'peep and botanize 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 the Baths of San Giuliano. We were not, as our wont had been, alone; friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead, and, when Memory recurs to the past, she 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 have felt life a desert since he left it. What misfortune can equal death? 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 anyone 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 noon-day 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 were 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.

Still, Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers, instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on the shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy: Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided there were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of many English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony of chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside at Via Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores of the Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was a vague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see whether it would be feasible to spend a summer there. The beauty of the bay enchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took root, and many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to urge him to execute it.

He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a periodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect of good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society; and instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not intend himself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with the compositions of more popular writers; and also because he might feel shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends were to be compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their outermost extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction not only true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement and happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, either really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his thoughts; and this evil he resolved to avoid.

***

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822.

THE ZUCCA.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824, and dated 'January, 1822.' There is a copy amongst the Boscombe manuscripts.]

1. Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring, And infant Winter laughed upon the land All cloudlessly and cold;—when I, desiring More in this world than any understand, Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring, _5 Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand Of my lorn heart, and o'er the grass and flowers Pale for the falsehood of the flattering Hours.

2. Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weep The instability of all but weeping; 10 And on the Earth lulled in her winter sleep I woke, and envied her as she was sleeping. Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creep The wakening vernal airs, until thou, leaping From unremembered dreams, shalt ... see 15 No death divide thy immortality.

3. I loved—oh, no, I mean not one of ye, Or any earthly one, though ye are dear As human heart to human heart may be;— I loved, I know not what—but this low sphere _20 And all that it contains, contains not thee, Thou, whom, seen nowhere, I feel everywhere. From Heaven and Earth, and all that in them are, Veiled art thou, like a ... star.

4. By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest, 25 Neither to be contained, delayed, nor hidden; Making divine the loftiest and the lowest, When for a moment thou art not forbidden To live within the life which thou bestowest; And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden, 30 Cold as a corpse after the spirit's flight Blank as the sun after the birth of night.

5. In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common, In music and the sweet unconscious tone Of animals, and voices which are human, 35 Meant to express some feelings of their own; In the soft motions and rare smile of woman, In flowers and leaves, and in the grass fresh-shown, Or dying in the autumn, I the most Adore thee present or lament thee lost. 40

6. And thus I went lamenting, when I saw A plant upon the river's margin lie Like one who loved beyond his nature's law, And in despair had cast him down to die; Its leaves, which had outlived the frost, the thaw _45 Had blighted; like a heart which hatred's eye Can blast not, but which pity kills; the dew Lay on its spotted leaves like tears too true.

7. The Heavens had wept upon it, but the Earth Had crushed it on her maternal breast _50

...

8. I bore it to my chamber, and I planted It in a vase full of the lightest mould; The winter beams which out of Heaven slanted Fell through the window-panes, disrobed of cold, Upon its leaves and flowers; the stars which panted _55 In evening for the Day, whose car has rolled Over the horizon's wave, with looks of light Smiled on it from the threshold of the night.

9. The mitigated influences of air And light revived the plant, and from it grew 60 Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair, Full as a cup with the vine's burning dew, O'erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphere Of vital warmth enfolded it anew, And every impulse sent to every part The unbeheld pulsations of its heart. 65

10. Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong, Even if the air and sun had smiled not on it; For one wept o'er it all the winter long Tears pure as Heaven's rain, which fell upon it _70 Hour after hour; for sounds of softest song Mixed with the stringed melodies that won it To leave the gentle lips on which it slept, Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.

11. Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers 75 On which he wept, the while the savage storm Waked by the darkest of December's hours Was raving round the chamber hushed and warm; The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers, The fish were frozen in the pools, the form 80 Of every summer plant was dead Whilst this....

...

NOTES: 7 lorn Boscombe manuscript; poor edition 1824. 23 So Boscombe manuscript; Dim object of soul's idolatry edition 1824. 24 star Boscombe manuscript; wanting edition 1824. 38 grass fresh Boscombe manuscript; fresh grass edition 1824. 46 like Boscombe manuscript; as edition 1824. 68 air and sun Boscombe manuscript; sun and air edition 1824.

***

THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT.

