The tragic tale of Percy Bysshe Shelley – a poet whose words reverberate through the ages

Shelley knew the seductive power of lyric, the poignancy of the ballad, the exquisite charm of the love song, writes Kevin Childs

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A light wind, slow at first, but gaining in strength, whipped up the flames that were spilling from the iron furnace on a beach just outside the seaside town of Viareggio, on the coast of Tuscany. Inside the furnace the body of the young poet, Percy Bysshe Shelley, was gradually consumed by fire. Looking on were fellow poet Lord Byron and a friend, who also doubled as master of ceremonies, Edward Trelawny.

A handful of Tuscan militia and inquisitive fisherman made up the rest of the party. Shelley’s old friend, Leigh Hunt, remained in Byron’s carriage because he couldn’t stomach the spectacle. Trelawny had designed the portable furnace for the cremation, and now stood by the pyre, chanting Latin incantations and pouring libations of fragrant oil over the flames.

“I knew you were a pagan,” Byron commented to Trelawny, “not that you were a pagan priest. You do it very well.”