His life was now spent more in thought than action—he had lost the eager spirit which believed it could achieve what it projected for the benefit of mankind. And yet in the converse of daily life Shelley was far from being a melancholy man. He was eloquent when philosophy or politics or taste were the subjects of conversation. He was playful; and indulged in the wild spirit that mocked itself and others—not in bitterness, but in sport. The author of “Nightmare Abbey” seized on some points of his character and some habits of his life when he painted Scythrop. He was not addicted to ‘port or madeira,’ but in youth he had read of ‘Illuminati and Eleutherarchs,’ and believed that he possessed the power of operating an immediate change in the minds of men and the state of society. These wild dreams had faded; sorrow and adversity had struck home; but he struggled with despondency as he did with physical pain. There are few who remember him sailing paper boats, and watching the navigation of his tiny craft with eagerness—or repeating with wild energy “The Ancient Mariner”, and Southey’s “Old Woman of Berkeley”; but those who do will recollect that it was in such, and in the creations of his own fancy when that was most daring and ideal, that he sheltered himself from the storms and disappointments, the pain and sorrow, that beset his life.
No words can express the anguish he felt when his elder children were torn from him. In his first resentment against the Chancellor, on the passing of the decree, he had written a curse, in which there breathes, besides haughty indignation, all the tenderness of a father’s love, which could imagine and fondly dwell upon its loss and the consequences.
At one time, while the question was still pending, the Chancellor had said some words that seemed to intimate that Shelley should not be permitted the care of any of his children, and for a moment he feared that our infant son would be torn from us. He did not hesitate to resolve, if such were menaced, to abandon country, fortune, everything, and to escape with his child; and I find some unfinished stanzas addressed to this son, whom afterwards we lost at Rome, written under the idea that we might suddenly be forced to cross the sea, so to preserve him. This poem, as well as the one previously quoted, were not written to exhibit the pangs of distress to the public; they were the spontaneous outbursts of a man who brooded over his wrongs and woes, and was impelled to shed the grace of his genius over the uncontrollable emotions of his heart. I ought to observe that the fourth verse of this effusion is introduced in “Rosalind and Helen”. When afterwards this child died at Rome, he wrote, a propos of the English burying-ground in that city: ‘This spot is the repository of a sacred loss, of which the yearnings of a parent’s heart are now prophetic; he is rendered immortal by love, as his memory is by death. My beloved child lies buried here. I envy death the body far less than the oppressors the minds of those whom they have torn from me. The one can only kill the body, the other crushes the affections.’
***
[‘Found by Mr. Townshend Meyer among the papers of Leigh Hunt, [and] published in the “St. James’s Magazine” for March, 1876.’ (Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B.; “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, Library Edition, 1876, volume 3 page 410.) First included among Shelley’s poetical works in Mr. Forman’s Library Edition, where a facsimile of the manuscript is given. Composed February 4, 1818. See “Complete Works of John Keats”, edition H. Buxton Forman, Glasgow, 1901, volume 4 page 76.]
Month after month the gathered rains descendDrenching yon secret Aethiopian dells,And from the desert’s ice-girt pinnaclesWhere Frost and Heat in strange embraces blendOn Atlas, fields of moist snow half depend. _5Girt there with blasts and meteors Tempest dwellsBy Nile’s aereal urn, with rapid spellsUrging those waters to their mighty end.O’er Egypt’s land of Memory floods are levelAnd they are thine, O Nile—and well thou knowest _10That soul-sustaining airs and blasts of evilAnd fruits and poisons spring where’er thou flowest.Beware, O Man—for knowledge must to thee,Like the great flood to Egypt, ever be.
***
[Composed May 4, 1818. Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. There is a copy amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian Library, which supplies the last word of the fragment.]
Listen, listen, Mary mine,To the whisper of the Apennine,It bursts on the roof like the thunder’s roar,Or like the sea on a northern shore,Heard in its raging ebb and flow _5By the captives pent in the cave below.The Apennine in the light of dayIs a mighty mountain dim and gray,Which between the earth and sky doth lay;But when night comes, a chaos dread _10On the dim starlight then is spread,And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm,Shrouding…
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.Wilt thou forget the happy hoursWhich we buried in Love’s sweet bowers,Heaping over their corpses coldBlossoms and leaves, instead of mould?Blossoms which were the joys that fell, _5And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
2.Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yetThere are ghosts that may take revenge for it,Memories that make the heart a tomb,Regrets which glide through the spirit’s gloom, _10And with ghastly whispers tellThat joy, once lost, is pain.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
O Mary dear, that you were hereWith your brown eyes bright and clear.And your sweet voice, like a birdSinging love to its lone mateIn the ivy bower disconsolate; _5Voice the sweetest ever heard!And your brow more…Than the … skyOf this azure Italy.Mary dear, come to me soon, _10I am not well whilst thou art far;As sunset to the sphered moon,As twilight to the western star,Thou, beloved, art to me.
O Mary dear, that you were here; _15The Castle echo whispers ‘Here!’
***
[Published by Hunt, “Literary Pocket-Book”, 1821. Reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. Again reprinted, with several variants, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition. Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1821. A transcript is extant in a letter from Shelley to Sophia Stacey, dated March 7, 1820.]
1.The odour from the flower is goneWhich like thy kisses breathed on me;The colour from the flower is flownWhich glowed of thee and only thee!
2.A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form, _5It lies on my abandoned breast,And mocks the heart which yet is warm,With cold and silent rest.
3.I weep,—my tears revive it not!I sigh,—it breathes no more on me; _10Its mute and uncomplaining lotIs such as mine should be.
NOTES: _1 odour]colour 1839. _2 kisses breathed]sweet eyes smiled 1839. _3 colour]odour 1839. _4 glowed]breathed 1839. _5 shrivelled]withered 1839. _8 cold and silent all editions; its cold, silent Stacey manuscript.
