…
Old winter was goneIn his weakness back to the mountains hoar,And the spring came downFrom the planet that hovers upon the shore
Where the sea of sunlight encroaches _200On the limits of wintry night;—If the land, and the air, and the sea,Rejoice not when spring approaches,We did not rejoice in thee,Ginevra! _205
She is still, she is coldOn the bridal couch,One step to the white deathbed,And one to the bier,And one to the charnel—and one, oh where? _210The dark arrow fledIn the noon.
Ere the sun through heaven once more has rolled,The rats in her heartWill have made their nest, _215And the worms be alive in her golden hair,While the Spirit that guides the sun,Sits throned in his flaming chair,She shall sleep.
NOTES: 22 Was]Were cj. Rossetti.old 26 ever 1824; even editions 1839. _37 Bitter editions 1839; Better 1824. _63 wanting in 1824. _103 quiet rest cj. A.C. Bradley; quiet and rest 1824. _129 winds]lands cj. Forman; waves, sands or strands cj. Rossetti. _167 On]In cj. Rossetti.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a draft amongst the Boscombe manuscripts.]
1.The sun is set; the swallows are asleep;The bats are flitting fast in the gray air;The slow soft toads out of damp corners creep,And evening’s breath, wandering here and thereOver the quivering surface of the stream, _5Wakes not one ripple from its summer dream.
2.There is no dew on the dry grass to-night,Nor damp within the shadow of the trees;The wind is intermitting, dry, and light;And in the inconstant motion of the breeze _10The dust and straws are driven up and down,And whirled about the pavement of the town.
3.Within the surface of the fleeting riverThe wrinkled image of the city lay,Immovably unquiet, and forever _15It trembles, but it never fades away;Go to the…You, being changed, will find it then as now.
4.The chasm in which the sun has sunk is shutBy darkest barriers of cinereous cloud, _20Like mountain over mountain huddled—butGrowing and moving upwards in a crowd,And over it a space of watery blue,Which the keen evening star is shining through..
NOTES: _6 summer 1839, 2nd edition; silent 1824, 1839, 1st edition. _20 cinereous Boscombe manuscript; enormous editions 1824, 1839.
***
[Published in part (lines 1-61, 88-118) by Mrs. Shelley, “PosthumousPoems”, 1824; revised and enlarged by Rossetti, “Complete PoeticalWorks of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
Our boat is asleep on Serchio’s stream,Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream,The helm sways idly, hither and thither;Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast,And the oars, and the sails; but ’tis sleeping fast, _5Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air,And the thin white moon lay withering there;To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree,The owl and the bat fled drowsily. _10Day had kindled the dewy woods,And the rocks above and the stream below,And the vapours in their multitudes,And the Apennine’s shroud of summer snow,And clothed with light of aery gold _15The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.
Day had awakened all things that be,The lark and the thrush and the swallow free,And the milkmaid’s song and the mower’s scytheAnd the matin-bell and the mountain bee: _20Fireflies were quenched on the dewy corn,Glow-worms went out on the river’s brim,Like lamps which a student forgets to trim:The beetle forgot to wind his horn,The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: _25Like a flock of rooks at a farmer’s gunNight’s dreams and terrors, every one,Fled from the brains which are their preyFrom the lamp’s death to the morning ray.
All rose to do the task He set to each, _30Who shaped us to His ends and not our own;The million rose to learn, and one to teachWhat none yet ever knew or can be known.And many roseWhose woe was such that fear became desire;— _35Melchior and Lionel were not among those;They from the throng of men had stepped aside,And made their home under the green hill-side.It was that hill, whose intervening browScreens Lucca from the Pisan’s envious eye, _40Which the circumfluous plain waving below,Like a wide lake of green fertility,With streams and fields and marshes bare,Divides from the far Apennines—which lieIslanded in the immeasurable air. _45
‘What think you, as she lies in her green cove,Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of?’‘If morning dreams are true, why I should guessThat she was dreaming of our idleness,And of the miles of watery way _50We should have led her by this time of day.’-
‘Never mind,’ said Lionel,‘Give care to the winds, they can bear it wellAbout yon poplar-tops; and seeThe white clouds are driving merrily, _55And the stars we miss this morn will lightMore willingly our return to-night.—How it whistles, Dominic’s long black hair!List, my dear fellow; the breeze blows fair:Hear how it sings into the air—’ _60
—‘Of us and of our lazy motions,’Impatiently said Melchior,‘If I can guess a boat’s emotions;And how we ought, two hours before,To have been the devil knows where.’ _65And then, in such transalpine TuscanAs would have killed a Della-Cruscan,
…
So, Lionel according to his artWeaving his idle words, Melchior said:‘She dreams that we are not yet out of bed; _70We’ll put a soul into her, and a heartWhich like a dove chased by a dove shall beat.’
