Ari. Spirit-obey this sceptre ! She is not of our order, but belongs To the other powers. And we are baffled also. Mortal! thy quest is vain, Man. Hear me, hear me― Astarte! my beloved! speak to me: I have so much endured-so much endure Look on me! the grave hath not changed thee more Too much, as I loved thee: we were not made I know not what I ask, nor what I seek: I feel but what thou art—and what I am; And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music-Speak to me ! Which answer'd me-many things answer'd me— Phantom of Astarte. Manfred! Man. Say on, say on I live but in the sound-it is thy voice! Phan. Manfred! To-morrow ends thy earthly ills. Farewell! Man. Yet one word more—am I forgiven? Phan. Farewell! Man. Say, shall we meet again? Phan. Farewell! Man. One word for mercy! Say, thou lovest me. Phan. Manfred! [The Spirit of ASTARTE disappears. Nem. She's gone, and will not be recall'd; Her words will be fulfill'd. Return to the earth. A Spirit. He is convulsed-This is to be a mortal And seek the things beyond mortality. Another Spirit. Yet, see, he mastereth himself, and makes His torture tributary to his will. Had he been one of us, he would have made An awful spirit. Nem. Hast thou further question Of our great sovereign, or his worshippers? Nem. Then for a time farewell. Man. We meet then! Where? On the earth ?— Even as thou wilt: and for the grace accorded I now depart a debtor. Fare ye well! [Exit Manfred. BYRON'S LAST LINES. (On completing my thirty-sixth year.) "TIs time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move; Yet though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love. My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone, The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone. . . But 'tis not thus, and 'tis not here, Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow. The sword, the banner, and the field, Awake! (not Greece-she is awake!)— Tread these reviving passions down, If thou regrett'st thy youth, why live? Is here:-up to the field, and give Seek out-less often sought than found- And take thy rest. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. THOUGH the heir of an ancient and wealthy house, Shelley was a rebel, a freethinker, a democrat, an atheist from boyhood, everything, indeed, that his family was not. When a pupil at Eton College the fagging system fretted and outraged him beyond endurance; and there he began his career of strife and indignant resistance against all existing law. He was expelled from Oxford for writing and publishing a tract on "The Necessity of Atheism." His father cast him off for a time; his sisters sent him pocket-money by a young schoolmate, named Harriet Westbrook, who fell in love with him. He was grateful, he was lonely, and he, not twenty, married her, not seventeen. Shelley's father allowed the young couple £200 a year, and on this sum they strayed through Scotland, Wales, and England in 1811. Meanwhile Shelley became acquainted with William Godwin, author of "Political Justice," and welcomed a kindred soul, as much opposed to law as Shelley himself, particularly the law of marriage. His wife had been the gifted and unfortunate Mary Wollstonecraft, and the two were not legally wedded until just before the birth of a daughter. Godwin had married again, a widow, Mrs. Clermont, who also had a daughter, Jane Clermont. Mary Godwin, a fair, serious girl of seventeen, was unhappy with her stepmother, and when this beautiful youth, Shelley, put his hand in hers and told her that he loved her, she willingly responded. Their troth was plighted beside her mother's grave. In a short time Harriet Westbrook and her babies were deserted, and the lovers fled to Switzerland. The nightmare of the first elope ment had been Eliza Westbrook, Harriet's sister, who wandered with the foolish young couple and tyrannized over them. The nightmare of the second elopement was Jane Clermont who, at Geneva, became Lord Byron's mistress, was deserted by him, and with her child, Allegra, lived on Shelley's bounty for some years. "Monk" Lewis joined the four lovers during this curious summer of 1816, and the whole party lived for several months a life of refined Bohemianism. While floating on Lake Leman, one night, the conversation turned, as it often did, on the mysterious and horrible. Under the spur of the moment each promised to write a tale of wonder, during the following year, for the diversion of the others. The only one who remembered the promise was Mary Godwin, who wrote one of the strangest romances in all literature, the incomparably horrible "Frankenstein." She was not yet eighteen. In November, Harriet Westbrook drowned herself; some say because of her husband's desertion; some say because of an unfortunate love affair of her own. In six weeks Shelley married Mary Godwin, his father settling on him an allowance of £1000 a year. The Chief Justice refused him possession of his children, a boy and a girl, who continued to live with their grandfather Westbrook; and Shelley, in an excess of rage against all existing institutions, left England, with his wife, forever. They wandered in Italy for some years, meeting Lord Byron again, and finally settled in Pisa. There the generous poet invited Leigh Hunt, his wife and children, to visit him. This was the fatal summer of 1821, and Shelley was only thirty years old. His own family was at Zarici, on the eastern Riviera; and he and his friend, Captain Williams, went to meet and welcome the strangers, and to settle them in his home in Pisa. They attempted to return, in their cockle-shell boat, across the Gulf of Spezia. A squall arose, the little vessel sank; the two were drowned; and, in a week's time, the sea cast up its dead. Byron, Hunt and Captain Trelawney burned Shelley's body with heathen rites and incense, and quenched the fire with wine. His ashes, placed in an urn, repose in the Protestant Cemetery |