No More Learning

[Published by Mr. C. D. Locock, "Examination", etc, 1903. ]

Thy beauty hangs around thee like
Splendour around the moon--
Thy voice, as silver bells that strike
Upon

***


FRAGMENT: 'THE DEATH KNELL IS RINGING'.

('This reads like a study for "Autumn, A Dirge"' (Locock). Might it not
be part of a projected Fit v. of "The Fugitives"? --ED. )

[Published by Mr. C. D. Locock, "Examination", etc. , 1903. ]

The death knell is ringing
The raven is singing
The earth worm is creeping
The mourners are weeping
Ding dong, bell-- _5

***


FRAGMENT: 'I STOOD UPON A HEAVEN-CLEAVING TURRET'.
I stood upon a heaven-cleaving turret
Which overlooked a wide Metropolis--
And in the temple of my heart my Spirit
Lay prostrate, and with parted lips did kiss
The dust of Desolations [altar] hearth-- _5
And with a voice too faint to falter
It shook that trembling fane with its weak prayer
'Twas noon,--the sleeping skies were blue
The city

***


NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that which
sealed our earthly fate, and each poem, and each event it records, has
a real or mysterious connection with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that
I am incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The
heart of the man, abhorred of the poet, who could

'peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave,'

does not appear to me more inexplicably framed than that of one who can
dissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans
drawn from them in the throes of their agony.

The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the Baths of San Giuliano. We
were not, as our wont had been, alone; friends had gathered round us.
Nearly all are dead, and, when Memory recurs to the past, she wanders
among tombs. The genius, with all his blighting errors and mighty
powers; the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the sharer of
his fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, and
fearless; and others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his great
knowledge and warm sympathy, delight, instruction, and solace; have
joined him beyond the grave. A few survive who have felt life a desert
since he left it. What misfortune can equal death? Change can convert
every other into a blessing, or heal its sting--death alone has no
cure. It shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread; it
destroys its beauty; it casts down our shelter; it exposes us bare to
desolation. When those we love have passed into eternity, 'life is the
desert and the solitude' in which we are forced to linger--but never
find comfort more.

There is much in the "Adonais" which seems now more applicable to
Shelley himself than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The
poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towards
his calumniators, are as a prophecy on his own destiny when received
among immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanished
into emptiness before the fame he inherits.