***
[Composed at Este, October, 1818. Published with “Rosalind and Helen”, 1819. Amongst the late Mr. Fredk. Locker-Lampson’s collections at Rowfant there is a manuscript of the lines (167-205) on Byron, interpolated after the completion of the poem.]
Many a green isle needs must beIn the deep wide sea of Misery,Or the mariner, worn and wan,Never thus could voyage on—Day and night, and night and day, _5Drifting on his dreary way,With the solid darkness blackClosing round his vessel’s track:Whilst above the sunless sky,Big with clouds, hangs heavily, _10And behind the tempest fleetHurries on with lightning feet,Riving sail, and cord, and plank,Till the ship has almost drankDeath from the o’er-brimming deep; _15And sinks down, down, like that sleepWhen the dreamer seems to beWeltering through eternity;And the dim low line beforeOf a dark and distant shore _20Still recedes, as ever stillLonging with divided will,But no power to seek or shun,He is ever drifted onO’er the unreposing wave _25To the haven of the grave.What, if there no friends will greet;What, if there no heart will meetHis with love’s impatient beat;Wander wheresoe’er he may, _30Can he dream before that dayTo find refuge from distressIn friendship’s smile, in love’s caress?Then ‘twill wreak him little woeWhether such there be or no: _35Senseless is the breast, and cold,Which relenting love would fold;Bloodless are the veins and chillWhich the pulse of pain did fill;Every little living nerve _40That from bitter words did swerveRound the tortured lips and brow,Are like sapless leaflets nowFrozen upon December’s bough.
On the beach of a northern sea _45Which tempests shake eternally,As once the wretch there lay to sleep,Lies a solitary heap,One white skull and seven dry bones,On the margin of the stones, _50Where a few gray rushes stand,Boundaries of the sea and land:Nor is heard one voice of wailBut the sea-mews, as they sailO’er the billows of the gale; _55Or the whirlwind up and downHowling, like a slaughtered town,When a king in glory ridesThrough the pomp of fratricides:Those unburied bones around _60There is many a mournful sound;There is no lament for him,Like a sunless vapour, dim,Who once clothed with life and thoughtWhat now moves nor murmurs not. _65
Ay, many flowering islands lieIn the waters of wide Agony:To such a one this morn was led,My bark by soft winds piloted:‘Mid the mountains Euganean _70I stood listening to the paeanWith which the legioned rooks did hailThe sun’s uprise majestical;Gathering round with wings all hoar,Through the dewy mist they soar _75Like gray shades, till the eastern heavenBursts, and then, as clouds of even,Flecked with fire and azure, lieIn the unfathomable sky,So their plumes of purple grain, _80Starred with drops of golden rain,Gleam above the sunlight woods,As in silent multitudesOn the morning’s fitful galeThrough the broken mist they sail, _85And the vapours cloven and gleamingFollow, down the dark steep streaming,Till all is bright, and clear, and still,Round the solitary hill.
Beneath is spread like a green sea _90The waveless plain of Lombardy,Bounded by the vaporous air,Islanded by cities fair;Underneath Day’s azure eyesOcean’s nursling, Venice lies, _95A peopled labyrinth of walls,Amphitrite’s destined halls,Which her hoary sire now pavesWith his blue and beaming waves.Lo! the sun upsprings behind, _100Broad, red, radiant, half-reclinedOn the level quivering lineOf the waters crystalline;And before that chasm of light,As within a furnace bright, _105Column, tower, and dome, and spire,Shine like obelisks of fire,Pointing with inconstant motionFrom the altar of dark oceanTo the sapphire-tinted skies; _110As the flames of sacrificeFrom the marble shrines did rise,As to pierce the dome of goldWhere Apollo spoke of old.
Sun-girt City, thou hast been _115Ocean’s child, and then his queen;Now is come a darker day,And thou soon must be his prey,If the power that raised thee hereHallow so thy watery bier. _120A less drear ruin then than now,With thy conquest-branded browStooping to the slave of slavesFrom thy throne, among the wavesWilt thou be, when the sea-mew _125Flies, as once before it flew,O’er thine isles depopulate,And all is in its ancient state,Save where many a palace gate _130With green sea-flowers overgrownLike a rock of Ocean’s own,Topples o’er the abandoned seaAs the tides change sullenly.The fisher on his watery way,Wandering at the close of day, _135Will spread his sail and seize his oarTill he pass the gloomy shore,Lest thy dead should, from their sleepBursting o’er the starlight deep,Lead a rapid masque of death _140O’er the waters of his path.
Those who alone thy towers beholdQuivering through aereal gold,As I now behold them here,Would imagine not they were _145Sepulchres, where human forms,Like pollution-nourished worms,To the corpse of greatness cling,Murdered, and now mouldering:But if Freedom should awake _150In her omnipotence, and shakeFrom the Celtic Anarch’s holdAll the keys of dungeons cold,Where a hundred cities lieChained like thee, ingloriously, _155Thou and all thy sister bandMight adorn this sunny land,Twining memories of old timeWith new virtues more sublime;If not, perish thou and they!— _160Clouds which stain truth’s rising dayBy her sun consumed away—Earth can spare ye: while like flowers,In the waste of years and hours,From your dust new nations spring _165With more kindly blossoming.
