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ORIGINAL 
 POET RY 
 
ORIGINAL 
 POETRY 
 
 BY 
 
 VICTOR SP CAZIRE 
 
 [PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 Gf ELIZABETH SHELLEY] 
 
 Edited by 
 RICHARD GARNETT 
 
 C.B., LL.D. 
 
 Tublished by 
 
 JOHN LANE, at the Sign 
 of the Bodley Head in 
 LONDON and NEW YORK 
 
 MDCCCXCVIII 
 
IK sv«l 
 7 
 
 Ballantyne Press 
 London &f Edinburgh 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Between the completion of" £>ueen Mab " in 1 8 1 3, 
 and the composition of " Alas tor" in 18 15, Shelley 
 underwent a silent internal revolution which trans- 
 formed a vigorous writer in verse into a great original 
 poet. Much the same transformation had previously 
 occurred to Coleridge, but with this difference, that 
 in the elder poet's case the metamorphosis is manifestly 
 due in great measure to the influence of Wordsworth, 
 but in Shelley's the impulse is wholly from within. 
 The two poets, however, have this in common, that, 
 unlike Wordsworth, Byron, and others who cannot 
 claim to be enumerated among " the twice-born" 
 from the period of their regeneration onward, their 
 works are almost free from admixture with a prosaic 
 element. Alone among the illustrious poetical reputa- 
 
 25336G 
 
VI 
 
 tions of their age, their fame would decidedly not be 
 promoted by the suppression of any considerable 
 proportion of their compositions after this crisis in 
 their intellectual history. The test is an especially 
 severe one as regards Shelley, not only because the 
 actual bulk of his poetical work is so much greater 
 than Coleridge's, but because he has triumphantly 
 borne such an ordeal from the publication of mere 
 fragments of it as has perhaps fallen to the lot of no 
 other poet. Few indeed are the morsels collected in 
 " The Relics of Shelley," and subsequently incor- 
 porated in his works, which a votary of his genius 
 would part with for any consideration. They are 
 not chips, but diamond dust. 
 
 In proportion, however, to the habitual excellence 
 of Shelley s and Coleridge's work after the full 
 development of their powers, is its inferiority in " the 
 ages of ignorance." Shelley's beginnings are far the 
 more unpromising, and every admirer of his genius 
 must have frequently wished that the whole of his 
 poetical production prior to " Queen Mab " could 
 be bestowed as " alms for oblivion." Seldom have 
 
Vll 
 
 the begi?wings of a poet been so destitute of merit as 
 his early lyrics. Why, then, it may be asked, retrieve 
 any more of them from obscurity ? The question 
 appears pertinent, but only to the uninitiated. The 
 bibliographer and the book-hunter, no less than the 
 Shelleian student, know that the recovery of the little 
 book now republished from an unique copy is the final 
 chapter of a romance, and a bibliographical event as 
 rare as, according to Petrarch, the appearance of a 
 Laura in heaven : — 
 
 " £hiod optanti dlvum promittere nemo 
 trfuderet." 
 
 The existence of a previously, unheard-of volume 
 of poems by Shelley and an unknown coadjutor, pub- 
 lished in 1 8 1 o under the title of " Original 'Poetry, 
 by Victor and Cazire," was first announced by the 
 present writer in an article entitled " Shelley in 
 Pall Mall," in Macmillan's Magazine for June, 
 i860. The fact had been ascertained by himself 
 when, in August or September 1859, in the exercise 
 of what was then his ordinary duty, he placed a 
 
V1U 
 
 newly purchased periodical entitled Stockdale's 
 Budget, and published in 1826-7, on tne shelves of 
 the Library of the British Museum. This Budget 
 was a scandalous periodical, in which the publisher 
 Stockdale, who had been ruined by his publication of 
 the still more scandalous " Memoirs of Harriet 
 Wilson" sought to avenge himself upon society by 
 raking together all the misdemeanours of the upper 
 classes he could collect from the newspapers. Shelley 
 was then commonly regarded as a social pariah, and 
 fair game for a professional lampooner of the grade 
 to which the once respectable publisher had sunk. 
 Stockdale, remembering that he had letters from 
 Shelley in his possession, began in the very first 
 number of his Budget to utilise them for " copy" 
 and make them the basis of a history of the acquaint- 
 ance which had existed between the ill-matched pair 
 in 1 8 1 o, without, it must be said, any trace of 
 unkindness to the poet, whom he seems to have 
 appreciated as fully as possible for one who, although 
 accidentally an Ishmaelite, was congenitally a 
 Philistine. Thus the story of " Victor and Cazire " 
 
IX 
 
 came to light. It shall be related in Rockdale's 
 own words, with the retrefichment of some im- 
 material particulars. 
 
 " The unfortunate subject of these very slight recollections intro- 
 duced himself to me early in the autumn of 1810. With anxiety 
 in his countenance, he requested me to extricate him from a 
 pecuniary difficulty in which he was involved with a printer, 
 whose name I cannot call to mind, but who resided at Horsham. 
 [Stockdale should have said Worthing.'] I am not quite certain 
 how the difference between the poet and the printer was arranged ; 
 but, after I had looked over the account I know that it was paid, 
 though whether I assisted in the payment, by money or acceptance, 
 I cannot remember* 
 
 "Be that as it ?nay, on the ijth September, 1810, / received 
 fourteen hundred and eighty copies of a thin royal octavo volume in 
 sheets. It was entitled, c Original PoetryJ by Jlonzo and Cazire, 
 or two names something like them. The author told me that these 
 poems were the joint production of himself and a friend, whose 
 name was forgotten by me as soon as I heard it. I advertised the 
 
 * It is remarkable that Stockdale speaks of himself as the sole agent 
 in the negotiation with Shelley, and ignores the existence of a senior 
 partner in his father, who lived until 1814. It appears, from the 
 memoir of the elder Stockdale in the " Dictionary of National 
 Biography," that his business consisted largely in the purchase of 
 " remainders" which may have facilitated the arrangement with the 
 Worthing printer. 
 
X 
 
 work) which was to be retailed at 35. 6d., in nearly all the 
 London papers of the day* 
 
 " Some short time after the announcement of the poems I 
 happened to be perusing them, with more leisure than I had till 
 then had leisure to bestow upon them, when I recognised one which 
 I knew to have been written hy Mr. M. G. Lewis, the author 
 of*- The Monk,'' and I fully anticipated the probable vexation of the 
 juvenile author when I communicated my discovery to Mr. P. B. 
 Shelley. 
 
 " With all the ardour natural to his character he expressed the 
 warmest resentment at the imposition practised upon him by his 
 coadjutor, and entreated me to destroy all the copies, of which 
 about one hundred had been put into circulation." 
 
 Such is the history of " Victor and Cazire " 
 according to Stockdale. It was merely the prelude 
 to an acquaintance of some duration between author 
 and publisher, productive of interesting correspondence 
 published in the Budget, in Macmillan's Magazine, 
 and in ?nore than one edition of Shelley*s letters. 
 
 * An advertisement of u Original Poetry," by Victor and Cazire, 
 did in fact appear in the Morning Chronicle of September 18, 18 10, 
 the very day after Stockdale had received the copies. The book was 
 briefly reviewed in the Poetical Register, and Professor Dowden has 
 unearthed a more ample, but by no means complimentary, notice in the 
 British Critic, so late as April 181 1. 
 
XI 
 
 One letter alone, however, concerns us now as re- 
 lating to " Victor and Cazire." 
 
 " Field Place, Sept. 6, 1810. 
 " Sir, 
 
 " / have to return you my thankful acknowledgment for 
 the receipt of the books, which arrived as soon as I had any 
 reason to expect ; the superfluity shall be balanced as soon as I pay 
 for some books which I shall trouble you to bind for me. 
 