…
‘Ay, heave the ballast overboard,And stow the eatables in the aft locker.’‘Would not this keg be best a little lowered?’ _75‘No, now all’s right.’ ‘Those bottles of warm tea—(Give me some straw)—must be stowed tenderly;Such as we used, in summer after six,To cram in greatcoat pockets, and to mixHard eggs and radishes and rolls at Eton, _80And, couched on stolen hay in those green harboursFarmers called gaps, and we schoolboys called arbours,Would feast till eight.’
…
With a bottle in one hand,As if his very soul were at a stand _85Lionel stood—when Melchior brought him steady:—‘Sit at the helm—fasten this sheet—all ready!’
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread,The living breath is fresh behind,As with dews and sunrise fed, _90Comes the laughing morning wind;—The sails are full, the boat makes headAgainst the Serchio’s torrent fierce,Then flags with intermitting course,And hangs upon the wave, and stems _95The tempest of the…Which fervid from its mountain sourceShallow, smooth and strong doth come,—Swift as fire, tempestuouslyIt sweeps into the affrighted sea; _100In morning’s smile its eddies coil,Its billows sparkle, toss and boil,Torturing all its quiet lightInto columns fierce and bright.
The Serchio, twisting forth _105Between the marble barriers which it cloveAt Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasmThe wave that died the death which lovers love,Living in what it sought; as if this spasmHad not yet passed, the toppling mountains cling, _110But the clear stream in full enthusiasmPours itself on the plain, then wanderingDown one clear path of effluence crystallineSends its superfluous waves, that they may flingAt Arno’s feet tribute of corn and wine;Then, through the pestilential deserts wildOf tangled marsh and woods of stunted pine,It rushes to the Ocean.
NOTES: _58-_61 List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic’s long black hair! Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat’s emotions.’—editions 1824, 1839. _61-_67 Rossetti places these lines conjecturally between lines 51 and 52. _61-_65 ‘are evidently an alternative version of 48-51’ (A.C. Bradley). _95, _96 and stems The tempest of the wanting in editions 1824, 1839. _112 then Boscombe manuscript; until editions 1824, 1839 _114 superfluous Boscombe manuscript; clear editions 1824, 1839. _117 pine Boscombe manuscript; fir editions 1824, 1839.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
1.I pant for the music which is divine,My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,Loosen the notes in a silver shower;Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain, _5I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
2.Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,More, oh more,—I am thirsting yet;It loosens the serpent which care has boundUpon my heart to stifle it; _10The dissolving strain, through every vein,Passes into my heart and brain.
3.As the scent of a violet withered up,Which grew by the brink of a silver lake,When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, _15And mist there was none its thirst to slake—And the violet lay dead while the odour flewOn the wings of the wind o’er the waters blue—
4.As one who drinks from a charmed cupOf foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, _20Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,Invites to love with her kiss divine…
NOTES: _16 mist 1824; tank 1839, 2nd edition.
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Shelley Papers”, 1832 (lines 1-7), and “Life of Shelley”, 1847 (lines 1-9, 12-14). Revised and completed from the Boscombe manuscript by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
[I am afraid these verses will not please you, but]If I esteemed you less, Envy would killPleasure, and leave to Wonder and DespairThe ministration of the thoughts that fillThe mind which, like a worm whose life may shareA portion of the unapproachable, _5Marks your creations rise as fast and fairAs perfect worlds at the Creator’s will.
But such is my regard that nor your powerTo soar above the heights where others [climb],Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn hour _10Cast from the envious future on the time,Move one regret for his unhonoured nameWho dares these words:—the worm beneath the sodMay lift itself in homage of the God.
