Obstacles have lo long existed to my presenting the public with a perfect edition of Shelley’s Poems. The­se being at last happily removed, I hasten to fulfil an important duty,—that of giving the productions of a sublime genius to the world, with all the correctness possible, and of, at the same time, detailing the his­tory of those productions, as they sprang, living and warm, from his heart and brain. I abstain from any remark on the occurrences of his private life, except inasmuch as the passions which they engendered ins­pired his poetry. This is not the time to relate the truth; and I should reject any colouring of the truth.