LEIGH HUNT: 1784-185 9. Leigh Hunt first attracted notice by his contributions to The Examiner, a newspaper started by his brother, and of which he afterwards became joint editor and proprietor. His chief poems are The Feast of the Poets, The Story of Rimini, a tale of early Italian life, A Legend of Florence, and The Palfrey. Hunt also wrote various essays in prose, containing fine sketches both of town and country life. FROM RIMINI. MAY MORNING AT RAVENNA. The sun is up, and 'tis a morn of May Round old Ravenna's clear-shewn towers and bay. year has seen, Last of the spring, yet fresh with all its green; Of bubbling springs about the grassy soil; And all the scene, in short-sky, earth, and sea, Breathes like a bright-eyed face, that laughs out openly. 'Tis nature, fall of spirits, waked and springing: The birds to the delicious time are singing, Darting with freaks and snatches up and down, Where the light woods go seaward from the town; Of leafy roads, at every turn are seen; And the far ships, lifting their sails of white Like joyful hands, come up with scattery light, Come gleaming up, true to the wished-for day, And chase the whistling brine, and swirl into the bay. L FUNERAL OF THE LOVERS. The days were then at close of autumn still, The last few leaves came fluttering from the trees, And hour on hour went by, and nought was heard A voice of chanting rose, and as it spread, It was the choristers who went to meet The train, and now were entering the first street. To keep the window, when the train drew near; The bier approaching slow and steadily, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY: 1792-1822. Shelley, the eldest son of a baronet in Sussex, studied at Eton School and at Oxford University, but was expelled from the latter on account of his atheistical opinions. In 1811 he contracted an imprudent marriage; and, three years afterwards, he deserted his wife and went abroad. Shortly after his return, his wife committed suicide, and Shelley married again a few weeks afterwards. A Chancery decree having deprived him of the guardianship of his children on the ground of his immorality and atheism, Shelley found himself miserable in England, and in 1818 retired to Italy. In 1822 he was drowned in the Bay of Spezzia. Shelley's principal poems are Queen Mab, written at the age of sixteen; Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude; The Revolt of Islam; Prometheus Unbound, a classic drama; and The Cenci, a tragedy. The greater part of his poetry is invested with a mystical grandeur, which recommends it to the more enthusiastic lovers of verse, but disqualifies it from giving general pleasure. THE CLOUD. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shade for the leaves when laid In their noonday dreams. From my wings are shaken the dews that waken The sweet birds every one, When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fettered the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion, Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, 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, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, 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, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, The sphere-fire above, its soft colours wove, While the moist earth was laughing below. I am the daughter of the earth and water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change but I cannot die. For after the rain, when, with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I rise and upbuild it again. FROM ALASTOR, OR THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE. FOREST SCENERY. The noonday sun Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass |