Volume 3 — SCENE 2.—MAY-DAY NIGHT. (continued 4)

‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb, What memorial sad appears.’— ‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom, No memorial sad it bears’— _80

The Canon his paternoster reads, His rosary hung by his side, Now swift to the chancel doors he leads, And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85 To approach to the black marble tomb, ‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell, ‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed. Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90 A loud yell was borne on the rising blast, And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand, They burst through the chancel’s gloom, From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, _95 Points to the black marble tomb.

Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red, In characters fresh and clear— ‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead, And his wife lies buried here!’ _100

In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun, To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore, On this eve her noviciate here was begun, And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore;—

O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, _105 Remorse she full oft revealed, Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt, And in death her lips he sealed;

Her spirit to penance this night was doomed, ‘Till the Canon atoned the deed, _110 Here together they now shall rest entombed, ‘Till their bodies from dust are freed—

Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof, Round the altar bright lightnings play, Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, _115 And the storm dies sudden away—

The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground, And a rosary shone through the gloom, But never again was the Canon there found, Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. _120

15. REVENGE.

‘Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill, Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill, The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above, You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’

I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone— _5 I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone, I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones, And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.

‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night, And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light, _10 And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day! So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—

‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear, Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier, And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath, _15 Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,

‘And I love you to madness my Agnes I love, My constant affection this night will I prove, This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jaw Alone will I glut its all conquering maw’— _20

‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share, In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there, I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave, My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’—

‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, _25 But spare me those ages of horror and woe, For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day, If you go unattended by Agnes away’—

The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around, The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground, _30 Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate, As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—

The youth struck the portal,—the echoing sound Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around, The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire, _35 And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.

Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined, Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind, When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene, And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien. _40

A mantle encircled his shadowy form, As light as a gossamer borne on the storm, Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze, Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze.—

SPIRIT: Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, _45 And Conrad has cause to remember it well, He ruined my Mother, despised me his son, I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.

I was nearly expiring—’twas close of the day,— A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, _50 He gave me the power from whence I was hurled, To return to revenge, to return to the world,—

Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms, I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms, On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride, _55 And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride—

He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide, Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride, He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high, And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky— _60

All was now silent,—and over the tomb, Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom, Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone, And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.

DECEMBER, 1809.

16. GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!

The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.

Hark! the owlet flaps her wing, In the pathless dell beneath, Hark! night ravens loudly sing, Tidings of despair and death.—

Horror covers all the sky, _5 Clouds of darkness blot the moon, Prepare! for mortal thou must die, Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—

Fierce the tempest raves around, Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, _10 Crashing thunder shakes the ground, Fire and tumult fill the sky.—

Hark! the tolling village bell, Tells the hour of midnight come, Now can blast the powers of Hell, _15 Fiend-like goblins now can roam—

See! his crest all stained with rain, A warrior hastening speeds his way, He starts, looks round him, starts again, And sighs for the approach of day. _20

See! his frantic steed he reins, See! he lifts his hands on high, Implores a respite to his pains, From the powers of the sky.—

He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, _25 Fatigue had bent his lofty form, To rest his wearied limbs awhile, Fatigued with wandering and the storm.

… …

Slow the door is opened wide— With trackless tread a stranger came, _30 His form Majestic, slow his stride, He sate, nor spake,—nor told his name—

Terror blanched the warrior’s cheek, Cold sweat from his forehead ran, In vain his tongue essayed to speak,— _35 At last the stranger thus began:

‘Mortal! thou that saw’st the sprite, Tell me what I wish to know, Or come with me before ’tis light, Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. _40

‘Fierce the avenging Demon’s ire, Fiercer than the wintry blast, Fiercer than the lightning’s fire, When the hour of twilight’s past’—

The warrior raised his sunken eye. _45 It met the stranger’s sullen scowl, ‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,’ In burning letters chilled his soul.

WARRIOR: Stranger! whoso’er you are, I feel impelled my tale to tell— _50 Horrors stranger shalt thou hear, Horrors drear as those of Hell.

O’er my Castle silence reigned, Late the night and drear the hour, When on the terrace I observed, _55 A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.—

Light the cloud as summer fog, Which transient shuns the morning beam; Fleeting as the cloud on bog, That hangs or on the mountain stream.— _60

Horror seized my shuddering brain, Horror dimmed my starting eye. In vain I tried to speak,—In vain My limbs essayed the spot to fly—

At last the thin and shadowy form, _65 With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,— Its light robe floated on the storm, Its head was bound with lambent flame.

In chilling voice drear as the breeze Which sweeps along th’ autumnal ground, _70 Which wanders through the leafless trees, Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.

‘Thou art mine and I am thine, ‘Till the sinking of the world, I am thine and thou art mine, _75 ‘Till in ruin death is hurled—

‘Strong the power and dire the fate, Which drags me from the depths of Hell, Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate, Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, _80

‘Haply I might ne’er have shrank From flames that rack the guilty dead, Haply I might ne’er have sank On pleasure’s flowery, thorny bed—

—‘But stay! no more I dare disclose, _85 Of the tale I wish to tell, On Earth relentless were my woes, But fiercer are my pangs in Hell—

‘Now I claim thee as my love, Lay aside all chilling fear, _90 My affection will I prove, Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!

‘For thou art mine, and I am thine, ‘Till the dreaded judgement day, I am thine, and thou art mine— _95 Night is past—I must away.’

Still I gazed, and still the form Pressed upon my aching sight, Still I braved the howling storm, When the ghost dissolved in night.— _100

Restless, sleepless fled the night, Sleepless as a sick man’s bed, When he sighs for morning light, When he turns his aching head,—

Slow and painful passed the day. _105 Melancholy seized my brain, Lingering fled the hours away, Lingering to a wretch in pain.—

At last came night, ah! horrid hour, Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, _110 When demons ride the clouds that lower, —The phantom sat upon my bed.

In hollow voice, low as the sound Which in some charnel makes its moan, What floats along the burying ground, _115 The phantom claimed me as her own.

Her chilling finger on my head, With coldest touch congealed my soul— Cold as the finger of the dead, Or damps which round a tombstone roll— _120

Months are passed in lingering round, Every night the spectre comes, With thrilling step it shakes the ground, With thrilling step it round me roams—

Stranger! I have told to thee, _125 All the tale I have to tell— Stranger! canst thou tell to me, How to ‘scape the powers of Hell?—

STRANGER: Warrior! I can ease thy woes, Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me— _130 Warrior! I can all disclose, Follow, follow, follow me.

Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing, Its mantle stretches o’er the sky, Yet the midnight ravens sing, _135 ‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’

At last they saw a river clear, That crossed the heathy path they trod, The Stranger’s look was wild and drear, The firm Earth shook beneath his nod— _140

He raised a wand above his head, He traced a circle on the plain, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead with silent footsteps came.

A burning brilliance on his head, _145 Flaming filled the stormy air, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead in motley crowd were there.—

‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come along, Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, _150 Quickly raise th’ avenging Song, Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.’

Horrid shapes in mantles gray, Flit athwart the stormy night, ‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, _155 Come away before ’tis light.’

See! the sheeted Ghost they bring, Yelling dreadful o’er the heath, Hark! the deadly verse they sing, Tidings of despair and death! _160

The yelling Ghost before him stands, See! she rolls her eyes around, Now she lifts her bony hands, Now her footsteps shake the ground.

STRANGER: Phantom of Theresa say, _165 Why to earth again you came, Quickly speak, I must away! Or you must bleach for aye in flame,—

PHANTOM: Mighty one I know thee now, Mightiest power of the sky, _170 Know thee by thy flaming brow, Know thee by thy sparkling eye.

That fire is scorching! Oh! I came, From the caverned depth of Hell, My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, _175 Mighty one! I know thee well.—

STRANGER: Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite, Drag her to the depth beneath, Take her swift, before ’tis light, Take her to the cells of death! _180

Thou that heardst the trackless dead, In the mouldering tomb must lie, Mortal! look upon my head, Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.