 "I enclose you the title-page of the Poems, which, as you will 
 see, you have mistaken on account of the illegibility of my hand- 
 writing. I have had the last proof-impression from my printer 
 this morning, and I suppose the execution of the work will not be 
 long delayed. As soon as it possibly can, it shall reach you, and 
 believe me, Sir, grateful for the interest you take in it. 
 " / am, Sir, 
 
 " your obedient, humble servant, 
 
 "PERCT B. SHELLET." 
 
 It only remains to be added as regards the Budget 
 that it is itself a book of great rarity ; that the 
 Museum copy had been bought in January, 1859 ; 
 and that nothing can more conclusively show the 
 wisdom of purchasing everything for the national 
 library, however apparently unpromising. Not only 
 do we owe our knowledge of the very existence of 
 Shelley's first published volume of verse to this 
 
xu 
 
 unsavoury publication, but without it the book might 
 have turned up and passed from hand to hand 
 without any suspicion of Shelley s authorship of 
 anything in it occurring to any one. 
 
 Alice remarked in Wonderland that she had often 
 seen a cat without a grin, but rarely a grin without 
 a cat. It is common enough to find a book without a 
 title, not so common to find a title without a book. 
 'The situation thus created for Shelleian book-hunters 
 was a trying one. They were delivered from the 
 peril of ignorance ; they were in no danger of passing 
 a " Victor and Cazire " unheeded, or of trading it 
 away. But to what end this unprofitable knowledge ? 
 " De non exi stent ibus et de non apparentibus eadem 
 est ratio." The ardour of chase among Shelleians 
 and boo\-hunters may be guessed, but " never can be 
 wholly known." Some may have gone as far as that 
 singularly determined character who once upon a 
 time turned out the whole of Lacy's theatrical stock 
 in quest of i( Swellfoot the Tyrant," and got it. If 
 any one was now equally resolute, he was not equally 
 successful. Thirty-eight years elapsed ere the 
 
Xlll 
 
 destined knight appeared in the person of Mr. "John 
 Lane, to whom the evasive volume was brought by 
 Mr. V. E. G. Hussey, the son of Mrs. Hussey, of 
 ^uatrebras, Dorchester, herself a daughter of the 
 Rev. Charles Henry Grove, brother of the Harriet 
 Grove to whom many of the poems are addressed, and 
 who had been frequently, though, as we shall see, 
 erroneously, identified with " Cazire." Bound up 
 with the Third Canto of " Childe Harold," Byron s 
 " Corsair " and "Lara," and his "Lament of Tasso," 
 and adorned with Mr. Grove's bookplate, the volume 
 had remained peacefully on his shelves since, perhaps, 
 1 824. An inserted leaf bearing that date as a water 
 mark shows that it was not bound before that year, 
 nor, in all probability, very long afterwards. 
 
 Although the present scrupulously faithful and all 
 but facsimile reprint accurately reproduces the con- 
 tents of the volume, it may be convenient to enumerate 
 the pieces here, with numbers for the sake of refer- 
 ence. 
 
 1. Letter [Cazire]. 
 
 2. Letter [Cazire]. 
 
XIV 
 
 3. Song [Victor], 
 
 4. Song [Victor]. 
 
 5. Despair [Victor]. 
 
 6. Sorrow [Victor]. 
 
 7. Hope [Victor]. 
 
 8. Song translated from the Italian [probably 
 Cazire] . 
 
 9. Song translated from the German [doubtful]. 
 
 10. The Irishman's Song [Victor]. 
 
 11. Song [perhaps the plagiarised poem; if not , 
 by Victor]. 
 
 12. Song [Victor]. 
 
 13. Song [Victor]. 
 
 14. St. Edmonas Eve [doubtful]. 
 
 15. Revenge [Victor ; if not, a plagiarism]. 
 
 16. Ghasta; or, the avenging Demon [Victor]. 
 
 17. Fragment [reprinted as "Victoria" in 
 "St. Irvyne" Victor]. 
 
 'These seventeen pieces occupy sixty pages, and four 
 more are devoted to the title-page and table of con- 
 tents. The impression probably consisted of fifteen 
 
XV 
 
 hundred copies, twenty of which would be retained by 
 the writers. The copies sent to t/ie newspapers must 
 have been merely stitched in wrappers, and the same 
 was probably the case with the presentation copy 
 now recovered, or it would hardly have been bound up 
 with other pamphlets. It is unlikely that nearly so 
 many copies as the number stated by Stockdale were 
 put into circulation. 
 
 The crudity of Shelley's early verse is too well 
 known to permit the expectation of any accession to his 
 fame from the discovery of so juvenile a production. 
 There are, nevertheless, more points of interest in 
 connection with the little volume than might have been 
 expected, and to have apprehended these is to have 
 in some measure extended our knowledge of the youth- 
 ful Shelley. Our first business is to determine the 
 identity of his coadjutor, and the extent of their 
 respective participation in the book. The former of 
 these investigations presents no difficulty. It has 
 always been supposed that Cazire, probably borrowed 
 from some French conte or novelette, must be a 
 female name, and must denote either Shelley's sister 
 
XVI 
 
 Elizabeth or his cousin and betrothed, Harriet Grove. 
 'There can now be no doubt on the former of these 
 
 points ; the second poem (To Miss , from Miss 
 
 ) being assuredly the composition of a young 
 
 lady. The authorship is hardly less apparent, the 
 poem in question being an epistle from one of the two 
 cousins to the other ; and the identity of the writer 
 with Elizabeth Shelley appearing from the unmelh- 
 fluous couplet : 
 
 " For they're all alike, take them one with another, 
 Begging pardon — with the exception of my brother" 
 
 The exception to the general demerit of masculine 
 youth must clearly be the swain to whom the writer s 
 friend is engaged; and as Harriet Grove was 
 betrothed to Elizabeth Shelley s brother, not Elizabeth 
 to Harriet's, the identity of the writer is fully 
 established* 
 
 The two initial pieces are the only two which 
 can be attributed to Elizabeth Shelley with absolute' 
 
 * Elizabeth Shelley never married. She died in December 1831, 
 nged 37. 
 
XVII 
 
 certainty ; though others in the volume may possibly 
 belong to her. Its contents may be classified thus : 
 
 i . Familiar poems in the style of Ansteys " Bath 
 Guide" the first two in the volume, already mentioned 
 as by Elizabeth Shelley. 
 
 2. A cycle of little poems evidently addressea 
 by Shelley to Harriet Grove, in the summer of 
 1810. (Nos. 2-7, 12, 13.) 
 
 3. 'Tales of terror and wonder in the style of 
 Monk Lewis. (Nos. 14-17.) 
 
 4. A few miscellaneous pieces. {Nos. 8— 11.) 
 
 Elizabeth Shelley s vers de societe need no special 
 characterisation. They are lively enough, and their 
 occasional offences against grammar and metre are 
 evidently due to the inexperience of the writer, who is 
 not unaware of the necessity of frequent reference to 
 the grammar and dictionary, though this does not save 
 her from mistaking arraign for arrange. Considering, 
 indeed, that Elizabeth Shelley was only seventeen, 
 having been born on May 10, 1794, they evince quite 
 as much finish as could be reasonably expected. The 
 
 b 
 
XV111 
 
 really interesting points are the allusion to the engage- 
 ment of the writer s brother to her cousin and 
 correspondent, and the hint of some distrust of its 
 stability. We have seen that the metrical epistle 
 must have been addressed to Harriet Grove, and the 
 blank in the line 
 
 " Now your parcel's arrived 's letter shall go" 
 
 may be confidently filed up with Percy's or Bysshe's. 
 'The name ijnmediately excites the inauspicious aspira- 
 tion : 
 
 " / hope all your joy mayn't be turned into woe," 
 
 a vein of thought pursued in several sequent lines, 
 evidently sincerely felt and much the best in the 
 piece. 
 
