The tyrant of the Chersonese Was freedom's best and bravest friend; O, that the present hour would lend Such chains as his were sure to bind. Fill high the bowl with Samian wine! Such as the Doric mothers bore; Trust not for freedom to the Franks- The only hope of courage dwells; But, gazing on each glowing maid, Place me on Sunium's marble steep, Where nothing save the waves and I There, swan-like, let me sing and die : AN ITALIAN EVENING ON THE BANKS OF THE BRENTA. [From Childe Harold.] The moon is up, and yet it is not night- A single star is at her side, and reigns Which streams upon her stream, and glassed within it glows. Filled with the face of heaven, which from afar Comes down upon the waters, all its hues, Their magical variety diffuse: And now they change; a paler shadow strews The last still loveliest, till-'tis gone-and all is gray. MIDNIGHT SCENE IN ROME-THE COLISEUM. [From Manfred.] The stars are forth, the moon above the tops I learn'd the language of another world. 'Midst the chief relics of all-mighty Rome: And dwell the tuneless birds of night, amidst A grove which springs through levelled battlements, But the gladiators' bloody circus stands And thou didst shine, thou rolling moon, upon SHELLEY. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley, was born A.D. 1792. From the family residence, Field Place, in Sussex, he was sent to Eton at the age of thirteen, and thence to Oxford, whence he was expelled in consequence of a tract opposed to Christianity which had been brought before the notice of the college-authorities. At eighteen he contracted an unfortunate and ill-assorted marriage; and at the end of three years he and his wife separated by mutual consent. Her lamentable death, some years afterwards, filled him with sorrow and remorse. After travelling about various parts of England, and a brief residence in Ireland, where he wrote a vehement political pamphlet, Shelley went abroad. In 1816 he resided on the Lake of Geneva, where he formed an intimacy with Lord Byron, by which the poetic taste of the latter was much improved. In 1818 he visited Italy, where he passed almost the whole of his remaining life. He perished on the 4th of July 1822, his boat on the gulf of Spezzia having been upset by a sudden tempest. His remains, with those of his friend Mr. Williams, were washed on shore; where, a pyre having been built, they were consumed by fire, in the presence of Lord Byron, Mr. Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Trelawney. Shelley's heart was preserved, and buried at Rome, near the pyramid of Caius Cestius, and not far from the remains of Keats, to whose poetic genius he had offered a tribute in the poem entitled "Adonais." Shelley was but twenty-nine years of age when he perished. The number of poems which he published during his brief literary career, in spite of calamity, ill-health, and a hectic habit of body amounting to constant disease, attest an extraordinary vigour and industry; while the character of them proves that by few modern writers was he equalled in originality. In him an imagination equally expansive and soaring was combined with a logical subtlety not less remarkable; the faculty of judgment being perhaps the only one wanting to make his intellectual conformation poetically complete. His poetry is to a high degree abstract, abiding almost constantly in the region of speculation and imagination. As a consequence, it is frequently obscure, though written with a scholarly precision, correctness, and pointedness of language. It is unquestionably too remote from human sympathies, and over-brightened with a superfluity of metaphors. These defects are least felt in his lyrical pieces, many of which cannot be surpassed for imaginative sweetness, beauty, and harmony. In early youth his taste had been in a large measure formed by the works of Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Southey; but in maturer life his models were chiefly the Greek poets, especially Eschylus and Sophocles, and, among the moderns, Calderon and Goethe. Had he lived to mix more with his fellowmen, his poetry would probably have freed itself from one of its defects, viz. the exaggerated degree in which its character is visionary, and acquired a self-possession and collected strength, for which its brilliancy and buoyancy are not adequate substitutes. There is, however, a blight upon Shelley's poetry, for which he was responsible as a man not less than as an author. In his case, as in that of others among our modern poets,-who lived long enough to repudiate many of their early errors,-philosophical speculation, undirected by any sacred authority to which they could confide their Faith and Conscience, had resulted in infidelity. To Shelley, however, there belonged besides an audacity especially his own. Disposed to look on the whole visible world with an enraptured admiration, his precipitance and self-confidence left his mind no sphere for veneration. The consequence was, that at a period when his proper place was that of a learner, he set himself up for a teacher; and committed himself, in some cases with a blasphemous nakedness of language, to statements, both respecting revealed religion and moral philosophy, which he afterwards regretted; though he had learned but in part to see how fatal such views must prove to that which he so ardently desired, viz. the regeneration of society. The disposition of Shelley was in several respects as richly endowed as his genius. He was unsensual and disinterested; abounding in aspirations and generous affections; burning with zeal for the welfare of his fellow-men, and not immoderately anxious for their praise. Gifts so high, and yet so frustrated, make his example a yet more significant as well as a sadder warning. CYTHNA. [From the Revolt of Islam.] An orphan with my parents lived, whose eyes Since kin were cold, and friends had now become What wert thou then? A child most infantine, To overflow with tears, or converse fraught With passion o'er their depths its fleeting light had wrought. She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, A power, that from its objects scarcely drew One impulse of her being-in her lightness Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue To nourish some far desert; she did seem Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, Like the bright shade of some immortal dream, Which walks when tempest sleeps the wave of life's dark stream. As mine own shadow was this child to me, Though by a bitter wound my trusting heart was cleft. Once she was dear, now she was all I had |