Medwin, Life, i. 54-57: 'Shelley, having abandoned prose for poetry, now formed a grand design, a metrical romance on the subject of the Wandering Jew, of which the first three cantos were, with a few additions and alterations, almost entirely mine. It was a sort of thing such as boys usually write, a cento from different favorite authors; the vision in the third canto taken from Lewis's Monk, of which, in common with Byron, he was a great admirer; and the crucifixion scene altogether a plagiarism from a volume of Cambridge Prize Poems. The part which I supplied is still in my possession. After seven or eight cantos were perpetrated, Shelley sent them to Campbell for his opinion on their merits, with a view to publication. The author of the Pleasures of Hope returned the MS. with the remark that there were only two good lines in it: —

"It seemed as if an angel's sigh

Had breathed the plaintive symphony." Lines, by the way, savoring strongly of Walter Scott. This criticism of Campbell's gave a death-blow to our hopes of immortality, and so little regard did Shelley entertain for the production, that he left it at his lodgings in Edinburgh, where it was disinterred by some correspondent of Fraser's, and in whose magazine, in 1831, four of the cantos appeared. The others he very wisely did not think worth publishing.

'It must be confessed that Shelley's contributions to this juvenile attempt were far the

THE WANDERING JEW

[The passages in italics are from the Edinburgh version.]

CANTO I

'Me miserable, which way shall I fly?
Infinite wrath and infinite despair -
Which way I fly is hell myself am hell;
And in this lowest deep a lower deep,
To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.'

Paradise Lost.

THE brilliant orb of parting day
Diffused a rich and mellow ray
Above the mountain's brow;

It tinged the hills with lustrous light,
It tinged the promontory's height,
Still sparkling with the snow;
And, as aslant it threw its beam,
Tipped with gold the mountain stream
That laved the vale below;
Long hung the eye of glory there,
And lingered as if loth to leave
A scene so lovely and so fair.

best, and those, with my MS. before me, I could, were it worth while, point out, though the contrast in the style, and the inconsequence of the opinions on religion, particularly in the last canto, are sufficiently obvious to mark two different hands, and show which passages were his. The finale of The Wandering Jew is also Shelley's, and proves that thus early he had imbibed opinions which were often the subject of our controversies. We differed also as to the conduct of the poem. It was my wish to follow the German fragment, and put an end to the Wandering Jew- -a consummation Shelley would by no means consent to.' [Mr. Dobell examines the inconsistencies and the precise statements of Medwin at length.]

Fraser's, July, 1831: An obscure contemporary has accused us of announcing for publication Shelley's poem without proper authority. We beg to assure him that we have the sanction of Mrs. Shelley. O[liver] Y[orke].'

The same: The important literary curiosity which the liberality of the gentleman into whose hands it has fallen, enables us now to lay before the public for the first time, in a complete state, was offered for publication by Mr. Shelley when quite a boy.'

Mrs. Shelley, Note on Queen Mab, 1839, i 102: He wrote also a poem on the subject of Ahasuerus - being led to it by a German Fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in Lincoln's Inn Fields. This fell afterwards into other hands -- and was considerably altered before it was printed.'

'T were luxury even, there to grieve.
So soft the clime, so balm the air,
So pure and genial were the skies,
In sooth 't was almost Paradise,
For ne'er did the sun's splendor close

On such a picture of repose.

All, all was tranquil, all was still,
Save when the music of the rill,

Or distant waterfall,

At intervals broke on the ear,

Which Echo's self was charmed to hear,
And ceased her babbling call.

With every charm the landscape glowed
Which partial Nature's hand bestowed;
Nor could the mimic hand of art
Such beauties or such hues impart.

Light clouds in fleeting livery gay
Hung, painted in grotesque array,
Upon the western sky;

Forgetful of the approaching dawn,
The peasants danced upon the lawn,
For the vintage time was nigh.
How jocund to the tabor's sound
O'er the smooth, trembling turf they bound,
In every measure light and free,
The very soul of harmony!