Perish—let there only beFloating o’er thy hearthless seaAs the garment of thy skyClothes the world immortally, _170One remembrance, more sublimeThan the tattered pall of time,Which scarce hides thy visage wan;—That a tempest-cleaving SwanOf the songs of Albion, _175Driven from his ancestral streamsBy the might of evil dreams,Found a nest in thee; and OceanWelcomed him with such emotionThat its joy grew his, and sprung _180From his lips like music flungO’er a mighty thunder-fit,Chastening terror:—what though yetPoesy’s unfailing River,Which through Albion winds forever _185Lashing with melodious waveMany a sacred Poet’s grave,Mourn its latest nursling fled?What though thou with all thy deadScarce can for this fame repay _190Aught thine own? oh, rather sayThough thy sins and slaveries foulOvercloud a sunlike soul?As the ghost of Homer clingsRound Scamander’s wasting springs; _195As divinest Shakespeare’s mightFills Avon and the world with lightLike omniscient power which heImaged ‘mid mortality;As the love from Petrarch’s urn, _200Yet amid yon hills doth burn,A quenchless lamp by which the heartSees things unearthly;—so thou art,Mighty spirit—so shall beThe City that did refuge thee. _205
Lo, the sun floats up the skyLike thought-winged Liberty,Till the universal lightSeems to level plain and height;From the sea a mist has spread, _210And the beams of morn lie deadOn the towers of Venice now,Like its glory long ago.By the skirts of that gray cloudMany-domed Padua proud _215Stands, a peopled solitude,‘Mid the harvest-shining plain,Where the peasant heaps his grainIn the garner of his foe,And the milk-white oxen slow _220With the purple vintage strain,Heaped upon the creaking wain,That the brutal Celt may swillDrunken sleep with savage will;And the sickle to the sword _225Lies unchanged, though many a lord,Like a weed whose shade is poison,Overgrows this region’s foison,Sheaves of whom are ripe to comeTo destruction’s harvest-home: _230Men must reap the things they sow,Force from force must ever flow,Or worse; but ’tis a bitter woeThat love or reason cannot changeThe despot’s rage, the slave’s revenge. _235
Padua, thou within whose wallsThose mute guests at festivals,Son and Mother, Death and Sin,Played at dice for Ezzelin,Till Death cried, “I win, I win!” _240And Sin cursed to lose the wager,But Death promised, to assuage her,That he would petition forHer to be made Vice-Emperor,When the destined years were o’er, _245Over all between the PoAnd the eastern Alpine snow,Under the mighty Austrian.Sin smiled so as Sin only can,And since that time, ay, long before, _250Both have ruled from shore to shore,—That incestuous pair, who followTyrants as the sun the swallow,As Repentance follows Crime,And as changes follow Time. _255
In thine halls the lamp of learning,Padua, now no more is burning;Like a meteor, whose wild wayIs lost over the grave of day,It gleams betrayed and to betray: _260Once remotest nations cameTo adore that sacred flame,When it lit not many a hearthOn this cold and gloomy earth:Now new fires from antique light _265Spring beneath the wide world’s might;But their spark lies dead in thee,Trampled out by Tyranny.As the Norway woodman quells,In the depth of piny dells, _270One light flame among the brakes,While the boundless forest shakes,And its mighty trunks are tornBy the fire thus lowly born:The spark beneath his feet is dead, _275He starts to see the flames it fedHowling through the darkened skyWith a myriad tongues victoriously,And sinks down in fear: so thou,O Tyranny, beholdest now _280Light around thee, and thou hearestThe loud flames ascend, and fearest:Grovel on the earth; ay, hideIn the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now: _285’Tis the noon of autumn’s glow,When a soft and purple mistLike a vaporous amethyst,Or an air-dissolved starMingling light and fragrance, far _290From the curved horizon’s boundTo the point of Heaven’s profound,Fills the overflowing sky;And the plains that silent lieUnderneath, the leaves unsodden _295Where the infant Frost has troddenWith his morning-winged feet,Whose bright print is gleaming yet;And the red and golden vines,Piercing with their trellised lines _300The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;The dun and bladed grass no less,Pointing from this hoary towerIn the windless air; the flowerGlimmering at my feet; the line _305Of the olive-sandalled ApennineIn the south dimly islanded;And the Alps, whose snows are spreadHigh between the clouds and sun;And of living things each one; _310And my spirit which so longDarkened this swift stream of song,—Interpenetrated lieBy the glory of the sky:Be it love, light, harmony, _315Odour, or the soul of allWhich from Heaven like dew doth fall,Or the mind which feeds this versePeopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon _320Autumn’s evening meets me soon,Leading the infantine moon,And that one star, which to herAlmost seems to ministerHalf the crimson light she brings _325From the sunset’s radiant springs:And the soft dreams of the morn(Which like winged winds had borneTo that silent isle, which liesMid remembered agonies, _330The frail bark of this lone being)Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,And its ancient pilot, Pain,Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be _335In the sea of Life and Agony:Other spirits float and fleeO’er that gulf: even now, perhaps,On some rock the wild wave wraps,With folded wings they waiting sit _340For my bark, to pilot itTo some calm and blooming cove,Where for me, and those I love,May a windless bower be built,Far from passion, pain, and guilt, _345In a dell mid lawny hills,Which the wild sea-murmur fills,And soft sunshine, and the soundOf old forests echoing round,And the light and smell divine _350Of all flowers that breathe and shine:We may live so happy there,That the Spirits of the Air,Envying us, may even enticeTo our healing Paradise _355The polluting multitude;But their rage would be subduedBy that clime divine and calm,And the winds whose wings rain balmOn the uplifted soul, and leaves _360Under which the bright sea heaves;While each breathless intervalIn their whisperings musicalThe inspired soul suppliesWith its own deep melodies; _365And the love which heals all strifeCircling, like the breath of life,All things in that sweet abodeWith its own mild brotherhood,They, not it, would change; and soon _370Every sprite beneath the moonWould repent its envy vain,And the earth grow young again.
NOTES: _54 seamews 1819; seamew’s Rossetti. _115 Sun-girt]Sea-girt cj. Palgrave. _165 From your dust new 1819; From thy dust shall Rowfant manuscript (heading of lines 167-205). _175 songs 1819; sons cj. Forman. _278 a 1819; wanting, 1839.
***
[Composed, 1818. Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
MADDALO:No access to the Duke! You have not saidThat the Count Maddalo would speak with him?
PIGNA:Did you inform his Grace that Signor PignaWaits with state papers for his signature?
MALPIGLIO:The Lady Leonora cannot know _5That I have written a sonnet to her fame,In which I … Venus and Adonis.You should not take my gold and serve me not.