Of glowing flame a cross was there, _185 Which threw a light around his form, Whilst his lank and raven hair, Floated wild upon the storm.—

The warrior upwards turned his eyes, Gazed upon the cross of fire, _190 There sat horror and surprise, There sat God’s eternal ire.—

A shivering through the Warrior flew, Colder than the nightly blast, Colder than the evening dew, _195 When the hour of twilight’s past.—

Thunder shakes th’ expansive sky, Shakes the bosom of the heath, ‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die’— The warrior sank convulsed in death. _200

JANUARY, 1810.

NOTES: _114 its]it 1810. _115 What]query Which?

17. FRAGMENT, OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

’Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling, One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,— Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! _5

’Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky, Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.—

My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar _10 Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke, Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear, This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear, But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. ’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, _15 The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode, Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.— I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!

… …

***

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

[“St. Irvyne; or The Rosicrucian”, appeared early in 1811 (see “Bibliographical List”). Rossetti (1870) relying on a passage in Medwin’s “Life of Shelley” (1 page 74), assigns 1, 4, 5, and 6 to 1808, and 2 and 4 to 1809. The titles of 1, 3, 4, and 5 are Rossetti’s; those of 2 and 6 are Dowden’s.]

***

1.—VICTORIA.

[Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.]

1. ’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,— They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. _5

2. ’Twas then that I started!—the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky; Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

3. My heart sank within me—unheeded the war _10 Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;— Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear— This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

4. ’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, _15 The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode; In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.

5. I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—’

…

NOTE: 1.—Victoria: without title, 1811.

2.—ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.

1. Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o’er the dark aether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?

2. For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, _5 Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.

3. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; _10 In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.

4. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead: On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.

NOTE: 2.—On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811; The Father’s Spectre, Rossetti, 1870.

3.—SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.

1. The death-bell beats!— The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark Monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow, _5 As he sits in his lonely cell.

2. And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay Which the ghosts of the sky, _10 As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. _15

3. But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark Monk’s brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain. _20

4. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear.— ‘Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear.’ _25

5. Then his eyes wildly rolled, When the death-bell tolled, And he raged in terrific woe. And he stamped on the ground,— But when ceased the sound, _30 Tears again began to flow.

6. And the ice of despair Chilled the wild throb of care, And he sate in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, _35 And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.

7. Then he knelt in his cell:— And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agonized pain, And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, _40 Which else must for ever remain.

8. And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: A voice hollow and horrible murmured around— _45 ‘The term of thy penance is done!’

9. Grew dark the night; The moonbeam bright Waxed faint on the mountain high; And, from the black hill, _50 Went a voice cold and still,— ‘Monk! thou art free to die.’

10. Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with dread; _55 Whilst the grave’s clammy dew O’er his pale forehead grew; And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.

11. And the wild midnight storm Raved around his tall form, _60 As he sought the chapel’s gloom: And the sunk grass did sigh To the wind, bleak and high, As he searched for the new-made tomb.

12. And forms, dark and high, _65 Seemed around him to fly, And mingle their yells with the blast: And on the dark wall Half-seen shadows did fall, As enhorrored he onward passed. _70

13. And the storm-fiends wild rave O’er the new-made grave, And dread shadows linger around. The Monk called on God his soul to save, And, in horror, sank on the ground. _75

14. Then despair nerved his arm To dispel the charm, And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder. And the fierce storm did swell More terrific and fell, _80 And louder pealed the thunder.

15. And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng, Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead: And their grisly wings, as they floated along, Whistled in murmurs dread. _85

16. And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared Which dripped with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared, As he stood within the cell. _90

17. And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain; But each power was nerved by fear.— ‘I never, henceforth, may breathe again; Death now ends mine anguished pain.— The grave yawns,—we meet there.’ _95

18. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, So deadly, so lone, and so fell, That in long vibrations shuddered the ground; And as the stern notes floated around, A deep groan was answered from hell.

NOTE: 3.—Sister Rosa: Ballad, 1811.

4.—ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.

1. How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanse Bright day’s resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!

2. No cloud along the spangled air, _5 Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

3. Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, Upon it sits the mournful owl; _10 Along the stillness of the night, Her melancholy shriekings roll.

4. But not alone on Irvyne’s tower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; It gleams upon the ivied bower, _15 It dances in the cascade’s spray.

5. ‘Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal The hour, when man must cease to be? Why may not human minds unveil The dim mists of futurity?— _20

6. ‘The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last.’

NOTE: 4.—St. Irvyne’s Tower: Song, 1810.

5.—BEREAVEMENT.

1. How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, _5 When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

2. Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? _10 Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit, that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower, Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, _15 When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

NOTE: 5.—Bereavement: Song, 1811.

6.—THE DROWNED LOVER.

1. Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, _5 As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, ‘Stay thy boat on the lake,—dearest Henry, I come.’

2. High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, _10 And arose in her mind every dear recollection; ‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’ How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, _15 Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!

3. Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? _20 Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.

6.—The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.

***

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET MCHOLSON.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The “Posthumous Fragments”, published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810. See “Bibliographical List”.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.

WAR.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. See! on yon heath what countless victims lie, Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky; Tell then the cause, ’tis sure the avenger’s rage _5 Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage: Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies, He shudders in death’s latest agonies; Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek, Yet does his parting breath essay to speak— _10 ‘Oh God! my wife, my children—Monarch thou For whose support this fainting frame lies low; For whose support in distant lands I bleed, Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed. He hears me not—ah! no—kings cannot hear, _15 For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear. To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan, Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan. Oh! now I die—but still is death’s fierce pain— God hears my prayer—we meet, we meet again.’ _20 He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed, And with a parting groan his spirit fled. Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow; For you how many a mother weeps her son, _25 Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run! For you how many a widow drops a tear, In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier! ‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries, ‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? _30 Is this the system which Thy powerful sway, Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay, Formed and approved?—it cannot be—but oh! Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’ ’Tis not—He never bade the war-note swell, _35 He never triumphed in the work of hell— Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed, Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed. Ah! when will come the sacred fated time, When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime, _40 Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride, Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men’s side? Ah! when will come the time, when o’er the plain No more shall death and desolation reign? When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, _45 And the stern warrior’s arm the sickle wield? Not whilst some King, in cold ambition’s dreams, Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes; Not whilst for private pique the public fall, And one frail mortal’s mandate governs all. _50 Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway; Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away. Careless who lives or dies—so that he gains Some trivial point for which he took the pains. What then are Kings?—I see the trembling crowd, _55 I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud; Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile, But April’s sunshine is a Monarch’s smile— Kings are but dust—the last eventful day Will level all and make them lose their sway; _60 Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch’s hand, And from the warrior’s grasp wrest the ensanguined brand. Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone, Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown? And love and concord hast thou swept away, _65 As if incongruous with thy parted sway? Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear. Now o’er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear, With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;— List’ning he pauses on the embattled plain, _70 Then speeding swiftly o’er the ensanguined heath, Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death. See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car, He scents the battle’s carnage from afar; Hell and Destruction mark his mad career, _75 He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear; Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell, That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell. ‘It is thy work!’ I hear a voice repeat, Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; _80 And at the orphan’s sigh, the widow’s moan, Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne— ‘It is thy work, O Monarch;’ now the sound Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around, Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell _85 That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell, Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove, Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.

NOTE: War: the title is Woodberry’s, 1893; no title, 1810.

***

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

’Tis midnight now—athwart the murky air, Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare, It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.

I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5 I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings; My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind The mazy volume of commingling things, When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.

I heard a yell—it was not the knell, _10 When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, That floats on the pause of the summer gale’s swell, O’er the breast of the waveless deep.

I thought it had been death’s accents cold That bade me recline on the shore; _15 I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, And thought to breathe no more.

But a heavenly sleep That did suddenly steep In balm my bosom’s pain, _20 Pervaded my soul, And free from control, Did mine intellect range again.

Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud, Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; _25 My form upborne by viewless aether rode, And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night. What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears, What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye! Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, _30 More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by, And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.

