ENGLISH POETRY 1579-1830: SPENSER AND THE TRADITION
Percy Bysshe Shelley
John Jesse, "The Funeral of Percy Bysshe Shelley" The Star (29 October1830).
Percy Bysshe Shelley:
1811: Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe
1812: Robert Southey
1816: Leigh Hunt
1817: Henry Crabb Robinson
1819: John Taylor Coleridge
1820: John Chalk Claris
1821 ca.: Thomas Noon Talfourd
1821: Lord Byron
1822: Thomas Love Peacock
1822: Leigh Hunt
1822: John Chalk Claris
1822: Felicia Hemans
1822: Thomas Lovell Beddoes
1823: John Watson Dalby
1824: Charles Lamb
1824: Robert Southey
1824: William Hazlitt
1826: John Wilson
1826: William Wordsworth
1827: A. P.
1828: Walter Savage Landor
1828: John Neal
1828: P. P.
1828: Sumner Lincoln Fairfield
1828: Leigh Hunt
1829: Mary Howitt
1830: A. P.
1830: John Jesse
1830: John Galt
1831: Thomas Babington Macaulay
1833: Allan Cunningham
1834: Sir Samuel Egerton Brydges
1844: Leigh Hunt
1845: George Gilfillan
1846: John Dix
1847: Thomas Medwin
1847: Horace Smith
1848 ca.: Edgar Allan Poe
1851: Dr. David Macbeth Moir
1852: Mary Russell Mitford
1858: Walter Savage Landor
1861: Charles Cowden Clarke
1862: Thomas Arnold
1873: Joseph Devey
1880: Frederic W. H. Myers
1882: Epes Sargent
1830: Percy Bysshe Shelley
We laid him down on his funeral bed,
By the waves of the boundless sea;
And their moan was the dirge of the reckless dead,
With their wild monotony!
Beyond was the forest's darksome shade,
And around was the desert's gloom;
Oh! well did we fix on that lonely glade,
For the scene of the Poet's tomb!
The sky was without its wonted blue,
In the noon-tide's sultry heat;
And hoarse was the scream of the wild sea-mew,
As his wings o'er the sleeper beat!
And the winds around, and the wave beneath,
Were still as the sleep of the dead;
All grew hush'd, save the sound of our thick'ning breath,
As we sobb'd by his lonely bed.
That bed was the boughs of the mountain pine,
And beside was the torch's glare;
And we mornfully mark'd its flashes shine
Thro' the gloom of the sunless air!
We fir'd the pile! — and the earth and sky
Were lit by its burst of light!
A moment it blaz'd, then died on high,
Like the spirit we mourn'd that night!
That spirit! it never can light again
The form that is mould'ring there;
Does it mix with the storm on the angry main,
Or rove through the boundless air?
Does it roam o'er the forest, the wave, the glen,
Away from these scenes of strife;
Far, far from the haunts of little men,
And the little concerns of life?
Peace, peace to his ashes! they sleep by the wave,
But his spirit remains with us yet;
Years and ages must roll o'er the Poet's grave
Ere the sun of his glory be set!
—Jesse's Tales of the Dead.