ALBANO:In truth I told her, and she smiled and said,‘If I am Venus, thou, coy Poesy, _10Art the Adonis whom I love, and heThe Erymanthian boar that wounded him.’O trust to me, Signor Malpiglio,Those nods and smiles were favours worth the zechin.
MALPIGLIO:The words are twisted in some double sense _15That I reach not: the smiles fell not on me.
PIGNA:How are the Duke and Duchess occupied?
ALBANO:Buried in some strange talk. The Duke was leaning,His finger on his brow, his lips unclosed.The Princess sate within the window-seat, _20And so her face was hid; but on her kneeHer hands were clasped, veined, and pale as snow,And quivering—young Tasso, too, was there.
MADDALO:Thou seest on whom from thine own worshipped heavenThou drawest down smiles—they did not rain on thee. _25
MALPIGLIO:Would they were parching lightnings for his sakeOn whom they fell!
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.I loved—alas! our life is love;But when we cease to breathe and moveI do suppose love ceases too.I thought, but not as now I do,Keen thoughts and bright of linked lore, _5Of all that men had thought before.And all that Nature shows, and more.
2.And still I love and still I think,But strangely, for my heart can drinkThe dregs of such despair, and live, _10And love;…And if I think, my thoughts come fast,I mix the present with the past,And each seems uglier than the last.
3.Sometimes I see before me flee _15A silver spirit’s form, like thee,O Leonora, and I sit…still watching it,Till by the grated casement’s ledgeIt fades, with such a sigh, as sedge _20Breathes o’er the breezy streamlet’s edge.
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, September 8, 1832. Reprinted (as “Misery, a Fragment”) by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition. Our text is that of 1839. A pencil copy of this poem is amongst the Shelley manuscripts at the Bodleian Library. See Mr. C.D. Locock’s “Examination”, etc., 1903, page 38. The readings of this copy are indicated by the letter B. in the footnotes.]
1.Come, be happy!—sit near me,Shadow-vested Misery:Coy, unwilling, silent bride,Mourning in thy robe of pride,Desolation—deified! _5
2.Come, be happy!—sit near me:Sad as I may seem to thee,I am happier far than thou,Lady, whose imperial browIs endiademed with woe. _10
3.Misery! we have known each other,Like a sister and a brotherLiving in the same lone home,Many years—we must live someHours or ages yet to come. _15
4.’Tis an evil lot, and yetLet us make the best of it;If love can live when pleasure dies,We two will love, till in our eyesThis heart’s Hell seem Paradise. _20
5.Come, be happy!—lie thee downOn the fresh grass newly mown,Where the Grasshopper doth singMerrily—one joyous thingIn a world of sorrowing! _25
6.There our tent shall be the willow,And mine arm shall be thy pillow;Sounds and odours, sorrowfulBecause they once were sweet, shall lullUs to slumber, deep and dull. _30
7.Ha! thy frozen pulses flutterWith a love thou darest not utter.Thou art murmuring—thou art weeping—Is thine icy bosom leapingWhile my burning heart lies sleeping? _35
8.Kiss me;—oh! thy lips are cold:Round my neck thine arms enfold—They are soft, but chill and dead;And thy tears upon my headBurn like points of frozen lead. _40
9.Hasten to the bridal bed—Underneath the grave ’tis spread:In darkness may our love be hid,Oblivion be our coverlid—We may rest, and none forbid. _45
10.Clasp me till our hearts be grownLike two shadows into one;Till this dreadful transport mayLike a vapour fade away,In the sleep that lasts alway. _50
11.We may dream, in that long sleep,That we are not those who weep;E’en as Pleasure dreams of thee,Life-deserting Misery,Thou mayst dream of her with me. _55
12.Let us laugh, and make our mirth,At the shadows of the earth,As dogs bay the moonlight clouds,Which, like spectres wrapped in shrouds,Pass o’er night in multitudes. _60
13.All the wide world, beside us,Show like multitudinousPuppets passing from a scene;What but mockery can they mean,Where I am—where thou hast been? _65
NOTES: _1 near B., 1839; by 1832. _8 happier far]merrier yet B. _15 Hours or]Years and 1832. _17 best]most 1832. _19 We two will]We will 1832. _27 mine arm shall be thy B., 1839; thine arm shall be my 1832. _33 represented by asterisks, 1832. _34, _35 Thou art murmuring, thou art weeping, Whilst my burning bosom’s leaping 1832; Was thine icy bosom leaping While my burning heart was sleeping B. _40 frozen 1832, 1839, B.; molten cj. Forman. _44 be]is B. _47 shadows]lovers 1832, B. _59 which B., 1839; that 1832. _62 Show]Are 1832, B. _63 Puppets passing]Shadows shifting 1832; Shadows passing B. _64, _65 So B.: What but mockery may they mean? Where am I?—Where thou hast been 1832.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, where it is dated ‘December, 1818.’ A draft of stanza 1 is amongst the Boscombe manuscripts. (Garnett).]
1.The sun is warm, the sky is clear,The waves are dancing fast and bright,Blue isles and snowy mountains wearThe purple noon’s transparent might,The breath of the moist earth is light, _5Around its unexpanded buds;Like many a voice of one delight,The winds, the birds, the ocean floods,The City’s voice itself, is soft like Solitude’s.
2.I see the Deep’s untrampled floor _10With green and purple seaweeds strown;I see the waves upon the shore,Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:I sit upon the sands alone,—The lightning of the noontide ocean _15Is flashing round me, and a toneArises from its measured motion,How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.
3.Alas! I have nor hope nor health,Nor peace within nor calm around, _20Nor that content surpassing wealthThe sage in meditation found,And walked with inward glory crowned—Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.Others I see whom these surround— _25Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;—To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
4.Yet now despair itself is mild,Even as the winds and waters are;I could lie down like a tired child, _30And weep away the life of careWhich I have borne and yet must bear,Till death like sleep might steal on me,And I might feel in the warm airMy cheek grow cold, and hear the sea _35Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.
