NOTES: _2 sara]sia 1834. _4 buona]bene 1834. _9 Come]Quanto 1834.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862; revised and enlarged by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
A:Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may beholdA dark and barren field, through which there flows,Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream,Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon _5Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there.Follow the herbless banks of that strange brookUntil you pause beside a darksome pond,The fountain of this rivulet, whose gushCannot be seen, hid by a rayless night _10That lives beneath the overhanging rockThat shades the pool—an endless spring of gloom,Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,Trembling to mingle with its paramour,—But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, _15Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.On one side of this jagged and shapeless hillThere is a cave, from which there eddies upA pale mist, like aereal gossamer, _20Whose breath destroys all life—awhile it veilsThe rock—then, scattered by the wind, it fliesAlong the stream, or lingers on the clefts,Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock _25There stands a group of cypresses; not suchAs, with a graceful spire and stirring life,Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,Whose branches the air plays among, but notDisturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; _30But blasted and all wearily they stand,One to another clinging; their weak boughsSigh as the wind buffets them, and they shakeBeneath its blasts—a weatherbeaten crew!
CHORUS:What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint, _35But more melodious than the murmuring windWhich through the columns of a temple glides?
A:It is the wandering voice of Orpheus’ lyre,Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude kingHurries them fast from these air-feeding notes; _40But in their speed they bear along with themThe waning sound, scattering it like dewUpon the startled sense.
CHORUS:Does he still sing?Methought he rashly cast away his harpWhen he had lost Eurydice.
A:Ah, no! _45Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted stagA moment shudders on the fearful brinkOf a swift stream—the cruel hounds press onWith deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,—He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn _50By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief,Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,And wildly shrieked ‘Where she is, it is dark!’And then he struck from forth the strings a soundOf deep and fearful melody. Alas! _55In times long past, when fair EurydiceWith her bright eyes sat listening by his side,He gently sang of high and heavenly themes.As in a brook, fretted with little wavesBy the light airs of spring—each riplet makes _60A many-sided mirror for the sun,While it flows musically through green banks,Ceaseless and pauseless, ever clear and fresh,So flowed his song, reflecting the deep joyAnd tender love that fed those sweetest notes, _65The heavenly offspring of ambrosial food.But that is past. Returning from drear Hell,He chose a lonely seat of unhewn stone,Blackened with lichens, on a herbless plain.Then from the deep and overflowing spring _70Of his eternal ever-moving griefThere rose to Heaven a sound of angry song.’Tis as a mighty cataract that partsTwo sister rocks with waters swift and strong, _75And casts itself with horrid roar and dinAdown a steep; from a perennial sourceIt ever flows and falls, and breaks the airWith loud and fierce, but most harmonious roar,And as it falls casts up a vaporous sprayWhich the sun clothes in hues of Iris light. _80Thus the tempestuous torrent of his griefIs clothed in sweetest sounds and varying wordsOf poesy. Unlike all human works,It never slackens, and through every changeWisdom and beauty and the power divine _85Of mighty poesy together dwell,Mingling in sweet accord. As I have seenA fierce south blast tear through the darkened sky,Driving along a rack of winged clouds,Which may not pause, but ever hurry on, _90As their wild shepherd wills them, while the stars,Twinkling and dim, peep from between the plumes.Anon the sky is cleared, and the high domeOf serene Heaven, starred with fiery flowers,Shuts in the shaken earth; or the still moon _95Swiftly, yet gracefully, begins her walk,Rising all bright behind the eastern hills.I talk of moon, and wind, and stars, and notOf song; but, would I echo his high song,Nature must lend me words ne’er used before, _100Or I must borrow from her perfect works,To picture forth his perfect attributes.He does no longer sit upon his throneOf rock upon a desert herbless plain,For the evergreen and knotted ilexes, _105And cypresses that seldom wave their boughs,And sea-green olives with their grateful fruit,And elms dragging along the twisted vines,Which drop their berries as they follow fast,And blackthorn bushes with their infant race _110Of blushing rose-blooms; beeches, to lovers dear,And weeping willow trees; all swift or slow,As their huge boughs or lighter dress permit,Have circled in his throne, and Earth herselfHas sent from her maternal breast a growth _115Of starlike flowers and herbs of odour sweet,To pave the temple that his poesyHas framed, while near his feet grim lions couch,And kids, fearless from love, creep near his lair.Even the blind worms seem to feel the sound. _120The birds are silent, hanging down their heads,Perched on the lowest branches of the trees;Not even the nightingale intrudes a noteIn rivalry, but all entranced she listens.
NOTES: _16, _17, _24 1870 only. _45-_55 Ah, no!… melody 1870 only. _66 1870 only. _112 trees 1870; too 1862. _113 huge 1870; long 1862. _116 starlike 1870; starry 1862. odour 1862; odours 1870.