But fairer than the spirits of the air, More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry, Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, _35 Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky. Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away; They welcome virtue to its native land, And songs of triumph greet the joyous day _40 When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.

Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul, E’en though the tide of time has rolled between; They mock weak matter’s impotent control, And seek of endless life the eternal scene. _45 At death’s vain summons THIS will never die, In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay— These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie Thy soul, O Charlotte, ‘yond this chain of clay, To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. _50

Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore A tyrant’s heart-strings from his guilty breast, Thine was the daring at a tyrant’s gore, To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest; And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear _55 From its base shrine a despot’s haughty soul, To laugh at sorrow in secure despair, To mock, with smiles, life’s lingering control, And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.

Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep _60 With endless tortures goad their guilty shades. I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep Along the burning length of yon arcades; And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain; He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. _65 ‘Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain, With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.’

…

Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet They echo to the sound of angels’ feet. _70

…

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread, For there is prepared thy nuptial bed. Oh haste—hark! hark!—they’re gone.

…

CHORUS OF SPIRITS: Stay, ye days of contentment and joy, Whilst love every care is erasing, _75 Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy, And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft passion be near, Which mortals, frail mortals, can know, Let love shed on the bosom a tear, _80 And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS: ‘Soft, my dearest angel, stay, Oh! you suck my soul away; Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow! Tides of maddening passion roll, _85 And streams of rapture drown my soul. Now give me one more billing kiss, Let your lips now repeat the bliss, Endless kisses steal my breath, No life can equal such a death.’ _90

CHARLOTTE: ‘Oh! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fair, And I will clasp thy form; Serene is the breath of the balmy air, But I think, love, thou feelest me warm And I will recline on thy marble neck _95 Till I mingle into thee; And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek, And thou shalt give kisses to me. For here is no morn to flout our delight, Oh! dost thou not joy at this? _100 And here we may lie an endless night, A long, long night of bliss.’

Spirits! when raptures move, Say what it is to love, When passion’s tear stands on the cheek, _105 When bursts the unconscious sigh; And the tremulous lips dare not speak What is told by the soul-felt eye. But what is sweeter to revenge’s ear Than the fell tyrant’s last expiring yell? _110 Yes! than love’s sweetest blisses ’tis more dear To drink the floatings of a despot’s knell. I wake—’tis done—’tis over.

NOTE: _66 ye]thou 1810.

***

DESPAIR.

And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night? Can you, ye flow’rets, spread your perfumed balm Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright? And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still _5 Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high? Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill, And, in the eternal mansions of the sky, Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyr’s wing, _10 Louder it floats along the unruffled sky; Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string— Now faint in distant air the murmurs die. Awhile it stills the tide of agony. Now—now it loftier swells—again stern woe _15 Arises with the awakening melody. Again fierce torments, such as demons know, In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm, Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, _20 Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form, And roll the tempest’s wildest swell along. Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash, Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder’s roar; Arouse the whirlwind—and let ocean dash _25 In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore,— Destroy this life or let earth’s fabric be no more.

Yes! every tie that links me here is dead; Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey, Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, _30 I come, terrific power, I come away. Then o’er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell, In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain; And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell, I’ll echo back their deadly yells again, _35 Cursing the power that ne’er made aught in vain.

***

FRAGMENT.

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I’m dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, _5 And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, _10 I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge, And on the blast a frightful yell arose. Wild flew the meteors o’er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; _15 Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air, ’Twas like a spirit’s song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac—like he was to me, I said—‘Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? _20 And canst thou not contend with agony, That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?’ ‘Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form, And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, _25 Will sweep at midnight o’er the wildered wave; Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?’

‘Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear, This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more— But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, _30 Can shriek in horror to the tempest’s roar.’

***

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

What was the shriek that struck Fancy’s ear As it sate on the ruins of time that is past? Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind, And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh. It is the Benshie’s moan on the storm, _5 Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin, Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps, Winged with the power of some ruthless king, And sweeps o’er the breast of the prostrate plain. It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell _10 That poured its low moan on the stillness of night: It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore; But aye at the close of seven years’ end, That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, _15 And aye at the close of seven years’ end, A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath. It is not the shade of a murdered man, Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, _20 And howls in the pause of the eddying storm. This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill, ’Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul. ’Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon’s scream, Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o’er the corpse _25 Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell. It tells the approach of a mystic form, A white courser bears the shadowy sprite; More thin they are than the mists of the mountain, When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. _30 More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona, When winter rides on the northern blast, And howls in the midst of the leafless wood. Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving, And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, _35 Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky, The phantom courser scours the waste, And his rider howls in the thunder’s roar. O’er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. _40 The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure, Yet the ‘wildered peasant, that oft passes by, With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form: And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead, The startled passenger shudders to hear, _45 More distinct than the thunder’s wildest roar. Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns To eternity, curses the champion of Erin, Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight, And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons; _50 Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs, Though ‘wildered by death, yet never to die! Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares, Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain; _55 Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead In horror pause on the fitful gale. They float on the swell of the eddying tempest, And scared seek the caves of gigantic… Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds _60 On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake, And mingles its swell with the moonlight air.

***

MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.

Art thou indeed forever gone, Forever, ever, lost to me? Must this poor bosom beat alone, Or beat at all, if not for thee? Ah! why was love to mortals given, _5 To lift them to the height of Heaven, Or dash them to the depths of Hell? Yet I do not reproach thee, dear! Ah, no! the agonies that swell This panting breast, this frenzied brain, _10 Might wake my —‘s slumb’ring tear. Oh! Heaven is witness I did love, And Heaven does know I love thee still, Does know the fruitless sick’ning thrill, When reason’s judgement vainly strove _15 To blot thee from my memory; But which might never, never be. Oh! I appeal to that blest day When passion’s wildest ecstasy Was coldness to the joys I knew, _20 When every sorrow sunk away. Oh! I had never lived before, But now those blisses are no more. And now I cease to live again, I do not blame thee, love; ah, no! _25 The breast that feels this anguished woe. Throbs for thy happiness alone. Two years of speechless bliss are gone, I thank thee, dearest, for the dream. ’Tis night—what faint and distant scream _30 Comes on the wild and fitful blast? It moans for pleasures that are past, It moans for days that are gone by. Oh! lagging hours, how slow you fly! I see a dark and lengthened vale, _35 The black view closes with the tomb; But darker is the lowering gloom That shades the intervening dale. In visioned slumber for awhile I seem again to share thy smile, _40 I seem to hang upon thy tone. Again you say, ‘Confide in me, For I am thine, and thine alone, And thine must ever, ever be.’ But oh! awak’ning still anew, _45 Athwart my enanguished senses flew A fiercer, deadlier agony!

[End of “Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson”.]

***

STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.

[Published by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876; dated 1810.]

Tremble, Kings despised of man! Ye traitors to your Country, Tremble! Your parricidal plan At length shall meet its destiny… We all are soldiers fit to fight, _5 But if we sink in glory’s night Our mother Earth will give ye new The brilliant pathway to pursue Which leads to Death or Victory…

***

BIGOTRY’S VICTIM.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1809-10. The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

1. Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind, The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair? When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind Repose trust in his footsteps of air? No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair, _5 The monster transfixes his prey, On the sand flows his life-blood away; Whilst India’s rocks to his death-yells reply, Protracting the horrible harmony.

2. Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, _10 Dares fearless to perish defending her brood, Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches Thirsting—ay, thirsting for blood; And demands, like mankind, his brother for food; Yet more lenient, more gentle than they; _15 For hunger, not glory, the prey Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead. Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer’s head.

3. Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains, And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air, _20 Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains, Though a fiercer than tiger is there. Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair, Though its shadow eclipses the day, And the darkness of deepest dismay _25 Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around, And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

4. They came to the fountain to draw from its stream Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see; They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam, _30 Then perished, and perished like me. For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee; The most tenderly loved of my soul Are slaves to his hated control. He pursues me, he blasts me! ’Tis in vain that I fly: _35 - What remains, but to curse him,—to curse him and die?