 'These verses are dated April 30, 18 10. ILarlier 
 in the month Shelley had been with his lady-love, and 
 on parting from her had addressed to her the " Song " 
 (No. 4), artless lines not devoid of a touch of real 
 poetical quality. The blanks must of course be filed 
 with " Harriet" a name conducive to dactylic or ana- 
 paestic measures. The three following pieces, dated 
 
XIX 
 
 in June and August, seem to adumbrate a misimder- 
 standing and a reconciliation, such fallings in and out 
 of love as would be likely to characterise the attach- 
 ment of two such young people. On the whole, we 
 seem to gain the impression that Shelley s Jee lings were 
 more deeply interested than some of his biographers 
 have allowed. He may well have thought of Harriet 
 Grove when he afterwards wrote of Cosimo and 
 Fiordispina : 
 
 " They were two cousins, almost like to twins, 
 Except that from the catalogue of sins 
 Nature had raxed their love, which could not be, 
 But by dissevering their nativity. 
 
 'This little cycle of love-verses, although with all 
 its amazing incorrectness poetically the best section of 
 the volume, exhibits so little affinity to Shelley s 
 maturer style that it might have been attributed to his 
 sister but for the unequivocal reference to Harriet 
 Grove in the first of them, which there is no sufficient 
 reason to separate fr 0771 the others. A stanza, more- 
 over, in the song to Hope (No. 7) : 
 
XX 
 
 " The vermeil-tinted flowers that blossom 
 Are frozen but to bud anew. 
 Then, sweet deceiver, calm my bosom, 
 Although thy visions be not true" 
 
 seems to have been dimly present to Shelley s mind 
 when he wrote, about 1 8 1 7 : 
 
 " Such is my heart : roses are fair, 
 
 And that at best a withered blossom ; 
 But thy false care did idly wear 
 
 Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom" 
 
 The symbol of the frozen rose is also repeated in 
 the same poem : 
 
 For the planet of frost, so cold and bright, 
 Makes it wan with her borrowed light." 
 
 The blank in the eighth line of another poem of 
 this cycle (No. 1 2) must undoubtedly be filled by 
 " Percy " or " Shelley!' 
 
 We pass to another division of the poems in this 
 little volume more characteristic than love-verses of 
 the youthful Shelley — the tales of terror and wonder 
 in the manner of Monk Lewis. Compositions in this 
 taste, the first crude fruit of the Romantic School, in 
 
XXI 
 
 England as everywhere else, preceded and preluded 
 its really great achievements. England, indeed, had 
 shown other nations the way with Horace WalpoWs 
 " Castle of Otranto" and when " Victor and 
 Cazire " were beginning to sing, Anne Radcliffe, a 
 writer of true genius, was usually considered the first 
 living novelist. The taste of the day is thus 
 pleasantly satirised by Miss Austen, not an authority 
 to be suspected of gross exaggeration : 
 
 " When you have finished c Udolpho] we will read c The 
 Italian ' together ; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve 
 more of the same kind for you" 
 
 " Have you, indeed ? How glad I am ! What are they 
 all?" 
 
 " / will read you their names directly ; here they are in my 
 pocket-book. ' Castle of Wolfenbach] c Clermont] ' Mysterious 
 Warnings] ' Necromancer of the Black Forest] ' Midnight Bell] 
 c Orphan of the Rhine] and i Horrid Mysteries.' Those will last 
 us some time." 
 
 " Tes, pretty well ; but are they all horrid? Are you sure they 
 are all horrid ? " 
 
 11 Tes, quite sure." 
 
 (" North <anger Abbey" ch. vi.) 
 
 It would have been strange indeed if a youth 
 
XX11 
 
 of Slielleys enthusiastic temperament, who tells us 
 that 
 
 " While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped 
 
 Through many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin, 
 And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing 
 Hopes of high talk with the departed dead," 
 
 had failed to imbibe this general malady of his time. 
 " His 7iiind" says Medwin, who knew him well at 
 thU early period, " ran on bandits, castles, ruined 
 towers, wild mountains, storms, and apparitions — the 
 'Terrific, which, according to Burke, is the great 
 machinery of the Sublimed This is sufficiently 
 evinced by his youthful romances, " Zastrozzi" and 
 " St. Irvyne," and it is curious to remark that while 
 withdrawing the rest of the " Victor and Cazire " 
 volume, he reprinted one poem of this class, 
 " Victoria" in the latter romance. Other pieces in 
 " St. Irvyne " are composed in the same style, and, 
 though equal rubbish in other respects, attest, like 
 " Victoria" a dawning faculty for metre, and an 
 appreciation of one of the most vigorous forms of the 
 lyrical narrative, the stanza of Scot fs " Helvellyn." 
 
XX111 
 
 Had u Zastrozzi " and "St. Irvyne" never 
 appeared, the pieces now reprinted would have 
 possessed considerable literary and psychological 
 interest ; but Shelley s early peculiarities have long 
 been well known, and the only point of much curiosity 
 in this department of tlie book would be the identifica- 
 tion of the piece cribbed, as alleged by Stockdale, by 
 Shelley's coadjutor from Monk Lewis. This we 
 have been unable to effect, and must confess to some 
 doubt whether Stockdale j testimony is entirely reliable. 
 No piece in the volume seems half good enough to 
 have been written by Monk Lewis, who, if not a 
 highly inspired, is always a satisfactory writer, 
 impressive in his tales of terror, and gracefully fluent 
 in his Anacreontic vein. The first stanza of 
 " Ghasta" is indeed an audacious plagiarism from 
 Chatterton ; but it has long been known from 
 Medwin that Shelley had written a poem with this 
 title, and the appropriation of the stanza is especially 
 noticed by the biographer. The coadjutor s appro- 
 priation may have been "Revenge" (No. 15), but 
 this is hardly likely, for the motif is nearly the same as 
 
XXIV 
 
 that of " Zastrozzi " ; while } though " &z//z/ Edmonds 
 Eve " £r ^2///? ^^/ enough for her to have written, it 
 is too bad for her to have stolen. Per haps \ on the 
 whole, the plagiarism may most probably be identified 
 with the song on Laura (No. 1 1 ) , better worth 
 stealing than most, but which we have not been 
 able to trace in the writings of Lewis or else- 
 where. 
 
 'This really pretty poem falls into the miscellaiieous 
 section, which comprises Nos. 8-13. Of these the 
 song from the Italian, whether really a translation 
 or not, probably belongs to Elizabeth Shelley ; the 
 others we should be disposed to attribute to her 
 brother. The most remarkable is " The Irishman's 
 Song" which shows that Shelley's Irish sympathies 
 were of very early date. They were in all proba- 
 bility derived from the conversations on Catholic 
 Emancipation which he must have been accustomed to 
 hear at his father's. Arbitrary as Sir Timothy 
 Shelley may have been in his personal behaviour, he 
 was in politics a Whig and an ally of the Roman 
 Catholic Duke of Norfolk. The home influences 
 
XXV 
 
 which surrounded Shelley s youth were distinctly 
 favourable to the formation of Liberal opinions. 
 
 If these views are just, not more than five pieces 
 in the volume, including the plagiarised poem, can be 
 attributed to Elizabeth Shelley. The book is con- 
 sequently a more important document for the mental 
 history of Shelley than might have been expected, and 
 enlarges our conception of Shelley s range at this 
 early period, both of thought and of metrical practice. 
 Childishly immature as it is, it offers frothing to forbid 
 the anticipation of eventual excellence, and something 
 to encourage it. It shows, at all events, that the 
 youthful Shelley could write better verse than can be 
 found in his novels, and that he even then possessed 
 the feeling for melody which is rarely dissociated 
 from more or less of endowment with the poetical 
 faculty. Biographic ally, it contributes something to 
 illustrate an obscure period of his life, and strengthens 
 the belief that his attachment for his fair cousin was 
 more than a passing fancy. It is, therefore, of con- 
 siderable interest, apart from the romantic history 
 which constitutes its chief claim to celebrity, and the 
 
XXVI 
 
 rarity which gives it a unique place among Shelley s 
 extant writings. Fervently as we hoped that a copy 
 might one day be found, we must now hope with 
 equal fervour that no one may ever find another. 
 
