How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black-and now the glee Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth. In the fourth canto there is a greater throng of images and objects. The poet opens with a sketch of the peculiar beauty and departed greatness of Venice, rising from the sea, with her tiara of proud towers' in airy distance. He then resumes his pilgrimage-moralises on the scenes of Petrarch and Tasso, Dante and Boccaccio-and visits the lake of Thrasimene and the temple of Clitumnus. His verses on the latter have never been surpassed : [Temple of Clitumnus.] But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave Of the most living crystal that was e'er The haunt of river-nymph, to gaze and lave : Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou dost rear Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white steer Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! And most serene of aspect and most clear! Surely that stream was unprofaned by slaughters, A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest daughters! And on thy happy shore a temple still, Of small and delicate proportion, keeps, Upon a mild declivity of hill, Its memory of thee; beneath it sweeps Thy current's calmness; oft from out it leaps The finny darter with the glittering scales, Who dwells and revels in thy glassy deeps; While, chance, some scattered water-lily sails Down where the shallower wave still tells its bubbling tales. The Greek statues at Florence are then inimitably described, after which the poet visits Rome, and revels in the ruins of the Palatine and Coliseum, and the glorious remains of ancient art. His dreams of love and beauty, of intellectual power and majesty, are here realised. The lustre of the classic age seems reflected back in his glowing pages, and we feel that in this intense appreciation of ideal beauty and sculptured grace-in passionate energy and ecstacy-Byron outstrips all his contemporaries. The poem concludes abruptly with an apostrophe to the sea, his joy of youthful sports,' and a source of lofty enthusiasm and pleasure in his solitary wanderings on the shores of Italy and Greece. The greatness of Byron's genius is seen in Childe Harold'its tenderness in the tales and smaller poems-its rich variety in Don Juan.' A brighter garland few poets can hope to wear-yet it wants the unfading flowers of hope and virtue! [The Gladiator.] The seal is set.-Now welcome, thou dread power! Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear; Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls rear Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear, That we become a part of what has been, And grow unto the spot, all-seeing, but unseen. And here the buzz of eager nations ran, In murmured pity, or loud-roared applause, As man was slaughtered by his fellow-man. And wherefore slaughtered? wherefore, but because Such were the bloody circus' genial laws, And the imperial pleasure. Wherefore not? What matters where we fall to fill the maws Of worms-on battle-plains or listed spot? Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot. There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not man the less, but nature more, From these our interviews, in which I steal From all I may be, or have been before, To mingle with the universe, and feel What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal. Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin-his control Stops with the shore; upon the watery plain The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, When, for a moment, like a drop of rain, He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groanWithout a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown. His steps are not upon thy paths-thy fields Are not a spoil for him-thou dost arise And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, The armaments which thunderstrike the walls Thy shores are empires, changed in all save thee Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublimeThe image of Eternity-the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made, each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone. And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wantoned with thy breakers-they to me Were a delight; and if the freshening sea Made them a terror-'twas a pleasing fear; For I was as it were a child of thee, And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane-as I do here. [An Italian Evening on the Banks of the Brenta.] [From Childe Harold."] The moon is up, and yet it is not nightSunset divides the sky with her-a sea Of glory streams along the alpine height Of blue Friuli's mountains: heaven is free From clouds, but of all colours seems to be Melted to one vast Iris of the west, Where the day joins the past eternity; While on the other hand, meek Dian's crest Floats through the azure air-an island of the blest. A single star is at her side, and reigns Filled with the face of heaven, which, from afar, 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.] Beautiful! The stars are forth, the moon above the tops I learned the language of another world. And twines its roots with the imperial hearths, Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shrieked the timid, and stood still the brave Then some leaped overboard with dreadful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave; And the sea yawned around her like a hell, And down she sucked with her the