M. W. S.
A DIRGE
I
This morn thy gallant bark, love,
Sailed on a stormy sea;
’Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! ah woe! ah woe!
By spirits of the deep
He’s cradled on the billow
To his unwaking sleep.
II
Thou liest upon the shore, love,
Beside the knelling surge,
But sea-nymphs ever more, love,
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
Oh come! oh come! oh come!
Ye spirits of the deep;
While near his seaweed pillow
My lonely watch I keep.
III
From far across the sea, love,
I hear a wild lament,
By Echo’s voice for thee, love,
From ocean’s caverns sent.
Oh list! oh list! oh list!
Ye spirits of the deep,
Loud sounds their wail of sorrow,
While I for ever weep.
P.S.—Do you not guess why neither these nor those I sent you could please those you mention? Papa loves not the memory of Shelley, because he feels that he injured him; and Jane—do you not understand enough of her to be convinced of the thoughts that make it distasteful to her that I should feel, and above all be thought by others to feel, and to have a right to feel? Oh! the human heart! It is a strange puzzle.
The weary, baffled tone of this letter was partly due to a low state of health, which resulted in a severe attack of illness. During her boy’s Midsummer holidays she went to Dover in search of strength, and, while there, received a letter from Trelawny, who had returned from America, as vivacious and irrepressible as ever.
Trelawny to Mrs. Shelley.
Bedford Hotel, Brighton,
12th September 1835.
Mary, dear—Six days I rest, and do all that I have to do on the seventh, because it is forbidden. If they would make it felony to obey the Commandments (without benefit of clergy), don’t you think the pleasures of breaking the law would make me keep them?
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I cannot surmise one of the “thousand reasons” which you say are to prevent my seeing you. On the contrary, your being “chained to your rock” enables me to play the vulture at discretion. It is well for you, therefore, that I am “the most prudent of men.” What a host of virtues I am gifted with! When I am dead, lady mine, build a temple over me and make pilgrimages. Talking of tombs, let it be agreed between you and me that whichever first has five hundred pounds at his disposal shall dedicate it to the placing a fitting monument over the ashes of Shelley.