Notes to The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley | Page 5

this period of his life one of continued enjoyment.
I am convinced that the two months we passed there were the happiest
which he had ever known: his health even rapidly improved, and he
was never better than when I last saw him, full of spirits and joy,
embark for Leghorn, that he might there welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy. I
was to have accompanied him; but illness confined me to my room, and
thus put the seal on my misfortune. His vessel bore out of sight with a
favourable wind, and I remained awaiting his return by the breakers of
that sea which was about to engulf him.
He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind offices toward his friend,
and enjoying with keen delight the renewal of their intercourse. He then
embarked with Mr. Williams, the chosen and beloved sharer of his
pleasures and of his fate, to return to us. We waited for them in vain;
the sea by its restless moaning seemed to desire to inform us of what
we would not learn:--but a veil may well be drawn over such misery.
The real anguish of those moments transcended all the fictions that the
most glowing imagination ever portrayed; our seclusion, the savage
nature of the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our immediate
vicinity to the troubled sea, combined to imbue with strange horror our
days of uncertainty. The truth was at last known,--a truth that made our
loved and lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every heart echoed
the deep lament, and my only consolation was in the praise and earnest
love that each voice bestowed and each countenance demonstrated for
him we had lost,--not, I fondly hope, for ever; his unearthly and
elevated nature is a pledge of the continuation of his being, although in
an altered form. Rome received his ashes; they are deposited beneath
its weed-grown wall, and 'the world's sole monument' is enriched by his
remains.
I must add a few words concerning the contents of this volume. "Julian
and Maddalo", the "Witch of Atlas", and most of the "Translations",
were written some years ago; and, with the exception of the "Cyclops",
and the Scenes from the "Magico Prodigioso", may be considered as
having received the author's ultimate corrections. The "Triumph of
Life" was his last work, and was left in so unfinished a state that I
arranged it in its present form with great difficulty. All his poems

which were scattered in periodical works are collected in this volume,
and I have added a 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.
MARY W. SHELLEY.
London, June 1, 1824.
NOTE ON QUEEN MAB, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
Shelley was eighteen when he wrote "Queen Mab"; he never published
it. When it was written, he had come to the decision that he was too
young to be a 'judge of controversies'; and he was desirous of acquiring
'that sobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism.' But
he never doubted the truth or utility of his opinions; and, in printing and
privately distributing "Queen Mab", he believed that he should further
their dissemination, without occasioning the mischief either to others or
himself that might arise from publication. It is doubtful whether he
would himself have admitted it into a collection of his works. His
severe classical taste, refined by the constant study of the Greek poets,
might have discovered defects that escape the ordinary reader; and the
change his opinions underwent in many points would have prevented

him from putting forth the speculations of his boyish days. But the
poem is too beautiful in itself, and far too remarkable as the production
of a boy of eighteen, to allow of its being passed over: besides that,