 It is incumbent upon the Editor to state that he 
 assumes this function reluctantly, and only under 
 compulsion from the gentleman by whom it ought to 
 have been discharged. Mr. Money- Coutts, whose 
 grandfather, Sir Francis Burdett, is mentioned in the 
 second poem, had undertaken it at the instance of the 
 publisher, and was proceeding with it most satis- 
 factorily, when, learning that Mr. Garnett had been 
 the means of making the existence of the poe?ns known, 
 he insisted that he should complete what he had begun 
 by giving them to the world. 'The earnest remonstrances 
 of Mr. Lane and Mr. Garnett failed to change the 
 determination of Mr. Coutts, who persisted in an 
 abnegation of the kind which Martial thought was 
 only to be paralleled by the example of Virgil : 
 
 " Would 1 st thou, my friend, essay the Muse, thou well 
 Thy MartiaTs strain might' st equal or excel ; 
 But, tender to a fault of my renown, 
 
XXVll 
 
 Thou arty Cyrenius, cruel to thine own. 
 
 Thus Maro, conscious of his mighty forbore 
 
 Flaccus on lyric pinions to outsoar, 
 
 Andy for the sake of Varius, seemed to scorn 
 
 The buskin he more worthily had worn. 
 
 Gifts j honour , service, friend from friend may claim ,• 
 
 But rare his friendship who resigns his fame. 
 
 There are Cyreniuses among us yet, and thus it 
 comes to pass that the beginning of a third Metonic 
 cycle finds the discoverer of Victor and Cazire's 
 existence under these appellations in 1859 introduc- 
 ing their effusions to the British public in 1898. 
 
 R. GARNET?. 
 
ORIGINAL POETRY; 
 
 BY 
 
 VICTOR AND CAZIRE. 
 
 CALL IT NOT VAIN : — THEY DO NOT ERR, 
 
 WHO SAY, THAT, WHEN THE POET DIES, 
 MUTE NATURE MOURNS HER WORSHIPPER. 
 
 Lay of the Last Minstrel. 
 
 WORTHING 
 
 PRINTED BY C. AND W. PHILLIPS, 
 
 FOR THE AUTHORS J 
 
 AND SOLD BY J. J. STOCKDALE, 41, PALL-MALL, 
 
 AND ALL OTHER BOOKSELLERS. 
 
 1810. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Letter, ---------5 
 
 Letter, -------- 10 
 
 Song, --------- 14 
 
 Song, --------- 17 
 
 Despair. - - - - - - - - -19 
 
 morrow, -------- 21 
 
 Hope, --------- 24 
 
 /Son*/, translated from the Italian, - - - -26 
 
 #ow<7, translated from the German, - - - -27 
 
 The Irishman's Song, - - - - - -29 
 
 Song, - - - - - - - - - 31 
 
 Song, ---------33 
 
 Song, --------- 35 
 
 St. Edmond's Eve, - -- - - - 37 
 
 Revenge, - - - - - - - - 45 
 
 Ghasta, or the avenging Demon, - - - - 50 
 
 Fragment, -------- 63 
 
ORIGINAL POETRY. 
 
 A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never 
 could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Wliich 
 occasion suggested the idea of the following lines : 
 
 Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink, 
 
 First of this thing, and that thing, and t'other thing think ; 
 
 Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind, 
 
 That the sense or the subject I never can find : 
 
 This word is wrong placed, — no regard to the sense, 
 
 The present and future, instead of past tense, 
 
 Then my grammar I want ; O dear ! what a bore, 
 
 I think I shall never attempt to write more, 
 
 With patience I then my thoughts must arraign, 
 
 Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, 
 
 
Like them too must wait in due patience and thought, 
 
 Or else my fine works will all come to nought. 
 
 My wit too's so copious, it flows like a river, 
 
 But disperses its waters on black and white never ; 
 
 Like smoke it appears independent and free, 
 
 But ah luckless smoke ! it all passes like thee — 
 
 Then at length all my patience entirely lost, 
 
 My paper and pens in the fire are tost ; 
 
 But come, try again — you must never despair, 
 
 Our Murray's or Entick's are not all so rare, 
 
 Implore their assistance — they'll come to your aid, 
 
 Perform all your business without being paid, 
 
 They'll tell you the present tense, future and past, 
 
 Which should come first, and which should come last, 
 
 This Murray will do — then to Entick repair, 
 
 To find out the meaning of any word rare. 
 
 This they friendly will tell, and ne'er make you blush, 
 
 With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie ! tush ! 
 
 Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put, 
 
 Not minding the if's, the be's, and the but, 
 
Then read it all over, see how it will run, 
 
 How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun, 
 
 Your writings may then with old Socrates vie, 
 
 May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie, 
 
 May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage, 
 
 The pattern or satire to all of the age ; 
 
 But stop — a mad author I mean not to turn, 
 
 Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn, 
 
 Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined, 
 
 My letters may make some slight food for the mind ; 
 
 That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart, 
 
 In all the warm language that flows from the heart, 
 
 Hark ! futurity calls ! it loudly complains, 
 
 It bids me step forward and just hold the reins, 
 
 My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, 
 
 Such as I fear can be made but by few — 
 
 Of writers this age has abundance and plenty, 
 
 Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty, 
 
 Three score of them wits who all sharply vie, 
 
 To try what odd creature they best can belie, 
 
A thousand are prudes who for Charity write, 
 
 And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite 
 
 One million are bards, who to heaven aspire, 
 
 And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire, 
 
 T'other million are wags who in Grub-street attend, 
 
 And just like a cobler the old writings mend, 
 
 The twenty are those who for pulpits indite, 
 
 And pore over sermons all Saturday night. 
 
 And now my good friends — who come after I mean, 
 
 As I ne'er wore a cassoc, or dined with a dean, 
 
 Or like coblers at mending I never did try, 
 
 Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie ; 
 
 As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest, 
 
 So here I believe the matter must rest. — 
 
 I've heard your complaint — my answer I've made, 
 
 And since to your calls all the tribute I've paid, 
 
 Adieu my good friend ; pray never despair, 
 
 But grammar and sense and every thing dare, 
 
 Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free, 
 
 Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, 
 
Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense, 
 But read it all over and make it out sense. 
 What a tiresome girl ! — pray soon make an end, 
 Else my limited patience you'll quickly expend. 
 Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try — 
 So swift to the post now the letter shall fly. 
 
 January, 1810 
 
10 
 
 To Miss 
 From Miss 
 
 For your letter, dear , accept my best thanks, 
 
 Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks, 
 
 Tho' concise they would please, yet the longer the better, 
 
 The more news that's crammed in, more amusing the 
 
 letter, 
 All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, 
 Which only are fit for the tardy and late, 
 As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk, 
 How fair the sun shines — a fine day for a walk, 
 Then to politics turn, of Burdett's reformation, 
 One declares it would hurt, t'other better the nation, 
 Will ministers keep ? sure they've acted quite wroDg, 
 The burden this is of each morning — call song. 
 
11 
 
 So is going to you say, 
 
 I hope that success her great efforts will pay 
 
 That will see her, be dazzled outright, 
 
 And declare he can't bear to be out of her sight. 
 Write flaming epistles with love's pointed dart, 
 Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart, 
 Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischevious ways, 
 He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, 
 That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake, 
 And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take, 
 A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame, 
 But he fears, for he knows she is not common game, 
 Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, 
 He's not one that's caught by a sly looking face, 
 Yet that's too divine — such a black sparkling eye, 
 At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die ; 
 Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten, 
 More than is meant by most such kind of men, 
 For they're all alike, take them one with another, 
 Begging pardon — with the exception of my brother. 
 