***
[Published in part (lines 11-30) by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; in full (from the Boscombe manuscript) by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
The season was the childhood of sweet June,Whose sunny hours from morning until noonWent creeping through the day with silent feet,Each with its load of pleasure; slow yet sweet;Like the long years of blest Eternity _5Never to be developed. Joy to thee,Fiordispina and thy Cosimo,For thou the wonders of the depth canst knowOf this unfathomable flood of hours,Sparkling beneath the heaven which embowers— _10
…
They were two cousins, almost like to twins,Except that from the catalogue of sinsNature had rased their love—which could not beBut by dissevering their nativity.And so they grew together like two flowers _15Upon one stem, which the same beams and showersLull or awaken in their purple prime,Which the same hand will gather—the same climeShake with decay. This fair day smiles to seeAll those who love—and who e’er loved like thee, _20Fiordispina? Scarcely Cosimo,Within whose bosom and whose brain now glowThe ardours of a vision which obscureThe very idol of its portraiture.He faints, dissolved into a sea of love; _25But thou art as a planet sphered above;But thou art Love itself—ruling the motionOf his subjected spirit: such emotionMust end in sin and sorrow, if sweet MayHad not brought forth this morn—your wedding-day. _30
…
‘Lie there; sleep awhile in your own dew,Ye faint-eyed children of the … Hours,’Fiordispina said, and threw the flowersWhich she had from the breathing—
…
A table near of polished porphyry. _35They seemed to wear a beauty from the eyeThat looked on them—a fragrance from the touchWhose warmth … checked their life; a light suchAs sleepers wear, lulled by the voice they love, which did reprove _40The childish pity that she felt for them,And a … remorse that from their stemShe had divided such fair shapes … madeA feeling in the … which was a shadeOf gentle beauty on the flowers: there lay _45All gems that make the earth’s dark bosom gay.… rods of myrtle-buds and lemon-blooms,And that leaf tinted lightly which assumesThe livery of unremembered snow—Violets whose eyes have drunk— _50
…
Fiordispina and her nurse are nowUpon the steps of the high portico,Under the withered arm of MediaShe flings her glowing arm
…
… step by step and stair by stair, _55That withered woman, gray and white and brown—More like a trunk by lichens overgrownThan anything which once could have been human.And ever as she goes the palsied woman
…
‘How slow and painfully you seem to walk, _60Poor Media! you tire yourself with talk.’‘And well it may,Fiordispina, dearest—well-a-day!You are hastening to a marriage-bed;I to the grave!’—‘And if my love were dead, _65Unless my heart deceives me, I would lieBeside him in my shroud as willinglyAs now in the gay night-dress Lilla wrought.’‘Fie, child! Let that unseasonable thoughtNot be remembered till it snows in June; _70Such fancies are a music out of tuneWith the sweet dance your heart must keep to-night.What! would you take all beauty and delightBack to the Paradise from which you sprung,And leave to grosser mortals?— _75And say, sweet lamb, would you not learn the sweetAnd subtle mystery by which spirits meet?Who knows whether the loving game is played,When, once of mortal [vesture] disarrayed,The naked soul goes wandering here and there _80Through the wide deserts of Elysian air?The violet dies not till it’—
NOTES: _11 to 1824; two editions 1839. _20 e’er 1862; ever editions 1824, 1839. _25 sea edition 1862; sense editions 1824, 1839.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870. This is one of three poems (cf. “Love’s Philosophy” and “Good-Night”) transcribed by Shelley in a copy of Leigh Hunt’s “Literary Pocket-Book” for 1819 presented by him to Miss Sophia Stacey, December 29, 1820.]
1.Like the ghost of a dear friend deadIs Time long past.A tone which is now forever fled,A hope which is now forever past,A love so sweet it could not last, _5Was Time long past.
2.There were sweet dreams in the nightOf Time long past:And, was it sadness or delight,Each day a shadow onward cast _10Which made us wish it yet might last—That Time long past.
3.There is regret, almost remorse,For Time long past.’Tis like a child’s beloved corse _15A father watches, till at lastBeauty is like remembrance, castFrom Time long past.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
I went into the deserts of dim sleep—That world which, like an unknown wilderness,Bounds this with its recesses wide and deep—
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
The viewless and invisible ConsequenceWatches thy goings-out, and comings-in,And…hovers o’er thy guilty sleep,Unveiling every new-born deed, and thoughtsMore ghastly than those deeds— _5
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
His face was like a snake’s—wrinkled and looseAnd withered—
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,And it is not life that makes me move.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
Such hope, as is the sick despair of good,Such fear, as is the certainty of ill,Such doubt, as is pale Expectation’s foodTurned while she tastes to poison, when the willIs powerless, and the spirit… _5
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition. This fragment is joined by Forman with that immediately preceding.]
Alas! this is not what I thought life was.I knew that there were crimes and evil men,Misery and hate; nor did I hope to passUntouched by suffering, through the rugged glen.In mine own heart I saw as in a glass _5The hearts of others … And whenI went among my kind, with triple brassOf calm endurance my weak breast I armed,To bear scorn, fear, and hate, a woful mass!
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
I dreamed that Milton’s spirit rose, and tookFrom life’s green tree his Uranian lute;And from his touch sweet thunder flowed, and shookAll human things built in contempt of man,—And sanguine thrones and impious altars quaked, _5Prisons and citadels…
NOTE: _2 lute Uranian cj. A.C. Bradley.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
Unrisen splendour of the brightest sun,To rise upon our darkness, if the starNow beckoning thee out of thy misty throneCould thaw the clouds which wage an obscure warWith thy young brightness! _5
***
[Edited from manuscript Shelley E 4 in the Bodleian Library, and published by Mr. C.D. Locock, “Examination” etc., Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1903. Here placed conjecturally amongst the compositions of 1820, but of uncertain date, and belonging possibly to 1819 or a still earlier year.]