Grace in each attitude, they move,
They thrill to amorous ecstasy,
Light as the dewdrops of the morn,
That hang upon the blossomed thorn,
Subdued by the power of resistless Love.
Ah! days of innocence, of joy,
Of rapture that knows no alloy,
Haste on, ye roseate hours,
Free from the world's tumultuous cares,
From pale distrust, from hopes and fears,
Baneful concomitants of time,

'Tis yours, beneath this favored clime,
Your pathway strewn with flowers,
Upborne on pleasure's downy wing,
To quaff a long unfading spring,

And beat with light and careless step the ground;
The fairest flowers too soon grow sere,
Too soon shall tempests blast the year,
And sin's eternal winter reign around.

But see, what forms are those,
Scarce seen by glimpse of dim twilight,
Wandering o'er the mountain's height?
They swiftly haste to the vale below.
One wraps his mantle around his brow,
As if to hide his woes;

And as his steed impetuous flies,
What strange fire flashes from his eyes!
The far-off city's murmuring sound

Was borne on the breeze which floated around;
Noble Padua's lofty spire

Scarce glowed with the sunbeam's latest fire,
Yet dashed the travellers on;

Ere night o'er the earth was spread,
Full many a mile they must have sped,
Ere their destined course was run.
Welcome was the moonbeam's ray,
Which slept upon the towers so gray.
But, hark! a convent's vesper bell-
It seemed to be a very spell!

The stranger checked his courser's rein,
And listened to the mournful sound;
Listened and paused-and paused again;
A thrill of pity and of pain

Through his inmost soul had passed,

While gushed the tear-drops silently and fast.

A crowd was at the convent gate,

The gate was opened wide;

No longer on his steed he sate,
But mingled with the tide.

He felt a solemn awe and dread,

As he the chapel entered

Dim was the light from the pale moon beam

ing,

As it fell on the saint-cyphered panes,
Or, from the western window streaming,
Tinged the pillars with varied stains.

To the eye of enthusiasm strange forms were gliding

In each dusky recess of the aisle;

And indefined shades in succession were striding

O'er the coignes of the Gothic pile.

The pillars to the vaulted roof

In airy lightness rose;

1 Buttress or coigu of vantage. Macbeth.

Now they mount to the rich Gothic ceiling aloof And exquisite tracery disclose.

The altar illumined now darts its bright rays,

The train passed in brilliant array;

On the shrine Saint Pietro's rich ornaments

blaze,

And rival the brilliance of day.

Hark! - now the loud organ swells full on the

ear

So sweetly mellow, chaste, and clear;
Melting, kindling, raising, firing,
Delighting now, and now inspiring,
Peal upon peal the music floats;

Now they list still as death to the dying notes;
Whilst the soft voices of the choir,
Exalt the soul from base desire,

Till it mounts on unearthly pinions free,
Dissolved in heavenly ecstasy.

Now a dead stillness reigned around,
Uninterrupted by a sound;

Save when in deadened response ran
The last faint echoes down the aisle,
Reverberated through the pile,
As within the pale the holy man,
With voice devout and saintly look,
Slow chanted from the sacred book,
Or pious prayers were duly said
For spirits of departed dead.
With beads and crucifix and hood,
Close by his side the abbess stood;
Now her dark penetrating eyes
Were raised in suppliance to heaven,
And now her bosom heaved with sighs,
As if to human weakness given.

Her stern, severe, yet beauteous brow
Frowned on all who stood below;

And the fire which flashed from her steady

The stranger advanced to the altar high
Convulsive was heard a smothered sigh!
Lo! four fair nuns to the altar draw near,
With solemn footstep, as the while
A fainting novice they bear;
The roses from her cheek are fled
But there the lily reigns instead ;
Light as a sylph's, her form confessed
Beneath the drapery of her vest,
A perfect grace and symmetry;
Her eyes, with rapture formed to move,
To melt with tenderness and love,
Or beam with sensibility.

