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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
"And grey walls moulder round, on which dull Time
And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,
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,
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 *-who but will regard as a prophecy the last stanza of the Adonais?
The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are."
Putney, May 1st, 1839.
*Captain Roberts watched the vessel with his glass from the top of the light-house 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 onward, 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 sea-worthy, and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked.
THY dewy looks sink in my breast;
That was the portion of despair.
I could have borne my wayward lot;
The chains that bind this ruined soul
Had cankered then, but crushed it not.
TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.
MINE eyes were dim with tears unshed;
To meet thy looks-I could not know
To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan,
Hiding from many a careless eye
Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,
Upon my heart thy accents sweet
On flowers half dead; thy lips did meet
Charming away its dream of pain.
We are not happy, sweet! our state
Reserve or censure come not near
Gentle and good and mild thou art;
YET look on me-take not thine eyes away, Which feed upon the love within mine own,Which is indeed but the reflected ray
Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown. Yet speak to me: thy voice is as the tone Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear
That thou yet lovest me. Yet thou alone, Like one before a mirror, without care
Of aught but thine own features imaged there;And yet I wear out life in watching thee,
A toil so sweet at times. And thou indeed Art kind when I am sick, and pityest me.
DEAR home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,
A SHOVEL of his ashes took
But Helen clung to her brother's arm,
THOSE Whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil,
Chastened by deathful victory now, and find
Me whom they cheer to be their minister.
FOR me, my friend,-if not that tears did tremble
Like strength from slumber, from the prison
In which he vainly hoped the soul to bind
Which on the chains must prey that fetter humankind.
ONCE more descend
The shadows of my soul upon mankind;
For, to those hearts with which they never blend, Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing mind, From the swift clouds which track its flight of fire, Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind.
Oh that a chariot of cloud were mine
Of cloud which the wild tempest weaves in air,
Is spreading the locks of her bright grey hair! Oh that a chariot of cloud were mine!
I would sail on the waves of the billowy wind
A GOLDEN-WINGED Angel stood
Knew that strife was now begun.
They knew that Satan had broken his chain,
And, with millions of demons in his train,
Was ranging over the world again.
Before the Angel had told his tale,
A sweet and a creeping sound
Like the rushing of wings was heard around;
And suddenly the lamps grew pale
The lamps, before the Archangels seven,
That burn continually in heaven.
THERE was a youth who, as with toil and travel, Had grown quite weak and grey before his time; Nor any could the restless griefs unravel