12 
 
 Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard, 
 Most opinion's the same, with the difference of word, 
 Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, 
 Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed, 
 As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name, 
 Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame. — 
 So on Friday this City's gay vortex you quit, 
 And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit — 
 
 Now your parcels arrived 's letter shall go, 
 
 I hope all your joy mayn't be turned into woe, 
 
 Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain, 
 
 When it promises sun shine how often comes rain. 
 
 So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, 
 
 How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh, 
 
 When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is drest, 
 
 How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest. 
 
 When we think ourselves safe, and the gaol near at hand, 
 
 Like a vessel just landing, we're wrecked near the strand, 
 
 And tho' memory forever the sharp pang must feel, 
 
 Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel — 
 
13 
 
 May misfortunes dear Girl, ne'er thy happiness cloy, 
 May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy, 
 May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, 
 Woes, which thy tender heart never may know, 
 For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear, 
 Tho' sympathy's soul to a friend drops a tear. 
 Oh dear ! what sentimental stuff have I written, 
 Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. 
 What sober reflections in the midst of this letter ! 
 Jocularity sure would have suited much better ; 
 But there are exceptions to all common rules, 
 For this is a truth by all boys learnt at schools. 
 
 Now adieu my dear I'm sure I must tire, 
 
 For if I do, you may throw it into the fire, 
 
 So accept the best love of your cousin and friend, 
 
 Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end 
 
 April 30, 1810. 
 
14 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, 
 Cold are the damps on a dying Man's brow, — 
 
 Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, 
 And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low ; 
 
 But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, 
 
 More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved 
 thee, 
 
 More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, 
 Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness 
 flow — 
 
 And ah ! poor has felt all this horror, 
 
 Full lonof the fallen victim contended with fate : 
 
 'Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, 
 She sought her babe's food at her miners gate — 
 
15 
 
 Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, 
 He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, 
 She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, 
 Crossed the dark mountain side, tho' the hour it was 
 late. 
 
 'Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, 
 
 That the form of the wasted reclined ; 
 
 She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, 
 
 And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind. — 
 " I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, 
 " I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, 
 But thee, cruel I call thee unkind ! — 
 
 Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the 
 mountain, 
 
 And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, 
 She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain, 
 
 And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 
 
16 
 
 " Ah ! go," she exclaimed, " when the tempest is yelling, 
 " Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, 
 " But I left, a pity less outcast, my dwelling, 
 
 " My garments are torn, so they say is my mind — " 
 
 Not long lived , but over her grave 
 
 Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, 
 
 Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, 
 But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. 
 
 Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain 
 heather, 
 
 Tho' chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, 
 
 For perfidy, traveller ! cannot bereave her, 
 
 Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due. — 
 
 July, 1810. 
 
17 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Come ! sweet is the hour, 
 
 Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around, 
 
 The anemone's night-boding flower, 
 Has sunk its pale head on the ground. 
 
 'Tis thus the world's keenness hath torn, 
 Some mild heart that expands to its blast, 
 
 'Tis thus that the wretched forlorn, 
 Sinks poor and neglected at last. — 
 
 The world with its keenness and woe, 
 Has no charms or attraction for me, 
 
 Its unkindness with grief has laid low, 
 The heart which is faithful to thee. 
 
 B 
 
18 
 
 The high trees that wave past the moon, 
 
 As I walk in their umbrage with you, 
 All declare I must part with you soon, 
 
 All bid you a tender adieu ! — 
 
 Then ! dearest farewell, 
 
 You and I love, may ne'er meet again ; 
 
 These woods and these meadows can tell 
 How soft and how sweet was the strain. — 
 
 April, 1810. 
 
19 
 
 SONG. 
 
 DESPAIR. 
 
 Ask not the pallid stranger's woe, 
 
 With beating heart and throbbing breast, 
 
 Whose step is faultering, weak, and slow, 
 As tho' the body needed rest. — 
 
 Whose wildered eye no object meets, 
 Nor cares to ken a friendly glance, 
 
 With silent grief his bosom beats, — 
 Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance. 
 
 Who looks around with fearful eye, 
 And shuns all converse with mankind, 
 
 As tho' some one his griefs might spy, 
 And soothe them with a kindred mind. 
 
20 
 
 A friend or foe to him the same, 
 He looks on each with equal eye; 
 
 The difference lies but in the name, 
 To none for comfort can he fly. — 
 
 'Twas deep despair, and sorrow's trace, 
 
 To him too keenly given, 
 Whose memory, time could not efface— 
 
 His peace was lodged in Heaven. — 
 
 He looks on all this world bestows, 
 The pride and pomp of power, 
 
 As trifles best for pageant shows 
 Which vanish in an hour. 
 
 When torn is dear affections tie, 
 Sinks the soft heart full low ; 
 
 It leaves without a parting sigh, 
 All that these realms bestow. 
 
 June 1810. 
 
21 
 
 SONG. 
 
 SORROW. 
 
 To me this world's a dreary blank, 
 All hopes in life are gone and fled, 
 
 My high strung energies are sank, 
 And all my blissfull hopes lie dead. — 
 
 The world once smiling to my view, 
 Shewed scenes of endless bliss and joy ; 
 
 The world I then but little knew, 
 Ah ! little knew how pleasures cloy ; 
 
 All then was jocund, all was gay, 
 
 No thought beyond the present hour, 
 
 I danced in pleasures fading ray, 
 Fading alas ! as drooping flower. 
 
22 
 
 Nor do the heedless in the throng, 
 
 One thought beyond the morrow give 
 
 They court the feast, the dance, the song, 
 Nor think how short their time to live. 
 
 The heart that bears deep sorrows trace, 
 What earthly comfort can console, 
 
 It drags a ddl and lengthened pace, 
 'Till friendly death its woes enroll. — 
 
 The sunken cheek, the humid eyes, 
 E'en better than the tongue can tell ; 
 
 In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies, 
 Where memory's rankling traces dwell. - 
 
 The rising tear, the stifled sigh, 
 A mind but ill at ease display, 
 
 Like blackening clouds in stormy sky, 
 Where fiercely vivid lightening's play. 
 
23 
 
 Thus when souls' energy is dead, 
 
 When sorrow dims each earthly view, 
 When every fairy hope is fled, 
 
 We bid ungrateful world adieu. 
 
 August 1810. 
 
 \-v 
 
24 
 
 SONG. 
 
 HOPE. 
 
 And said I that all hope was fled, 
 That sorrow and despair were mine, 
 
 That each enthusiast wish was dead, 
 
 Had sank beneath pale Misery's shrine. - 
 
 Seest thou the sunbeam's yellow glow, 
 That robes with liquid streams of light ; 
 
 Yon distant Mountain's craggy brow. 
 And shews the rocks so fair, — so bright- 
 
 Tis thus sweet expectations ray, 
 In softer view shews distant hours, 
 
 And portrays each succeeding day, 
 As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,- 
 
25 
 
 The vermiel tinted flowers that blossom ; 
 
 Are frozen but to bud anew, 
 Then sweet deceivers calm my bosom, 
 
 Although thy visions be not true, — 
 
 Yet true they are, — and I'll believe, 
 Thy whisperings soft of love and peace, 
 
 God never made thee to deceive, 
 'Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. 
 
 
 Yet tho' despair my life should gloom, 
 
 Tho' horror should around me close, 
 With those I love, beyond the tomb, 
 
 Hope shews a balm for all my woes. 
 
 August 1810. 
 
26 
 
 SONG. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN. 
 
 Oh ! what is the gain of restless care, 
 
 And what is ambitious treasure ? 
 And what are the joys that the modish share, 
 
 In their sickly haunts of pleasure ? 
 
 My husbands repast with delight I spread, 
 
 What tho' 'tis but rustic fare, 
 May each guardian angel protect his shed, 
 
 May contentment and quiet be there. 
 
