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A ghastly life without a sound; His servant-maids and dogs grew dull;

. To Peter's soul the spell is boundHis kitten late a sportive elf,

How should it ever pass away?
The woods and lakes, so beautiful,
Of dim stupidity were full,

NOTE ON PETER BELL THE All grew dull as Peter's self.


In this new edition I have added Peter XIX

Bell the Third. A critique on Words The earth under his feet-the springs. worth's Peter Bell reached us at Leghorn. Which lived within it a quick lise,

which amused Shelley exceedingly, and The air, the winds of many wings,

suggested this poem. That fan it with new murmurings,

I need scarcely observe that nothing

personal to the author of Peter Bell is Were dead to their harmonious strise.

intended in this poem. No man ere

admired Wordsworth's poetry more:-he XX

read it perpetually, and taught others to The birds and beasts within the wood, appreciate its beauties. This poem is,

The insects, and each creeping thing, like all others written by Shelley, ideal. Were now a silent multitude;

He conceived the idealism of a poet-a Love's work was left unwrought - no

man of lofty and creative genius-quitting

the glorious calling of discovering and brood

announcing the beautiful and good, to Near Peter's house took wing:

support and propagate ignorant prejudices

and pernicious errors; imparting to the XXI

unenlightened, not that ardour for truth And every neighbouring cottager and spirit of toleration which Shelley

Stupidly yawned upon the other: looked on as the sources of the moral imNo jack-ass brayed ; no little cur

provement and happiness of mankind, but Cocked up his ears;--no man would

false and injurious opinions, that evil was

good, and that ignorance and force were stir

the best allies of purity and virtue. His To save a dying mother.

idea was that a man gifted, even as trans.

cendently as the author of Peter Bell, with XXII

the highest qualities of genius, must, it Yet all from that charmed district went he fostered such errors, be infected with

But some half-idiot and half-knave, dulness. This poem was written as a Who rather than pay any rent,

warning---not as a narration of the reality. Would live with marvellous content,

He was unacquainted personally with Over his father's grave.

Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (to whom he alludes in the fifth part of the poem).

and therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely XXIII

ideal; --it contains something of criticism No bailiff dared within that space, on the compositions of those great poets,

For fear of the dull charm, to enter; but nothing injurious to the men themA man would bear upon his face, selves. For fifteen months in any case,

No poem contains more of Shelley's The yawn of such a venture.

peculiar views with regard to the errors

into which many of the wisest have fallen, XXIV

and the pernicious effects of certain

opinions on society. Much of it is beau. Seven miles above-below --around.- tifully written: and, though, like the bur

This pest of dulness holds its sway; lesque drama of Swellfoot, it must be



looked on as a plaything, it has so much To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, merit and poetry—so much of himself in it Or those in philanthropic council met,

- that it cannot fail to interest greatly, and who thought to pay some interest for by right belongs to the world for whose

the debt instruction and benefit it was written.

They owed to Jesus Christ for their


By giving a faint foretaste of damnation LETTER TO MARIA

To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and GISBORNE

the rest LEGHORN, July 1, 1820.

Who made our land an island of the The spider spreads her webs, whether When

When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes she be

her fire In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;

tee: On Freedom's hearth, grew dim with The silk-worm in the dark green mul

Empire :berry leaves

With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth His winding sheet and cradle ever

and spike and jag, weaves;

| Which fishers found under the utmost So I, a thing whom moralists call worm,

crag Sit spinning still round this decaying form, of cornu

of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed From the fine threads of rare and subtle

isles, thoughtNo net of words in garish colours

Where to the sky the rude sea rarely

smiles wrought

Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the To catch the idle buzzers of the day

morn But a soft cell, where when that fades

When the exulting elements in scorn away,

| Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Memory may clothe in wings my living Sleeping

Sleeping in beauty on their mangled name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, | As panthers sleep;—and other strange

prey, Which in those hearts which must | and dread remember me

Magical forms the brick floor overGrow, making love an immortality.

spread, Whoever should behold me now, I Proteus transformed to metal did not

make Would think I were a mighty mechanist, More figures, or more strange; nor did Bent with sublime Archimedean art

he take To breathe a soul into the iron heart | Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Of some machine portentous, or strange Or heap himself in such a horrid mass gin,

Of tin and iron not to be understood ; Which by the force of figured spelis And forms of unimaginable wood, might win

To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his Its way over the sea, and sport therein ; brood : For round the walls are hung dread Great screws, and cones, and wheels, engines, such

and grooved blocks, As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to The elements of what will stand the clutch

shocks Ixion or the Titan :-or the quick Of wave and wind and time.—Upon Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, , the table


More knacks and quips there be than I With ink in it;-a china cup that wa am able

What it will never be again, I think, To catalogise in this verse of mine :- A thing from which sweet lips we A pretty bowl of wood---not full of wine,

wont to drink But quicksilver; that dew which the The liquor doctors rail at—and whic! gnomes drink

| Will quaff in spite of them-and wil When at their subterranean toil they we die swink,

We'll toss up who died first of drinki Pledging the demons of the earthquake, tea, who

And cry out,- heads or tails? wherd Reply to them in lava-cry halloo!

we be. And call out to the cities o'er their Near that a dusty paint box, some o head,

hooks, Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying A half-burnt match, an ivory blod and the dead,

three books, Crash through the chinks of earth—and Where conic sections, spherics, log then all quaff

ithms, Another rouse, and hold their sides and To great Laplace, from Saunderson a laugh.