5.Some might lament that I were cold,As I, when this sweet day is gone,Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,Insults with this untimely moan; _40They might lament—for I am oneWhom men love not,—and yet regret,Unlike this day, which, when the sunShall on its stainless glory set,Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet. _45
NOTES: _4 might Boscombe manuscript, Medwin 1847; light 1824, 1839. _5 The…light Boscombe manuscript, 1839, Medwin 1847; omitted, 1824. moist earth Boscombe manuscript; moist air 1839; west wind Medwin 1847. _17 measured 1824; mingled 1847. _18 did any heart now 1824; if any heart could Medwin 1847. _31 the 1824; this Medwin 1847. _36 dying 1824; outworn Medwin 1847.
***
[Published in part (1-67) by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; the remainder (68-70) by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
A woodman whose rough heart was out of tune(I think such hearts yet never came to good)Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,
One nightingale in an interfluous woodSatiate the hungry dark with melody;— _5And as a vale is watered by a flood,
Or as the moonlight fills the open skyStruggling with darkness—as a tuberosePeoples some Indian dell with scents which lie
Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, _10The singing of that happy nightingaleIn this sweet forest, from the golden close
Of evening till the star of dawn may fail,Was interfused upon the silentness;The folded roses and the violets pale _15
Heard her within their slumbers, the abyssOf heaven with all its planets; the dull earOf the night-cradled earth; the loneliness
Of the circumfluous waters,—every sphereAnd every flower and beam and cloud and wave, _20And every wind of the mute atmosphere,
And every beast stretched in its rugged cave,And every bird lulled on its mossy bough,And every silver moth fresh from the grave
Which is its cradle—ever from below _25Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far,To be consumed within the purest glow
Of one serene and unapproached star,As if it were a lamp of earthly light,Unconscious, as some human lovers are, _30
Itself how low, how high beyond all heightThe heaven where it would perish!—and every formThat worshipped in the temple of the night
Was awed into delight, and by the charmGirt as with an interminable zone, _35Whilst that sweet bird, whose music was a storm
Of sound, shook forth the dull oblivionOut of their dreams; harmony became loveIn every soul but one.
…
And so this man returned with axe and saw _40At evening close from killing the tall treen,The soul of whom by Nature’s gentle law
Was each a wood-nymph, and kept ever greenThe pavement and the roof of the wild copse,Chequering the sunlight of the blue serene _45
With jagged leaves,—and from the forest topsSinging the winds to sleep—or weeping oftFast showers of aereal water-drops
Into their mother’s bosom, sweet and soft,Nature’s pure tears which have no bitterness;— _50Around the cradles of the birds aloft
They spread themselves into the lovelinessOf fan-like leaves, and over pallid flowersHang like moist clouds:—or, where high branches kiss,
Make a green space among the silent bowers, _55Like a vast fane in a metropolis,Surrounded by the columns and the towers
All overwrought with branch-like traceriesIn which there is religion—and the mutePersuasion of unkindled melodies, _60
Odours and gleams and murmurs, which the luteOf the blind pilot-spirit of the blastStirs as it sails, now grave and now acute,
Wakening the leaves and waves, ere it has passedTo such brief unison as on the brain _65One tone, which never can recur, has cast,One accent never to return again.
…
The world is full of Woodmen who expelLove’s gentle Dryads from the haunts of life,And vex the nightingales in every dell. _70
NOTE: _8 —or as a tuberose cj. A.C. Bradley.
***
MARENGHI. (This fragment refers to an event told in Sismondi’s “Histoire des Republiques Italiennes”, which occurred during the war when Florence finally subdued Pisa, and reduced it to a province.—[MRS. SHELLEY’S NOTE, 1824.])
[Published in part (stanzas 7-15.) by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; stanzas 1-28 by W.M. Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870. The Boscombe manuscript—evidently a first draft—from which (through Dr. Garnett) Rossetti derived the text of 1870 is now at the Bodleian, and has recently been collated by Mr. C.D. Locock, to whom the enlarged and amended text here printed is owing. The substitution, in title and text, of “Marenghi” for “Mazenghi” (1824) is due to Rossetti. Here as elsewhere in the footnotes B. = the Bodleian manuscript.]
1.Let those who pine in pride or in revenge,Or think that ill for ill should be repaid,Who barter wrong for wrong, until the exchangeRuins the merchants of such thriftless trade,Visit the tower of Vado, and unlearn _5Such bitter faith beside Marenghi’s urn.
2.A massy tower yet overhangs the town,A scattered group of ruined dwellings now…
…
3.Another scene are wise Etruria knewIts second ruin through internal strife _10And tyrants through the breach of discord threwThe chain which binds and kills. As death to life,As winter to fair flowers (though some be poison)So Monarchy succeeds to Freedom’s foison.
4.In Pisa’s church a cup of sculptured gold _15Was brimming with the blood of feuds forsworn:A Sacrament more holy ne’er of oldEtrurians mingled mid the shades forlornOf moon-illumined forests, when…
5.And reconciling factions wet their lips _20With that dread wine, and swear to keep each spiritUndarkened by their country’s last eclipse…
…
6.Was Florence the liberticide? that bandOf free and glorious brothers who had planted,Like a green isle mid Aethiopian sand, _25A nation amid slaveries, disenchantedOf many impious faiths—wise, just—do they,Does Florence, gorge the sated tyrants’ prey?
7.O foster-nurse of man’s abandoned glory,Since Athens, its great mother, sunk in splendour; _30Thou shadowest forth that mighty shape in story,As ocean its wrecked fanes, severe yet tender:—The light-invested angel PoesyWas drawn from the dim world to welcome thee.
8.And thou in painting didst transcribe all taught _35By loftiest meditations; marble knewThe sculptor’s fearless soul—and as he wrought,The grace of his own power and freedom grew.And more than all, heroic, just, sublime,Thou wart among the false…was this thy crime? _40
9.Yes; and on Pisa’s marble walls the twineOf direst weeds hangs garlanded—the snakeInhabits its wrecked palaces;—in thineA beast of subtler venom now doth makeIts lair, and sits amid their glories overthrown, _45And thus thy victim’s fate is as thine own.