NOTES: _1 you edition 1870; him 1832; thee 1847. _4 So edition 1870; My soul which as a worm may haply share 1832; My soul which even as a worm may share 1847. _6 your edition 1870; his 1832; thy 1847. _8, _9 So edition 1870 wanting 1832 - But not the blessings of thy happier lot, Nor thy well-won prosperity, and fame 1847. _10, _11 So edition 1870; wanting 1832, 1847. _12-_14 So 1847, edition 1870; wanting 1832.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition—ED.]
‘Here lieth One whose name was writ on water.But, ere the breath that could erase it blew,Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,Death, the immortalizing winter, flewAthwart the stream,—and time’s printless torrent grew _5A scroll of crystal, blazoning the nameOf Adonais!
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
Methought I was a billow in the crowdOf common men, that stream without a shore,That ocean which at once is deaf and loud;That I, a man, stood amid many moreBy a wayside…, which the aspect bore _5Of some imperial metropolis,Where mighty shapes—pyramid, dome, and tower—Gleamed like a pile of crags—
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
Where art thou, beloved To-morrow?When young and old, and strong and weak,Rich and poor, through joy and sorrow,Thy sweet smiles we ever seek,—In thy place—ah! well-a-day! _5We find the thing we fled—To-day.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.Connected by Dowden with the preceding.]
If I walk in Autumn’s evenWhile the dead leaves pass,If I look on Spring’s soft heaven,—Something is not there which wasWinter’s wondrous frost and snow, _5Summer’s clouds, where are they now?
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,Through the dim wildernesses of the mind;Through desert woods and tracts, which seemLike ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.]
The babe is at peace within the womb;The corpse is at rest within the tomb:We begin in what we end.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
I faint, I perish with my love! I growFrail as a cloud whose [splendours] paleUnder the evening’s ever-changing glow:I die like mist upon the gale,And like a wave under the calm I fail. _5
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
Faint with love, the Lady of the SouthLay in the paradise of LebanonUnder a heaven of cedar boughs: the drouthOf love was on her lips; the light was goneOut of her eyes— _5
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
Come, thou awakener of the spirit’s ocean,Zephyr, whom to thy cloud or caveNo thought can trace! speed with thy gentle motion!
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
The gentleness of rain was in the wind.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
When soft winds and sunny skiesWith the green earth harmonize,And the young and dewy dawn,Bold as an unhunted fawn,Up the windless heaven is gone,— _5Laugh—for ambushed in the day,—Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
And that I walk thus proudly crowned withalIs that ’tis my distinction; if I fall,I shall not weep out of the vital day,To-morrow dust, nor wear a dull decay.
NOTE: _2 ’Tis that is or In that is cj. A.C. Bradley.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
The rude wind is singingThe dirge of the music dead;The cold worms are clingingWhere kisses were lately fed.
***
[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]
Great Spirit whom the sea of boundless thoughtNurtures within its unimagined caves,In which thou sittest sole, as in my mind,Giving a voice to its mysterious waves—
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.]
O thou immortal deityWhose throne is in the depth of human thought,I do adjure thy power and theeBy all that man may be, by all that he is not,By all that he has been and yet must be! _5
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition.]
‘What art thou, Presumptuous, who profanestThe wreath to mighty poets only due,Even whilst like a forgotten moon thou wanest?Touch not those leaves which for the eternal fewWho wander o’er the Paradise of fame, _5In sacred dedication ever grew:One of the crowd thou art without a name.’‘Ah, friend, ’tis the false laurel that I wear;Bright though it seem, it is not the sameAs that which bound Milton’s immortal hair; _10Its dew is poison; and the hopes that quickenUnder its chilling shade, though seeming fair,Are flowers which die almost before they sicken.’
***
[This and the three following Fragments were edited from manuscriptShelley D1 at the Bodleian Library and published by Mr. C.D. Locock,“Examination”, etc., Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1903. They are printedhere as belonging probably to the year 1821.]
When May is painting with her colours gayThe landscape sketched by April her sweet twin…
***
[Published by Mr. C.D. Locock, “Examination”, etc, 1903.]
Thy beauty hangs around thee likeSplendour around the moon—Thy voice, as silver bells that strikeUpon
***
(‘This reads like a study for “Autumn, A Dirge”’ (Locock). Might it not be part of a projected Fit v. of “The Fugitives”?—ED.)
[Published by Mr. C.D. Locock, “Examination”, etc., 1903.]
