Though many a gifted mind we meet,
Though fairest forms we see,
To live with them is far less sweet
Than to remember thee, Mary!

I saw from the Beach.

I saw from the beach, when the morning was

shining,

A bark o'er the waters moved gloriously on;
I came, when the sun o'er that beach was de-

clining,

The bark was still there, but the waters were

gone!

Ah! such is the fate of our life's early promise,
So passing the spring-tide of joy we have

known:

Each wave, that we danced on at morning, ebbs
from us,
And leaves us, at eve, on the bleak shore
alone!

Ne'er tell me of glories, serenely adorning

Each billow, as brightly or darkly it flows,
Reflecting our eyes as they sparkle or weep.
So closely our whims on our miseries tread,
That the laugh is awaked ere the tear can be
dried;

And, as fast as the rain-drop of Pity is shed,

The goose-feathers of Folly can turn it aside, But pledge me the cup if existence would

cloy

With hearts ever happy, and heads ever wise,
Be ours the light grief that is sister to Joy,
And the short brilliant folly that flashes and

dies!

When Hylas was sent with his urn to the fount,
Through fields full of sunshine, with heart full

of play,

Light rambled the boy over meadow and mount,
And neglected his task for the flowers on the

way.

Thus some who, like me, should have drawn and have tasted

The fountain that runs by Philosophy's shrine, Their time with the flowers on the margin have wasted,

And left their light urns all as empty as mine! But pledge me the goblet while Idleness

weaves

Her flowerets together, if Wisdom can see The close of our day, the calm eve of our One bright drop or two, that has fall'n on the

night; Give me back, give me back the wild freshness of morning,

Her clouds and her tears are worth evening's best light.

Oh, who would not welcome that moment's re

turning,

When passion first waked a new life through
his frame,

And his soul like the wood that grows precious
in burning
Gave out all its sweets to Love's exquisite
flame!

This Life is all chequer'd with
Pleasures and Woes.

This life is all chequer'd with pleasures and
That chase one another, like waves of the

leaves

From her fountain divine, 'tis sufficient for me!

St. Jerome's Love.

Who is the maid my spirit seeks,

Through cold reproof and slander's blight?
Has she Love's roses on her cheeks?

Is hers an eye of this world's light?
No, wan and sunk with midnight prayer
Are the pale looks of her I love;
Or if, at times, a light be there,
Its beam is kindled from above.

I chose not her, my soul's elect,

From those who seek their Maker's shrine
In gems and garlands proudly deck'd,
As if themselves were things divine!
No-heaven but faintly warms the breast

That beats beneath a broider'd veil;
And she who comes in glittering vest
To mourn her frailty, still is frail.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, der älteste Sohn von Sir Thomas Shelley, Baronet von Castle-Garing, ward am 4. August 1792 zu Field-Place in Sussex geboren, studirte zu Eton und Oxford und ward von der Universität relegirt, wegen einer Schrift über die Nothwendigkeit des Atheismus, in Folge deren ihn auch sein Vater verstiess. Er liess sich nun zu Marlow nieder und vermählte sich; der Kampf mit den Verhältnissen und eine unglückliche Ehe trieben ihn aber aus England fort. Seine Gattin starb 1817 vor Gram. Shelley ging nach Italien, kehrte darauf ihn sein Vaterland zurück, ward aber von seinen Verwandten verfolgt. Er verheirathete sich nun zum zweiten Male, nahm seinen Aufenthalt von Neuem in Italien, nicht weit von Livorno, und lebte literarischen Beschäftigungen. Eine freundlichere Zukunft lächelte ihm, da ertrank er auf einer Fahrt im Golf von Spezzia, am 8. Juli 1822. Lord Byron liess seine aufgefischte Leiche am Meergestade verbrennen und die Asche in Rom neben der Pyramide des Cestius beisetzen.

Shelley's erschienenen Werke denn Vieles, das er hinterliess, ist nicht durch den Druck veröffentlicht worden - bestehen aus: The Revolt of Islam, ein episches Gedicht, the Cenci, eine Tragödie, Prometheus Unbound, ein lyrisches Drama, Queen Mab, ein didactisches Gedicht (gegen dessen nochmalige Veröffentlichung er sich später erklärte), Alastor, ein didactisches Gedicht, Adonais, eine Elegie auf Keats, Hellas, ein lyrisches Drama und Poesieen gemischten Inhaltes. Ausführlicheres über sein Leben findet sich in: The Shelley Papers etc. By T. Medwin; London 1833.

Shelley besass ungemeine Kenntnisse fast in allen Fächern des menschlichen Wissens, dabei tiefen Scharfsinn und grossen Geschmack; aber das Schwanken seines Geistes und der Kampf seiner Philosophie mit der Poesie um die Oberherrschaft in den Leistungen des Dichters gestattete nicht, seinen Gedichten durch innere Ruhe die Vollendung, deren sie bedurften, zu geben. Das glühendste Gefühl für alles Edle und Grosse waltete in ihm; sein Atheismus war eigentlich nur eine Art von Pantheismus und wurde von seinen Feinden falsch verstanden und mit Unrecht verschrieen; aber der Wunsch, seinen Ansichten Bahn zu brechen und ihnen den Vorrang zu verschaffen, liess ihn oft zu weit gehen und er musste der Menge unzugänglich und unverständlich werden, da er selber nicht ruhig und klar genug war. Seine Richtung ist mehr elegisch zu nennen; sein Bestreben trieb ihn aber nur zu oft speculativen Meditationen zu, in welchen er sich zu sehr verwirrte.

The Cloud.

I bring fresh showers for thirsting flowers
From the seas and the streams;

I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noon-day dreams.

From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet birds every one,

When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast,

As she dances about the sun.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail,
And whiten the green plains under;
And then again I dissolve it in rain,
And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sift the snow on the mountains below,
And their great pines groan aghast;
And all the night 'tis my pillow white,
While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
Sublime on the towers of my skiey bowers,
Lightning, my pilot, sits,

In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder,
It struggles and howls at fits;

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
This pilot is guiding me,

Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;

Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills,
Over the lakes and the plains,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream,
The Spirit he loves remains;

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile,
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

And his burning plumes outspread,
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

When the morning-star shines dead

As on the jag of a mountain crag,

Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

An eagle alit one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings.

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea

beneath,

Its ardours of rest and of love,
And the crimson pall of eve may fall
From the depth of heaven above,

With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbed maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,

The stars peep behind her and peer;

And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,