bursts of discontent and sadness.  One looks back with unspeakable regret and gnawing remorse to such periods; fancying that, had one been more alive to the nature of his feelings, and more attentive to soothe them, such would not have existed.  And yet, enjoying as he appeared to do every sight or influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine that any melancholy he showed was aught but the effect of the constant pain to which he was a martyr.

We lived in utter solitude.  And such is often not the nurse of cheerfulness; for then, at least with those who have been exposed to adversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too intently; while the society of the enlightened, the witty, and the wise, enables us to forget ourselves by making us the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a portion of the philosophy of happiness.  Shelley never liked society in numbers,—­it harassed and wearied him; but neither did he like loneliness, and usually, when alone, sheltered himself against memory and reflection in a book.  But, with one or two whom he loved, he gave way to wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious conversation expounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence.  If an argument arose, no man ever argued better.  He was clear, logical, and earnest, in supporting his own views; attentive, patient, and impartial, while listening to those on the adverse side.  Had not a wall of prejudice been raised at this time between him and his countrymen, how many would have sought the acquaintance of one whom to know was to love and to revere!  How many of the more enlightened of his contemporaries have since regretted that they did not seek him! how very few knew his worth while he lived! and, of those few, several were withheld by timidity or envy from declaring their sense of it.  But no man was ever more enthusiastically loved—­more looked up to, as one superior to his fellows in intellectual endowments and moral worth, by the few who knew him well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to appreciate his superiority.  His excellence is now acknowledged; but, even while admitted, not duly appreciated.  For who, except those who were acquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied benevolence, his generosity, his systematic forbearance?  And still less is his vast superiority in intellectual attainments sufficiently understood—­his sagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, his prodigious memory.  All these as displayed in conversation, were known to few while he lived, and are now silent in the tomb: 

’Ahi orbo mondo ingrato! 
Gran cagion hai di dever pianger meco;
Che quel ben ch’ era in te, perdut’ hai seco.’

***

POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819.

LINES WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION.

[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, December 8, 1832; reprinted, “Poetical Works”, 1839.  There is a transcript amongst the Harvard manuscripts, and another in the possession of Mr. C.W.  Frederickson of Brooklyn.  Variants from these two sources are given by Professor Woodberry, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, Centenary Edition, 1893, volume 3 pages 225, 226.  The transcripts are referred to in our footnotes as Harvard and Fred. respectively.]