10.The sweetest flowers are ever frail and rare,And love and freedom blossom but to wither;And good and ill like vines entangled are,So that their grapes may oft be plucked together;— _50Divide the vintage ere thou drink, then makeThy heart rejoice for dead Marenghi’s sake.
10a.[Albert] Marenghi was a Florentine;If he had wealth, or children, or a wifeOr friends, [or farm] or cherished thoughts which twine _55The sights and sounds of home with life’s own lifeOf these he was despoiled and Florence sent…
…
11.No record of his crime remains in story,But if the morning bright as evening shone, _60It was some high and holy deed, by gloryPursued into forgetfulness, which wonFrom the blind crowd he made secure and freeThe patriot’s meed, toil, death, and infamy.
12.For when by sound of trumpet was declaredA price upon his life, and there was set _65A penalty of blood on all who sharedSo much of water with him as might wetHis lips, which speech divided not—he wentAlone, as you may guess, to banishment.
13.Amid the mountains, like a hunted beast,He hid himself, and hunger, toil, and cold, _70Month after month endured; it was a feastWhene’er he found those globes of deep-red goldWhich in the woods the strawberry-tree doth bear,Suspended in their emerald atmosphere. _75
14.And in the roofless huts of vast morasses,Deserted by the fever-stricken serf,All overgrown with reeds and long rank grasses,And hillocks heaped of moss-inwoven turf,And where the huge and speckled aloe made, _80Rooted in stones, a broad and pointed shade,—
15.He housed himself. There is a point of strandNear Vado’s tower and town; and on one sideThe treacherous marsh divides it from the land,Shadowed by pine and ilex forests wide, _85And on the other, creeps eternally,Through muddy weeds, the shallow sullen sea.
16.Here the earth’s breath is pestilence, and fewBut things whose nature is at war with life—Snakes and ill worms—endure its mortal dew.The trophies of the clime’s victorious strife— _90And ringed horns which the buffalo did wear,And the wolf’s dark gray scalp who tracked him there.
17.And at the utmost point…stood thereThe relics of a reed-inwoven cot, _95Thatched with broad flags. An outlawed murdererHad lived seven days there: the pursuit was hotWhen he was cold. The birds that were his graveFell dead after their feast in Vado’s wave.
18.There must have burned within Marenghi’s breast _100That fire, more warm and bright than life and hope,(Which to the martyr makes his dungeon…More joyous than free heaven’s majestic copeTo his oppressor), warring with decay,—Or he could ne’er have lived years, day by day. _105
19.Nor was his state so lone as you might think.He had tamed every newt and snake and toad,And every seagull which sailed down to drinkThose freshes ere the death-mist went abroad.And each one, with peculiar talk and play, _110Wiled, not untaught, his silent time away.
20.And the marsh-meteors, like tame beasts, at nightCame licking with blue tongues his veined feet;And he would watch them, as, like spirits bright,In many entangled figures quaint and sweet _115To some enchanted music they would dance—Until they vanished at the first moon-glance.
21.He mocked the stars by grouping on each weedThe summer dew-globes in the golden dawn;And, ere the hoar-frost languished, he could read _120Its pictured path, as on bare spots of lawnIts delicate brief touch in silver weavesThe likeness of the wood’s remembered leaves.
22.And many a fresh Spring morn would he awaken—While yet the unrisen sun made glow, like iron _125Quivering in crimson fire, the peaks unshakenOf mountains and blue isles which did environWith air-clad crags that plain of land and sea,—And feel … liberty.
23.And in the moonless nights when the dun ocean _130Heaved underneath wide heaven, star-impearled,Starting from dreams…Communed with the immeasurable world;And felt his life beyond his limbs dilated,Till his mind grew like that it contemplated. _135
24.His food was the wild fig and strawberry;The milky pine-nuts which the autumn-blastShakes into the tall grass; or such small fryAs from the sea by winter-storms are cast;And the coarse bulbs of iris-flowers he found _140Knotted in clumps under the spongy ground.
25.And so were kindled powers and thoughts which madeHis solitude less dark. When memory came(For years gone by leave each a deepening shade),His spirit basked in its internal flame,— _145As, when the black storm hurries round at night,The fisher basks beside his red firelight.
26.Yet human hopes and cares and faiths and errors,Like billows unawakened by the wind,Slept in Marenghi still; but that all terrors, _150Weakness, and doubt, had withered in his mind.His couch…
…
27.And, when he saw beneath the sunset’s planetA black ship walk over the crimson ocean,—Its pennon streaming on the blasts that fan it, _155Its sails and ropes all tense and without motion,Like the dark ghost of the unburied evenStriding athwart the orange-coloured heaven,—
28.The thought of his own kind who made the soulWhich sped that winged shape through night and day,— _160The thought of his own country…
…
NOTES: _3 Who B.; Or 1870. _6 Marenghi’s 1870; Mazenghi’s B. _7 town 1870; sea B. _8 ruined 1870; squalid B. (‘the whole line is cancelled,’ Locock). _11 threw 1870; cancelled, B. _17 A Sacrament more B.; At Sacrament: more 1870. _18 mid B.; with 1870. _19 forests when… B.; forests. 1870. _23, _24 that band Of free and glorious brothers who had 1870; omitted, B. _25 a 1870; one B. _27 wise, just—do they 1870; omitted, B. _28 Does 1870; Doth B. prey 1870; spoil B. _33 angel 1824; Herald [?] B. _34 to welcome thee 1824; cancelled for… by thee B. _42 direst 1824; Desert B. _45 sits amid 1824 amid cancelled for soils (?) B. _53-_57 Albert…sent B.; omitted 1824, 1870. Albert cancelled B.: Pietro is the correct name. _53 Marenghi]Mazenghi B. _55 farm doubtful: perh. fame (Locock). _62 he 1824; thus B. _70 Amid the mountains 1824; Mid desert mountains [?] B. _71 toil, and cold]cold and toil editions 1824, 1839. _92, _93 And… there B. (see Editor’s Note); White bones, and locks of dun and yellow hair, And ringed horns which buffaloes did wear— 1870. _94 at the utmost point 1870; cancelled for when (where?) B. _95 reed B.; weed 1870. _99 after B.; upon 1870. _100 burned within Marenghi’s breast B.; lived within Marenghi’s heart 1870. _101 and B.; or 1870. _103 free B.; the 1870. _109 freshes B.; omitted, 1870. _118 by 1870; with B. _119 dew-globes B.; dewdrops 1870. _120 languished B.; vanished 1870. _121 path, as on [bare] B.; footprints, as on 1870. _122 silver B.; silence 1870. _130 And in the moonless nights 1870; cancelled, B. dun B.; dim 1870. _131 Heaved 1870; cancelled, B. wide B.; the 1870. star-impearled B.; omitted, 1870. _132 Starting from dreams 1870; cancelled for He B. _137 autumn B.; autumnal 1870. _138 or B.; and 1870. _155 pennon B.; pennons 1870. _158 athwart B.; across 1870.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.Our text is that of the “Poetical Works”, 1839.]
