POETRY.

SHELLEY'S DEATH.

[" A little while ago, there died at Spezzia an old sailor, who in his last confession to the priest (whom he told to make it public) stated that he was one of the crew that ran down the boat containing Shelley and Williams, which was done under the impression that the rich Milord Byron was on board with lots of money. They did not intend to sink the boat, but to board her and murder Byron."—Letter to Mr. 7'relawny from his Daughter, published in the " Times" of Wednesday, December 1, 1875.1 WHAT ! And it was so ! Thou wert then Death-stricken from behind,

0 heart of hearts ! and they were men, That rent thee from mankind !

Greedy hatred chasing love, As a hawk pursues a dove, Till its soft feathers float upon the careless wind.

Loathed life ! that I might break the chain. Which links my kind with me,

To think that human hands for gain Should have been turned 'gainat thee,—

Thee that would have given thine all For the poor, the sick, the thrall, And weighed thyself as dross, 'gainat their felicity I We deemed that Nature, jealous grown, Withdrew the glimpse she gave,

In thy bright genius, of her own,—

And, not to slay, but save, That she timely took back thus What had been but lent to us,

Shrouding thee in her winds, and lulling 'neath her wave..

For it seemed meet thou should'at not long Toss on life's fitful billow, Nor sleep 'mid mounds of silenced wrong Under the clay-cold willow : Rather that thou should'at recline Amid waters crystalline, The sea-shells at thy feet, and sea-weed for thy pillow.

We felt we had no right to keep What never had been ours ; That thou belongedst to the deep, And the uncounted hours ; That thou earthly no more wert Than the rainbow's melting skirt, The sunset's fading bloom, and midnight's shooting showers.

And, thus resigned, our empty hands Surrendered thee to thine, Thinking thee drawn by kindred bands Under the swirling brine, Playing there on new-strung shell, Tuned to Ocean's mystic swell, Thy lyrical complaints and rhapsodies divine.

But now to hear no Naiad dared Submerge thee with her smile, And thy bland Mother would have spared Thee to us yet awhile, But for ghouls in human mould,

Ravaging the seas for gold,— Oh this blots out the heavens, and makes mere living vile I

Yet, yet, thy life presaged such death, And it was meet that they, Who poisoned, should have quenched, thy breath, Who slandered thee, should slay ; That thy spirit, long the mark Of the dagger drawn in dark, Should by the ruffian's stroke be ravished from the day.

And sooth 'twas well thou should'st not want .

The martyr's useful name.

Our victim thus becomes our vaunt, Thy glory mends our shame ; Living with the dead that are Near to us, because so far, Upon whose forehead shines the unsetting star of Fame!

ALFRED Ainmx.