shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank
from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy:
Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided
there were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of many
English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony of
chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside at Via
Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands and bad
air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores of the
Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was a
vague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see whether
it would be feasible to spend a summer there. The beauty of the bay
enchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took root, and
many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to urge him to
execute it.

He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a
visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the
latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a
periodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect of
good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society; and
instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not intend
himself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to have the
air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with the
compositions of more popular writers; and also because he might feel
shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends were to
be compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their outermost
extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction not only
true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement and
happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, either
really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his thoughts;
and this evil he resolved to avoid.

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

This morn thy gallant bark
Sailed on a sunny sea:
'Tis noon, and tempests dark
Have wrecked it on the lee.
Ah woe! ah woe!
By Spirits of the deep
Thou'rt cradled on the billow
To thy eternal sleep.

Thou sleep'st upon the shore
Beside the knelling surge,
And Sea-nymphs evermore
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
They come, they come,
The Spiri