[Published by Medwin, "The Athenaeum", August 11, 1832. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]

1. 'Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain; My hand is on thy brow, My spirit on thy brain; My pity on thy heart, poor friend; And from my fingers flow _5 The powers of life, and like a sign, Seal thee from thine hour of woe; And brood on thee, but may not blend With thine.

2. 'Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; 10 But when I think that he Who made and makes my lot As full of flowers as thine of weeds, Might have been lost like thee; And that a hand which was not mine 15 Might then have charmed his agony As I another's—my heart bleeds For thine.

3. 'Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber of The dead and the unborn 20 Forget thy life and love; Forget that thou must wake forever; Forget the world's dull scorn; Forget lost health, and the divine Feelings which died in youth's brief morn; 25 And forget me, for I can never Be thine.

4. 'Like a cloud big with a May shower, My soul weeps healing rain On thee, thou withered flower! 30 It breathes mute music on thy sleep Its odour calms thy brain! Its light within thy gloomy breast Spreads like a second youth again. By mine thy being is to its deep 35 Possessed.

5. 'The spell is done. How feel you now?' '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.

FROM VERGIL'S FOURTH GEORGIC.

SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

THE FIRST CANZONE OF THE "CONVITO". FROM THE ITALIAN OF DANTE.

MATILDA GATHERING FLOWERS. FROM THE "PURGATORIO" OF DANTE.

FRAGMENT. ADAPTED FROM THE "VITA NUOVA" OF DANTE.

UGOLINO. "INFERNO", 33, 22-75, TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND CORRECTED BY SHELLEY.

SONNET. FROM THE ITALIAN OF CAVALCANTI.

SCENES FROM THE "MAGICO PRODIGIOSO". FROM THE SPANISH OF CALDERON.

STANZAS FROM CALDERON'S "CISMA DE INGLETERRA".

SCENES FROM THE "FAUST" OF GOETHE.

JUVENILIA.

QUEEN MAB. A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM. TO HARRIET ******. QUEEN MAB. SHELLEY'S NOTES. NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.

VERSES ON A CAT.

FRAGMENT: OMENS.

EPITAPHIUM [LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY'S "ELEGY"].

IN HOROLOGIUM.

A DIALOGUE.

TO THE MOONBEAM.

THE SOLITARY.

TO DEATH.

LOVE'S ROSE.

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

1. 'HERE I SIT WITH MY PAPER, MY PEN AND MY INK'.

2. TO MISS — — [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

3. SONG: 'COLD, COLD IS THE BLAST'.

4. SONG: 'COME [HARRIET]! SWEET IS THE HOUR'.

5. SONG: DESPAIR.

6. SONG: SORROW.

7. SONG: HOPE.

8. SONG: TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

9. SONG: TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

10. THE IRISHMAN'S SONG.

11. SONG: 'FIERCE ROARS THE MIDNIGHT STORM'.

12. SONG: TO — [HARRIET].

13. SONG: TO — [HARRIET].

14. SAINT EDMOND'S EVE.

15. REVENGE.

16. GHASTA; OR, THE AVENGING DEMON.

17. FRAGMENT; OR, THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

1. VICTORIA.

2. 'ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA'.

3. SISTER ROSA. A BALLAD.

4. ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER.

5. BEREAVEMENT.

6. THE DROWNED LOVER.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON.

ADVERTISEMENT.

WAR.

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

DESPAIR.

FRAGMENT.

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.

STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.

BIGOTRY'S VICTIM.

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

LOVE.

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT.

TO A STAR.

TO MARY, WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION.

A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS: FROM FACTS, 1811.

TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.

TO IRELAND.

ON ROBERT EMMET'S GRAVE.

THE RETROSPECT: CWM ELAN, 1812.

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET: TO HARRIET.

TO HARRIET.

SONNET: TO A BALLOON LADEN WITH KNOWLEDGE.

SONNET: ON LAUNCHING SOME BOTTLES FILLED WITH KNOWLEDGE INTO THE BRISTOL CHANNEL.

THE DEVIL'S WALK.

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET: FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON.

ON LEAVING LONDON FOR WALES.

THE WANDERING JEW'S SOLILOQUY.