Serene in his unconquerable mightEndued[,] the Almighty King, his steadfast throneEncompassed unapproachably with powerAnd darkness and deep solitude an aweStood like a black cloud on some aery cliff _5Embosoming its lightning—in his sightUnnumbered glorious spirits trembling stoodLike slaves before their Lord—prostrate aroundHeaven’s multitudes hymned everlasting praise.
***
[Edited, published and here placed as the preceding.]
Thou living light that in thy rainbow huesClothest this naked world; and over SeaAnd Earth and air, and all the shapes that beIn peopled darkness of this wondrous worldThe Spirit of thy glory dost diffuse _5… truth … thou Vital FlameMysterious thought that in this mortal frameOf things, with unextinguished lustre burnestNow pale and faint now high to Heaven upcurledThat eer as thou dost languish still returnest _10And everBefore the … before the Pyramids
So soon as from the Earth formless and rudeOne living step had chased drear SolitudeThou wert, Thought; thy brightness charmed the lids _15Of the vast snake Eternity, who keptThe tree of good and evil.—
***
We spent the latter part of the year 1819 in Florence, where Shelley passed several hours daily in the Gallery, and made various notes on its ancient works of art. His thoughts were a good deal taken up also by the project of a steamboat, undertaken by a friend, an engineer, to ply between Leghorn and Marseilles, for which he supplied a sum of money. This was a sort of plan to delight Shelley, and he was greatly disappointed when it was thrown aside.
There was something in Florence that disagreed excessively with his health, and he suffered far more pain than usual; so much so that we left it sooner than we intended, and removed to Pisa, where we had some friends, and, above all, where we could consult the celebrated Vacca as to the cause of Shelley’s sufferings. He, like every other medical man, could only guess at that, and gave little hope of immediate relief; he enjoined him to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and to leave his complaint to Nature. As he had vainly consulted medical men of the highest repute in England, he was easily persuaded to adopt this advice. Pain and ill-health followed him to the end; but the residence at Pisa agreed with him better than any other, and there in consequence we remained.
In the Spring we spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing the house of some friends who were absent on a journey to England. It was on a beautiful summer evening, while wandering among the lanes whose myrtle-hedges were the bowers of the fire-flies, that we heard the carolling of the skylark which inspired one of the most beautiful of his poems. He addressed the letter to Mrs. Gisborne from this house, which was hers: he had made his study of the workshop of her son, who was an engineer. Mrs. Gisborne had been a friend of my father in her younger days. She was a lady of great accomplishments, and charming from her frank and affectionate nature. She had the most intense love of knowledge, a delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved freshness of mind after a life of considerable adversity. As a favourite friend of my father, we had sought her with eagerness; and the most open and cordial friendship was established between us.
Our stay at the Baths of San Giuliano was shortened by an accident. At the foot of our garden ran the canal that communicated between the Serchio and the Arno. The Serchio overflowed its banks, and, breaking its bounds, this canal also overflowed; all this part of the country is below the level of its rivers, and the consequence was that it was speedily flooded. The rising waters filled the Square of the Baths, in the lower part of which our house was situated. The canal overflowed in the garden behind; the rising waters on either side at last burst open the doors, and, meeting in the house, rose to the height of six feet. It was a picturesque sight at night to see the peasants driving the cattle from the plains below to the hills above the Baths. A fire was kept up to guide them across the ford; and the forms of the men and the animals showed in dark relief against the red glare of the flame, which was reflected again in the waters that filled the Square.
We then removed to Pisa, and took up our abode there for the winter. The extreme mildness of the climate suited Shelley, and his solitude was enlivened by an intercourse with several intimate friends. Chance cast us strangely enough on this quiet half-unpeopled town; but its very peace suited Shelley. Its river, the near mountains, and not distant sea, added to its attractions, and were the objects of many delightful excursions. We feared the south of Italy, and a hotter climate, on account of our child; our former bereavement inspiring us with terror. We seemed to take root here, and moved little afterwards; often, indeed, entertaining projects for visiting other parts of Italy, but still delaying. But for our fears on account of our child, I believe we should have wandered over the world, both being passionately fond of travelling. But human life, besides its great unalterable necessities, is ruled by a thousand lilliputian ties that shackle at the time, although it is difficult to account afterwards for their influence over our destiny.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, and datedJanuary 1, 1821.]
1.Orphan Hours, the Year is dead,Come and sigh, come and weep!Merry Hours, smile instead,For the Year is but asleep.See, it smiles as it is sleeping, _5Mocking your untimely weeping.
2.As an earthquake rocks a corseIn its coffin in the clay,So White Winter, that rough nurse,Rocks the death-cold Year to-day; _10Solemn Hours! wail aloudFor your mother in her shroud.
3.As the wild air stirs and swaysThe tree-swung cradle of a child,So the breath of these rude days _15Rocks the Year:—be calm and mild,Trembling Hours, she will ariseWith new love within her eyes.
4.January gray is here,Like a sexton by her grave; _20February bears the bier,March with grief doth howl and rave,And April weeps—but, O ye Hours!Follow with May’s fairest flowers.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a transcript in the Harvard manuscript book.]
1.Swiftly walk o’er the western wave,Spirit of Night!Out of the misty eastern cave,Where, all the long and lone daylight,Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, _5‘Which make thee terrible and dear,—Swift be thy flight!
2.Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,Star-inwrought!Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day; _10Kiss her until she be wearied out,Then wander o’er city, and sea, and land,Touching all with thine opiate wand—Come, long-sought!
