nd a poet."

On Monday. July 8th, 1822, being then in his 29th year, Shelley was
returning from Leghorn to his home at Lerici, in a schooner-rigged boat
of his own, with one friend and an English servant; when the boat had
reached about four miles from the shore, the storm suddenly rose, and
the wind suddenly shifted. From excessive smoothness, all at once the
sea was foaming, and breaking, and getting up in a heavy swell. The
boat is supposed to have filled to leeward, and (carry-ins: two tons of
ballast) to have sunk instantaneously--all on board were drowned. The
body of Shelley was washed on shore eight days afterwards, near Via
Reggio, in an advanced state of decomposition, and was therefore burned
on a funeral pyre in the presence of Leigh Hunt, Lord Byron, Mr.
Trelawney, and a Captain Shenley.

Thus died Shelley in the mid day of life, and ere the warm sun of that
mid-day could dispel the clouds that had gathered round the morning of
his career. The following comparison made between the personal
appearance of Shelley and of Byron, by Gilfillan, has been called by De
Quincey "an eloquent parallel," and we therefore conclude the present
number by quoting it:--

"In the forehead and head of Byron there is more massive power and
breadth: Shelley has a smooth, arched, spiritual expression; wrinkle
there seems none on his brow; it is as if perpetual youth had there
dropped its freshness. Byron's eye seems the focus of pride and lust:
Shelley's is mild, pensive, fixed on you, but seeing you through
the mist of his own idealism. Defiance curls on Byron's nostril, and
sensuality steps his full large lips. The lower features of Shelley's
face are trail, feminine, flexible.--Byron's head is turned upwards
as if having risen proudly above his contemporaries, he were daring
to claim kindred, or demand a contest with a superior order of beings.
Shelley's is half bent, in reverence and humility, before some vast
vision seen by his own eye alone. Misery erect, and striving to cover
its retreat under an aspect of contemptuous fury, is the permanent and
pervading expression of Byron's countenance. Sorrow, softened and shaded
away by hope and habit, lies like a 'holier day' of still moonshine upon
that of Shelley. In the portrait of Byron, taken at the age of nineteen,
you see the unnatural age of premature passion; his hair is young, his
dress is youthful, but his face is old. In Shelley you see the eternal
child, none the less