The Complete Poetical Works, vol 1 | Page 9

metaphysician; without possessing much scientific
knowledge, he was unrivalled in the justness and extent of his
observations on natural objects; he knew every plant by its name, and
was familiar with the history and habits of every production of the earth;
he could interpret without a fault each appearance in the sky; and the
varied phenomena of heaven and earth filled him with deep emotion.
He made his study and reading-room of the shadowed copse, the stream,

the lake, and the waterfall. Ill health and continual pain preyed upon his
powers; and the solitude in which we lived, particularly on our first
arrival in Italy, although congenial to his feelings, must frequently have
weighed upon his spirits; those beautiful and affecting "Lines written in
Dejection near Naples" were composed at such an interval; but, when
in health, his spirits were buoyant and youthful to an extraordinary
degree.
Such was his love for Nature that every page of his poetry is associated,
in the minds of his friends, with the loveliest scenes of the countries
which he inhabited. In early life he visited the most beautiful parts of
this country and Ireland. Afterwards the Alps of Switzerland became
his inspirers. "Prometheus Unbound" was written among the deserted
and flower-grown ruins of Rome; and, when he made his home under
the Pisan hills, their roofless recesses harboured him as he composed
the "Witch of Atlas", "Adonais", and "Hellas". In the wild but beautiful
Bay of Spezzia, the winds and waves which he loved became his
playmates. His days were chiefly spent on the water; the management
of his boat, its alterations and improvements, were his principal
occupation. At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the calm sea,
he often went alone in his little shallop to the rocky caves that bordered
it, and, sitting beneath their shelter, wrote the "Triumph of Life", the
last of his productions. The beauty but strangeness of this lonely place,
the refined pleasure which he felt in the companionship of a few
selected friends, our entire
sequestration from the rest of the world,
all contributed to render 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.