EVENING: TO HARRIET.

TO IANTHE.

SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.

EDITOR'S NOTES.

BIBLIOGRAPHICAL LIST OF EDITIONS.

INDEX OF FIRST LINES.

***

TRANSLATIONS.

[Of the Translations that follow a few were published by Shelley himself, others by Mrs. Shelley in the "Posthumous Poems", 1824, or the "Poetical Works", 1839, and the remainder by Medwin (1834, 1847), Garnett (1862), Rossetti (1870), Forman (1876) and Locock (1903) from the manuscript originals. Shelley's "Translations" fall between the years 1818 and 1822.]

HYMN TO MERCURY.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GREEK OF HOMER.

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824. This alone of the "Translations" is included in the Harvard manuscript book. 'Fragments of the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe manuscripts' (Forman).]

1. Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove, The Herald-child, king of Arcadia And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love Having been interwoven, modest May Bore Heaven's dread Supreme. An antique grove _5 Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.

2. Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling, And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, 10 She gave to light a babe all babes excelling, A schemer subtle beyond all belief; A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing, A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who 'mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, 15 And other glorious actions to achieve.

3. The babe was born at the first peep of day; He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away Apollo's herds;—the fourth day of the moon _20 On which him bore the venerable May, From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon, Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep, But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep.

4. Out of the lofty cavern wandering 25 He found a tortoise, and cried out—'A treasure!' (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing) The beast before the portal at his leisure The flowery herbage was depasturing, Moving his feet in a deliberate measure 30 Over the turf. Jove's profitable son Eying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—

5. 'A useful godsend are you to me now, King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you 35 Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast, Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know, You must come home with me and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do All that is in my power to honour you. 40

6. 'Better to be at home than out of door, So come with me; and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power, I know you will sing sweetly when you're dead.' Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, _45 Lifting it from the grass on which it fed And grasping it in his delighted hold, His treasured prize into the cavern old.

7. Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel, He bored the life and soul out of the beast.— 50 Not swifter a swift thought of woe or weal Darts through the tumult of a human breast Which thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheel The flashes of its torture and unrest Out of the dizzy eyes—than Maia's son 55 All that he did devise hath featly done.

8. ... And through the tortoise's hard stony skin At proper distances small holes he made, And fastened the cut stems of reeds within, And with a piece of leather overlaid _60 The open space and fixed the cubits in, Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o'er all Symphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical.

9. When he had wrought the lovely instrument, He tried the chords, and made division meet, 65 Preluding with the plectrum, and there went Up from beneath his hand a tumult sweet Of mighty sounds, and from his lips he sent A strain of unpremeditated wit Joyous and wild and wanton—such you may 70 Hear among revellers on a holiday.

10. He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandal Dallied in love not quite legitimate; And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal, And naming his own name, did celebrate; _75 His mother's cave and servant maids he planned all In plastic verse, her household stuff and state, Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,— But singing, he conceived another plan.

11. ... Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, 80 He in his sacred crib deposited The hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweet Rushed with great leaps up to the mountain's head, Revolving in his mind some subtle feat Of thievish craft, such as a swindler might 85 Devise in the lone season of dun night.

12. Lo! the great Sun under the ocean's bed has Driven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strode O'er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows, Where the immortal oxen of the God _90 Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows, And safely stalled in a remote abode.— The archer Argicide, elate and proud, Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.

13. He drove them wandering o'er the sandy way, 95 But, being ever mindful of his craft, Backward and forward drove he them astray, So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft; His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray, And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft 100 Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs, And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.

14. And on his feet he tied these sandals light, The trail of whose wide leaves might not betray His track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, _105 Like a man hastening on some distant way, He from Pieria's mountain bent his flight; But an old man perceived the infant pass Down green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.

15. The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: 110 'Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder! You grub those stumps? before they will bear wine Methinks even you must grow a little older: Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine, As you would 'scape what might appal a bolder— 115 Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and— If you have understanding—understand.'