The death knell is ringingThe raven is singingThe earth worm is creepingThe mourners are weepingDing dong, bell— _5
***
I stood upon a heaven-cleaving turretWhich overlooked a wide Metropolis—And in the temple of my heart my SpiritLay prostrate, and with parted lips did kissThe dust of Desolations [altar] hearth— _5And with a voice too faint to falterIt shook that trembling fane with its weak prayer’Twas noon,—the sleeping skies were blueThe city
***
My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that which sealed our earthly fate, and each poem, and each event it records, has a real or mysterious connection with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that I am incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The heart of the man, abhorred of the poet, who could
‘peep and botanize Upon his mother’s grave,’
does not appear to me more inexplicably framed than that of one who can dissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans drawn from them in the throes of their agony.
The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the Baths of San Giuliano. We were not, as our wont had been, alone; friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead, and, when Memory recurs to the past, she wanders among tombs. The genius, with all his blighting errors and mighty powers; the companion of Shelley’s ocean-wanderings, and the sharer of his fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, and fearless; and others, who found in Shelley’s society, and in his great knowledge and warm sympathy, delight, instruction, and solace; have joined him beyond the grave. A few survive who have felt life a desert since he left it. What misfortune can equal death? Change can convert every other into a blessing, or heal its sting—death alone has no cure. It shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread; it destroys its beauty; it casts down our shelter; it exposes us bare to desolation. When those we love have passed into eternity, ‘life is the desert and the solitude’ in which we are forced to linger—but never find comfort more.
There is much in the “Adonais” which seems now more applicable to Shelley himself than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. The poetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towards his calumniators, are as a prophecy on his own destiny when received among immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanished into emptiness before the fame he inherits.
Shelley’s favourite taste was boating; when living near the Thames or by the Lake of Geneva, much of his life was spent on the water. On the shore of every lake or stream or sea near which he dwelt, he had a boat moored. He had latterly enjoyed this pleasure again. There are no pleasure-boats on the Arno; and the shallowness of its waters (except in winter-time, when the stream is too turbid and impetuous for boating) rendered it difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty; he, together with a friend, contrived a boat such as the huntsmen carry about with them in the Maremma, to cross the sluggish but deep streams that intersect the forests,—a boat of laths and pitched canvas. It held three persons; and he was often seen on the Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who remonstrated on the danger, and could not understand how anyone could take pleasure in an exercise that risked life. ‘Ma va per la vita!’ they exclaimed. I little thought how true their words would prove. He once ventured, with a friend, on the glassy sea of a calm day, down the Arno and round the coast to Leghorn, which, by keeping close in shore, was very practicable. They returned to Pisa by the canal, when, missing the direct cut, they got entangled among weeds, and the boat upset; a wetting was all the harm done, except that the intense cold of his drenched clothes made Shelley faint. Once I went down with him to the mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and swift, met the tideless sea, and disturbed its sluggish waters. It was a waste and dreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point surrounded by waves that broke idly though perpetually around; it was a scene very similar to Lido, of which he had said—
‘I love all wasteAnd solitary places; where we tasteThe pleasure of believing what we seeIs boundless, as we wish our souls to be:And such was this wide ocean, and this shoreMore barren than its billows.’
Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when we removed to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano, four miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered by trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day, multitudes of Ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at noon-day kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was a pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley’s health and inconstant spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and more attached to the part of the country where chance appeared to cast us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one of the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and overlooking a wide extent of country: or settling still farther in the maritime Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished poems were inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us. It is the nature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul oftener to express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed by the weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has recourse to the solace of expression in verse.
Still, Shelley’s passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers, instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on the shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrank from Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy: Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had resided there were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of many English, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony of chance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside at Via Reggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands and bad air of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores of the Mediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was a vague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see whether it would be feasible to spend a summer there. The beauty of the bay enchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took root, and many circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to urge him to execute it.
He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of a visit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, the latter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of a periodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect of good for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society; and instantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not intend himself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to have the air of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with the compositions of more popular writers; and also because he might feel shackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends were to be compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their outermost extent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction not only true, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement and happiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, either really or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his thoughts; and this evil he resolved to avoid.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, and dated‘January, 1822.’ There is a copy amongst the Boscombe manuscripts.]