***

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1809-10. The poem, with title as above, is included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes, Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair, In which the warm current of love never freezes, As it rises unmingled with selfishness there, Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, _5 Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise, Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.

2. Or where the stern warrior, his country defending, Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour, Or o’er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending, _10 Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore Plants Liberty’s flag on the slave-peopled shore, With victory’s cry, with the shout of the free, Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee.

3. For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning, _15 Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain, When to others the wished-for arrival of morning Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain; But regret is an insult—to grieve is in vain: And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair _20 Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there?

4. But still ’twas some Spirit of kindness descending To share in the load of mortality’s woe, Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending Bade sympathy’s tenderest teardrop to flow. _25 Not for THEE soft compassion celestials did know, But if ANGELS can weep, sure MAN may repine, May weep in mute grief o’er thy low-laid shrine.

5. And did I then say, for the altar of glory, That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers I’d entwine, _30 Though with millions of blood-reeking victims ’twas gory, Though the tears of the widow polluted its shrine, Though around it the orphans, the fatherless pine? Oh! Fame, all thy glories I’d yield for a tear To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. _35

***

LOVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1811. The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

Why is it said thou canst not live In a youthful breast and fair, Since thou eternal life canst give, Canst bloom for ever there? Since withering pain no power possessed, _5 Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue, Nor time’s dread victor, death, confessed, Though bathed with his poison dew, Still thou retain’st unchanging bloom, Fixed tranquil, even in the tomb. _10 And oh! when on the blest, reviving, The day-star dawns of love, Each energy of soul surviving More vivid, soars above, Hast thou ne’er felt a rapturous thrill, _15 Like June’s warm breath, athwart thee fly, O’er each idea then to steal, When other passions die? Felt it in some wild noonday dream, When sitting by the lonely stream, _20 Where Silence says, ‘Mine is the dell’; And not a murmur from the plain, And not an echo from the fell, Disputes her silent reign.

***

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1811.]

By the mossy brink, With me the Prince shall sit and think; Shall muse in visioned Regency, Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty.

***

TO A STAR.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1811. The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

Sweet star, which gleaming o’er the darksome scene Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest, Spanglet of light on evening’s shadowy veil, Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake, Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet _5 Than the expiring morn-star’s paly fires:— Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep, And all is hushed,—all, save the voice of Love, Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast Of soft Favonius, which at intervals _10 Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but Lulling the slaves of interest to repose With that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would look In thy dear beam till every bond of sense Became enamoured— _15

***

TO MARY WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1810-11.]

1. Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow Struggling in thine haggard eye: Firmness dare to borrow From the wreck of destiny; For the ray morn’s bloom revealing _5 Can never boast so bright an hue As that which mocks concealing, And sheds its loveliest light on you.

2. Yet is the tie departed Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss? _10 Has it left thee broken-hearted In a world so cold as this? Yet, though, fainting fair one, Sorrow’s self thy cup has given, Dream thou’lt meet thy dear one, Never more to part, in Heaven. _15

3. Existence would I barter For a dream so dear as thine, And smile to die a martyr On affection’s bloodless shrine. _20 Nor would I change for pleasure That withered hand and ashy cheek, If my heart enshrined a treasure Such as forces thine to break.

***

A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS: FROM FACTS, 1811.

[Published (from Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870. Rossetti’s title is “Mother and Son”.]

1. She was an aged woman; and the years Which she had numbered on her toilsome way Had bowed her natural powers to decay. She was an aged woman; yet the ray Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, _5 Pressed into light by silent misery, Hath soul’s imperishable energy. She was a cripple, and incapable To add one mite to gold-fed luxury: And therefore did her spirit dimly feel _10 That poverty, the crime of tainting stain, Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.

2. One only son’s love had supported her. She long had struggled with infirmity, Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die, _15 When fate has spared to rend some mental tie, Would many wish, and surely fewer dare. But, when the tyrant’s bloodhounds forced the child For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield— Bend to another’s will—become a thing _20 More senseless than the sword of battlefield— Then did she feel keen sorrow’s keenest sting; And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.

3. For seven years did this poor woman live In unparticipated solitude. _25 Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude Picking the scattered remnants of its wood. If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve. The gleanings of precarious charity Her scantiness of food did scarce supply. _30 The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt Within her ghastly hollowness of eye: Each arrow of the season’s change she felt. Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run, One only hope: it was—once more to see her son. _35

4. It was an eve of June, when every star Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live. She rested on the moor. ’Twas such an eve When first her soul began indeed to grieve: Then he was here; now he is very far. _40 The sweetness of the balmy evening A sorrow o’er her aged soul did fling, Yet not devoid of rapture’s mingled tear: A balm was in the poison of the sting. This aged sufferer for many a year _45 Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed A sigh—and turning round, clasped William to her breast!

5. And, though his form was wasted by the woe Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak, Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek _50 Of slavery’s violence and scorn did speak, Yet did the aged woman’s bosom glow. The vital fire seemed re-illumed within By this sweet unexpected welcoming. Oh, consummation of the fondest hope _55 That ever soared on Fancy’s wildest wing! Oh, tenderness that foundst so sweet a scope! Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway, When THOU canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they!

6. Her son, compelled, the country’s foes had fought, _60 Had bled in battle; and the stern control Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul Utterly poisoned life’s unmingled bowl, And unsubduable evils on him brought. He was the shadow of the lusty child _65 Who, when the time of summer season smiled, Did earn for her a meal of honesty, And with affectionate discourse beguiled The keen attacks of pain and poverty; Till Power, as envying her this only joy, _70 From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.

7. And now cold charity’s unwelcome dole Was insufficient to support the pair; And they would perish rather than would bear The law’s stern slavery, and the insolent stare _75 With which law loves to rend the poor man’s soul— The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys Wake in this scene of legal misery.

…

NOTES: _28 grieve Esdaile manuscript; feel, 1870. _37 to those on earth that live Esdaile manuscripts; omitted, 1870.

***

TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1812. Rossetti’s title is “The Mexican Revolution”.]

1. Brothers! between you and me Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar: Yet in spirit oft I see On thy wild and winding shore Freedom’s bloodless banners wave,— _5 Feel the pulses of the brave Unextinguished in the grave,— See them drenched in sacred gore,— Catch the warrior’s gasping breath Murmuring ‘Liberty or death!’ _10

2. Shout aloud! Let every slave, Crouching at Corruption’s throne, Start into a man, and brave Racks and chains without a groan: And the castle’s heartless glow, _15 And the hovel’s vice and woe, Fade like gaudy flowers that blow— Weeds that peep, and then are gone Whilst, from misery’s ashes risen, Love shall burst the captive’s prison. _20

3. Cotopaxi! bid the sound Through thy sister mountains ring, Till each valley smile around At the blissful welcoming! And, O thou stern Ocean deep, _25 Thou whose foamy billows sweep Shores where thousands wake to weep Whilst they curse a villain king, On the winds that fan thy breast Bear thou news of Freedom’s rest! _30

4. Can the daystar dawn of love, Where the flag of war unfurled Floats with crimson stain above The fabric of a ruined world? Never but to vengeance driven _35 When the patriot’s spirit shriven Seeks in death its native Heaven! There, to desolation hurled, Widowed love may watch thy bier, Balm thee with its dying tear. _40

***

TO IRELAND.

[Published, 1-10, by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; 11-17, 25-28, by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; 18-24 by Kingsland, “Poet-Lore”, July, 1892. Dated 1812.]

1. Bear witness, Erin! when thine injured isle Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile, Its cornfields waving in the winds that sweep The billowy surface of thy circling deep! Thou tree whose shadow o’er the Atlantic gave _5 Peace, wealth and beauty, to its friendly wave, its blossoms fade, And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade; Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty fruit, Whose chillness struck a canker to its root. _10

2. I could stand Upon thy shores, O Erin, and could count The billows that, in their unceasing swell, Dash on thy beach, and every wave might seem An instrument in Time the giant’s grasp, _15 To burst the barriers of Eternity. Proceed, thou giant, conquering and to conquer; March on thy lonely way! The nations fall Beneath thy noiseless footstep; pyramids That for millenniums have defied the blast, _20 And laughed at lightnings, thou dost crush to nought. Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp, Is but the fungus of a winter day That thy light footstep presses into dust. Thou art a conqueror, Time; all things give way _25 Before thee but the ‘fixed and virtuous will’; The sacred sympathy of soul which was When thou wert not, which shall be when thou perishest.

