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reprint of “ Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude :”—the difficulty with which a copy can be obtained is the cause of its republication. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the occasion, and never retouched, I found among his manuscript books, and have carefully copied. I have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the date of their composition.

I do not know whether the critics will reprehend the insertion of some of the most imperfect among them ; but I frankly own that I have been more actuated by the fear lest any monument of his genius should escape me, than the wish of presenting nothing but what was complete to the fastidious reader. I feel secure that the Lovers of SHELLEY's Poetry (who know how more than any poet of the present day every line and word he wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will pardon and thank me: I consecrate this volume to them.

The size of this collection has prevented the insertion of any prose pieces. They will hereafter appear in a separate publication.


LONDON, June 1st, 1824.





SING, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,

The Herald-child, king of Arcadia
And all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet love

Having been interwoven, modest May
Bore Heaven's dread Supreme—an antique grove

Shadowed the cavern where the lovers lay In the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men, And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.


Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,

And Heaven's tenth moon chronicled her relief, She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,

A schemer subtle beyond all belief;
A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,

A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief, Who ’mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, And other glorious actions to achieve.


of day;

The babe was born at the first peep

He began playing on the lyre at noon, And the same evening did he steal away

Apollo's herds ;—the fourth day of the moon

On which him bore the venerable May,

From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon,
Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,
But out to seek Apollo's herds would creep.


Out of the lofty cavern wandering

He found a tortoise, and cried out—"A treasure !” (For Mercury first made the tortoise sing)

The beast before the portal at his leisure
The flowery herbage was depasturing,

Moving his feet in a deliberate measure
Over the turf. Jove's profitable son
Eyeing him laughed, and laughing thus begun :-


A useful god-send are you to me now,

King of the dance, companion of the feast, Lovely in all your nature ! Welcome, you

Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain beast, Got you that speckled shell ? Thus much I know,

You must come home with me and be my guest;
You will give joy to me, and I will do
All that is in my power to honour you.


“ Better to be at home than out of door;

So come with me, and though it has been said That you alive defend from magic power,

I know you will sing sweetly when you're dead."
Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore,

Lifting it from the grass on which it fed,
And grasping it in his delighted hold,
His treasured prize into the cavern old.

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