16. So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast; O'er shadowy mountain and resounding dell, And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; 120 Till the black night divine, which favouring fell Around his steps, grew gray, and morning fast Wakened the world to work, and from her cell Sea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublime Into her watch-tower just began to climb. 125

17. Now to Alpheus he had driven all The broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun; They came unwearied to the lofty stall And to the water-troughs which ever run Through the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall, _130 Lotus and all sweet herbage, every one Had pastured been, the great God made them move Towards the stall in a collected drove.

18. A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped, And having soon conceived the mystery 135 Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches stripped The bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on high Suddenly forth the burning vapour leaped And the divine child saw delightedly.— Mercury first found out for human weal 140 Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.

19. And fine dry logs and roots innumerous He gathered in a delve upon the ground— And kindled them—and instantaneous The strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: _145 And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thus Wrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound, Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud, Close to the fire—such might was in the God.

20. And on the earth upon their backs he threw 150 The panting beasts, and rolled them o'er and o'er, And bored their lives out. Without more ado He cut up fat and flesh, and down before The fire, on spits of wood he placed the two, Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore 155 Pursed in the bowels; and while this was done He stretched their hides over a craggy stone.

21. We mortals let an ox grow old, and then Cut it up after long consideration,— But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen 160 Drew the fat spoils to the more open station Of a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and when He had by lot assigned to each a ration Of the twelve Gods, his mind became aware Of all the joys which in religion are. 165

22. For the sweet savour of the roasted meat Tempted him though immortal. Natheless He checked his haughty will and did not eat, Though what it cost him words can scarce express, And every wish to put such morsels sweet _170 Down his most sacred throat, he did repress; But soon within the lofty portalled stall He placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.

23. And every trace of the fresh butchery And cooking, the God soon made disappear, 175 As if it all had vanished through the sky; He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,— The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;— And when he saw that everything was clear, He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, 180 And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.

24. All night he worked in the serene moonshine— But when the light of day was spread abroad He sought his natal mountain-peaks divine. On his long wandering, neither Man nor God _185 Had met him, since he killed Apollo's kine, Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road; Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed, Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.

25. Right through the temple of the spacious cave 190 He went with soft light feet—as if his tread Fell not on earth; no sound their falling gave; Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spread The swaddling-clothes about him; and the knave Lay playing with the covering of the bed 195 With his left hand about his knees—the right Held his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.

26. There he lay innocent as a new-born child, As gossips say; but though he was a God, The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, 200 Knew all that he had done being abroad: 'Whence come you, and from what adventure wild, You cunning rogue, and where have you abode All the long night, clothed in your impudence? What have you done since you departed hence? 205

27. 'Apollo soon will pass within this gate And bind your tender body in a chain Inextricably tight, and fast as fate, Unless you can delude the God again, Even when within his arms—ah, runagate! _210 A pretty torment both for Gods and Men Your father made when he made you!'—'Dear mother,' Replied sly Hermes, 'wherefore scold and bother?

28. 'As if I were like other babes as old, And understood nothing of what is what; 215 And cared at all to hear my mother scold. I in my subtle brain a scheme have got, Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolled Will profit you and me—nor shall our lot Be as you counsel, without gifts or food, 220 To spend our lives in this obscure abode.

29 'But we will leave this shadow-peopled cave And live among the Gods, and pass each day In high communion, sharing what they have Of profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; _225 And from the portion which my father gave To Phoebus, I will snatch my share away, Which if my father will not—natheless I, Who am the king of robbers, can but try.

30. 'And, if Latona's son should find me out, 230 I'll countermine him by a deeper plan; I'll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout, And sack the fane of everything I can— Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt, Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, 235 All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.'— So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day

31. Aethereal born arose out of the flood Of flowing Ocean, bearing light to men. Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, 240 Which from the inmost depths of its green glen Echoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stood On the same spot in green Onchestus then That same old animal, the vine-dresser, Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. 245

32. Latona's glorious Son began:—'I pray Tell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green, Whether a drove of kine has passed this way, All heifers with crooked horns? for they have been Stolen from the herd in high Pieria, _250 Where a black bull was fed apart, between Two woody mountains in a neighbouring glen, And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.

