And here were all his aspirations turned into mockery and derision; the hope that had soothed and beguiled his sickness, that he had clung to with fondest solicitude, ruthlessly torn into shreds and tatters, in such a manner as only meanness and vulgarity of mind could devise.

It did not strike him down, but the barbed shaft hit home with terrible accuracy; and the rest of his life, a brief two years, was embittered by it; it was to be numbered among the things that pained and preyed upon him.

Fair child of genius! he sleeps now in peace in a far-off land, where heaven's purest blue o'ercanopies him, and the flowers he so loved grow over him; his detractor has gone to oblivion, from which nothing could recall him but the remembrance of that malignancy with which he dared to assail a nature, to which he stood in comparison, as some noxious, but vigorous weed, to the pure and spotless chastity of the drooping lily!

CHAPTER XVIII.

"Adonais "-Its character and beauty-Its receptionA criticism upon it-Improvement in Shelley's health -Sgricci the improvisatore-Shelley's intimacy with Mr. and Mrs. Williams-Character of Williams-His tastes similar to Shelley's-Their joint love of boating -Their boat on the Arno-Dangerous voyage to Leghorn-Accomplishments of Mrs. Williams.

THE news of the death of the "Young Poet" does not appear to have reached Shelley till several months after it occurred, but every reader is well aware of the noble monument he raised to his memory when the sad intelligence at length arrived.

The beautiful elegy, entitled "Adonais," was written this summer at the baths of San Giuliano,

and notwithstanding its marvellous beauty and exquisite finish, it appears to have been written with the same rapidity as all Shelley's writings. In a letter dated June 5th, he says:-

"I have been engaged these last days in composing a poem on the death of Keats, which will shortly be finished."

And in another, dated June 16th

I have finished my Elegy; and this day I send it to the press at Pisa."

In such a brief space of time did he weave that immortal wreath, to grace the memory of one whom the world knew so little how to appreciate till he was gone and at the same time to add another lasting monument of his own genius.

Until after this Elegy was completed, Shelley was not acquainted with the full particulars of the closing scene of the young poet's life; and when they were made known to him in a letter from a friend, he wrote in reply:

"I do not think that if I had seen them before, I could have composed my poem. The enthusiasm of the imagination would have overpowered the sentiment."

In its present form, it is, however, as he himself truly pronounces it, "a highly-wrought piece of art;" nor is he much in error when he adds, "and perhaps better, in point of composition, than anything I have written."

It is not improbable that the charming "Lycidas" of Milton was floating in his mind when he conceived this poem; but the solemn harmony of the versification, the calm dignity of style, the sublime thought, the splendid imagery, the tremendous power of denunciation, wielded against the destroyers of "Adonais," for which purpose he says, "I have dipped my pen in consuming fire," are all his own.

That spirit whose sustaining love he has so often invoked in song, seems to have fallen upon him to create feelings that kindle into enthusiasm of the loftiest character. The inspired thought proceeding from such moods is naturally deep and earnest, woven into the most harmonious numbers, like the breathings of Eolian harps catching the soft breezes of evening, and changing them into wondrous melody.

In the list of Adonais' mourners, Shelley has

VOL. II.

M

drawn one character in ideal colours, that may easily be understood to stand for himself.

''Midst others of less note, came one frail form,
A phantom among men, companionless
As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,
Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actæon alike, and now he fled astray

With feeble steps, o'er the world's wilderness,
And his own thoughts along that rugged way
Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift

A love in desolation masked ;—a power
Girt round with weakness;-it can scarce uplift
The weight of the superincumbent hour;

It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,

A breaking billow; even whilst we speak

Is it not broken? On the withering flower

The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek

The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

His head was bound with pansies overblown,
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;
Ana a light spear, topped with a cypress cone,
Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew,
Yet dripping with the forest noon-day dew,
Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart

Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew
He came the last, neglected and apart;

A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart.