Wrap thy form in a mantle grey
    Star-inwrought! 
    Blind with thine hair the eyes of day,
    Kiss her until she be wearied out. 
    Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land,
    Touching all with thin opiate wand-
    Come, long-sought!

    When I arose and saw the dawn,
    I sighed for thee;
    When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
    And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
    And the weary Day turned to his rest,
    Lingering like an unloved guest,
    I sighed for thee.

    Thy brother Death came, and cried,
    “Wouldst thou me?”
    Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
    Murmured like a noon-tide bee,
    “Shall I nestle near thy side? 
    Wouldst thou me?”—­and I replied,
    “No, not thee!”

    Death will come when thou art dead,
    Soon, too soon—­
    Sleep will come when thou art fled;
    Of neither would I ask the boon
    I ask of thee, beloved Night—­
    Swift be thine approaching flight,
    Come soon, soon!

The second is an Epithalamium composed for a drama which his friend Williams was writing.  Students of the poetic art will find it not uninteresting to compare the three versions of this Bridal Song, given by Mr. Forman. (Volume 4 page 89.) They prove that Shelley was no careless writer.

    The golden gates of sleep unbar
    Where strength and beauty, met together,
    Kindle their image like a star
    In a sea of glassy weather!

    Night, with all thy stars look down—­
    Darkness, weep thy holiest dew! 
    Never smiled the inconstant moon
    On a pair so true. 
    Let eyes not see their own delight;
    Haste, swift Hour, and thy flight
    Oft renew.

    Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her! 
    Holy stars, permit no wrong! 
    And return to wake the sleeper,
    Dawn, ere it be long. 
    O joy!  O fear! what will be done
    In the absence of the sun! 
    Come along!

Lyrics like these, delicate in thought and exquisitely finished in form, were produced with a truly wonderful profusion in this season of his happiest fertility.  A glance at the last section of Mr. Palgrave’s “Golden Treasury” shows how large a place they occupy among the permanent jewels of our literature.

The month of January added a new and most important member to the little Pisan circle.  This was Captain Edward John Trelawny, to whom more than to any one else but Hogg and Mrs. Shelley, the students of the poet’s life are indebted for details at once accurate and characteristic.  Trelawny had lived a free life in all quarters of the globe, far away from literary cliques and the society of cities, in contact with the sternest realities of existence, which had developed his self-reliance and his physical qualities to the utmost.  The impression, therefore,