Lift not the painted veil which those who liveCall Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,And it but mimic all we would believeWith colours idly spread,—behind, lurk FearAnd Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave _5Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,For his lost heart was tender, things to loveBut found them not, alas! nor was there aughtThe world contains, the which he could approve. _10Through the unheeding many he did move,A splendour among shadows, a bright blotUpon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that stroveFor truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
NOTES: _6 Their…drear 1839; The shadows, which the world calls substance, there 1824. _7 who had lifted 1839; who lifted 1824.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
O mighty mind, in whose deep stream this ageShakes like a reed in the unheeding storm,Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage?
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862. A transcript by Mrs. Shelley, given to Charles Cowden Clarke, presents one or two variants.]
Silence! Oh, well are Death and Sleep and ThouThree brethren named, the guardians gloomy-wingedOf one abyss, where life, and truth, and joyAre swallowed up—yet spare me, Spirit, pity me,Until the sounds I hear become my soul, _5And it has left these faint and weary limbs,To track along the lapses of the airThis wandering melody until it restsAmong lone mountains in some…
NOTES: _4 Spirit 1862; O Spirit C.C.C. manuscript. _8 This wandering melody 1862; These wandering melodies… C.C.C. manuscript.
***
[Published by W.M. Rossetti, 1870.]
The fierce beasts of the woods and wildernessesTrack not the steps of him who drinks of it;For the light breezes, which for ever fleetAround its margin, heap the sand thereon.
***
[Published by W.M. Rossetti, 1870.]
My head is wild with weeping for a griefWhich is the shadow of a gentle mind.I walk into the air (but no reliefTo seek,—or haply, if I sought, to find;It came unsought);—to wonder that a chief _5Among men’s spirits should be cold and blind.
NOTE: _4 find cj. A.C. Bradley.
***
[Published by W.M. Rossetti, 1870.]
Flourishing vine, whose kindling clusters glowBeneath the autumnal sun, none taste of thee;For thou dost shroud a ruin, and belowThe rotting bones of dead antiquity.
***
We often hear of persons disappointed by a first visit to Italy. This was not Shelley’s case. The aspect of its nature, its sunny sky, its majestic storms, of the luxuriant vegetation of the country, and the noble marble-built cities, enchanted him. The sight of the works of art was full enjoyment and wonder. He had not studied pictures or statues before; he now did so with the eye of taste, that referred not to the rules of schools, but to those of Nature and truth. The first entrance to Rome opened to him a scene of remains of antique grandeur that far surpassed his expectations; and the unspeakable beauty of Naples and its environs added to the impression he received of the transcendent and glorious beauty of Italy.
Our winter was spent at Naples. Here he wrote the fragments of “Marenghi” and “The Woodman and the Nightingale”, which he afterwards threw aside. At this time, Shelley suffered greatly in health. He put himself under the care of a medical man, who promised great things, and made him endure severe bodily pain, without any good results. Constant and poignant physical suffering exhausted him; and though he preserved the appearance of cheerfulness, and often greatly enjoyed our wanderings in the environs of Naples, and our excursions on its sunny sea, yet many hours were passed when his thoughts, shadowed by illness, became gloomy,—and then he escaped to solitude, and in verses, which he hid from fear of wounding me, poured forth morbid but too natural bursts of discontent and sadness. One looks back with unspeakable regret and gnawing remorse to such periods; fancying that, had one been more alive to the nature of his feelings, and more attentive to soothe them, such would not have existed. And yet, enjoying as he appeared to do every sight or influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine that any melancholy he showed was aught but the effect of the constant pain to which he was a martyr.
We lived in utter solitude. And such is often not the nurse of cheerfulness; for then, at least with those who have been exposed to adversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too intently; while the society of the enlightened, the witty, and the wise, enables us to forget ourselves by making us the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a portion of the philosophy of happiness. Shelley never liked society in numbers,—it harassed and wearied him; but neither did he like loneliness, and usually, when alone, sheltered himself against memory and reflection in a book. But, with one or two whom he loved, he gave way to wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious conversation expounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence. If an argument arose, no man ever argued better. He was clear, logical, and earnest, in supporting his own views; attentive, patient, and impartial, while listening to those on the adverse side. Had not a wall of prejudice been raised at this time between him and his countrymen, how many would have sought the acquaintance of one whom to know was to love and to revere! How many of the more enlightened of his contemporaries have since regretted that they did not seek him! how very few knew his worth while he lived! and, of those few, several were withheld by timidity or envy from declaring their sense of it. But no man was ever more enthusiastically loved—more looked up to, as one superior to his fellows in intellectual endowments and moral worth, by the few who knew him well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to appreciate his superiority. His excellence is now acknowledged; but, even while admitted, not duly appreciated. For who, except those who were acquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied benevolence, his generosity, his systematic forbearance? And still less is his vast superiority in intellectual attainments sufficiently understood—his sagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, his prodigious memory. All these as displayed in conversation, were known to few while he lived, and are now silent in the tomb:
‘Ahi orbo mondo ingrato!Gran cagion hai di dever pianger meco;Che quel ben ch’ era in te, perdut’ hai seco.’