3.When I arose and saw the dawn, _15I sighed for thee;When light rode high, and the dew was gone,And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,And the weary Day turned to his rest,Lingering like an unloved guest, I sighed for thee. _20
4.Thy brother Death came, and cried,Wouldst thou me?Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,Murmured like a noontide bee, _25Shall I nestle near thy side?Wouldst thou me?—And I replied,No, not thee!
5.Death will come when thou art dead,Soon, too soon— _30Sleep will come when thou art fled;Of neither would I ask the boonI ask of thee, beloved Night—Swift be thine approaching flight,Come soon, soon! _35
NOTE: _1 o’er Harvard manuscript; over editions 1824, 1839.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woeAre brackish with the salt of human tears!Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flowClaspest the limits of mortality, _5And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,Who shall put forth on thee,Unfathomable Sea? _10
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.Far, far away, O yeHalcyons of Memory,Seek some far calmer nestThan this abandoned breast!No news of your false spring _5To my heart’s winter bring,Once having gone, in vainYe come again.
2.Vultures, who build your bowersHigh in the Future’s towers, _10Withered hopes on hopes are spread!Dying joys, choked by the dead,Will serve your beaks for preyMany a day.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. There is an intermediate draft amongst the Bodleian manuscripts. See Locock, “Examination”, etc., 1903, page 13.]
1.My faint spirit was sitting in the lightOf thy looks, my love;It panted for thee like the hind at noonFor the brooks, my love.Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the tempest’s flight _5Bore thee far from me;My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,Did companion thee.
2.Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steedOr the death they bear, _10The heart which tender thought clothes like a doveWith the wings of care;In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,Shall mine cling to thee,Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, _15It may bring to thee.
NOTES: _3 hoofs]feet B. _7 were]grew B. _9 Ah!]O B.
***
[Published, (1) by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; (2, 1) byDr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862; (2, 2 and 3) by H. BuxtonForman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876.]
1.Madonna, wherefore hast thou sent to meSweet-basil and mignonette?Embleming love and health, which never yetIn the same wreath might be.Alas, and they are wet! _5Is it with thy kisses or thy tears?For never rain or dewSuch fragrance drewFrom plant or flower—the very doubt endearsMy sadness ever new, _10The sighs I breathe, the tears I shed for thee.
2.Send the stars light, but send not love to me,In whom love ever madeHealth like a heap of embers soon to fade—
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”. 1824.]
1.The waters are flashing,The white hail is dashing,The lightnings are glancing,The hoar-spray is dancing—Away! _5
The whirlwind is rolling,The thunder is tolling,The forest is swinging,The minster bells ringing—Come away! _10
The Earth is like Ocean,Wreck-strewn and in motion:Bird, beast, man and wormHave crept out of the storm—Come away! _15
2.‘Our boat has one sailAnd the helmsman is pale;—A bold pilot I trow,Who should follow us now,’—Shouted he— _20
And she cried: ‘Ply the oar!Put off gaily from shore!’—As she spoke, bolts of deathMixed with hail, specked their pathO’er the sea. _25
And from isle, tower and rock,The blue beacon-cloud broke,And though dumb in the blast,The red cannon flashed fastFrom the lee. _30
3.And ‘Fear’st thou?’ and ‘Fear’st thou?’And Seest thou?’ and ‘Hear’st thou?’And ‘Drive we not freeO’er the terrible sea,I and thou?’ _35
One boat-cloak did coverThe loved and the lover—Their blood beats one measure,They murmur proud pleasureSoft and low;— _40
While around the lashed Ocean,Like mountains in motion,Is withdrawn and uplifted,Sunk, shattered and shiftedTo and fro. _45
4.In the court of the fortressBeside the pale portress,Like a bloodhound well beatenThe bridegroom stands, eatenBy shame; _50
On the topmost watch-turret,As a death-boding spiritStands the gray tyrant father,To his voice the mad weatherSeems tame; _55
And with curses as wildAs e’er clung to child,He devotes to the blast,The best, loveliest and lastOf his name! _60
NOTES: _28 And though]Though editions 1839. _57 clung]cling editions 1839.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
Music, when soft voices die,Vibrates in the memory—Odours, when sweet violets sicken,Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, _5Are heaped for the beloved’s bed;And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,Love itself shall slumber on.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a transcript in the Harvard manuscript book.]
1.Rarely, rarely, comest thou,Spirit of Delight!Wherefore hast thou left me nowMany a day and night?Many a weary night and day _5’Tis since thou art fled away.
2.How shall ever one like meWin thee back again?With the joyous and the freeThou wilt scoff at pain. _10Spirit false! thou hast forgotAll but those who need thee not.
3.As a lizard with the shadeOf a trembling leaf,Thou with sorrow art dismayed; _15Even the sighs of griefReproach thee, that thou art not near,And reproach thou wilt not hear.
4.Let me set my mournful dittyTo a merry measure; _20Thou wilt never come for pity,Thou wilt come for pleasure;Pity then will cut awayThose cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
5.I love all that thou lovest, _25Spirit of Delight!The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,And the starry night;Autumn evening, and the mornWhen the golden mists are born. _30
6.I love snow, and all the formsOf the radiant frost;I love waves, and winds, and storms,Everything almostWhich is Nature’s, and may be _35Untainted by man’s misery.
7.I love tranquil solitude,And such societyAs is quiet, wise, and goodBetween thee and me _40What difference? but thou dost possessThe things I seek, not love them less.
