soothe them, such would not have existed—and yet enjoying, as he appeared to do, every sight or influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine that any melancholy he showed was aught but the effect of the constant pain to which he was a martyr. We lived in utter solitude-and such is often not the nurse of cheerfulness; for then, at least with those who have been exposed to adversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too intently; while the society of the enlightened, the witty, and the wise, enables us to forget ourselves by making us the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a portion of the philosophy of happiness. Shelley never liked society in numbers, it harassed and wearied him; but neither did he like loneliness, and usually when alone sheltered himself against memory and reflection, in a book. But with one or two whom he loved, he gave way to wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious conversation expounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence. If an argument arose, no man ever argued better-he was clear, logical, and earnest, in supporting his own views; attentive, patient, and impartial, while listening to those on the adverse side. Had not a wall of prejudice been raised at this time between him and his coun trymen, how many would have sought the acquaintance of one, whom to know was to love and to revere! how many of the more enlightened of his contemporaries have since regretted that they did not seek him! how very few knew his worth while he lived, and of those few, several were withheld by timidity or envy from declaring their sense of it. But no man was ever more enthusiastically lovedmore looked up to as one superior to his fellows in intellectual endowments and moral worth, by the few who knew him well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to appreciate his superiority. His excellence is now acknowledged; but even while admitted, not duly appreciated. For who, except those who were acquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied benevolence, his generosity, his systematic forbearance? And still less is his vast superiority in intellectual attainments sufficiently understood-his sagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, his prodigious memory; all these, as displayed in conversation, were known to few while he lived, and are now silent in the tomb: Ahi orbo mondo ingrato, Gran cagion hai di dever pianger meco. Che quel ben ch' era in te, perdut' hai seco. POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819. THE MASQUE OF ANARCHY. I. As I lay asleep in Italy, There came a voice from over the sea, II. I met Murder on the way- III. All were fat; and well they might For one by one, and two by two, He tossed them human hearts to chew, IV. Next came Fraud, and he had on, His big tears, for he wept well, V. And the little children, who Round his feet played to and fro, Thinking every tear a gem, Had their brains knocked out by them. VI. Clothed with the bible as with light, And the shadow of the night, Like S*** next, Hypocrisy, On a crocodile came by. VII. And many more Destructions played In this ghastly masquerade, All disguised, even to the eyes, Like bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies. VIII. Last came Anarchy; he rode On a white horse splashed with blood; He was pale even to the lips, Like Death in the Apocalypse. IX. And he wore a kingly crown; "I am God, and King, and Law!" X. With a pace stately and fast, XI. And a mighty troop around, For the service of their Lord.' XII. And, with glorious triumph, they Rode through England, proud and gay, Drunk as with intoxication Of the wine of desolation. XIII. O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, Passed the pageant swift and free, XIV. And each dweller, panic-stricken, Of the triumph of Anarchy. |