!"

The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,

The living breath is fresh behind, As with dews and sunrise fed,

Comes the laughing morning wind ;

The sails are full, the boat makes
head

Against the Serchio's torrent fierce,
Then flags with intermitting course,
And hangs upon the wave, and

stems

The tempest of the

Which fervid from its mountain

source

Shallow, smooth and strong doth

come,

Swift as fire, tempestuously

It sweeps into the affrighted sea ;
In morning's smile its eddies coil,
Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,
Torturing all its quiet light
Into columns fierce and bright.

The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove

At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm

The wave that died the death which

lovers love,

Living in what it sought; as if this spasm

To cram in greatcoat pockets, and to Had not yet past, the toppling moun

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HERE lieth One whose name was writ on water."

But, ere the breath that could erase it blew,

When the hot noon has drained its dewy Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,

cup,

And mist there was none its thirst to

slake

Death, the immortalising winter, flew Athwart the stream, and time's printless torrent grew

And the violet lay dead while the odour A scroll of crystal, blazoning the name

flew

On the wings of the wind o'er the waters

blue

IV

As one who drinks from a charmed cup Of foaming, and sparkling and murmuring wine,

Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, Invites to love with her kiss divine.

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That ocean which at once is deaf and FRAGMENT: “I FAINT, I PERISH

loud;

That I, a man, stood amid many more By a wayside. . ., which the aspect

bore

Of some imperial metropolis,

Where mighty shapes-pyramid, dome, and towerGleamed like a pile of crags.

TO-MORROW

WHERE art thou, beloved To-morrow? When young and old and strong and weak,

Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,

Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,

In thy place—ah! well-a-day!
We find the thing we fled-To-day.

STANZA 1

IF I walk in Autumn's even

While the dead leaves pass, If I look on Spring's soft heaven,— Something is not there which was. Winter's wondrous frost and snow, Summer's clouds, where are they now?

FRAGMENT: A WANDERER

HE wanders, like a day-appearing dream, Through the dim wildernesses of the mind;

Through desert woods and tracts, which

seem

Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.

FRAGMENT: PEACE SUR-
ROUNDING LIFE

THE babe is at peace within the womb,
The corpse is at rest within the tomb,
We begin in what we end.

1 Perhaps in continuation of "To-morrow."-ED.

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THE rude wind is singing

The dirge of the music dead,
The cold worms are clinging

Where kisses were lately fed.

FRAGMENT: "GREAT SPIRIT"
GREAT Spirit whom the sea of boundless

thought

Nurtures within its unimagined caves, In which thou sittest sole, as in my mind, Giving a voice to its mysterious waves.

FRAGMENT: "O THOU
IMMORTAL DEITY"

O thou immortal deity
Whose throne is in the depth of human
thought,

I do adjure thy power and thee
By all that man may be, by all that he

Who wander o'er the paradise of fame,
In sacred dedication ever grew:
One of the crowd thou art without a
name."

"Ah, friend, 'tis the false laurel that
I wear;

Bright though it seem, it is not the same As that which bound Milton's immortal hair;

Its dew is poison and the hopes that quicken

Under its chilling shade, though seeming fair,

Are flowers which die almost before they sicken."

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821, BY
MRS. SHELLEY

My task becomes inexpressibly painful
as the year draws near that which sealed
our earthly fate, and each poem, and each
event it records, has a real or mysterious
connection with the fatal catastrophe.
feel that I am incapable of putting on
paper the history of those times. The
heart of the man, abhorred of the poet,
who could

"" peep and botanise
Upon his mother's grave,"
does not appear to me more inexplicably
framed than that of one who can dissect
and probe past woes, and repeat to the
public ear the groans drawn from them in
the throes of their agony.

The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at We were not, the Baths of San Giuliano. as our wont had been, alone; friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead, By all that he has been and yet must be! and, when Memory recurs to the past, she

is not,

FRAGMENT: FALSE LAURELS

AND TRUE

wanders among tombs. The genius, with all his blighting errors and mighty powers; the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, and fearless, and others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his great knowledge and warm sympathy, delight, instruction, and solace; have joined him beyond the grave. A few survive who Touch not those leaves which for the have felt life a desert since he left it. What misfortune can equal death?

"What art thou, Presumptuous, who

profanest

The wreath to mighty poets only due, Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou

wanest ?

eternal few

Change can convert every other into a blessing, or heal its sting-death alone has no cure. It shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread; it destroys its beauty; it casts down our shelter; it exposes us bare to desolation. When those we love have passed into eternity, "life is the desert and the solitude" in which we are forced to linger-but never find comfort more.

There is much in the Adonais which seems now more applicable to Shelley himself than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towards his calumniators, are as a prophecy on his own destiny when received among immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanished into emptiness before the fame he inherits. Shelley's favourite taste was boating; when living near the Thames or by the Lake of Geneva, much of his life was spent on the water. On the shore of every lake or stream or sea near which he dwelt, he had a boat moored. He had latterly enjoyed this pleasure again. There are no pleasure-boats on the Arno; and the shallowness of its waters (except in winter-time, when the stream is too turbid and impetuous for boating) rendered it difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty; he, together with a friend, contrived a boat such as the huntsmen carry about with them in the Maremma, to cross the sluggish but deep streams that intersect the forests, a boat of laths and pitched canvas. It held three persons; and he was often seen on the Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who remonstrated on the danger, and could not understand how any one could take pleasure in an exercise that risked life. "Ma va per la vita!" they exclaimed. I little thought how true their words would prove. He once ventured, with a friend, on the glassy sea of a calm day, down the Arno and round the coast to Leghorn, which, by keeping close in shore, was very practicable. They returned to Pisa by the canal, when, missing the direct cut, they got entangled among weeds, and the boat

upset; a wetting was all the harm done,
except that the intense cold of his drenched
clothes made Shelley faint. Once I went
down with him to the mouth of the Arno,
where the stream, then high and swift,
met the tideless sea, and disturbed its
sluggish waters. It was a waste and
dreary scene; the desert sand stretched
into a point surrounded by waves that
broke idly though perpetually around; it
was a scene very similar to Lido, of which
he had said-
"I love all waste

And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows."

Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when we removed to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano, four miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered by trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day, multitudes of ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at noonday kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and more attached to the part of the country where chance appeared to cast us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one of the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and overlooking a wide extent of country: or settling still farther in the maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us. It is the nature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed by the weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has recourse to the solace of expression in verse.

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