1.Summer was dead and Autumn was expiring,And infant Winter laughed upon the landAll cloudlessly and cold;—when I, desiringMore in this world than any understand,Wept o’er the beauty, which, like sea retiring, _5Had left the earth bare as the wave-worn sandOf my lorn heart, and o’er the grass and flowersPale for the falsehood of the flattering Hours.
2.Summer was dead, but I yet lived to weepThe instability of all but weeping; _10And on the Earth lulled in her winter sleepI woke, and envied her as she was sleeping.Too happy Earth! over thy face shall creepThe wakening vernal airs, until thou, leapingFrom unremembered dreams, shalt … see _15No death divide thy immortality.
3.I loved—oh, no, I mean not one of ye,Or any earthly one, though ye are dearAs human heart to human heart may be;—I loved, I know not what—but this low sphere _20And all that it contains, contains not thee,Thou, whom, seen nowhere, I feel everywhere.From Heaven and Earth, and all that in them are,Veiled art thou, like a … star.
4.By Heaven and Earth, from all whose shapes thou flowest, _25Neither to be contained, delayed, nor hidden;Making divine the loftiest and the lowest,When for a moment thou art not forbiddenTo live within the life which thou bestowest;And leaving noblest things vacant and chidden, _30Cold as a corpse after the spirit’s flightBlank as the sun after the birth of night.
5.In winds, and trees, and streams, and all things common,In music and the sweet unconscious toneOf animals, and voices which are human, _35Meant to express some feelings of their own;In the soft motions and rare smile of woman,In flowers and leaves, and in the grass fresh-shown,Or dying in the autumn, I the mostAdore thee present or lament thee lost. _40
6.And thus I went lamenting, when I sawA plant upon the river’s margin lieLike one who loved beyond his nature’s law,And in despair had cast him down to die;Its leaves, which had outlived the frost, the thaw _45Had blighted; like a heart which hatred’s eyeCan blast not, but which pity kills; the dewLay on its spotted leaves like tears too true.
7.The Heavens had wept upon it, but the EarthHad crushed it on her maternal breast _50
…
8.I bore it to my chamber, and I plantedIt in a vase full of the lightest mould;The winter beams which out of Heaven slantedFell through the window-panes, disrobed of cold,Upon its leaves and flowers; the stars which panted _55In evening for the Day, whose car has rolledOver the horizon’s wave, with looks of lightSmiled on it from the threshold of the night.
9.The mitigated influences of airAnd light revived the plant, and from it grew _60Strong leaves and tendrils, and its flowers fair,Full as a cup with the vine’s burning dew,O’erflowed with golden colours; an atmosphereOf vital warmth enfolded it anew,And every impulse sent to every partThe unbeheld pulsations of its heart. _65
10.Well might the plant grow beautiful and strong,Even if the air and sun had smiled not on it;For one wept o’er it all the winter longTears pure as Heaven’s rain, which fell upon it _70Hour after hour; for sounds of softest songMixed with the stringed melodies that won itTo leave the gentle lips on which it slept,Had loosed the heart of him who sat and wept.
11.Had loosed his heart, and shook the leaves and flowers _75On which he wept, the while the savage stormWaked by the darkest of December’s hoursWas raving round the chamber hushed and warm;The birds were shivering in their leafless bowers,The fish were frozen in the pools, the form _80Of every summer plant was deadWhilst this….
…
NOTES: _7 lorn Boscombe manuscript; poor edition 1824. _23 So Boscombe manuscript; Dim object of soul’s idolatry edition 1824. _24 star Boscombe manuscript; wanting edition 1824. _38 grass fresh Boscombe manuscript; fresh grass edition 1824. _46 like Boscombe manuscript; as edition 1824. _68 air and sun Boscombe manuscript; sun and air edition 1824.
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, August 11, 1832.There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
1.‘Sleep, sleep on! forget thy pain;My hand is on thy brow,My spirit on thy brain;My pity on thy heart, poor friend;And from my fingers flow _5The powers of life, and like a sign,Seal thee from thine hour of woe;And brood on thee, but may not blendWith thine.
2.‘Sleep, sleep on! I love thee not; _10But when I think that heWho made and makes my lotAs full of flowers as thine of weeds,Might have been lost like thee;And that a hand which was not mine _15Might then have charmed his agonyAs I another’s—my heart bleedsFor thine.
