The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt—­of days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took firmer root even as they were more baseless—­was changed to the certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors for evermore.

There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing.  The remains of those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them—­the law with respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague into Italy; and no representation could alter the law.  At length, through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge d’Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after the bodies were consumed.  Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in carrying our wishes into effect.  He was indefatigable in his exertions, and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements.  It was a fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose.  And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory to the world—­whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and good,—­to be buried with him!

The concluding stanzas of the “Adonais” pointed out where the remains ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay buried in the cemetery at Rome.  Thither Shelley’s ashes were conveyed; and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome.  He selected the hallowed place himself; there is

’the sepulchre, Oh, not of him, but of our joy!—­ ...  And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven’s smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.’

Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in Shelley’s fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that remains.  Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied may regard with complacency.  A year before he had poured into verse all such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own.  He had, as it now