ABSTRACT
Shelley, like Byron, knew early what it was to love: almost all the great poets have. After twenty-five years, I still remember Harriet G., and when I call to mind all the women I have ever seen and admired, I know of none that surpassed, few that could compare with her in beauty. I think of her as of some picture of Raphael’s, or as one of Shakspeare’s women. Shelley and Miss G. were born in the same year. There was a resemblance, as is often the case in cousins, between them, such as Byron describes as existing between Manfred and Astarte, or, as Shelley himself, in a fragment, says— They were two cousins almost like to twins, * * * * * * And so they grew together like two flowers Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers Lull or awaken in their purple prime.