33. 'And what is strange, the author of this theft Has stolen the fatted heifers every one, 255 But the four dogs and the black bull are left:— Stolen they were last night at set of sun, Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.— Now tell me, man born ere the world begun, Have you seen any one pass with the cows?'— 260 To whom the man of overhanging brows:

34. 'My friend, it would require no common skill Justly to speak of everything I see: On various purposes of good or ill Many pass by my vineyard,—and to me _265 'Tis difficult to know the invisible Thoughts, which in all those many minds may be:— Thus much alone I certainly can say, I tilled these vines till the decline of day,

35. 'And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak 270 With certainty of such a wondrous thing, A child, who could not have been born a week, Those fair-horned cattle closely following, And in his hand he held a polished stick: And, as on purpose, he walked wavering 275 From one side to the other of the road, And with his face opposed the steps he trod.'

36. Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on— No winged omen could have shown more clear That the deceiver was his father's son. 280 So the God wraps a purple atmosphere Around his shoulders, and like fire is gone To famous Pylos, seeking his kine there, And found their track and his, yet hardly cold, And cried—'What wonder do mine eyes behold! 285

37. 'Here are the footsteps of the horned herd Turned back towards their fields of asphodel;— But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird, Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell, Or maned Centaur—sand was never stirred _290 By man or woman thus! Inexplicable! Who with unwearied feet could e'er impress The sand with such enormous vestiges?

38. 'That was most strange—but this is stranger still!' Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously 295 Sought high Cyllene's forest-cinctured hill, And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie, And where the ambrosial nymph with happy will Bore the Saturnian's love-child, Mercury— And a delightful odour from the dew 300 Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.

39. And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roof Arched over the dark cavern:—Maia's child Perceived that he came angry, far aloof, About the cows of which he had been beguiled; _305 And over him the fine and fragrant woof Of his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled— As among fire-brands lies a burning spark Covered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.

40. There, like an infant who had sucked his fill 310 And now was newly washed and put to bed, Awake, but courting sleep with weary will, And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head, He lay, and his beloved tortoise still He grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. 315 Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew, Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who

41. Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crook Of the ample cavern, for his kine, Apollo Looked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took 320 The glittering key, and opened three great hollow Recesses in the rock—where many a nook Was filled with the sweet food immortals swallow, And mighty heaps of silver and of gold Were piled within—a wonder to behold! 325

42. And white and silver robes, all overwrought With cunning workmanship of tracery sweet— Except among the Gods there can be nought In the wide world to be compared with it. Latona's offspring, after having sought _330 His herds in every corner, thus did greet Great Hermes:—'Little cradled rogue, declare Of my illustrious heifers, where they are!

43. 'Speak quickly! or a quarrel between us Must rise, and the event will be, that I 335 Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus, In fiery gloom to dwell eternally; Nor shall your father nor your mother loose The bars of that black dungeon—utterly You shall be cast out from the light of day, 340 To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.

44. To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—'Son Of great Latona, what a speech is this! Why come you here to ask me what is done With the wild oxen which it seems you miss? _345 I have not seen them, nor from any one Have heard a word of the whole business; If you should promise an immense reward, I could not tell more than you now have heard.

45. 'An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, 350 And I am but a little new-born thing, Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:— My business is to suck, and sleep, and fling The cradle-clothes about me all day long,— Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, 355 And to be washed in water clean and warm, And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.

46. 'O, let not e'er this quarrel be averred! The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e'er You should allege a story so absurd 360 As that a new-born infant forth could fare Out of his home after a savage herd. I was born yesterday—my small feet are Too tender for the roads so hard and rough:— And if you think that this is not enough, 365

47. I swear a great oath, by my father's head, That I stole not your cows, and that I know Of no one else, who might, or could, or did.— Whatever things cows are, I do not know, For I have only heard the name.'—This said _370 He winked as fast as could be, and his brow Was wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he, Like one who hears some strange absurdity.

48. Apollo gently smiled and said:—'Ay, ay,— You cunning little rascal, you will bore 375 Many a rich man's house, and your array Of thieves will lay their siege before his door, Silent as night, in night; and many a day In the wild glens rough shepherds will deplore That you or yours, having an appetite, 380 Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!

49. 'And this among the Gods shall be your gift, To be considered as the lord of those Who swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;— But now if you would not your last sleep doze; _385 Crawl out!'—Thus saying, Phoebus did uplift The subtle infant in his swaddling clothes, And in his arms, according to his wont, A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.

