With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . ke a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn ;Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleamLike wrecks of a dissolving dream. Such visions, though vague, help toward the progress of humanity and a belief in a divine ordering of the [89] WITH SHELLEY IN ITALY universe by means of mercy and love. They appeal tothe minds of ardent youth everywhere^ and we have iton the testimony of a distinguished English clergyman ^that there are more clergymen and more
With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . ke a snake renewHer winter weeds outworn ;Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleamLike wrecks of a dissolving dream. Such visions, though vague, help toward the progress of humanity and a belief in a divine ordering of the [89] WITH SHELLEY IN ITALY universe by means of mercy and love. They appeal tothe minds of ardent youth everywhere^ and we have iton the testimony of a distinguished English clergyman ^that there are more clergymen and more religious lay-men than we imagine who trace to the emotion Shelleyawakened in them when they were young, their wider andbetter views of God. PRAGMENT: TO ITALY As THE sunrise to the night, As the north wind to the clouds. As the earthquakes fiery flight,Ruining mountain solitudes. Everlasting Italy, Be those hopes and fears on thee. FRAGMENT:A eomans chamber I In the cave which wild weeds coverWait for thine ethereal lover;For the pallid moon is waning, Oer the spiral cypress hangingAnd the moon no cloud is staining. 1 Stopford A. Brooke. [90]. THE YEAR 1819 n It was once a Romanes chamber,Where he kept his darkest revels. And the wild weeds twine and clamber;It was then a chasm for devils. FRAG^IENT: EOME AND NATURE EoME has fallen, ye see it lying Heaped in undistinguished ruin :Nature is alone undying. Rome, March 23, Naples we came by slow journeys, with our ownhorses, to Rome, resting one day at Mola di Gaeta, at theinn called Villa di Cicerone, from being built on the ruinsof his Yilla, whose immense substructions overhang the sea,and are scattered among the orange-groves. Nothing canbe lovelier than the scene from the terraces of the inn. Onone side precipitous mountains, whose bases slope into aninclined plane of olive and orange-copses — the latterforming, as it were, an emerald sky of leaves, starred withinnumerable globes of their ripening fruit, whose ri
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