To Heaven were raised in pious prayer,

A silent eloquence of woe;

Now hung the pearly tear-drop there:

Sate on her cheek a fixed despair; And now she beat her bosom bare, As pure as driven snow.

Nine graceful novices around
Fresh roses strew upon the ground;
In purest white arrayed,
Nine spotless vestal virgins shed
Sabæan incense o'er the head
Of the devoted maid.

They dragged her to the altar's pale,
The traveller leant against the rail,
And gazed with eager eye,

His cheek was flushed with sudden glow,
On his brow sate a darker shade of woe,
As a transient expression fled by.

The sympathetic feeling flew
Through every breast, from man to man ;
Confused and open clamors ran —
Louder and louder still they grew;
When the abbess waved her hand,
A stern resolve was in her eye,
And every wild tumultuous cry
Was stilled at her command.

The abbess made the well-known sign -
The novice reached the fatal shrine,

And mercy implored from the power divine;
At length she shrieked aloud,

She dashed from the supporting nun,
Ere the fatal rite was done,
And plunged amid the crowd.

Confusion reigned throughout the throng –
Still the novice fled along,

Impelled by frantic fear,

When the maddened traveller's eager grasp
In firmest yet in wildest clasp
Arrested her career.

As fainting from terror she sank on the ground,
Her loosened locks floated her fine form around;
The zone which confined her shadowy vest
No longer her throbbing bosom pressed,

Its animation dead;

No more her feverish pulse beat high,
Expression dwelt not in her eye,
Her wildered senses fled.

Hark! Hark! the demon of the storm!

I see his vast expanding form

Blend with the strange and sulphurous glare
Of comets through the turbid air.

Yes, 't was his voice, I heard its roar,
The wild waves lashed the caverned shore
In angry murmurs hoarse and loud, -
Higher and higher still they rise;
Red lightnings gleam from every cloud
And paint wild shapes upon the skies;
The echoing thunder rolls around,

Convulsed with earthquake rocks the ground.

The traveller yet undaunted stood,
He heeded not the roaring flood;
Yet Rosa slept, her bosom bare,
Her cheek was deadly pale,

The ringlets of her auburn hair
Streamed in a lengthened trail,
And motionless her seraph form;
Unheard, unheeded raved the storm;
Whilst, borne on the wing of the gale,
The harrowing shriek of the white sea-mew
As o'er the midnight surge she flew,
The howlings of the squally blast,
As o'er the beetling cliffs it passed,
Mingled with the peals on high,
That, swelling louder, echoed by,
Assailed the traveller's ear.
He heeded not the maddened storm
As it pelted against his lofty form;
He felt no awe, no fear;

In contrast, like the courser pale 1
That stalks along Death's pitchy vale
With silent, with gigantic tread,
Trampling the dying and the dead.

Rising from her deathlike trance,
Fair Rosa met the stranger's glance;
She started from his chilling gaze,
Wild was it as the tempest's blaze,
It shot a lurid gleam of light,
A secret spell of sudden dread,
A mystic, strange, and harrowing fear,
As when the spirits of the dead,
Dressed in ideal shapes appear,
And hideous glance on human sight;
Scarce could Rosa's frame sustain
The chill that pressed upon her brain.

Anon, that transient spell was o'er;
Dark clouds deform his brow no more,
But rapid fled away;

Sweet fascination dwelt around,
Mixed with a soft, a silver sound,
As soothing to the ravished ear,
As what enthusiast lovers hear;
Which seems to steal along the sky,
When mountain mists are seen to fly
Before the approach of day.

-

He seized on wondering Rosa's hand,
And, ah!' cried he, be this the band
Shall join us, till this earthly frame
Sinks convulsed in bickering flame-
When around the demons yell,
And drag the sinful wretch to hell,
Then, Rosa, will we part-

Then fate, and only fate's decree,
Shall tear thy lovely soul from me,
And rend thee from my heart.
Long has Paulo sought in vain
A friend to share his grief;
Never will he seek again,

For the wretch has found relief,

Till the Prince of Darkness bursts his chain, Till death and desolation reign.