50. ... ... And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass 390 Him threw, and whilst all that he had designed He did perform—eager although to pass, Apollo darted from his mighty mind Towards the subtle babe the following scoff:— 'Do not imagine this will get you off, 395

51. 'You little swaddled child of Jove and May! And seized him:—'By this omen I shall trace My noble herds, and you shall lead the way.'— Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place, Like one in earnest haste to get away, _400 Rose, and with hands lifted towards his face Round both his ears up from his shoulders drew His swaddling clothes, and—'What mean you to do

52. 'With me, you unkind God?'—said Mercury: 'Is it about these cows you tease me so? 405 I wish the race of cows were perished!—I Stole not your cows—I do not even know What things cows are. Alas! I well may sigh That since I came into this world of woe, I should have ever heard the name of one— 410 But I appeal to the Saturnian's throne.'

53. Thus Phoebus and the vagrant Mercury Talked without coming to an explanation, With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, he Sought not revenge, but only information, _415 And Hermes tried with lies and roguery To cheat Apollo.—But when no evasion Served—for the cunning one his match had found— He paced on first over the sandy ground.

54. ... He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove 420 Followed behind, till to their heavenly Sire Came both his children, beautiful as Love, And from his equal balance did require A judgement in the cause wherein they strove. O'er odorous Olympus and its snows 425 A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—

55. And from the folded depths of the great Hill, While Hermes and Apollo reverent stood Before Jove's throne, the indestructible Immortals rushed in mighty multitude; _430 And whilst their seats in order due they fill, The lofty Thunderer in a careless mood To Phoebus said:—'Whence drive you this sweet prey, This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—

56. 'A most important subject, trifler, this 435 To lay before the Gods!'—'Nay, Father, nay, When you have understood the business, Say not that I alone am fond of prey. I found this little boy in a recess Under Cyllene's mountains far away— 440 A manifest and most apparent thief, A scandalmonger beyond all belief.

57. 'I never saw his like either in Heaven Or upon earth for knavery or craft:— Out of the field my cattle yester-even, 445 By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed, He right down to the river-ford had driven; And mere astonishment would make you daft To see the double kind of footsteps strange He has impressed wherever he did range. 450

58. 'The cattle's track on the black dust, full well Is evident, as if they went towards The place from which they came—that asphodel Meadow, in which I feed my many herds,— HIS steps were most incomprehensible— _455 I know not how I can describe in words Those tracks—he could have gone along the sands Neither upon his feet nor on his hands;—

59. 'He must have had some other stranger mode Of moving on: those vestiges immense, 460 Far as I traced them on the sandy road, Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thence No mark nor track denoting where they trod The hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence, A mortal hedger saw him as he passed 465 To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.

60. 'I found that in the dark he quietly Had sacrificed some cows, and before light Had thrown the ashes all dispersedly About the road—then, still as gloomy night, _470 Had crept into his cradle, either eye Rubbing, and cogitating some new sleight. No eagle could have seen him as he lay Hid in his cavern from the peering day.

61. 'I taxed him with the fact, when he averred 475 Most solemnly that he did neither see Nor even had in any manner heard Of my lost cows, whatever things cows be; Nor could he tell, though offered a reward, Not even who could tell of them to me.' 480 So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes then Addressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—

62. 'Great Father, you know clearly beforehand That all which I shall say to you is sooth; I am a most veracious person, and 485 Totally unacquainted with untruth. At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no band Of Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath, To my abode, seeking his heifers there, And saying that I must show him where they are, 490

63. 'Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss. I know that every Apollonian limb Is clothed with speed and might and manliness, As a green bank with flowers—but unlike him I was born yesterday, and you may guess _495 He well knew this when he indulged the whim Of bullying a poor little new-born thing That slept, and never thought of cow-driving.

64. 'Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine? Believe me, dearest Father—such you are— 500 This driving of the herds is none of mine; Across my threshold did I wander ne'er, So may I thrive! I reverence the divine Sun and the Gods, and I love you, and care Even for this hard accuser—who must know 505 I am as innocent as they or you.