3.‘Sleep, sleep, and with the slumber ofThe dead and the unborn _20Forget thy life and love;Forget that thou must wake forever;Forget the world’s dull scorn;Forget lost health, and the divineFeelings which died in youth’s brief morn; _25And forget me, for I can neverBe thine.
4.‘Like a cloud big with a May shower,My soul weeps healing rainOn thee, thou withered flower! _30It breathes mute music on thy sleepIts odour calms thy brain!Its light within thy gloomy breastSpreads like a second youth again.By mine thy being is to its deep _35Possessed.
5.‘The spell is done. How feel you now?’‘Better—Quite well,’ repliedThe sleeper.—‘What would do _39You good when suffering and awake?What cure your head and side?—’‘What would cure, that would kill me, Jane:And as I must on earth abideAwhile, yet tempt me not to breakMy chain.’ _45
NOTES; _1, _10 Sleep Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; Sleep on 1832, 1839, 1st edition. _16 charmed Trelawny manuscript; chased 1832, editions 1839. _21 love]woe 1832. _42 so Trelawny manuscript ’Twould kill me what would cure my pain 1832, editions 1839. _44 Awhile yet, cj. A.C. Bradley.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
1.When the lamp is shatteredThe light in the dust lies dead—When the cloud is scatteredThe rainbow’s glory is shed.When the lute is broken, _5Sweet tones are remembered not;When the lips have spoken,Loved accents are soon forgot.
2.As music and splendourSurvive not the lamp and the lute, _10The heart’s echoes renderNo song when the spirit is mute:—No song but sad dirges,Like the wind through a ruined cell,Or the mournful surges _15That ring the dead seaman’s knell.
3.When hearts have once mingledLove first leaves the well-built nest;The weak one is singledTo endure what it once possessed. _20O Love! who bewailestThe frailty of all things here,Why choose you the frailestFor your cradle, your home, and your bier?
4.Its passions will rock thee _25As the storms rock the ravens on high;Bright reason will mock thee,Like the sun from a wintry sky.From thy nest every rafterWill rot, and thine eagle home _30Leave thee naked to laughter,When leaves fall and cold winds come.
NOTES: _6 tones edition 1824; notes Trelawny manuscript. _14 through edition 1824; in Trelawny manuscript. _16 dead edition 1824; lost Trelawny manuscript. _23 choose edition 1824; chose Trelawny manuscript. _25-_32 wanting Trelawny manuscript.
***
[This and the following poem were published together in their original form as one piece under the title, “The Pine Forest of the Cascine near Pisa”, by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; reprinted in the same shape, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition; republished separately in their present form, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
Best and brightest, come away!Fairer far than this fair Day,Which, like thee to those in sorrow,Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awake _5In its cradle on the brake.The brightest hour of unborn Spring,Through the winter wandering,Found, it seems, the halcyon MornTo hoar February born, _10Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,It kissed the forehead of the Earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free,And waked to music all their fountains, _15And breathed upon the frozen mountains,And like a prophetess of MayStrewed flowers upon the barren way,Making the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, dear. _20
Away, away, from men and towns,To the wild wood and the downs—To the silent wildernessWhere the soul need not repressIts music lest it should not find _25An echo in another’s mind,While the touch of Nature’s artHarmonizes heart to heart.I leave this notice on my doorFor each accustomed visitor:— _30‘I am gone into the fieldsTo take what this sweet hour yields;—Reflection, you may come to-morrow,Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.—You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,— _35I will pay you in the grave,—Death will listen to your stave.Expectation too, be off!To-day is for itself enough; _40Hope, in pity mock not WoeWith smiles, nor follow where I go;Long having lived on thy sweet food,At length I find one moment’s goodAfter long pain—with all your love, _45This you never told me of.’
Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains,And the pools where winter rains _50.Image all their roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesOf sapless green and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun;Where the lawns and pastures be, _55And the sandhills of the sea;—Where the melting hoar-frost wetsThe daisy-star that never sets,And wind-flowers, and violets,Which yet join not scent to hue, _60Crown the pale year weak and new;When the night is left behindIn the deep east, dun and blind,And the blue noon is over us,And the multitudinous _65Billows murmur at our feet,Where the earth and ocean meet,And all things seem only oneIn the universal sun.