Rosa, wilt thou then be mine?

Ever fairest, I am thine!'

He ceased, and on the howling blast,

Which wildly round the mountain passed,

Ah, lovely Rosa! cease thy fear,

It was thy friend who bore thee here -
I, thy friend, till this fabric of earth
Sinks in the chaos that gave it birth;
Till the meteor-bolt of the God above
Shall tear its victim from his love,
That love which must unbroken last,
Till the hour of envious fate is past,
Till the mighty basements of the sky
In bickering hell-flames heated fly.
E'en then will I sit on some rocky height,
Whilst around lower clouds of eternal night;
E'en then will I loved Rosa save
From the yawning abyss of the grave;
Or, into the gulf impetuous hurled
If sinks with its latest tenants the world,
Then will our souls in union fly
Throughout the wide and boundless sky;
Then, free from the ills that envious fate
Has heaped upon our mortal state,
We'll taste ethereal pleasure;
Such as none but thou canst give,
Such as none but I receive, -
And rapture without measure.'

As thus he spoke, a sudden blaze
Of pleasure mingled in his gaze.
Illumined by the dazzling light,
He glows with radiant lustre bright;
His features with new glory shine,
And sparkle as with beams divine.
Strange, awful being,' Rosa said,
"Whence is this superhuman dread,
That harrows up my inmost frame?
Whence does this unknown tingling flame
Consume and penetrate my soul?

By turns with fear and love possessed,
Tumultuous thoughts swell high my breast;
A thousand wild emotions roll,
And mingle their resistless tide;
O'er thee some magic arts preside;
As by the influence of a charm,
Lulled into rest, my griefs subside,
And, safe in thy protecting arm,
I feel no power can do me harm.
But the storm raves wildly o'er the sea,
Bear me away! I confide in thee !'

The lowering tempest clouds, were passed-
Had sunk beneath the main;

Light baseless mists were all that fled
Above the weary traveller's head,
As he left the spacious plain.

Fled were the vapors of the night,
Faint streaks of rosy tinted light
Were painted on the matin gray;
And as the sun began to rise
To pour his animating ray,

Glowed with his fire the eastern skies,
The distant rocks, the far-off bay,
The ocean's sweet and lovely blue,
The mountain's variegated breast,
Blushing with tender tints of dawn,
Or with fantastic shadows dressed;
The waving wood, the opening lawn,
Rose to existence, waked anew,
In colors exquisite of hue;

Their mingled charms Victorio viewed,
And lost in admiration stood.

From yesternight how changed the scene,
When howled the blast o'er the dark cliff's side
And mingled with the maddened roar
Of the wild surge that lashed the shore.
To-day-scarce heard the whispering breeze,
And still and motionless the seas,

Scarce heard the murmuring of their tide;
All, all is peaceful and serene;
Serenely on Victorio's breast

It breathed a soft and tranquil rest,
Which bade each wild emotion cease,
And hushed the passions into peace.

Along the winding Po he went;
His footsteps to the spot were bent
Where Paulo dwelt, his wandered friend,
For thither did his wishes tend.
Noble Victorio's race was proud,
From Cosmo's blood he came;
To him a wild untutored crowd
Of vassals in allegiance bowed,
Illustrious was his name;

Yet vassals and wealth he scorned to go
Unnoticed with a man of woe;
Gay hope and expectation sate
Throned in his eager eye,

And, ere he reached the castle gate,
The sun had mounted high.