…

***

ON ROBERT EMMET’S GRAVE.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated 1812.]

…

6. No trump tells thy virtues—the grave where they rest With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by fame, Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune caressed, Shall pass like a mist from the light of thy name.

7. When the storm-cloud that lowers o’er the day-beam is gone, _5 Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine; When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan, She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.

***

THE RETROSPECT: CWM ELAN, 1812.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887.]

A scene, which ‘wildered fancy viewed In the soul’s coldest solitude, With that same scene when peaceful love Flings rapture’s colour o’er the grove, When mountain, meadow, wood and stream _5 With unalloying glory gleam, And to the spirit’s ear and eye Are unison and harmony. The moonlight was my dearer day; Then would I wander far away, _10 And, lingering on the wild brook’s shore To hear its unremitting roar, Would lose in the ideal flow All sense of overwhelming woe; Or at the noiseless noon of night _15 Would climb some heathy mountain’s height, And listen to the mystic sound That stole in fitful gasps around. I joyed to see the streaks of day Above the purple peaks decay, _20 And watch the latest line of light Just mingling with the shades of night; For day with me was time of woe When even tears refused to flow; Then would I stretch my languid frame _25 Beneath the wild woods’ gloomiest shade, And try to quench the ceaseless flame That on my withered vitals preyed; Would close mine eyes and dream I were On some remote and friendless plain, _30 And long to leave existence there, If with it I might leave the pain That with a finger cold and lean Wrote madness on my withering mien.

It was not unrequited love _35 That bade my ‘wildered spirit rove; ’Twas not the pride disdaining life, That with this mortal world at strife Would yield to the soul’s inward sense, Then groan in human impotence, _40 And weep because it is not given To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven. ’Twas not that in the narrow sphere Where Nature fixed my wayward fate There was no friend or kindred dear _45 Formed to become that spirit’s mate, Which, searching on tired pinion, found Barren and cold repulse around; Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gave New graces to the narrow grave. _50 For broken vows had early quelled The stainless spirit’s vestal flame; Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled, Then the envenomed arrow came, And Apathy’s unaltering eye _55 Beamed coldness on the misery; And early I had learned to scorn The chains of clay that bound a soul Panting to seize the wings of morn, And where its vital fires were born _60 To soar, and spur the cold control Which the vile slaves of earthly night Would twine around its struggling flight.

Oh, many were the friends whom fame Had linked with the unmeaning name, _65 Whose magic marked among mankind The casket of my unknown mind, Which hidden from the vulgar glare Imbibed no fleeting radiance there. My darksome spirit sought—it found _70 A friendless solitude around. For who that might undaunted stand, The saviour of a sinking land, Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant’s slave, And fatten upon Freedom’s grave, _75 Though doomed with her to perish, where The captive clasps abhorred despair.

They could not share the bosom’s feeling, Which, passion’s every throb revealing, Dared force on the world’s notice cold _80 Thoughts of unprofitable mould, Who bask in Custom’s fickle ray, Fit sunshine of such wintry day! They could not in a twilight walk Weave an impassioned web of talk, _85 Till mysteries the spirits press In wild yet tender awfulness, Then feel within our narrow sphere How little yet how great we are! But they might shine in courtly glare, _90 Attract the rabble’s cheapest stare, And might command where’er they move A thing that bears the name of love; They might be learned, witty, gay, Foremost in fashion’s gilt array, _95 On Fame’s emblazoned pages shine, Be princes’ friends, but never mine!

Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime, Mocking the blunted scythe of Time, Whence I would watch its lustre pale _100 Steal from the moon o’er yonder vale Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast, Bared to the stream’s unceasing flow, Ever its giant shade doth cast On the tumultuous surge below: _105

Woods, to whose depths retires to die The wounded Echo’s melody, And whither this lone spirit bent The footstep of a wild intent:

Meadows! whose green and spangled breast _110 These fevered limbs have often pressed, Until the watchful fiend Despair Slept in the soothing coolness there! Have not your varied beauties seen The sunken eye, the withering mien, _115 Sad traces of the unuttered pain That froze my heart and burned my brain. How changed since Nature’s summer form Had last the power my grief to charm, Since last ye soothed my spirit’s sadness, _120 Strange chaos of a mingled madness! Changed!—not the loathsome worm that fed In the dark mansions of the dead, Now soaring through the fields of air, And gathering purest nectar there, _125 A butterfly, whose million hues The dazzled eye of wonder views, Long lingering on a work so strange, Has undergone so bright a change. How do I feel my happiness? _130 I cannot tell, but they may guess Whose every gloomy feeling gone, Friendship and passion feel alone; Who see mortality’s dull clouds Before affection’s murmur fly, _135 Whilst the mild glances of her eye Pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds The spirit’s inmost sanctuary. O thou! whose virtues latest known, First in this heart yet claim’st a throne; _140 Whose downy sceptre still shall share The gentle sway with virtue there; Thou fair in form, and pure in mind, Whose ardent friendship rivets fast The flowery band our fates that bind, _145 Which incorruptible shall last When duty’s hard and cold control Has thawed around the burning soul,— The gloomiest retrospects that bind With crowns of thorn the bleeding mind, _150 The prospects of most doubtful hue That rise on Fancy’s shuddering view,— Are gilt by the reviving ray Which thou hast flung upon my day.

***

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET.

TO HARRIET.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August 1, 1812.]

Ever as now with Love and Virtue’s glow May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn, Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o’erflow Which force from mine such quick and warm return.

***

TO HARRIET.

[Published, 5-13, by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876; 58-69, by Shelley, “Notes to Queen Mab”, 1813; and entire (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated 1812.]

It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven More perfectly will give those nameless joys Which throb within the pulses of the blood And sweeten all that bitterness which Earth Infuses in the heaven-born soul. O thou _5 Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path Which this lone spirit travelled, drear and cold, Yet swiftly leading to those awful limits Which mark the bounds of Time and of the space When Time shall be no more; wilt thou not turn _10 Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me, Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven, And Heaven is Earth?—will not thy glowing cheek, Glowing with soft suffusion, rest on mine, And breathe magnetic sweetness through the frame _15 Of my corporeal nature, through the soul Now knit with these fine fibres? I would give The longest and the happiest day that fate Has marked on my existence but to feel ONE soul-reviving kiss…O thou most dear, _20 ’Tis an assurance that this Earth is Heaven, And Heaven the flower of that untainted seed Which springeth here beneath such love as ours. Harriet! let death all mortal ties dissolve, But ours shall not be mortal! The cold hand _25 Of Time may chill the love of earthly minds Half frozen now; the frigid intercourse Of common souls lives but a summer’s day; It dies, where it arose, upon this earth. But ours! oh, ’tis the stretch of Fancy’s hope _30 To portray its continuance as now, Warm, tranquil, spirit-healing; nor when age Has tempered these wild ecstasies, and given A soberer tinge to the luxurious glow Which blazing on devotion’s pinnacle _35 Makes virtuous passion supersede the power Of reason; nor when life’s aestival sun To deeper manhood shall have ripened me; Nor when some years have added judgement’s store To all thy woman sweetness, all the fire _40 Which throbs in thine enthusiast heart; not then Shall holy friendship (for what other name May love like ours assume?), not even then Shall Custom so corrupt, or the cold forms Of this desolate world so harden us, _45 As when we think of the dear love that binds Our souls in soft communion, while we know Each other’s thoughts and feelings, can we say Unblushingly a heartless compliment, Praise, hate, or love with the unthinking world, _50 Or dare to cut the unrelaxing nerve That knits our love to virtue. Can those eyes, Beaming with mildest radiance on my heart To purify its purity, e’er bend To soothe its vice or consecrate its fears? _55 Never, thou second Self! Is confidence So vain in virtue that I learn to doubt The mirror even of Truth? Dark flood of Time, Roll as it listeth thee; I measure not By month or moments thy ambiguous course. _60 Another may stand by me on thy brink,, And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken, Which pauses at my feet. The sense of love, The thirst for action, and the impassioned thought Prolong my being; if I wake no more, _65 My life more actual living will contain Than some gray veteran’s of the world’s cold school, Whose listless hours unprofitably roll By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed, Virtue and Love! unbending Fortitude, _70 Freedom, Devotedness and Purity! That life my Spirit consecrates to you.