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, December 8, 1832; reprinted, “Poetical Works”, 1839. There is a transcript amongst the Harvard manuscripts, and another in the possession of Mr. C.W. Frederickson of Brooklyn. Variants from these two sources are given by Professor Woodberry, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, Centenary Edition, 1893, volume 3 pages 225, 226. The transcripts are referred to in our footnotes as Harvard and Fred. respectively.]
1.Corpses are cold in the tomb;Stones on the pavement are dumb;Abortions are dead in the womb,And their mothers look pale—like the death-white shoreOf Albion, free no more. _5
2.Her sons are as stones in the way—They are masses of senseless clay—They are trodden, and move not away,—The abortion with which SHE travailethIs Liberty, smitten to death. _10
3.Then trample and dance, thou Oppressor!For thy victim is no redresser;Thou art sole lord and possessorOf her corpses, and clods, and abortions—they paveThy path to the grave. _15
4.Hearest thou the festival dinOf Death, and Destruction, and Sin,And Wealth crying “Havoc!” within?’Tis the bacchanal triumph that makes Truth dumb,Thine Epithalamium. _20
5.Ay, marry thy ghastly wife!Let Fear and Disquiet and StrifeSpread thy couch in the chamber of Life!Marry Ruin, thou Tyrant! and Hell be thy guideTo the bed of the bride! _25
NOTES: _4 death-white Harvard, Fred.; white 1832, 1839. _16 festival Harvard, Fred., 1839; festal 1832. _19 that Fred.; which Harvard 1832. _22 Disquiet Harvard, Fred., 1839; Disgust 1832. _24 Hell Fred.; God Harvard, 1832, 1839. _25 the bride Harvard, Fred., 1839; thy bride 1832.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
1.Men of England, wherefore ploughFor the lords who lay ye low?Wherefore weave with toil and careThe rich robes your tyrants wear?
2.Wherefore feed, and clothe, and save, _5From the cradle to the grave,Those ungrateful drones who wouldDrain your sweat—nay, drink your blood?
3.Wherefore, Bees of England, forgeMany a weapon, chain, and scourge, _10That these stingless drones may spoilThe forced produce of your toil?
4.Have ye leisure, comfort, calm,Shelter, food, love’s gentle balm?Or what is it ye buy so dear _15With your pain and with your fear?
5.The seed ye sow, another reaps;The wealth ye find, another keeps;The robes ye weave, another wears;The arms ye forge; another bears. _20
6.Sow seed,—but let no tyrant reap;Find wealth,—let no impostor heap;Weave robes,—let not the idle wear;Forge arms,—in your defence to bear.
7.Shrink to your cellars, holes, and cells; _25In halls ye deck another dwells.Why shake the chains ye wrought? Ye seeThe steel ye tempered glance on ye.
8.With plough and spade, and hoe and loom,Trace your grave, and build your tomb, _30And weave your winding-sheet, till fairEngland be your sepulchre.
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, August 25, 1832; reprinted byMrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839. Our title is that of 1839, 2ndedition. The poem is found amongst the Harvard manuscripts, headed “ToS—th and O—gh”.]
1.As from an ancestral oakTwo empty ravens sound their clarion,Yell by yell, and croak by croak,When they scent the noonday smokeOf fresh human carrion:— _5
2.As two gibbering night-birds flitFrom their bowers of deadly yewThrough the night to frighten it,When the moon is in a fit,And the stars are none, or few:— _10
3.As a shark and dog-fish waitUnder an Atlantic isle,For the negro-ship, whose freightIs the theme of their debate,Wrinkling their red gills the while— _15
4.Are ye, two vultures sick for battle,Two scorpions under one wet stone,Two bloodless wolves whose dry throats rattle,Two crows perched on the murrained cattle,Two vipers tangled into one. _20
NOTE: _7 yew 1832; hue 1839.
**
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
People of England, ye who toil and groan,Who reap the harvests which are not your own,Who weave the clothes which your oppressors wear,And for your own take the inclement air;Who build warm houses… _5And are like gods who give them all they have,And nurse them from the cradle to the grave…
…
***
FRAGMENT: ‘WHAT MEN GAIN FAIRLY’.(Perhaps connected with that immediately preceding (Forman).—ED.)
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.]
What men gain fairly—that they should possess,And children may inherit idleness,From him who earns it—This is understood;Private injustice may be general good.But he who gains by base and armed wrong, _5Or guilty fraud, or base compliances,May be despoiled; even as a stolen dressIs stripped from a convicted thief; and heLeft in the nakedness of infamy.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.]
1.God prosper, speed, and save,God raise from England’s graveHer murdered Queen!Pave with swift victoryThe steps of Liberty, _5Whom Britons own to beImmortal Queen.
2.See, she comes throned on high,On swift Eternity!God save the Queen! _10Millions on millions wait,Firm, rapid, and elate,On her majestic state!God save the Queen!
3.She is Thine own pure soul _15Moulding the mighty whole,—God save the Queen!She is Thine own deep loveRained down from Heaven above,—Wherever she rest or move, _20God save our Queen!
4.‘Wilder her enemiesIn their own dark disguise,—God save our Queen!All earthly things that dare _25Her sacred name to bear,Strip them, as kings are, bare;God save the Queen!
5.Be her eternal throneBuilt in our hearts alone— _30God save the Queen!Let the oppressor holdCanopied seats of gold;She sits enthroned of oldO’er our hearts Queen. _35
6.Lips touched by seraphimBreathe out the choral hymn‘God save the Queen!’Sweet as if angels sang,Loud as that trumpet’s clang _40Wakening the world’s dead gang,—God save the Queen!
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