65. 'I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals (It is, you will allow, an oath of might) Through which the multitude of the Immortals Pass and repass forever, day and night, _510 Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals— I am guiltless; and I will requite, Although mine enemy be great and strong, His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!'

66. So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont 515 Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:— And Jupiter, according to his wont, Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-witted Infant give such a plausible account, And every word a lie. But he remitted 520 Judgement at present—and his exhortation Was, to compose the affair by arbitration.

67. And they by mighty Jupiter were bidden To go forth with a single purpose both, Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: 525 And Mercury with innocence and truth To lead the way, and show where he had hidden The mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth, Obeyed the Aegis-bearer's will—for he Is able to persuade all easily. 530

68. These lovely children of Heaven's highest Lord Hastened to Pylos and the pastures wide And lofty stalls by the Alphean ford, Where wealth in the mute night is multiplied With silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd _535 Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spied The hides of those the little babe had slain, Stretched on the precipice above the plain.

69. 'How was it possible,' then Phoebus said, 'That you, a little child, born yesterday, 540 A thing on mother's milk and kisses fed, Could two prodigious heifers ever flay? Even I myself may well hereafter dread Your prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May, When you grow strong and tall.'—He spoke, and bound 545 Stiff withy bands the infant's wrists around.

70. He might as well have bound the oxen wild; The withy bands, though starkly interknit, Fell at the feet of the immortal child, Loosened by some device of his quick wit. _550 Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled, And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit, Looking askance and winking fast as thought, Where he might hide himself and not be caught.

71. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill 555 Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight 560 The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move

72. Within the heart of great Apollo—he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly 565 The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: 570

73. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;— And, as each God was born or had begun, _575 He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and being—and did move Apollo to unutterable love.

74. These words were winged with his swift delight: 'You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you 580 Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth 585 Was folded up within you at your birth,

75. 'Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; _590 But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!

76. 'What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, 595 What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— 600 And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow:

77. 'And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice 605 Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. 610

78. 'Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,— And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,— That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, _615 Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee.'

79. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:— 'Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: 620 I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:—for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, 625 Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.

80. 'The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood _630 Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I— A child—perceive thy might and majesty.

81. 'Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit 635 Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come take The lyre—be mine the glory giving it— Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wake Thy joyous pleasure out of many a fit Of tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make 640 Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,— It can talk measured music eloquently.

82. 'Then bear it boldly to the revel loud, Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state, A joy by night or day—for those endowed 645 With art and wisdom who interrogate It teaches, babbling in delightful mood All things which make the spirit most elate, Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play, Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. 650

83. 'To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue, Though they should question most impetuously Its hidden soul, it gossips something wrong— Some senseless and impertinent reply. But thou who art as wise as thou art strong _655 Canst compass all that thou desirest. I Present thee with this music-flowing shell, Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.

84. 'And let us two henceforth together feed, On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, 660 The herds in litigation—they will breed Quickly enough to recompense our pain, If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;— And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain, Grudge me not half the profit.'—Having spoke, 665 The shell he proffered, and Apollo took;

85. And gave him in return the glittering lash, Installing him as herdsman;—from the look Of Mercury then laughed a joyous flash. And then Apollo with the plectrum strook _670 The chords, and from beneath his hands a crash Of mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shook The soul with sweetness, and like an adept His sweeter voice a just accordance kept.

86. The herd went wandering o'er the divine mead, 675 Whilst these most beautiful Sons of Jupiter Won their swift way up to the snowy head Of white Olympus, with the joyous lyre Soothing their journey; and their father dread Gathered them both into familiar 680 Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever, Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,

87. To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded, Which skilfully he held and played thereon. He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded 685 The echo of his pipings; every one Of the Olympians sat with joy astounded; While he conceived another piece of fun, One of his old tricks—which the God of Day Perceiving, said:—'I fear thee, Son of May;— 690

88. 'I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit, Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow; This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit, To teach all craft upon the earth below; Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit _695 To make all mortal business ebb and flow By roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dare By sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear

89. 'That you will never rob me, you will do A thing extremely pleasing to my heart.' 700 Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew, That he would never steal his bow or dart, Or lay his hands on what to him was due, Or ever would employ his powerful art Against his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore 705 There was no God or Man whom he loved more.