 And may I support my husbands years, 
 
 May I soothe his dying pain, 
 And then may I dry my fast falling tears, 
 
 And meet him in Heaven again. 
 
 July, 1810. 
 
*^7 
 
 SONG. 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN. 
 
 Ah ! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear, 
 If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear, 
 The dastard shall perish, deaths torment shall prove, 
 For fate and revenge are decreed from above. 
 
 Ah ! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, 
 Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth ; 
 With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell, 
 To give up the oppressor to judgment and Hell — 
 
 For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays, 
 To him shall each warrior give merited praise, 
 And triumphant returned from the clangor of arms, 
 He shall find his reward in his loved maidens charms. 
 
28 
 
 In extatic confusion the warrior shall sip, 
 
 The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip, 
 
 And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, 
 
 The rewards of the brave are the transports of love. 
 
 October, 1809. 
 
29 
 
 THE IRISHMAN'S SONG. 
 
 The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light 
 May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night, 
 Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away, 
 But thy courage Erin ! may never decay. 
 
 See ! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, 
 Our ancestors dwellings lie sunk on the ground, 
 Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains, 
 And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains. 
 
 Ah ! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure, 
 Ah ! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure, 
 But the war note is waked, and the clangor of spears, 
 The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears. 
 
30 
 
 Ah ! where are the heroes ! triumphant in death, 
 Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath, 
 Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, 
 And "my countrymen! vengeance!" incessantly cry. 
 
 October, 1809. 
 
31 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Fierce roars the midnight storm 
 O'er the wild mountain, 
 
 Dark clouds the night deform, 
 Swift rolls the fountain — 
 
 See ! o'er yon rocky height, 
 Dim mists are flying — 
 
 See by the moon's pale light, 
 Poor Laura's dying ! 
 
 Shame and remorse shall howl, 
 By her false pillow — 
 
 Fiercer than storms that roll. 
 O'er the white billow ; 
 
32 
 
 No hand her eyes to close, 
 
 When life is flying, 
 But she will find repose, 
 
 For Laura's dying ! 
 
 Then will I seek my love, 
 Then will I cheer her, 
 
 Then my esteem will prove, 
 When no friend is near her. 
 
 On her grave I will lie, 
 
 When life is parted, 
 On her grave I will die, 
 
 For the false hearted. 
 
 December, 1809. 
 
33 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To 
 
 Ah ! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, 
 And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, 
 
 And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, 
 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees. 
 
 But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, 
 
 Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve, 
 
 Though the time it is past ! — yet the dear recollection, 
 For aye in the heart of thy must live. 
 
 Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing, 
 
 Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, 
 When the hoped-winged moments athwart him are Hying, 
 
 And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear. — 
 
 c 
 
34 
 
 And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever 
 Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year, 
 
 He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh ! never 
 Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere. 
 
 August, 1810. 
 
35 
 
 SONG. 
 
 To 
 
 Stern, stern is the voice of fates fearfull command, 
 
 When accents of horror it breathes in our ear, 
 Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land, 
 
 Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear, 
 Tis sterner than death o'er the shuddering wretch bending, 
 And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending, 
 Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending, 
 Which never again to his eyes may appear — 
 
 And ah ! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry, 
 Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, 
 
 He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory, 
 
 He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell, 
 
36 
 
 Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing, 
 When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing ! 
 As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, 
 The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that 
 swell ! 
 
 Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah ! never, 
 Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory's ear, 
 
 In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever, 
 The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. 
 
 August, 1810. 
 
37 
 
 SAINT EDMONDS EVE. 
 
 Oh ! did you observe the black Canon pass, 
 
 And did you observe his frown ? 
 He goeth to say the midnight mass, 
 
 In holy St. Edmond's town. 
 
 He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, 
 And to lay the wandering sprite, 
 
 Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt, 
 The Abbey's drear aisle this night. 
 
 It saith it will not its wailing cease, 
 
 'Till that holy man come near, 
 'Till he pour o'er its grave the prayer of peace, 
 
 And sprinkle the hallowed tear. 
 
38 
 
 The Canon's horse is stout and strong 
 
 The road is plain and fair, 
 But the Canon slowly wends along, 
 
 And his brow is gloomed with care. 
 
 Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate ? 
 
 Sullen echoes the portal bell, 
 It sounds like the whispering voice of fate, 
 
 It sounds like a funeral knell. 
 
 The Canon his faultering knee thrice bowed, 
 And his frame was convulsed with fear, 
 
 When a voice was heard distinct and loud, 
 " Prepare ! for thy hour is near." 
 
 He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, 
 
 To Heaven he lifts his eye, 
 He heeds not the Abbot's gazing stare, 
 
 Nor the dark Monks who murmured by. 
 
39 
 
 Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints 
 
 That frown on the sacred walls, 
 His face it grows pale, — he trembles, he faints, 
 
 At the Abbot's feet he falls. 
 
 And strait the father's robe he kissed, 
 Who cried, " Grace dwells with thee, 
 
 " The spirit will fade like the morning mist, 
 " At your benedicite. 
 
 " Now haste within ! the board is spread, 
 
 "Keen blows the air, and cold, 
 " The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed, 
 
 " 'Till St. Edmond's bell hath tolled,— 
 
 " Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night, 
 
 " You've journeyed many a mile, 
 " To-morrow lay the wailing sprite, 
 
 " That shrieks in the moonlight aisle. 
 
40 
 
 " Oh ! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, 
 " Yet to-night must the sprite be laid, 
 
 " Yet to-night when the hour of horror's told, 
 " Must I meet the wandering shade. 
 
 " Nor food, nor rest may now delay, — 
 
 " For hark ! the echoing pile, 
 " A bell loud shakes ! — Oh haste away, 
 
 " lead to the haunted aisle." 
 
 The torches slowly move before, 
 
 The cross is raised on hio-h, 
 A smile of peace the Canon wore, 
 
 But horror dimmed his eye — 
 
 And now they climb the footworn stair, 
 
 The chapel gates unclose, 
 Now each breathed low a fervent prayer, 
 
 And fear each bosom froze 
 
41 
 
 Now paused awhile the doubtful band 
 And viewed the solemn scene, — 
 
 Full dark the clustered columns stand, 
 The moon gleams pale between — 
 
 " Say father, say, what cloisters gloom 
 
 " Conceals the unquiet shade, 
 " Within what dark unhallowed tomb, 
 
 " The corse unblessed was laid." 
 
 " Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks, 
 And murmurs a mournful plaint, 
 
 Of thee ! Black Canon, it wildly talks, 
 And call on thy patron saint — 
 
 " The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes, 
 "As he prayed at St. Edmond's shrine, 
 
 " From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, 
 " And under yon arch recline." — 
 
42 
 
 " Oh ! say upon that black marble tomb, 
 
 " What memorial sad appears." — 
 " Undistinguished it lies in the chancels gloom, 
 
 " No memorial sad it bears " — 
 
 The Canon his paternoster reads, 
 
 His rosary hung by his side, 
 Now swift to the chancel door he leads, 
 
 And untouched they open wide, 
 
 Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, 
 To approach to the black marble tomb, 
 
 " Oh ! enter Black Canon " a whisper fell, 
 " Oh ! enter, thy hour is come." 
 
 He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed, 
 
 Oh ! horror, the chancel doors close, 
 A loud yell was borne on the rising blast, 
 
 And a deep, dying groan arose. 
 
43 
 
 The Monks in amazement shuddering stand, 
 They burst thro' the chancels gloom, 
 
 From St. Edmond's shrine, lo ! a skeletons hand, 
 Points to the black marble tomb. 
 