8.I love Love—though he has wings,And like light can flee,But above all other things, _45Spirit, I love thee—Thou art love and life! Oh, come,Make once more my heart thy home.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a fair draft amongst the Boscombe manuscripts.]
1.The flower that smiles to-dayTo-morrow dies;All that we wish to stayTempts and then flies.What is this world’s delight? _5Lightning that mocks the night,Brief even as bright.
2.Virtue, how frail it is!Friendship how rare!Love, how it sells poor bliss _10For proud despair!But we, though soon they fall,Survive their joy, and allWhich ours we call.
3.Whilst skies are blue and bright, _15Whilst flowers are gay,Whilst eyes that change ere nightMake glad the day;Whilst yet the calm hours creep,Dream thou—and from thy sleep _20Then wake to weep.
NOTES: _9 how Boscombe manuscript; too editions 1824, 1839. _12 though soon they fall]though soon we or so soon they cj. Rossetti.
***
[Published with “Hellas”, 1821.]
What! alive and so bold, O Earth?Art thou not overbold?What! leapest thou forth as of oldIn the light of thy morning mirth,The last of the flock of the starry fold? _5Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled,And canst thou move, Napoleon being dead?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?What spark is alive on thy hearth? _10How! is not HIS death-knell knolled?And livest THOU still, Mother Earth?Thou wert warming thy fingers oldO’er the embers covered and coldOf that most fiery spirit, when it fled— _15What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead?
‘Who has known me of old,’ replied Earth,‘Or who has my story told?It is thou who art overbold.’And the lightning of scorn laughed forth _20As she sung, ‘To my bosom I foldAll my sons when their knell is knolled,And so with living motion all are fed,And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
‘Still alive and still bold,’ shouted Earth, _25‘I grow bolder and still more bold.The dead fill me ten thousandfoldFuller of speed, and splendour, and mirth.I was cloudy, and sullen, and cold,Like a frozen chaos uprolled, _30Till by the spirit of the mighty deadMy heart grew warm. I feed on whom I fed.
‘Ay, alive and still bold.’ muttered Earth,‘Napoleon’s fierce spirit rolled,In terror and blood and gold, _35A torrent of ruin to death from his birth.Leave the millions who follow to mouldThe metal before it be cold;And weave into his shame, which like the deadShrouds me, the hopes that from his glory fled.’ _40
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. There is a transcript, headed “Sonnet to the Republic of Benevento”, in the Harvard manuscript book.]
Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame;Verse echoes not one beating of their hearts,History is but the shadow of their shame, _5Art veils her glass, or from the pageant startsAs to oblivion their blind millions fleet,Staining that Heaven with obscene imageryOf their own likeness. What are numbers knitBy force or custom? Man who man would be, _10Must rule the empire of himself; in itMust be supreme, establishing his throneOn vanquished will, quelling the anarchyOf hopes and fears, being himself alone.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley in “The Keepsake”, 1829.]
1.‘Do you not hear the Aziola cry?Methinks she must be nigh,’Said Mary, as we sateIn dusk, ere stars were lit, or candles brought;And I, who thought _5This Aziola was some tedious woman,Asked, ‘Who is Aziola?’ How elateI felt to know that it was nothing human,No mockery of myself to fear or hate:And Mary saw my soul, _10And laughed, and said, ‘Disquiet yourself not;’Tis nothing but a little downy owl.’
2.Sad Aziola! many an eventideThy music I had heardBy wood and stream, meadow and mountain-side, _15And fields and marshes wide,—Such as nor voice, nor lute, nor wind, nor bird,The soul ever stirred;Unlike and far sweeter than them all.Sad Aziola! from that moment I _20Loved thee and thy sad cry.
NOTES: _4 ere stars]ere the stars editions 1839. _9 or]and editions 1839. _19 them]they editions 1839.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.O world! O life! O time!On whose last steps I climb,Trembling at that where I had stood before;When will return the glory of your prime?No more—Oh, never more! _5
2.Out of the day and nightA joy has taken flight;Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,Move my faint heart with grief, but with delightNo more—Oh, never more! _10
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, where it is entitled “A Lament”. Three manuscript copies are extant: The Trelawny manuscript (“Remembrance”), the Harvard manuscript (“Song”) and the Houghton manuscript—the last written by Shelley on a flyleaf of a copy of “Adonais”.]
1.Swifter far than summer’s flight—Swifter far than youth’s delight—Swifter far than happy night,Art thou come and gone—As the earth when leaves are dead, _5As the night when sleep is sped,As the heart when joy is fled,I am left lone, alone.
2.The swallow summer comes again—The owlet night resumes her reign— _10But the wild-swan youth is fainTo fly with thee, false as thou.—My heart each day desires the morrow;Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;Vainly would my winter borrow _15Sunny leaves from any bough.
3.Lilies for a bridal bed—Roses for a matron’s head—Violets for a maiden dead—Pansies let MY flowers be: _20On the living grave I bearScatter them without a tear—Let no friend, however dear,Waste one hope, one fear for me.
NOTES:_5-_7 So editions 1824, 1839, Trelawny manuscript, Harvard manuscript;As the wood when leaves are shed,As the night when sleep is fled,As the heart when joy is dead Houghton manuscript._13 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript.My heart to-day desires to-morrow Trelawny manuscript._20 So editions 1824, 1839, Harvard manuscript, Houghton manuscript.Sadder flowers find for me Trelawny manuscript._24 one hope, one fear]a hope, a fear Trelawny manuscript.