Wild was the spot where the castle stood
Its towers embosomed deep in wood;
Gigantic cliffs, with craggy steeps,
Reared their proud heads on high,

Their bases were washed by the foaming deeps,
Their summits were hid in the sky;
From the valley below they excluded the day,
That valley ne'er cheered by the sunbeam's ray;
Nought broke on the silence drear,
Save the hungry vultures darting by,
Or eagles yelling fearfully,

As they bore to the rocks their prey;
Or when the fell wolf ravening prowled,
Or the gaunt wild boar fiercely howled
His hideous screams on the night's dull ear.
Borne on pleasure's downy wing,
Downy as the breath of spring,
Not thus fled Paulo's hours away,
Though brightened by the cheerful day.
Friendship or wine, or softer love,
The sparkling eye, the foaming bowl,
Could with no lasting rapture move,
Nor still the tumults of his soul.
And yet there was in Rosa's kiss
A momentary thrill of bliss;
Oft the dark clouds of grief would fly
Beneath the beams of sympathy;
And love and converse sweet bestow,
A transient requiem from woe.—

Strange business, and of import vast,
On things which long ago were past
Drew Paulo oft from home;

Then would a darker, deeper shade,
By sorrow traced, his brow o'erspread
And o'er his features roam.

Oft as they spent the midnight hour,
And heard the wintry wild winds rave

Midst the roar and spray of the dashing wave,
Was Paulo's dark brow seen to lower.
Then, as the lamp's uncertain blaze
Shed o'er the hall its partial rays,
And shadows strange were seen to fall,
And glide upon the dusky wall,
Would Paulo start with sudden fear.
Why then unbidden gushed the tear,
As he muttered strange words to the ear?
Why frequent heaved the smothered sigh?
Why did he gaze on vacancy,

As if some strange form was near?
Then would the fillet of his brow
Fierce as a fiery furnace glow,

As it burned with red and lambent flame;
Then would cold shuddering seize his frame,
As gasping he labored for breath.
The strange light of his gorgon eye,
As, frenzied and rolling dreadfully,
It glared with terrific gleam,

Would chill like the spectre gaze of death,
As, conjured by feverish dream,

He seems o'er the sick man's conch to stand, And shakes the dread lance in his skeleton hand.

But when the paroxysm was o'er,

And clouds deformed his brow no more,
Would Rosa soothe his tumults dire,
Would bid him calm his grief,
Would quench reflection's rising fire,
And give his soul relief.

As on his form with pitying eye

The ministering angel hung,
And wiped the drops of agony,
The music of her siren tongue
Lulled forcibly his griefs to rest;
Like fleeting visions of the dead,
Or midnight dreams, his sorrows fled;
Waked to new life, through all his soul
A soft delicious languor stole,
And lapped in heavenly ecstasy
He sank and fainted on her breast.

'Twas on an eve, the leaf was sere,
Howled the blast round the castle drear,
The boding night-bird's hideous cry
Was mingled with the warning sky;
Heard was the distant torrent's dash,
Seen was the lightning's dark red flash,
As it gleamed on the stormy cloud;
Heard was the troubled ocean's roar,
As its wild waves lashed the rocky shore;
The thunder muttered loud,

As wilder still the lightnings flew ;
Wilder as the tempest blew,

More wildly strange their converse grew.

They talked of the ghosts of the mighty

dead,

If, when the spark of life were fled,

They visited this world of woe?

Or, were it but a fantasy,

Deceptive to the feverish eye,

When strange forms flashed upon the sight,

And stalked along at the dead of night?

Or if, in the realms above,

They still, for mortals left below,
Retained the same affection's glow,
In friendship or in love? -
Debating thus, a pensive train,
Thought upon thought began to rise;
Her thrilling wild harp Rosa took;
What sounds in softest murmurs broke
From the seraphic strings!
Celestials borne on odorous wings
Caught the dulcet melodies;
The life-blood ebbed in every vein,
As Paulo listen'd to the strain.

SONG

What sounds are those that float upon the air,
As if to bid the fading day farewell, -
What form is that so shadowy, yet so fair,
Which glides along the rough and pathless
dell?

Nightly those sounds swell full upon the breeze,
Which seems to sigh as if in sympathy;
They hang amid yon cliff-embosomed trees,
Or float in dying cadence through the sky.

Now rests that form upon the moonbeam pale,
In piteous strains of woe its vesper sings;
Now -now it traverses the silent vale,
Borne on transparent ether's viewless wings,

Oft will it rest beside yon abbey's tower,
Which lifts its ivy-mantled mass so high;