The beauty of the
bay enchanted him.
bay enchanted him.
Shelley
Once I went
down with him to the mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and
swift, met the tideless sea, and disturbed its sluggish waters. It was
a waste and dreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point
surrounded by waves that broke idly though perpetually around; it was a
scene very similar to Lido, of which he had said--
'I love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows. '
Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when
we removed to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano,
four miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the
canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and
picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered by
trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day,
multitudes of Ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the
fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at
noon-day kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It
was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and
inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and
more attached to the part of the country were chance appeared to cast
us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one
of the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and
overlooking a wide extent of country: or settling still farther in the
maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished
poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us.
It is the nature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul
oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed
by the weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has
recourse to the solace of expression in verse.
Still, Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers,
instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on
the shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank
from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy:
Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided
there were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of
many English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a
colony of chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside
at Via Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands
and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores
of the Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It
was a vague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see
whether it would be feasible to spend a summer there.
The beauty of the
bay enchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took
root, and many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to
urge him to execute it.
He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a
visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the
latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a
periodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect
of good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society;
and instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not
intend himself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to
have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with
the compositions of more popular writers; and also because he might
feel shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends
were to be compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their
outermost extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction
not only true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement
and happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, either
really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his
thoughts; and this evil he resolved to avoid.
***
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822.
THE ZUCCA.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824, and dated
'January, 1822. ' There is a copy amongst the Boscombe manuscripts. ]
1.
Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land
All cloudlessly and cold;--when I, desiring
More in this world than any understand,
Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring, _5
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand
Of my lorn heart, and o'er the grass and flowers
Pale for the falsehood of the flattering Hours.
2.
down with him to the mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and
swift, met the tideless sea, and disturbed its sluggish waters. It was
a waste and dreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point
surrounded by waves that broke idly though perpetually around; it was a
scene very similar to Lido, of which he had said--
'I love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows. '
Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when
we removed to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano,
four miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the
canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and
picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered by
trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day,
multitudes of Ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the
fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at
noon-day kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It
was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and
inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and
more attached to the part of the country were chance appeared to cast
us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one
of the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and
overlooking a wide extent of country: or settling still farther in the
maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished
poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us.
It is the nature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul
oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed
by the weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has
recourse to the solace of expression in verse.
Still, Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers,
instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on
the shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank
from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy:
Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided
there were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of
many English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a
colony of chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside
at Via Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands
and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores
of the Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It
was a vague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see
whether it would be feasible to spend a summer there.
The beauty of the
bay enchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took
root, and many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to
urge him to execute it.
He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a
visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the
latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a
periodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect
of good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society;
and instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not
intend himself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to
have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with
the compositions of more popular writers; and also because he might
feel shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends
were to be compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their
outermost extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction
not only true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement
and happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, either
really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his
thoughts; and this evil he resolved to avoid.
***
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822.
THE ZUCCA.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824, and dated
'January, 1822. ' There is a copy amongst the Boscombe manuscripts. ]
1.
Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring,
And infant Winter laughed upon the land
All cloudlessly and cold;--when I, desiring
More in this world than any understand,
Wept o'er the beauty, which, like sea retiring, _5
Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sand
Of my lorn heart, and o'er the grass and flowers
Pale for the falsehood of the flattering Hours.
2.