***
[Published in Ascham’s edition of the “Poems”, 1834.There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
1.The serpent is shut out from Paradise.The wounded deer must seek the herb no moreIn which its heart-cure lies:The widowed dove must cease to haunt a bowerLike that from which its mate with feigned sighs _5Fled in the April hour.I too must seldom seek againNear happy friends a mitigated pain.
2.Of hatred I am proud,—with scorn content;Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown _10Itself indifferent;But, not to speak of love, pity aloneCan break a spirit already more than bent.The miserable oneTurns the mind’s poison into food,— _15Its medicine is tears,—its evil good.
3.Therefore, if now I see you seldomer,Dear friends, dear FRIEND! know that I only flyYour looks, because they stirGriefs that should sleep, and hopes that cannot die: _20The very comfort that they ministerI scarce can bear, yet I,So deeply is the arrow gone,Should quickly perish if it were withdrawn.
4.When I return to my cold home, you ask _25Why I am not as I have ever been.YOU spoil me for the taskOf acting a forced part in life’s dull scene,—Of wearing on my brow the idle maskOf author, great or mean, _30In the world’s carnival. I soughtPeace thus, and but in you I found it not.
5.Full half an hour, to-day, I tried my lotWith various flowers, and every one still said,‘She loves me—loves me not.’ _35And if this meant a vision long since fled—If it meant fortune, fame, or peace of thought—If it meant,—but I dreadTo speak what you may know too well:Still there was truth in the sad oracle. _40
6.The crane o’er seas and forests seeks her home;No bird so wild but has its quiet nest,When it no more would roam;The sleepless billows on the ocean’s breastBreak like a bursting heart, and die in foam, _45And thus at length find rest:Doubtless there is a place of peaceWhere MY weak heart and all its throbs will cease.
7.I asked her, yesterday, if she believedThat I had resolution. One who HAD _50Would ne’er have thus relievedHis heart with words,—but what his judgement badeWould do, and leave the scorner unrelieved.These verses are too sadTo send to you, but that I know, _55Happy yourself, you feel another’s woe.
NOTES: _10 Indifference, which once hurt me, is now grown Trelawny manuscript. _18 Dear friends, dear friend Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; Dear gentle friend 1834, 1839, 1st edition. _26 ever]lately Trelawny manuscript. _28 in Trelawny manuscript; on 1834, editions 1839, _43 When 1839, 2nd edition; Whence 1834, 1839, 1st edition. _48 will 1839, 2nd edition; shall 1834, 1839, 1st edition. _53 unrelieved Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd. edition; unreprieved 1834, 1839, 1st edition. _54 are]were Trelawny manuscript.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.One word is too often profanedFor me to profane it,One feeling too falsely disdainedFor thee to disdain it;One hope is too like despair _5For prudence to smother,And pity from thee more dearThan that from another.
2.I can give not what men call love,But wilt thou accept not _10The worship the heart lifts aboveAnd the Heavens reject not,—The desire of the moth for the star,Of the night for the morrow,The devotion to something afar _15From the sphere of our sorrow?
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a Boscombe manuscript.]
1.When passion’s trance is overpast,If tenderness and truth could last,Or live, whilst all wild feelings keepSome mortal slumber, dark and deep,I should not weep, I should not weep! _5
2.It were enough to feel, to see,Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,And dream the rest—and burn and beThe secret food of fires unseen,Couldst thou but be as thou hast been, _10
3.After the slumber of the yearThe woodland violets reappear;All things revive in field or grove,And sky and sea, but two, which moveAnd form all others, life and love. _15
NOTE: _15 form Boscombe manuscript; for editions 1824, 1839.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.The golden gates of Sleep unbarWhere Strength and Beauty, met together,Kindle their image like a starIn a sea of glassy weather!Night, with all thy stars look down,— _5Darkness, weep thy holiest dew,—Never smiled the inconstant moonOn a pair so true.Let eyes not see their own delight;—Haste, swift Hour, and thy flight _10Oft renew.
2.Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her!Holy stars, permit no wrong!And return to wake the sleeper,Dawn,—ere it be long! _15O joy! O fear! what will be doneIn the absence of the sun!Come along!
***
[Published by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847.]
Night, with all thine eyes look down!Darkness shed its holiest dew!When ever smiled the inconstant moonOn a pair so true?Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light, _5Lest eyes see their own delight!Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flightOft renew.
BOYS:O joy! O fear! what may be doneIn the absence of the sun? _10Come along!The golden gates of sleep unbar!When strength and beauty meet together,Kindles their image like a starIn a sea of glassy weather. _15Hence, coy hour! and quench thy light,Lest eyes see their own delight!Hence, swift hour! and thy loved flightOft renew.
GIRLS:O joy! O fear! what may be done _20In the absence of the sun?Come along!Fairies! sprites! and angels, keep her!Holiest powers, permit no wrong!And return, to wake the sleeper, _25Dawn, ere it be long.Hence, swift hour! and quench thy light,Lest eyes see their own delight!Hence, coy hour! and thy loved flightOft renew. _30
BOYS AND GIRLS:O joy! O fear! what will be doneIn the absence of the sun?Come along!
NOTE: _17 Lest]Let 1847.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870, from the Trelawny manuscript of Edward Williams’s play, “The Promise: or, A Year, a Month, and a Day”.]