 Lo ! deeply engraved, an inscription blood, red, 
 
 In characters fresh and clear — 
 " The guilty black Canon of Elmham's dead, 
 
 " And his wife lies buried here ! " 
 
 In Elmham's tower he wedded a Nun, 
 To St. Edmond's his bride he bore, 
 
 On this eve her noviciate here was begun, 
 And a monks grey weeds she wore ; — 
 
 ! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, 
 
 Remorse she full oft revealed, 
 Her blood by the ruthless black Canon was spilt, 
 
 And in death her lips he sealed ; 
 
44 
 
 Her spirit to penance this night was doomed, 
 
 'Till the Canon atoned the deed, 
 Here together they now shall rest entombed, 
 
 'Till their bodies from dust are freed — 
 
 Hark ! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof, 
 Round the altar bright lightnings play, 
 
 Speechless with horror the monks stand aloof, 
 And the storm dies sudden away — 
 
 The inscription was gone ! a cross on the ground, 
 And a rosary shone thro' the gloom, 
 
 But never again was the Canon there found, 
 Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. 
 
4.5 
 
 REVENGE. 
 
 " Ah ! quit me not yet, for the wind whitsles shrill, 
 " Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill, 
 " The thunders wild voice rattles madly above, 
 "You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love. — " 
 
 " I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone — 
 
 " I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone, 
 
 " I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors bones, 
 
 " And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones. 
 
 " For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night, 
 " And we quit not the tomb 'till dawn of the light, 
 " And Conrad's been dead just a month and a day ! 
 " So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away, — 
 
46 
 
 " He bid me bring with me what most I held dear, 
 "Ora month from that time should I lie on my bier, 
 " And I'd sooner resign this false fluttering breath, 
 " Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death, 
 
 " And I love you to madness my Agnes I love, 
 ' ' My constant affection this night will I prove, 
 " This night will I go to the sepulchres jaw, 
 " Alone will I glut its all conquering maw " — 
 
 " No ! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share, 
 
 " In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there, 
 
 ' ' I fear not the spirit, — I fear not the grave, 
 
 " My dearest Alolphus I'd perish to save " — 
 
 ' ' Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, 
 " But spare me those ages of horror and woe, 
 " For I swear to thee here that I'll perish ere day, 
 " If you go unattended by Agnes away " — 
 

 47 
 
 The niirht it was bleak the fierce storm raj^ed around, 
 The lightnings blue fire-light flashed on the ground, 
 Strange forms seemed to flit, — and howl tidings of fate, 
 As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate. — 
 
 The youth struck the portal, — the echoing sound 
 Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around, 
 The blue lightning gleamed o'er the dark chapel spire, 
 And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire. 
 
 Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined, 
 Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind, 
 When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene, 
 And a figure advanced — tall in form — fierce in mien. 
 
 A mantle encircled his shadowy form, 
 
 As light as a gossamer borne on the storm, 
 
 Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze, 
 
 Like the midnight pestiferous meteors blaze. — 
 
 
48 
 SPIRIT. 
 
 Thy father, Adolphus ! was false, false as hell, 
 And Conrad has cause to remember it well, 
 He ruined my Mother, despised me his son, 
 I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done. 
 
 I was nearly expiring — 'twas close of the day, — 
 A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, 
 He gave me the power from whence I was hurled, 
 To return to revenge, to return to the world, — 
 
 Now Adolphus I'll seize thy best loved in my arms, 
 I'll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms, 
 On the black whirlwinds thundering pinion I'll ride, 
 And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o'er thy bride — 
 
 He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide, 
 Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride, 
 He clasped the fair Agnes — he raised her on high, 
 And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky — 
 
49 
 
 All was now silent, — and over the tomb, 
 Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom, 
 Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone, 
 And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan. 
 
 December 1809. 
 
50 
 
 GHASTA; 
 
 OR, THE AVENGING DEMON ! ! ! 
 
 The idea of the following tale was taken from a few un- 
 connected German Stanzas. — TJie principal Character is 
 evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned 
 by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly al- 
 ludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany 
 called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie. 
 
 Hark ! the owlet flaps her wing, 
 
 In the pathless dell beneath, 
 Hark ! night ravens loudly sing, 
 
 Tidings of despair and death. — 
 
 Horror covers all the sky, 
 
 Clouds of darkness blot the moon, 
 
 Prepare ! for mortal thou must die, 
 Prepare to yield thy soul up soon — 
 
51 
 
 Fierce the tempest raves around, 
 Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, 
 
 Crashing thunder shakes the ground, 
 Fire and tumult fill the sky. — 
 
 Hark ! the tolling village bell, 
 Tells the hour of midnight come, 
 
 Now can blast the powers of Hell, 
 Fiend-like goblins now can roam — 
 
 See ! his crest all stained with rain, 
 A warrior hastening speeds his way, 
 
 He starts, looks round him, starts again, 
 And sighs for the approach of day. 
 
 See ! his frantic steed he reigns, 
 See ! he lifts his hands on hio-h, 
 
 Implores a respite to his pains, 
 From the powers of the sky. — 
 
52 
 
 He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, 
 
 Fatigue had bent his lofty form, 
 To rest his wearied limbs awhile, 
 
 Fatigued with wandering and the storm. 
 * # # # # # # 
 Slow the door is opened wide — 
 
 With trackless tread a stranger came, 
 His form Majestic, slow his stride, 
 
 He sate, nor spake, — nor told his name- 
 
 Terror blaunched the warrior's cheek, 
 Cold sweat from his forehead ran, 
 
 In vain his tongue essayed to speak,— 
 At last the stranger thus began : 
 
 "Mortal ! thou that saw'st the sprite, 
 
 " Tell me what I wish to know, 
 " Or come with me before 'tis light, 
 
 ' Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. 
 
53 
 
 " Fierce the avenging Demon's ire, 
 " Fiercer than the wintry blast, 
 
 " Fiercer than the lightnings fire, 
 " When the hour of twilights past- 
 
 The warrior raised his sunken eye, 
 
 It met the stranger's sullen scowl, 
 " Mortal ! Mortal ! thou must die," 
 
 In burning: letters chilled his soul. 
 
 WARRIOR. 
 
 " Stranger ! whoso'er you are, 
 I feel impelled my tale to tell — 
 
 Horrors stranger shalt thou hear, 
 Horrors drear as those of Hell. 
 
 O'er my Castle silence reigned, 
 
 Late the night and drear the hour, 
 
 When on the terrace I observed, 
 
 A fleeting shadowy mist to lower. — 
 
54 
 
 Light the cloud as summer fog, 
 
 Which transient shuns the morning beam ; 
 Fleeting as the cloud on bog, 
 
 That hangs or on the mountain stream. — 
 
 Horror seized my shuddering brain, 
 
 Horror dimmed my starting eye, 
 In vain I tried to speak, — In vain 
 
 My limb's essayed the spot to fly — 
 
 At last the thin and shadowy form, 
 
 With noiseless, trackless footsteps came, — 
 
 Its light robe floated on the storm, 
 
 Its head was bound with lambent flame. 
 
 In chilling 1 voice drear as the breeze 
 
 Which sweeps along th' autumnal ground, 
 
 Which wanders thro' the leafless trees, 
 
 Or the mandrakes groan which floats around. 
 
55 
 
 " Thou art mine and I am thine, 
 " 'Till the sinking of the world, 
 
 " I am thine and thou art mine, 
 " 'Till in ruin death is hurled — 
 
 " Strong the power and dire the fate 
 
 " Which drags me from the depths of Hell, 
 
 " Breaks the tombs eternal gate, 
 
 " Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell.. 
 
 "Haply I might ne'er have shrank 
 
 " From flames that rack the guilty dead, 
 
 " Haply I might ne'er have sank 
 " On pleasures flowry, thorny bed — 
 
 — " But stay ! no more I dare disclose, 
 
 " Of the tale I wish to tell, 
 " On Earth relentless were my woes, 
 
 " But fiercer are my pangs in Hell — 
 
56 
 
 " Now I claim thee as my love, 
 
 " Lay aside all chilling fear, 
 " My affection will I prove, 
 
 " Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are ! 
 