Sims, This quicksilver no gnome has drunk- Lie heaped in their harmonious disan within

| Or figures, -disentangle them who m: The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, Baron de Tott's Memoirs beside them 1 In colour like the wake of light that And some odd volumes of old chemist stains

Near those a most inexplicable thing, The Tuscan deep, when from the moist With lead in the middle- I'm conject moon rains

ing The inmost shower of its white fire- | How to make Ilenry understand; the breeze

noIs still--blue heaven smiles over the I'll leave, as Spenser says, with ma pale seas.

mo, And in this bowl of quicksilver-for I This secret in the pregnant womb ostin Yield to the impulse of an infancy Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyn Outlasting manhood - I have made to float

And here like some weird Archim A rude idealism of a paper boat:

sit I, A hollow screw with cogs-llenry will Plotting dark spells, and devil know

enginery, The thing I mean and laugh at me, --if so The self-impelling steam-wheels of I lle fears not I should do more mischief. ---Next

| Which pump up oaths from clergymd Lie bills and calculations much perplext, and grind With steam - boats, frigates, and | The gentle spirit of our meek reviews machinery quaint

Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Traced over them in blue and yellow Ruslling the ocean of their self-content; paint.

I sit-and smile or sigh as is my bent Then comes a range of mathematical | | But not for them--Libeccio rushes roul Instruments, for plans nautical and With an inconstant and an idle sound statical;

I hced him more than them-0 A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass



Is gathering on the mountains, like a We watched the ocean and the sky cloak

together, Folded athwart their shoulders broad Under the roof of blue Italian weather ; and bare;

| How I ran home through last year's The ripe corn under the undulating air

thunder-storm, Undulates like an ocean ;-and the vines And felt the transverse lightning linger Are trembling wide in all their trellised

warm lines

Upon my cheek -- and how we often The murmur of the awakening sea doth made fill

| Feasts for each other, where good will The empty pauses of the blast ;-the outweighed hill

The frugal luxury of our country cheer, Looks hoary through the white electric | As well it might, were it less firm and rain,

clear And from the glens beyond, in sullen Than ours must ever be;—and how we strain,

spun The interrupted thunder howls; above A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun One chasm of heaven smiles, like the Of this familiar life, which seems to be eye of Love

But is not,-or is but quaint mockery On the unquiet world; — while such Of all we would believe, and sadly blame things are,

The jarring and inexplicable frame How could one worth your friendship of this wrong world :—and then anatoheed the war

mise Of worms? the shriek of the world's | The purposes and thoughts of men carrion jays,

whose eyes Their censure, or their wonder, or their Were closed in distant years ;-or widely praise ?


The issue of the earth's great business, You are not here! the quaint witch When we shall be as we no longer are-Memory sees

Like babbling gossips safe, who hear In vacant chairs, your absent images,

the war And points where once you sat, and now Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;should be

or how But are not.--I demand if ever we You listened to some interrupted flow Shall meet as then we met;—and she Of visionary rhyme,-in joy and pain replies,

Struck from the inmost fountains of my Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes;

brain, “I know the past alone--but summon with little skill perhaps ;-or how we

sought My sister Hope,-she speaks of all to Those deepest wells of passion or of come.”

thought But I, an old diviner, who knew well Wrought by wise poets in the waste of Every false verse of that sweet oracle,

years, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, Staining their sacred waters with our And sought a respite from my gentle tears; pain,

Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed ! In citing every passage o'er and o'er Or how I, wisest lady! then indued or our communion--how on the sea. The language of a land which now is




And winged with thoughts of truth and Flags wearily through darkness and majesty,

despairFlits round the tyrant's sceptre like a A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, cloud,

A hooded eagle among blinking owls.And bursts the peopled prisons, and you will see Hunt-one of those happy cries aloud,

souls “My name is Legion !"—that majestic Which are the salt of the earth, and tongue

without whom Which Calderon over the desert flung | This world would smell like what it is Of ages and of nations; and which found

-a tomb; An echo in our hearts, and with the Who is, what others seem; his room sound

no doubt Startled oblivion; — thou wert then to Is still adorned by many a cast from me

Shout, As is a nurse—when inarticulately With graceful flowers tastefully placed A child would talk as its grown parents about; do.

And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, And brighter wreaths in neat disorder If hawks chase doves through the flung ; ethereal way,

The gifts of the most learn'd among Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts some dozens their prey,

of female friends, sisters-in-law, and Why should not we rouse with the

cousins. spirit's blast

And there is he with his eternal puns, Out of the forest of the pathless past which beat the dullest brain for smiles, These recollected pleasures ?

like duns

You are now Thundering for money at a poet's door; In London, that great sea, whose ebb Alas! it is no use to say, “ I'm poor!” and flow

Or oft in graver mood, when he will At once is deaf and loud, and on the look shore

| Things wiser than were ever read in Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on

book, for more.

Except in Shakespeare's wisest tenderYet in its depth what treasures! You

ness. — will see

You will see Hogg,—and I cannot exThat which was Godwin,-greater none press than he

His virtues,—though I know that they Though fallen-and fallen on evil times

are great, - to stand

Because he locks, then barricades the Among the spirits of our age and land,

gate Before the dread tribunal of to come Within which they inhabit ;-of his wit The foremost, — while Rebuke cowers And wisdom, you'll cry out when you pale and dumb.

are bit. You will see Coleridge-he who sits He is a pearl within an oyster shell, obscure

One of the richest of the deep;-and In the exceeding lustre, and the pure

there Intense irradiation of a mind,

| Is English Peacock with his mountain Which, with its own internal lightning fair blind,

| Turned into a Flamingo ;-that shy bird

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