The expanse of these wide wildernesses In this great ship, whose bulk is now dissolved

In the light breathings of the invisible wind,

And which the sea has made a dustless ruin,

Seeking ever a mountain, through whose forests

I seek a man, whom I must now compel To keep his word with me. I came arrayed

In tempest, and, although my power could well

Bridle the forest winds in their career,
For other causes I forbore to soothe
Their fury to Favonian gentleness;

I could and would not; (thus I wake in him

[Aside.

A love of magic art). Let not this tempest,

Nor the succeeding calm excite thy wonder; For by my art the sun would turn as pale As his weak sister with unwonted fear; And in my wisdom are the orbs of Hea

ven

Written as in a record; I have pierced

Of this dim spot. Let it not seem to thee That I boast vainly; wouldst thou that I work

A charm over this waste and savage wood, This Babylon of crags and aged trees, Filling its leafy coverts with a horror Thrilling and strange? I am the friendless guest

Of these wild oaks and pines; and as from thee

I have received the hospitality

Of this rude place, I offer thee the fruit
Of years of toil in recompense; whate'er
Thy wildest dream presented to thy
thought

As object of desire, that shall be thine.

JUSTINA

'Tis that enamoured nightingale
Who gives me the reply;
He ever tells the same soft tale
Of passion and of constancy
To his mate, who, rapt and fond,
Listening sits, a bough beyond.

Be silent, Nightingale - no more
Make me think, in hearing thee
Thus tenderly thy love deplore,
If a bird can feel his so,
What a man would feel for me.

And, voluptuous Vine, O thou
Who seekest most when least pursuing, -
To the trunk thou interlacest

Art the verdure which embracest, And the weight which is its ruin, No more, with green embraces, Vine, Make me think on what thou lovest, For whilst thus thy boughs entwine,

-

I fear lest thou shouldst teach me, sophist,

How arms might be entangled too.

Light-enchanted Sunflower, thou
Who gazest ever true and tender
On the sun's revolving splendor!
Follow not his faithless glance
With thy faded countenance,
Nor teach my beating heart to fear,
If leaves can mourn without a tear,
How eyes must weep! O Nightingale,
Cease from thy enamoured tale,
Leafy Vine, unwreathe thy bower,
Restless Sunflower, cease to move,
Or tell me all, what poisonous power
Ye use against me

ALL

I know not what I feel!

[More calmly. It must be pity To think that such a man whom all the world Admired should be forgot by all the world, And I the cause.

[She again becomes troubled. And yet if it were pity, Floro and Lelio might have equal share, For they are both imprisoned for my sake. [Calmly.

Alas! what reasonings are these ? it is
Enough I pity him, and that, in vain,
Without this ceremonious subtlety.

And, woe is me! I know not where to find him now,

Even should I seek him through this wide world.

Enter DEMON

DEMON

Follow, and I will lead thee where he is.

JUSTINA

And who art thou who hast found entrance hither

JUSTINA

I will not be discouraged, nor despair, Although I thought it, and although 't is

true

That thought is but a prelude to the deed. Thought is not in my power, but action is. I will not move my foot to follow thee.

DEMON

But a far mightier wisdom than thine own
Exerts itself within thee, with such power
Compelling thee to that which it inclines
That it shall force thy step; how wilt thou
then
Resist, Justina ?

JUSTINA

By my free-will.

DEMON

Must force thy will.

JUSTINA

It is invincible; It were not free if thou hadst power upon it. [He draws, but cannot move her.

DEMON

Come, where a pleasure waits thee.

JUSTINA

It were bought

Into my chamber through the doors and locks?

Too dear.

DEMON

JUSTINA

Thine is the cause, great God! turn for my sake,

And for thine own, mercifully to me!

STANZAS FROM CALDERON'S CISMA DE INGLATERRA

TRANSLATED BY MEDWIN AND CORRECTED BY SHELLEY

Medwin published these stanzas, with Shelley's corrections in italics, in his Life of Shelley, 1847, with the following note: But we also read a tragedy of Calderon's which, though it cannot compete with Shakespeare's Henry the VIII. contains more poetry the Cisma d'Inglaterra. Shelley was much struck with the characteristic Fool who plays a part in it, and deals in fables, but more so with the octave stanzas (a strange metre in a drama, to choose) spoken by Carlos, enamorado di Anna Bolena, whom he had met at Paris, during her father's embassy. So much did Shelley admire these stanzas that he copied them out into one of his letters to Mrs. Gisborne, of the two last of which I append a translation marking in italics the lines corrected by Shelley.' He had previously published these stanzas with nine others in Sketches in Hindoostan, with Other Poems, 1821. Forman conjectures that Shelley coöperated with Medwin in the other stanzas, where no credit has been given.

Shelley's letter to Mrs. Gisborne was of the date November 16, 1819: 'I have been reading Calderon without you. I have read the Cisma de Inglaterra, the Cabellos de Absalom, and three or four others. These pieces, inferior to those we read, at least to the Principe Constante, in the splendor of particular passages, are perhaps superior in their satisfying completeness.... I transcribe you a passage from the Cisma de Inglaterra - spoken by "Carlos, Embaxador de Francia, enamorado de Ana Bolena." Is there anything in Petrarch finer than the second stanza?'

I

HAST thou not seen, officious with delight, Move through the illumined air about the flower

The Bee, that fears to drink its purple light,

Lest danger lurk within that Rose's bower?

Hast thou not marked the moth's enamoured flight

About the Taper's flame at evening hour,

Till kindle in that monumental fire
His sunflower wings their own funereal pyre!

II

My heart, its wishes trembling to unfold, Thus round the Rose and Taper hovering came,

And Passion's slave, Distrust, in ashes cold, Smothered awhile, but could not quench the flame,

Till Love, that grows by disappointment bold,

And Opportunity, had conquered Shame, And like the Bee and Moth, in act to close, I burned my wings, and settled on the Rose.'

SCENES FROM THE FAUST OF GOETHE

These scenes were translated in the spring of 1822, and published, in part, by Hunt, The Liberal, 1822, and entire by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. The admiration of Shelley for Faust, and his feeling with regard to the translation, are fully shown in two letters to Mr. Gisborne, one in January, 1822: 'We have just got the etchings of Faust, the painter is worthy of Goethe. The meeting of him and Margaret is wonderful. It makes all the pulses of my head beat- those of my heart have been quiet long ago. The translations, both these and in Blackwood, are miserable. Ask Coleridge if their stupid misintelligence of the deep wisdom and harmony of the author does not spur him to action; the second, April 10, 1822: 'I have been reading over and over again Faust, and always with sensations which no other composition excites. It deepens the gloom and augments the rapidity of ideas, and would therefore seem to me an unfit study for any person who is a prey to the reproaches of memory, and the delusions of an imagination not to be restrained. And yet the pleasure of sympathizing with emotions known only to few, although they derive their sole charm from despair, and the scorn of the narrow good we can attain in our present state, seems more than to ease the pain which belongs to them. . . .

Have you read Calderon's Magico Prodigi080 ? I find a striking similarity between Faust and this drama, and if I were to acknowledge Coleridge's distinction, should say Goethe was the greatest philosopher, and Calderon the greatest poet. Cyprian evidently furnished the germ of Faust, as Faust may furnish the germ of other poems; although it is as different from it in structure and plan as