***

SONNET.

TO A BALLOON LADEN WITH KNOWLEDGE.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.]

Bright ball of flame that through the gloom of even Silently takest thine aethereal way, And with surpassing glory dimm’st each ray Twinkling amid the dark blue depths of Heaven,— Unlike the fire thou bearest, soon shalt thou _5 Fade like a meteor in surrounding gloom, Whilst that, unquenchable, is doomed to glow A watch-light by the patriot’s lonely tomb; A ray of courage to the oppressed and poor; A spark, though gleaming on the hovel’s hearth, _10 Which through the tyrant’s gilded domes shall roar; A beacon in the darkness of the Earth; A sun which, o’er the renovated scene, Shall dart like Truth where Falsehood yet has been.

***

SONNET.

ON LAUNCHING SOME BOTTLES FILLED WITH KNOWLEDGE INTO THE BRISTOL CHANNEL.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.]

Vessels of heavenly medicine! may the breeze Auspicious waft your dark green forms to shore; Safe may ye stem the wide surrounding roar Of the wild whirlwinds and the raging seas; And oh! if Liberty e’er deigned to stoop _5 From yonder lowly throne her crownless brow, Sure she will breathe around your emerald group The fairest breezes of her West that blow. Yes! she will waft ye to some freeborn soul Whose eye-beam, kindling as it meets your freight, _10 Her heaven-born flame in suffering Earth will light, Until its radiance gleams from pole to pole, And tyrant-hearts with powerless envy burst To see their night of ignorance dispersed.

***

THE DEVIL’S WALK.

A BALLAD.

[Published as a broadside by Shelley, 1812.]

1. Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose, With care his sweet person adorning, He put on his Sunday clothes.

2. He drew on a boot to hide his hoof, _5 He drew on a glove to hide his claw, His horns were concealed by a Bras Chapeau, And the Devil went forth as natty a Beau As Bond-street ever saw.

3. He sate him down, in London town, _10 Before earth’s morning ray; With a favourite imp he began to chat, On religion, and scandal, this and that, Until the dawn of day.

4. And then to St. James’s Court he went, _15 And St. Paul’s Church he took on his way; He was mighty thick with every Saint, Though they were formal and he was gay.

5. The Devil was an agriculturist, And as bad weeds quickly grow, _20 In looking over his farm, I wist, He wouldn’t find cause for woe.

6. He peeped in each hole, to each chamber stole, His promising live-stock to view; Grinning applause, he just showed them his claws, _25 And they shrunk with affright from his ugly sight, Whose work they delighted to do.

7. Satan poked his red nose into crannies so small One would think that the innocents fair, Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all _30 But settling some dress or arranging some ball, But the Devil saw deeper there.

8. A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during prayer Sate familiarly, side by side, Declared that, if the Tempter were there, _35 His presence he would not abide. Ah! ah! thought Old Nick, that’s a very stale trick, For without the Devil, O favourite of Evil, In your carriage you would not ride.

9. Satan next saw a brainless King, _40 Whose house was as hot as his own; Many Imps in attendance were there on the wing, They flapped the pennon and twisted the sting, Close by the very Throne.

10. Ah! ah! thought Satan, the pasture is good, _45 My Cattle will here thrive better than others; They dine on news of human blood, They sup on the groans of the dying and dead, And supperless never will go to bed; Which will make them fat as their brothers. _50

11. Fat as the Fiends that feed on blood, Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain, Where Ruin ploughs her gory way, Where the shoots of earth are nipped in the bud, Where Hell is the Victor’s prey, _55 Its glory the meed of the slain.

12. Fat—as the Death-birds on Erin’s shore, That glutted themselves in her dearest gore, And flitted round Castlereagh, When they snatched the Patriot’s heart, that HIS grasp _60 Had torn from its widow’s maniac clasp, —And fled at the dawn of day.

13. Fat—as the Reptiles of the tomb, That riot in corruption’s spoil, That fret their little hour in gloom, _65 And creep, and live the while.

14. Fat as that Prince’s maudlin brain, Which, addled by some gilded toy, Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again Cries for it, like a humoured boy. _70

15. For he is fat,—his waistcoat gay, When strained upon a levee day, Scarce meets across his princely paunch; And pantaloons are like half-moons Upon each brawny haunch. _75

16. How vast his stock of calf! when plenty Had filled his empty head and heart, Enough to satiate foplings twenty, Could make his pantaloon seams start.

17. The Devil (who sometimes is called Nature), _80 For men of power provides thus well, Whilst every change and every feature, Their great original can tell.

18. Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay, That crawled up the leg of his table, _85 It reminded him most marvellously Of the story of Cain and Abel.

19. The wealthy yeoman, as he wanders His fertile fields among, And on his thriving cattle ponders, _90 Counts his sure gains, and hums a song; Thus did the Devil, through earth walking, Hum low a hellish song.

20. For they thrive well whose garb of gore Is Satan’s choicest livery, _95 And they thrive well who from the poor Have snatched the bread of penury, And heap the houseless wanderer’s store On the rank pile of luxury.

21. The Bishops thrive, though they are big; _100 The Lawyers thrive, though they are thin; For every gown, and every wig, Hides the safe thrift of Hell within.

22. Thus pigs were never counted clean, Although they dine on finest corn; _105 And cormorants are sin-like lean, Although they eat from night to morn.

23. Oh! why is the Father of Hell in such glee, As he grins from ear to ear? Why does he doff his clothes joyfully, _110 As he skips, and prances, and flaps his wing, As he sidles, leers, and twirls his sting, And dares, as he is, to appear?

24. A statesman passed—alone to him, The Devil dare his whole shape uncover, _115 To show each feature, every limb, Secure of an unchanging lover.

25. At this known sign, a welcome sight, The watchful demons sought their King, And every Fiend of the Stygian night, _120 Was in an instant on the wing.

26. Pale Loyalty, his guilt-steeled brow, With wreaths of gory laurel crowned: The hell-hounds, Murder, Want and Woe, Forever hungering, flocked around; _125 From Spain had Satan sought their food, ’Twas human woe and human blood!

27. Hark! the earthquake’s crash I hear,— Kings turn pale, and Conquerors start, Ruffians tremble in their fear, _130 For their Satan doth depart.

28. This day Fiends give to revelry To celebrate their King’s return, And with delight its Sire to see Hell’s adamantine limits burn. _135

29. But were the Devil’s sight as keen As Reason’s penetrating eye, His sulphurous Majesty I ween, Would find but little cause for joy.

30. For the sons of Reason see _140 That, ere fate consume the Pole, The false Tyrant’s cheek shall be Bloodless as his coward soul.

NOTE: _55 Where cj. Rossetti; When 1812.

***

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET.

FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.]

Where man’s profane and tainting hand Nature’s primaeval loveliness has marred, And some few souls of the high bliss debarred Which else obey her powerful command; …mountain piles _5 That load in grandeur Cambria’s emerald vales.

***

ON LEAVING LONDON FOR WALES.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated November, 1812.]

Hail to thee, Cambria! for the unfettered wind Which from thy wilds even now methinks I feel, Chasing the clouds that roll in wrath behind, And tightening the soul’s laxest nerves to steel; True mountain Liberty alone may heal _5 The pain which Custom’s obduracies bring, And he who dares in fancy even to steal One draught from Snowdon’s ever sacred spring Blots out the unholiest rede of worldly witnessing.