NOTES: _34 with Trelawny manuscript; of 1839, 2nd edition. _44 moment’s Trelawny manuscript; moment 1839, 2nd edition. _50 And Trelawny manuscript; To 1839, 2nd edition. _53 dun Trelawny manuscript; dim 1839, 2nd edition.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.See the Editor’s prefatory note to the preceding.]
1.Now the last day of many days,All beautiful and bright as thou,The loveliest and the last, is dead,Rise, Memory, and write its praise!Up,—to thy wonted work! come, trace _5The epitaph of glory fled,—For now the Earth has changed its face,A frown is on the Heaven’s brow.
2.We wandered to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean’s foam, _10The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.The whispering waves were half asleep,The clouds were gone to play,And on the bosom of the deep _15The smile of Heaven lay;It seemed as if the hour were oneSent from beyond the skies,Which scattered from above the sunA light of Paradise. _20
3.We paused amid the pines that stoodThe giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rudeAs serpents interlaced;And, soothed by every azure breath, _25That under Heaven is blown,To harmonies and hues beneath,As tender as its own,Now all the tree-tops lay asleep,Like green waves on the sea, _30As still as in the silent deepThe ocean woods may be.
4.How calm it was!—the silence thereBy such a chain was boundThat even the busy woodpecker _35Made stiller by her soundThe inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew. _40There seemed from the remotest seatOf the white mountain waste,To the soft flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced,—A spirit interfused around _45A thrilling, silent life,—To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature’s strife;And still I felt the centre ofThe magic circle there _50Was one fair form that filled with loveThe lifeless atmosphere.
5.We paused beside the pools that lieUnder the forest bough,—Each seemed as ’twere a little sky _55Gulfed in a world below;A firmament of purple lightWhich in the dark earth lay,More boundless than the depth of night,And purer than the day— _60In which the lovely forests grew,As in the upper air,More perfect both in shape and hueThan any spreading there.There lay the glade and neighbouring lawn, _65And through the dark green woodThe white sun twinkling like the dawnOut of a speckled cloud.Sweet views which in our world aboveCan never well be seen, _70Were imaged by the water’s loveOf that fair forest green.And all was interfused beneathWith an Elysian glow,An atmosphere without a breath, _75A softer day below.Like one beloved the scene had lentTo the dark water’s breast,Its every leaf and lineamentWith more than truth expressed; _80Until an envious wind crept by,Like an unwelcome thought,Which from the mind’s too faithful eyeBlots one dear image out.Though thou art ever fair and kind, _85The forests ever green,Less oft is peace in Shelley’s mind,Than calm in waters, seen.
NOTES: _6 fled edition. 1824; dead Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition. _10 Ocean’s]Ocean 1839, 2nd edition. _24 Interlaced, 1839; interlaced; cj. A.C. Bradley. _28 own; 1839 own, cj. A.C. Bradley. _42 white Trelawny manuscript; wide 1839, 2nd edition _87 Shelley’s Trelawny manuscript; S—‘s 1839, 2nd edition.]
***
[This, the first draft of “To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection”,was published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, and reprinted,“Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition. See Editor’s Prefatory Note to“The Invitation”, above.]
Dearest, best and brightest,Come away,To the woods and to the fields!Dearer than this fairest dayWhich, like thee to those in sorrow, _5Comes to bid a sweet good-morrowTo the rough Year just awakeIn its cradle in the brake.The eldest of the Hours of Spring,Into the Winter wandering, _10Looks upon the leafless wood,And the banks all bare and rude;Found, it seems, this halcyon MornIn February’s bosom born,Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, _15Kissed the cold forehead of the Earth,And smiled upon the silent sea,And bade the frozen streams be free;And waked to music all the fountains,And breathed upon the rigid mountains, _20And made the wintry world appearLike one on whom thou smilest, Dear.
Radiant Sister of the Day,Awake! arise! and come away!To the wild woods and the plains, _25To the pools where winter rainsImage all the roof of leaves,Where the pine its garland weavesSapless, gray, and ivy dunRound stems that never kiss the sun— _30To the sandhills of the sea,Where the earliest violets be.
Now the last day of many days,All beautiful and bright as thou,The loveliest and the last, is dead, _35Rise, Memory, and write its praise!And do thy wonted work and traceThe epitaph of glory fled;For now the Earth has changed its face,A frown is on the Heaven’s brow. _40
We wandered to the Pine ForestThat skirts the Ocean’s foam,The lightest wind was in its nest,The tempest in its home.