whirling wave, Like one who grapples with his enemy, And strives to strangle him before he die. And first one universal shrick there rushed, Louder than the loud ocean, like a crash A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry I can do nothing; and he saw him thrown The other father had a weaklier child, And o'er him bent his sire, and never raised And when the wished-for shower at length was come, The boy expired-the father held the clay, "Twas borne by the rude wave wherein 'twas cast; Then he himself sunk down all dumb and shivering, And gave no sign of life, save his limbs quivering. [Description of Haidee.] [From the same.] Her brow was overhung with coins of gold They nearly reached her heels; and in her air Her hair, I said, was auburn; but her eyes Were black as death, their lashes the same hue, Ne'er with such force the swiftest arrow flew: (A race of mere impostors when all's doneI've seen much finer women, ripe and real, Than all the nonsense of their stone ideal). [Haidee Visits the Shipwrecked Don Juan.] And down the cliff the island virgin came. Mistake you would have made on seeing the two, And wrapt him closer, lest the air, too raw, And thus, like to an angel o'er the dying Who die in righteousness, she leaned; and there * And now, by dint of fingers and of eyes, Turns oftener to the stars than to his book: 'Tis pleasing to be schooled in a strange tongue [Haidee and Juan at the Feast.] On crimson satin, bordered with pale blue; Of the apartment-and appeared quite new; Had done their work of splendour; Indian mats There was no want of lofty mirrors, and The greater part of these were ready spread Of all the dresses, I select Haidee's: She wore two jelicks-one was of pale yellow; All gold and crimson shone her jelick's fellow, That the hand stretched and shut it without harm, A light gold bar above her instep rolled Of lavish pearls, whose worth could scarce be told; The silken fillet's curb, and sought to shun Her overpowering presence made you feel It would not be idolatry to kneel. Her eyelashes, though dark as night, were tinged Her nails were touched with henna; but again The henna should be deeply dyed, to make On mountain-tops more heavenly white than her; The eye might doubt if it were well awake, She was so like a vision; I might err, But Shakspeare also says, 'tis very silly To gild refined gold, or paint the lily.' Juan had on a shawl of black and gold, But a white baracan, and so transparent The sparkling gems beneath you might behold. Like small stars through the milky-way apparent; His turban, furled in many a graceful fold, An emerald aigrette with Haidee's hair in't Surmounted as its clasp-a glowing crescent, Whose rays shone ever trembling, but incessant. And now they were diverted by their suite, Dwarfs, dancing-girls, black eunuchs, and a poet; Which made their new establishment complete; The last was of great fame, and liked to show it: His verses rarely wanted their due feet And for his theme--he seldom sung below it, He being paid to satirise or flatter, As the Psalms say, inditing a good matter.' [The Death of Haidee.] Afri: is all the sun's, and as her earth, Her human clay is kindled; full of power For good or evil, burning from its birth, The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour, And, like the soil beneath it, will bring forth: Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower; But her large dark eye showed deep Passion's force, Though sleeping like a lion near a source. Her daughter, tempered with a milder ray, Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair, Till slowly charged with thunder, they display But, overwrought with passion and despair, Where late he trod her beautiful, her own; A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes And her head drooped as when the lily lies O'ercharged with rain: her summoned handmaids bore Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes; Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill- All hope to look upon her sweet face bred When exquisitely chiselled, still lay there, And ever-dying gladiator's air, Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true She looked on many a face with vacant eye, Her father watched, she turned her eyes away; However dear or cherished in their day; At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning And then a slave bethought her of a harp : The harper came and tuned his instrument. At the first notes, irregular and sharp, On him her flashing eyes a moment bent; Then to the wall she turned, as if to warp Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent ¡ And he began a long low island song Of ancient days ere tyranny grew strong. Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall In time to his old tune; he changed the theme And sung of Love; the fierce name struck through all Her recollection; on her flashed the dream Of what she was, and is, if ye could call To be so being in a gushing stream The tears rushed forth from her o'erclouded brair, Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain. Short solace, vain relief! thought came too quick, And whirled her brain to madness; she arose As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick, And flew at all she met, as on her foes; But no one ever heard her speak or shriek, Although her paroxysm drew towards its close; Hers was a frenzy which disdained to rave, Even when they smote her, in the hope to save. Twelve days and nights she witnered thus; at last, Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show A parting pang, the spirit from her passed: And they who watched her nearest could not know The very instant, till the change that cast Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow, Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the blackOh to possess such lustre, and then lack! She died, but not alone; she held within That isle is now all desolate and bare, Its dwellings down, its tenants passed away; None but her own and father's grave is there, And nothing outward tells of human clay; Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair; No one is there to show, no tongue to say What was; no dirge except the hollow seas Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was the son and heir of a wealthy English baronet, Sir Timothy Shelley of Castle Goring, in Sussex, and was born at Field Place, in that county, on the 4th of August 1792. In worldly prospects and distinction the poet there- | fore surpassed most of his tuneful brethren; yet this only served to render his unhappy and strange destiny the more conspicuously wretched. He was first educated at Eton, and afterwards at Oxford. His resistance to all established authority and opinion displayed itself while at school, and in the introduction to his Revolt of Islam, he has portrayed his early impressions in some sweet and touching Without reproach or check.' I then controlled With these feelings and predilections Shelley went to Oxford. He studied hard, but irregularly, and spent much of his leisure in chemical experiments. He incessantly speculated, thought, and read, as he himself has stated. At the age of fifteen he wrote two short prose romances. He had also great facility in versification, and threw off various effusions. The forbidden mines of lore' which had captivated his boyish mind at Eton were also diligently explored, and he was soon an avowed republican and sceptic. He published a volume of political rhymes, entitled Margaret Nicholson's Remains, the said Margaret being the unhappy maniac who attempted to stab George III.; and he issued a syllabus from Hume's Essays, at the same time challenging the authorities of Oxford to a public controversy on the subject. Shelley was at this time just seventeen years of age! The consequence of his conduct was, that he was expelled the university, and his friends being disgusted with him, he was cast on the world, a prey to the undisciplined ardour of youth and passion. His subsequent life was truly a warfare upon earth. Mrs Shelley, widow of the poet, has thus traced the early bias of his mind, and its predisposing causes :- Refusing to fag at Eton, he was treated with revolting cruelty by masters and boys; this roused instead of taming his spirit, and he re jected the duty of obedience when it was enforced by menaces and punishment. To aversion to the society of his fellow-creatures-such as he found them when collected together into societies, where one egged on the other to acts of tyranny--was joined the deepest sympathy and compassion; while the attachment he felt for individuals, and the admiration with which he regarded their powers and their virtues, led him to entertain a high opinion of the perfectibility of human nature; and he believed that all could reach the highest grade of moral improvement, did not the customs and prejudices of society foster evil passions and excuse evil actions. The oppression which, trembling at every nerve, yet resolute to heroism, it was his ill fortune to encounter at school and at college, led him to dissent in many things from those whose arguments were blows, whose faith appeared to engender blame and execration. "During my existence," he wrote to a friend in 1812, "I have incessantly speculated, thought, and read." His readings were not always well chosen; among them were the works of the French philosophers: as far as metaphysical argument went, he temporarily became a convert. At the same time it was the cardinal article of his faith, that, if men were but taught and induced to treat their fellows with love, charity, and equal rights, this earth would realise Paradise. He looked upon reiigion as it was professed, and, above all, practised, as hostile, instead of friendly, to the cultivation of those virtues which would make men brothers.' Mrs Shelley conceives that, in the peculiar circumstances, this was not to be wondered at. At the age of seventeen, fragile in health and frame, of the purest habits in morals, full of devoted generosity and universal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain wis My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and dom, resolved, at every personal sacrifice, to do right, bold. And from that hour did I with earnest thought more Within me, till there came upon my mind A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. burning with a desire for affection and sympathy, he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth as a criminal. The cause was, that he was sincere, that he believed the opinions which he entertained to be true, and he loved truth with a martyr's love: he was ready to sacrifice station, and fortune, and his dearest affections, at its shrine. The sacrifice was demanded from, and made by, a youth of seventeen.' It appears that in his youth Shelley was equally inclined to poetry and metaphysics, and hesitated to which he should devote himself. He ended in unit |