And shall that soul, to selfish peace resigned, _10 So soon forget the woe its fellows share? Can Snowdon’s Lethe from the free-born mind So soon the page of injured penury tear? Does this fine mass of human passion dare To sleep, unhonouring the patriot’s fall, _15 Or life’s sweet load in quietude to bear While millions famish even in Luxury’s hall, And Tyranny, high raised, stern lowers on all?

No, Cambria! never may thy matchless vales A heart so false to hope and virtue shield; _20 Nor ever may thy spirit-breathing gales Waft freshness to the slaves who dare to yield. For me!…the weapon that I burn to wield I seek amid thy rocks to ruin hurled, That Reason’s flag may over Freedom’s field, _25 Symbol of bloodless victory, wave unfurled, A meteor-sign of love effulgent o’er the world.

…

Do thou, wild Cambria, calm each struggling thought; Cast thy sweet veil of rocks and woods between, That by the soul to indignation wrought _30 Mountains and dells be mingled with the scene; Let me forever be what I have been, But not forever at my needy door Let Misery linger speechless, pale and lean; I am the friend of the unfriended poor,— _35 Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.

***

THE WANDERING JEW’S SOLILOQUY.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Bertram Dobell, 1887.]

Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells? Will not the lightning’s blast destroy my frame? Will not steel drink the blood-life where it swells? _5 No—let me hie where dark Destruction dwells, To rouse her from her deeply caverned lair, And, taunting her cursed sluggishness to ire, Light long Oblivion’s death-torch at its flame And calmly mount Annihilation’s pyre. _10 Tyrant of Earth! pale Misery’s jackal Thou! Are there no stores of vengeful violent fate Within the magazines of Thy fierce hate? No poison in the clouds to bathe a brow That lowers on Thee with desperate contempt? _15 Where is the noonday Pestilence that slew The myriad sons of Israel’s favoured nation? Where the destroying Minister that flew Pouring the fiery tide of desolation Upon the leagued Assyrian’s attempt? _20 Where the dark Earthquake-daemon who engorged At the dread word Korah’s unconscious crew? Or the Angel’s two-edged sword of fire that urged Our primal parents from their bower of bliss (Reared by Thine hand) for errors not their own _25 By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, foreknown? Yes! I would court a ruin such as this, Almighty Tyrant! and give thanks to Thee— Drink deeply—drain the cup of hate; remit this—I may die.

***

EVENING.

TO HARRIET.

[Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed July 31, 1813.]

O thou bright Sun! beneath the dark blue line Of western distance that sublime descendest, And, gleaming lovelier as thy beams decline, Thy million hues to every vapour lendest, And, over cobweb lawn and grove and stream _5 Sheddest the liquid magic of thy light, Till calm Earth, with the parting splendour bright, Shows like the vision of a beauteous dream; What gazer now with astronomic eye Could coldly count the spots within thy sphere? _10 Such were thy lover, Harriet, could he fly The thoughts of all that makes his passion dear, And, turning senseless from thy warm caress,— Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness.

***

TO IANTHE.

[Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed September, 1813.]

I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake; Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek, Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak, Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake; But more when o’er thy fitful slumber bending _5 Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart, Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending, All that thy passive eyes can feel impart: More, when some feeble lineaments of her, Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, _10 As with deep love I read thy face, recur,— More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom; Dearest when most thy tender traits express The image of thy mother’s loveliness.

***

SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

[Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 58.]

See yon opening flower Spreads its fragrance to the blast; It fades within an hour, Its decay is pale—is fast. Paler is yon maiden; _5 Faster is her heart’s decay; Deep with sorrow laden, She sinks in death away.

***

FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.

[Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 56.]

The Elements respect their Maker’s seal! Still Like the scathed pine tree’s height, Braving the tempests of the night Have I ‘scaped the flickering flame. Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands _5 Of faded grandeur, which the brands Of the tempest-shaken air Have riven on the desolate heath; Yet it stands majestic even in death, And rears its wild form there. _10,

***

TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.

[Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “The Shelley Papers”, 1833, and by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition; afterwards suppressed as of doubtful authenticity.]

1. Shall we roam, my love, To the twilight grove, When the moon is rising bright; Oh, I’ll whisper there, In the cool night-air, _5 What I dare not in broad daylight!

2. I’ll tell thee a part Of the thoughts that start To being when thou art nigh; And thy beauty, more bright _10 Than the stars’ soft light, Shall seem as a weft from the sky.

3. When the pale moonbeam On tower and stream Sheds a flood of silver sheen, _15 How I love to gaze As the cold ray strays O’er thy face, my heart’s throned queen!

4. Wilt thou roam with me To the restless sea, _20 And linger upon the steep, And list to the flow Of the waves below How they toss and roar and leap?

5. Those boiling waves, _25 And the storm that raves At night o’er their foaming crest, Resemble the strife That, from earliest life, The passions have waged in my breast. _30

6. Oh, come then, and rove To the sea or the grove, When the moon is rising bright; And I’ll whisper there, In the cool night-air, _35 What I dare not in broad daylight.

***

NOTES ON THE TEXT AND ITS PUNCTUATION.

In the case of every poem published during Shelley’s lifetime, the text of this edition is based upon that of the editio princeps or earliest issue. Wherever our text deviates verbally from this exemplar, the word or words of the editio princeps will be found recorded in a footnote. In like manner, wherever the text of the poems first printed by Mrs. Shelley in the “Posthumous Poems” of 1824 or the “Poetical Works” of 1839 is modified by manuscript authority or otherwise, the reading of the earliest printed text has been subjoined in a footnote. Shelley’s punctuation—or what may be presumed to be his—has been retained, save in the case of errors (whether of the transcriber or the printer) overlooked in the revision of the proof-sheets, and of a few places where the pointing, though certainly or seemingly Shelley’s, tends to obscure the sense or grammatical construction. In the following notes the more important textual difficulties are briefly discussed, and the readings embodied in the text of this edition, it is hoped, sufficiently justified. An attempt has also been made to record the original punctuation where it is here departed from.

1. THE DAEMON OF THE WORLD: PART 1.

The following paragraph, relating to this poem, closes Shelley’s “Preface” to “Alastor”, etc., 1816:—‘The Fragment entitled “The Daemon of the World” is a detached part of a poem which the author does not intend for publication. The metre in which it is composed is that of “Samson Agonistes” and the Italian pastoral drama, and may be considered as the natural measure into which poetical conceptions, expressed in harmonious language, necessarily fall.’

2. Lines 56, 112, 184, 288. The editor has added a comma at the end of these lines, and a period (for the comma of 1816) after by, line 279.

3. Lines 167, 168. The editio princeps has a comma after And, line 167, and heaven, line 168.

1. THE DAEMON OF THE WORLD: PART 2.

Printed by Mr. Forman from a copy in his possession of “Queen Mab”, corrected by Shelley’s hand. See “The Shelley Library”, pages 36-44, for a detailed history and description of this copy.

2. Lines 436-438. Mr. Forman prints:— Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise In time-destroying infiniteness, gift, etc. Our text exhibits both variants—lore for ‘store,’ and Dawns for ‘Draws’—found in Shelley’s note on the corresponding passage of “Queen Mab” (8 204-206). See editor’s note on this passage. Shelley’s comma after infiniteness, line 438, is omitted as tending to obscure the construction.

1. ALASTOR; OR THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE.

“Preface”. For the concluding paragraph see editor’s note on “The Daemon of the World”: Part 1.

2. Conducts, O Sleep, to thy, etc. (line 219.) The Shelley texts, 1816, 1824, 1839, have Conduct here, which Forman and Dowden retain. The suggestion that Shelley may have written ‘death’s blue vaults’ (line 216) need not, in the face of ‘the dark gate of death’ (line 211), be seriously considered; Conduct must, therefore, be regarded as a fault in grammar. That Shelley actually wrote Conduct is not impossible, for his grammar is not seldom faulty (see, for instance, “Revolt of Islam, Dedication”, line 60); but it is most improbable that he would have committed a solecism so striking both to eye and ear. Rossetti and Woodberry print Conducts, etc. The final s is often a vanishing quantity in Shelley’s manuscripts. Or perhaps the compositor’s hand was misled by his eye, which may have dropped on the words, Conduct to thy, etc., seven lines above.