BOYS SING:Night! with all thine eyes look down!Darkness! weep thy holiest dew!Never smiled the inconstant moonOn a pair so true.Haste, coy hour! and quench all light, _5Lest eyes see their own delight!Haste, swift hour! and thy loved flightOft renew!
GIRLS SING:Fairies, sprites, and angels, keep her!Holy stars! permit no wrong! _10And return, to wake the sleeper,Dawn, ere it be long!O joy! O fear! there is not oneOf us can guess what may be doneIn the absence of the sun:— _15Come along!
BOYS:Oh! linger long, thou envious eastern lampIn the dampCaves of the deep!
GIRLS:Nay, return, Vesper! urge thy lazy car! _20Swift unbarThe gates of Sleep!
CHORUS:The golden gate of Sleep unbar,When Strength and Beauty, met together,Kindle their image, like a star _25In a sea of glassy weather.May the purple mist of loveRound them rise, and with them move,Nourishing each tender gemWhich, like flowers, will burst from them. _30As the fruit is to the treeMay their children ever be!
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862. ‘A very free translation of Brunetto Latini’s “Tesoretto”, lines 81-154.’—A.C. Bradley.]
…
And many there were hurt by that strong boy,His name, they said, was Pleasure,And near him stood, glorious beyond measureFour Ladies who possess all emperyIn earth and air and sea, _5Nothing that lives from their award is free.Their names will I declare to thee,Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear,And they the regents areOf the four elements that frame the heart, _10And each diversely exercised her artBy force or circumstance or sleightTo prove her dreadful mightUpon that poor domain.Desire presented her [false] glass, and then _15The spirit dwelling thereWas spellbound to embrace what seemed so fairWithin that magic mirror,And dazed by that bright error,It would have scorned the [shafts] of the avenger _20And death, and penitence, and danger,Had not then silent FearTouched with her palsying spear,So that as if a frozen torrentThe blood was curdled in its current; _25It dared not speak, even in look or motion,But chained within itself its proud devotion.Between Desire and Fear thou wertA wretched thing, poor heart!Sad was his life who bore thee in his breast, _30Wild bird for that weak nest.Till Love even from fierce Desire it bought,And from the very wound of tender thoughtDrew solace, and the pity of sweet eyesGave strength to bear those gentle agonies, _35Surmount the loss, the terror, and the sorrow.Then Hope approached, she who can borrowFor poor to-day, from rich tomorrow,And Fear withdrew, as night when dayDescends upon the orient ray, _40And after long and vain enduranceThe poor heart woke to her assurance.—At one birth these four were bornWith the world’s forgotten morn,And from Pleasure still they hold _45All it circles, as of old.When, as summer lures the swallow,Pleasure lures the heart to follow—O weak heart of little wit!The fair hand that wounded it, _50Seeking, like a panting hare,Refuge in the lynx’s lair,Love, Desire, Hope, and Fear,Ever will be near.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
1.Fairest of the Destinies,Disarray thy dazzling eyes:Keener far thy lightnings areThan the winged [bolts] thou bearest,And the smile thou wearest _5Wraps thee as a starIs wrapped in light.
2.Could Arethuse to her forsaken urnFrom Alpheus and the bitter Doris run,Or could the morning shafts of purest light _10Again into the quivers of the SunBe gathered—could one thought from its wild flightReturn into the temple of the brainWithout a change, without a stain,—Could aught that is, ever again _15Be what it once has ceased to be,Greece might again be free!
3.A star has fallen upon the earthMid the benighted nations,A quenchless atom of immortal light, _20A living spark of Night,A cresset shaken from the constellations.Swifter than the thunder fellTo the heart of Earth, the wellWhere its pulses flow and beat, _25And unextinct in that cold sourceBurns, and on … courseGuides the sphere which is its prison,Like an angelic spirit pentIn a form of mortal birth, _30Till, as a spirit half-arisenShatters its charnel, it has rent,In the rapture of its mirth,The thin and painted garment of the Earth,Ruining its chaos—a fierce breath _35Consuming all its forms of living death.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.]
I would not be a king—enoughOf woe it is to love;The path to power is steep and rough,And tempests reign above.I would not climb the imperial throne; _5’Tis built on ice which fortune’s sunThaws in the height of noon.Then farewell, king, yet were I one,Care would not come so soon.Would he and I were far away _10Keeping flocks on Himalay!
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, and dated ‘Pisa, 1821.’]
Wild, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as oneWho staggers forth into the air and sunFrom the dark chamber of a mortal fever,Bewildered, and incapable, and everFancying strange comments in her dizzy brain _5Of usual shapes, till the familiar trainOf objects and of persons passed like thingsStrange as a dreamer’s mad imaginings,Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;The vows to which her lips had sworn assent _10Rung in her brain still with a jarring din,Deafening the lost intelligence within.
And so she moved under the bridal veil,Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale,And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth, _15And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,—And of the gold and jewels glittering thereShe scarce felt conscious,—but the weary glareLay like a chaos of unwelcome light,Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight, _20A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloudWas less heavenly fair—her face was bowed,And as she passed, the diamonds in her hairWere mirrored in the polished marble stairWhich led from the cathedral to the street; _25And ever as she went her light fair feetErased these images.
The bride-maidens who round her thronging came,Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame,Envying the unenviable; and othersMaking the joy which should have been another’s _30Their own by gentle sympathy; and someSighing to think of an unhappy home:Some few admiring what can ever lureMaidens to leave the heaven serene and pureOf parents’ smiles for life’s great cheat; a thing _35Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.