 "For thou art mine, and I am thine, 
 " 'Till the dreaded judgment day, 
 
 " I am thine, and thou art mine — 
 " Night is past — I must away." 
 
 Still I gazed, and still the form 
 
 Pressed upon my aching sight, 
 Still I braved the howling storm, 
 
 When the ghost dissolved in night. — 
 
 Restless, sleepless fled the night, 
 
 Sleepless as a sick mans bed, 
 When he sighs for morning light, 
 
 When he turns his aching head, — 
 
57 
 
 Slow and painful passed the day, 
 
 Melancholy seized my brain, 
 Lingering fled the hours away, 
 
 Lingering to a wretch in pain. — 
 
 At last came night, ah ! horrid hour, 
 Ah ! chilling time that wakes the dead, 
 
 When demons ride the clouds that lower, 
 — The phantom sat upon my bed. 
 
 In hollow voice, low as the sound 
 
 Which in some charnel makes it moan, 
 
 What floats along the burying ground, 
 The phantom claimed me as her own. 
 
 Her chilling finger on my head, 
 
 With coldest touch congealed my soul — 
 Cold as the finger of the dead, 
 
 Or damps which round a tombstone roll- 
 
58 
 
 Months are passed in lingering round, 
 
 Every night the spectre comes, 
 With thrilling step it shakes the ground, 
 
 With thrilling step it round me roams- 
 Stranger ! I have told to thee, 
 
 All the tale I have to tell — 
 Stranger ! canst thou tell to me, 
 
 How to 'scape the powers of Hell " — 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Warrior ! I can ease thy woes, 
 
 Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me— 
 
 Warrior ! I can all disclose, 
 Follow, follow, follow me. 
 
 Yet the tempests duskiest wing, 
 Its mantle stretches o'er the sky, 
 
 Yet the midnight ravens sing, 
 " Mortal ! Mortal thou must die." 
 
59 
 
 At last they saw a river clear, 
 
 That crossed the heathy path they trode, 
 The Stranger's look was wild and drear, 
 
 The firm Earth shook beneath his nod — 
 
 He raised a wand above his head, 
 He traced a circle on the plain, 
 
 In a wild verse he called the dead, 
 The dead with silent footsteps came. 
 
 A burning brilliance on his head, 
 
 Flaming filled the stormy air, 
 In a wild verse he called the dead, 
 
 The dead in motley crowd were there. — 
 
 " Ghasta ! Ghasta ! come along, 
 
 " Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, 
 
 " Quickly raise th' avenging Song, 
 " Ghasta ! Ghasta ! come to me." 
 
60 
 
 Horrid shapes in mantles grey, 
 Flit athwart the stormy night, 
 
 " Ghasta ! Ghasta ! come away, 
 " Come away before 'tis light." 
 
 See ! the sheeted Ghost they bring, 
 Yelling dreadful o'er the heath, 
 
 Hark ! the deadly verse they sing, 
 Tidings of despair and death ! 
 
 The yelling Ghost before him stands, 
 See ! she rolls her eyes around, 
 
 Now she lifts her bony hands, 
 
 Now her footsteps shake the ground. 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Phantom of Theresa say, 
 
 Why to earth again you came, 
 
 Quickly speak, I must away ! 
 
 Or you must bleach for aye in flame,- 
 
61 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 " Mighty one I know thee now, 
 " Mightiest power of the sky, 
 
 " Know thee by thy flaming brow, 
 " Know thee by thy sparkling eye. 
 
 " That fire is scorching ! Oh ! I came, 
 " From the caverned depth of Hell, 
 
 ' ' My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, 
 " Mighty one ! I know thee well." — 
 
 STRANGER. 
 
 Ghasta ! seize yon wandering sprite, 
 Drag her to the depth beneath, 
 
 Take her swift, before 'tis light, 
 Take her to the cells of death ! 
 
 Thou that heard st the trackless dead, 
 In the mouldering tomb must lie, 
 
 Mortal ! look upon my head, 
 
 Mortal ! Mortal ! thou must die. 
 
62 
 
 Of glowing flame a cross was there, 
 Which threw a light around his form, 
 
 Whilst his lank and raven hair, 
 Floated wild upon the storm. — 
 
 The warrior upwards turned his eyes, 
 
 Gazed upon the cross of fire, 
 There sat horror and surprise, 
 
 There sat God's eternal ire. — 
 
 A shivering through the Warrior flew, 
 
 Colder than the nightly blast, 
 Colder than the evening dew, 
 
 When the hour of twilights past. — 
 
 Thunder shakes th' expansive sky, 
 
 Shakes the bosom of the heath, 
 " Mortal ! Mortal ! thou must die ' — 
 
 The warrior sank convulsed in death. 
 
 January, 1810. 
 
63 
 
 FRAGMENT, 
 
 OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE. 
 
 Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling, 
 
 One glimmering lamp was expiring and low, — 
 Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, 
 Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, 
 They bodingly presaged destruction and woe ! 
 
 'Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling, 
 Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on 
 the sky, 
 
 Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, 
 And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by. — 
 
 My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar 
 
 Of the battling clouds on the mountain tops broke, 
 
64 
 
 Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear, 
 This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear, 
 
 But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. 
 
 'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, 
 The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode, 
 
 Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing, 
 She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. — 
 
 I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me ! 
 
 PHILLIPS, PRINTERS, WORTHING. 
 
NOTES 
 
 [There is little occasion for annotation upon these verses, except for the 
 sake of noting those few among the many slight misprints which actually 
 pervert the sense. When the pieces are incorporated into Shellefs 
 works, such errors will no doubt be corrected in the text sub silentio, 
 but it is virtue in a first reprint to be verbatim et literatim?^ 
 
 'Page I0 — The blanks in the heading of this letter are no 
 doubt to be filled up, " To Miss Harriet Grove from Miss 
 Elizabeth Shelley." Those in the first line, and in the last 
 but three, to be supplied with " Harrie," or "Hattie"; and 
 that on page 12, line 9, with " Percy's,'' or " Bysshe's." 
 
 In line 9 of page 10 the name Burdett is so placed as to 
 require the accentuation of the second syllable instead of the 
 first, upon which the stress ought to fall. 
 
 Page 1 1 , line I . 
 
 So is going to you say. 
 
 The first blank is probably to be filled by the name of 
 Harriet Grove's sister, for Harriet wrote in her diary on 
 September 17, 1810, "Received the poetry by Victor and 
 Cazire. C. ofFended, and with reason. I think they have 
 done very wrong in publishing what they have of her." 
 
 E 
 
66 
 
 Perhaps this displeasure on the young lady's part, and her 
 sister's, may have been one reason for the suppression of the 
 book. 
 
 Page ii, line 3 — The word left blank was printed, but has 
 been erased. 
 
 Page 12, lines 7, 8. 
 
 60 on Friday this City's gay vortex you quit. 
 And no longer with Doctors and "Johnny cats sit. 
 
 These lines are explained by a passage in Harriet Grove's 
 diary : 
 
 "April 21, 1810. — Got to John's; found him and his cat 
 perfectly well, and happy to see us as we are to see him." John 
 Grove followed the medical profession, and at that time lived 
 in Lincoln's Inn. 
 
 There are no other passages in Miss Grove's diary referring 
 to Victor and Cazire directly or indirectly. 
 
 Ibid, line 9 — For parcels read parcel's. 
 
 Ibid — Four lines from bottom, for gaol read goal. 
 
 Page 19, line 5 — The blank is to be filled with Harriet. 
 
 Page 22, at bottom — For lightening 's read lightnings. 
 
 Page 25, line 3 — For deceivers read deceiver. 
 
 Page 33, line 8— Blank to be filled by "Percy" or 
 "Shelley." 
 
 " Page 45, line 1 — For whitsles read whistles. 
 

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