3. Of wave ruining on wave, etc. (line 327.) For ruining the text of “Poetical Works”, 1839, both editions, has running—an overlooked misprint, surely, rather than a conjectural emendation. For an example of ruining as an intransitive (= ‘falling in ruins,’ or, simply, ‘falling in streams’) see “Paradise Lost”, 6 867-869:— Hell heard th’ insufferable noise, Hell saw Heav’n ruining from Heav’n, and would have fled Affrighted, etc. Ruining, in the sense of ‘streaming,’ ‘trailing,’ occurs in Coleridge’s “Melancholy: a Fragment” (Sibylline Leaves, 1817, page 262):— Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep— “Melancholy” first appeared in “The Morning Post”, December 7, 1797, where, through an error identical with that here assumed in the text of 1839, running appears in place of ruining—the word intended, and doubtless written, by Coleridge.

4. Line 349. With Mr. Stopford Brooke, the editor substitutes here a colon for the full stop which, in editions 1816, 1824, and 1839, follows ocean. Forman and Dowden retain the full stop; Rossetti and Woodberry substitute a semicolon.

5. And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots The unwilling soil. (lines 530-532.) Editions 1816, 1824, and 1839 have roots (line 530)—a palpable misprint, the probable origin of which may be seen in the line which follows. Rossetti conjectures trunks, but stumps or stems may have been Shelley’s word.

6. Lines 543-548. This somewhat involved passage is here reprinted exactly as it stands in the editio princeps, save for the comma after and, line 546, first introduced by Dowden, 1890. The construction and meaning are fully discussed by Forman (“Poetical Works” of Shelley, edition 1876, volume 1 pages 39, 40), Stopford Brooke (“Poems of Shelley”, G. T. S., 1880, page 323), Dobell (“Alastor”, etc., Facsimile Reprint, 2nd edition 1887, pages 22-27), and Woodberry (“Complete P. W. of Shelley”, 1893, volume 1 page 413).

1. THE REVOLT OF ISLAM.

The revised text (1818) of this poem is given here, as being that which Shelley actually published. In order to reconvert the text of “The Revolt of Islam” into that of “Laon and Cythna”, the reader must make the following alterations in the text. At the end of the “Preface” add:—

‘In the personal conduct of my Hero and Heroine, there is one circumstance which was intended to startle the reader from the trance of ordinary life. It was my object to break through the crust of those outworn opinions on which established institutions depend. I have appealed therefore to the most universal of all feelings, and have endeavoured to strengthen the moral sense, by forbidding it to waste its energies in seeking to avoid actions which are only crimes of convention. It is because there is so great a multitude of artificial vices that there are so few real virtues. Those feelings alone which are benevolent or malevolent, are essentially good or bad. The circumstance of which I speak was introduced, however, merely to accustom men to that charity and toleration which the exhibition of a practice widely differing from their own has a tendency to promote. (The sentiments connected with and characteristic of this circumstance have no personal reference to the Writer.—[Shelley’s Note.]) Nothing indeed can be more mischievous than many actions, innocent in themselves, which might bring down upon individuals the bigoted contempt and rage of the multitude.’

2 21 1: I had a little sister whose fair eyes

2 25 2: To love in human life, this sister sweet,

3 1 1: What thoughts had sway over my sister’s slumber

3 1 3: As if they did ten thousand years outnumber

4 30 6: And left it vacant—’twas her brother’s face—

5 47 5: I had a brother once, but he is dead!—

6 24 8: My own sweet sister looked), with joy did quail,

6 31 6: The common blood which ran within our frames,

6 39 6-9: With such close sympathies, for to each other Had high and solemn hopes, the gentle might Of earliest love, and all the thoughts which smother Cold Evil’s power, now linked a sister and a brother.

6 40 1: And such is Nature’s modesty, that those

8 4 9: Dream ye that God thus builds for man in solitude?

8 5 1: What then is God? Ye mock yourselves and give

8 6 1: What then is God? Some moonstruck sophist stood

8 6 8, 9: And that men say God has appointed Death On all who scorn his will to wreak immortal wrath.

8 7 1-4: Men say they have seen God, and heard from God, Or known from others who have known such things, And that his will is all our law, a rod To scourge us into slaves—that Priests and Kings

8 8 1: And it is said, that God will punish wrong;

8 8 3, 4: And his red hell’s undying snakes among Will bind the wretch on whom he fixed a stain

8 13 3, 4: For it is said God rules both high and low, And man is made the captive of his brother;

9 13 8: To curse the rebels. To their God did they

9 14 6: By God, and Nature, and Necessity.

9 15. The stanza contains ten lines—lines 4-7 as follows: There was one teacher, and must ever be, They said, even God, who, the necessity Of rule and wrong had armed against mankind, His slave and his avenger there to be;

9 18 3-6: And Hell and Awe, which in the heart of man Is God itself; the Priests its downfall knew, As day by day their altars lovelier grew, Till they were left alone within the fane;

10 22 9: On fire! Almighty God his hell on earth has spread!

10 26 7, 8: Of their Almighty God, the armies wind In sad procession: each among the train

10 28 1: O God Almighty! thou alone hast power.

10 31 1: And Oromaze, and Christ, and Mahomet,

10 32 1: He was a Christian Priest from whom it came

10 32 4: To quell the rebel Atheists; a dire guest

10 32 9: To wreak his fear of God in vengeance on mankind

10 34 5, 6: His cradled Idol, and the sacrifice Of God to God’s own wrath—that Islam’s creed

10 35 9: And thrones, which rest on faith in God, nigh overturned.

10 39 4: Of God may be appeased. He ceased, and they

10 40 5: With storms and shadows girt, sate God, alone,

10 44 9: As ‘hush! hark! Come they yet? God, God, thine hour is near!’

10 45 8: Men brought their atheist kindred to appease

10 47 6: The threshold of God’s throne, and it was she!

11 16 1: Ye turn to God for aid in your distress;

11 25 7: Swear by your dreadful God.’—‘We swear, we swear!’

12 10 9: Truly for self, thus thought that Christian Priest indeed,

12 11 9: A woman? God has sent his other victim here.

12 12 6-8: Will I stand up before God’s golden throne, And cry, ‘O Lord, to thee did I betray An Atheist; but for me she would have known

12 29 4: In torment and in fire have Atheists gone;

12 30 4: How Atheists and Republicans can die;

2. Aught but a lifeless clod, until revived by thee (Dedic. 6 9).

So Rossetti; the Shelley editions, 1818 and 1839, read clog, which is retained by Forman, Dowden, and Woodberry. Rossetti’s happy conjecture, clod, seems to Forman ‘a doubtful emendation, as Shelley may have used clog in its [figurative] sense of weight, encumbrance.’—Hardly, as here, in a poetical figure: that would be to use a metaphor within a metaphor. Shelley compares his heart to a concrete object: if clog is right, the word must be taken in one or other of its two recognized LITERAL senses—‘a wooden shoe,’ or ‘a block of wood tied round the neck or to the leg of a horse or a dog.’ Again, it is of others’ hearts, not of his own, that Shelley here deplores the icy coldness and weight; besides, how could he appropriately describe his heart as a weight or encumbrance upon the free play of impulse and emotion, seeing that for Shelley, above all men, the heart was itself the main source and spring of all feeling and action? That source, he complains, has been dried up—its emotions desiccated—by the crushing impact of other hearts, heavy, hard and cold as stone. His heart has become withered and barren, like a lump of earth parched with frost—‘a lifeless clod.’ Compare “Summer and Winter”, lines 11-15:— ‘It was a winter such as when birds die In the deep forests; and the fishes lie Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes A wrinkled clod as hard as brick;’ etc., etc.