But they are all dispersed—and, lo! she standsLooking in idle grief on her white hands,Alone within the garden now her own; _40And through the sunny air, with jangling tone,The music of the merry marriage-bells,Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;—Absorbed like one within a dream who dreamsThat he is dreaming, until slumber seems _45A mockery of itself—when suddenlyAntonio stood before her, pale as she.With agony, with sorrow, and with pride,He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride,And said—‘Is this thy faith?’ and then as one _50Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sunWith light like a harsh voice, which bids him riseAnd look upon his day of life with eyesWhich weep in vain that they can dream no more,Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore _55To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling bloodRushing upon her heart, and unsubduedSaid—‘Friend, if earthly violence or ill,Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannic willOf parents, chance or custom, time or change, _60Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge,Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech,With all their stings and venom can impeachOur love,—we love not:—if the grave which hidesThe victim from the tyrant, and divides _65The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dartImperious inquisition to the heartThat is another’s, could dissever ours,We love not.’—‘What! do not the silent hoursBeckon thee to Gherardi’s bridal bed? _70Is not that ring’—a pledge, he would have said,Of broken vows, but she with patient lookThe golden circle from her finger took,And said—‘Accept this token of my faith,The pledge of vows to be absolved by death; _75And I am dead or shall be soon—my knellWill mix its music with that merry bell,Does it not sound as if they sweetly said“We toll a corpse out of the marriage-bed”?The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn _80Will serve unfaded for my bier—so soonThat even the dying violet will not dieBefore Ginevra.’ The strong fantasyHad made her accents weaker and more weak,And quenched the crimson life upon her cheek, _85And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphereRound her, which chilled the burning noon with fear,Making her but an image of the thoughtWhich, like a prophet or a shadow, broughtNews of the terrors of the coming time. _90Like an accuser branded with the crimeHe would have cast on a beloved friend,Whose dying eyes reproach not to the endThe pale betrayer—he then with vain repentanceWould share, he cannot now avert, the sentence— _95Antonio stood and would have spoken, whenThe compound voice of women and of menWas heard approaching; he retired, while sheWas led amid the admiring companyBack to the palace,—and her maidens soon _100Changed her attire for the afternoon,And left her at her own request to keepAn hour of quiet rest:—like one asleepWith open eyes and folded hands she lay,Pale in the light of the declining day. _105
Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set,And in the lighted hall the guests are met;The beautiful looked lovelier in the lightOf love, and admiration, and delightReflected from a thousand hearts and eyes, _110Kindling a momentary Paradise.This crowd is safer than the silent wood,Where love’s own doubts disturb the solitude;On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wineFalls, and the dew of music more divine _115Tempers the deep emotions of the timeTo spirits cradled in a sunny clime:—How many meet, who never yet have met,To part too soon, but never to forget.How many saw the beauty, power and wit _120Of looks and words which ne’er enchanted yet;But life’s familiar veil was now withdrawn,As the world leaps before an earthquake’s dawn,And unprophetic of the coming hours,The matin winds from the expanded flowers _125Scatter their hoarded incense, and awakenThe earth, until the dewy sleep is shakenFrom every living heart which it possesses,Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses,As if the future and the past were all _130Treasured i’ the instant;—so Gherardi’s hallLaughed in the mirth of its lord’s festival,Till some one asked—‘Where is the Bride?’ And thenA bridesmaid went,—and ere she came againA silence fell upon the guests—a pause _135Of expectation, as when beauty awesAll hearts with its approach, though unbeheld;Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled;—For whispers passed from mouth to ear which drewThe colour from the hearer’s cheeks, and flew _140Louder and swifter round the company;And then Gherardi entered with an eyeOf ostentatious trouble, and a crowdSurrounded him, and some were weeping loud.
They found Ginevra dead! if it be death _145To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath,With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, and white,And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy lightMocked at the speculation they had owned.If it be death, when there is felt around _150A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare,And silence, and a sense that lifts the hairFrom the scalp to the ankles, as it wereCorruption from the spirit passing forth,And giving all it shrouded to the earth, _155And leaving as swift lightning in its flightAshes, and smoke, and darkness: in our nightOf thought we know thus much of death,—no moreThan the unborn dream of our life beforeTheir barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore. _160The marriage feast and its solemnityWas turned to funeral pomp—the company,With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; nor theyWho loved the dead went weeping on their wayAlone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise _165Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes,On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain,Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again.The lamps which, half extinguished in their haste,Gleamed few and faint o’er the abandoned feast, _170Showed as it were within the vaulted roomA cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloomHad passed out of men’s minds into the air.Some few yet stood around Gherardi there,Friends and relations of the dead,—and he, _175A loveless man, accepted torpidlyThe consolation that he wanted not;Awe in the place of grief within him wrought.Their whispers made the solemn silence seemMore still—some wept,… _180Some melted into tears without a sob,And some with hearts that might be heard to throbLeaned on the table and at intervalsShuddered to hear through the deserted hallsAnd corridors the thrilling shrieks which came _185Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flameOf every torch and taper as it sweptFrom out the chamber where the women kept;—Their tears fell on the dear companion coldOf pleasures now departed; then was knolled _190The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived,And finding Death their penitent had shrived,Returned like ravens from a corpse whereonA vulture has just feasted to the bone.And then the mourning women came.— _195