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trayed: our seclusion, the savage nature of the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our immediate vicinity to the troubled sea, combined to imbue with strange horror vur days of uncertainty. The truth was at last known,a truth that made our loved and lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every heart echoed the deep lament, and my only consolation was in the praise and earnest love that each voice bestowed and each countenance demonstrated for him we had lost,—not, I fondly hope, for ever: his unearthly and elevated nature is a pledge of the continuation of his being, although in an altered form. Rome received his ashes; they are deposited beneath its weedgrown wall, and “the world's sole monument” is enriched by his remains.
I must add a few words concerning the contents of this volume. “Julian and Maddalo,” “The Witch of Atlas,” and most of the Translations, were written some years ago; and, with the exception of “ The Cyclops,” and the Scenes from the “Magico Prodigioso,” may be considered as having received the author's ultimate corronti umph of Life” was his last work, and was left in so unfinished a state, that I arranged it in its present form with great difficulty. All his poems which were scattered in periodical works are collected in this volume, and I have added a reprint of “Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude:”
- the difficulty with which a copy can be obtained is the cause of its republication. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the occasion, and never retouched, I found among his manuscript books, and have carefully copied. I have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the date of their composition.
I do not know whether the critics will reprehend the insertion of some of the most imperfect among them; but I frankly own that I have been more actuated by the fear lest any monument of his genius should escape me, than the wish of presenting nothing but what was complete to the fastidious reader. I feel secure that the Lovers of SHELLEY's Poetry (who know how more than any poet of the present day every line and word he wrote is instinct
HYMNS OF HOMER.
HYMN TO MERCURY.
SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,
The Herald-child, king of Arcadia
Having been interwoven, modest May
Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.
Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,
And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,
A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who ʼmongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, And other glorious actions to achieve.
The babe was born at the first peep of day;