The whispering waves were half asleep, _45The clouds were gone to play,And on the woods, and on the deepThe smile of Heaven lay.
It seemed as if the day were oneSent from beyond the skies, _50Which shed to earth above the sunA light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood,The giants of the waste,Tortured by storms to shapes as rude _55With stems like serpents interlaced.
How calm it was—the silence thereBy such a chain was bound,That even the busy woodpeckerMade stiller by her sound _60
The inviolable quietness;The breath of peace we drewWith its soft motion made not lessThe calm that round us grew.
It seemed that from the remotest seat _65Of the white mountain’s wasteTo the bright flower beneath our feet,A magic circle traced;—
A spirit interfused around,A thinking, silent life; _70To momentary peace it boundOur mortal nature’s strife;—
And still, it seemed, the centre ofThe magic circle there,Was one whose being filled with love _75The breathless atmosphere.
Were not the crocuses that grewUnder that ilex-treeAs beautiful in scent and hueAs ever fed the bee? _80
We stood beneath the pools that lieUnder the forest bough,And each seemed like a skyGulfed in a world below;
A purple firmament of light _85Which in the dark earth lay,More boundless than the depth of night,And clearer than the day—
In which the massy forests grewAs in the upper air, _90More perfect both in shape and hueThan any waving there.
Like one beloved the scene had lentTo the dark water’s breastIts every leaf and lineament _95With that clear truth expressed;
There lay far glades and neighbouring lawn,And through the dark green crowdThe white sun twinkling like the dawnUnder a speckled cloud. _100
Sweet views, which in our world aboveCan never well be seen,Were imaged by the water’s loveOf that fair forest green.
And all was interfused beneath _105With an Elysian air,An atmosphere without a breath,A silence sleeping there.
Until a wandering wind crept by,Like an unwelcome thought, _110Which from my mind’s too faithful eyeBlots thy bright image out.
For thou art good and dear and kind,The forest ever green,But less of peace in S—‘s mind,Than calm in waters, seen. _116.
***
[Published by Medwin, “The Athenaeum”, October 20, 1832; “Frazer’s Magazine”, January 1833. There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]
Ariel to Miranda:—TakeThis slave of Music, for the sakeOf him who is the slave of thee,And teach it all the harmonyIn which thou canst, and only thou, _5Make the delighted spirit glow,Till joy denies itself again,And, too intense, is turned to pain;For by permission and commandOf thine own Prince Ferdinand, _10Poor Ariel sends this silent tokenOf more than ever can be spoken;Your guardian spirit, Ariel, who,From life to life, must still pursueYour happiness;—for thus alone _15Can Ariel ever find his own.From Prospero’s enchanted cell,As the mighty verses tell,To the throne of Naples, heLit you o’er the trackless sea, _20Flitting on, your prow before,Like a living meteor.When you die, the silent Moon,In her interlunar swoon,Is not sadder in her cellThan deserted Ariel.When you live again on earth,Like an unseen star of birth,Ariel guides you o’er the seaOf life from your nativity. _30Many changes have been runSince Ferdinand and you begunYour course of love, and Ariel stillHas tracked your steps, and served your will;Now, in humbler, happier lot, _35This is all remembered not;And now, alas! the poor sprite isImprisoned, for some fault of his,In a body like a grave;—From you he only dares to crave, _40For his service and his sorrow,A smile today, a song tomorrow.
The artist who this idol wrought,To echo all harmonious thought,Felled a tree, while on the steep _45The woods were in their winter sleep,Rocked in that repose divineOn the wind-swept Apennine;And dreaming, some of Autumn past,And some of Spring approaching fast, _50And some of April buds and showers,And some of songs in July bowers,And all of love; and so this tree,—O that such our death may be!—Died in sleep, and felt no pain, _55To live in happier form again:From which, beneath Heaven’s fairest star,The artist wrought this loved Guitar,And taught it justly to reply,To all who question skilfully, _60In language gentle as thine own;Whispering in enamoured toneSweet oracles of woods and dells,And summer winds in sylvan cells;For it had learned all harmonies _65Of the plains and of the skies,Of the forests and the mountains,And the many-voiced fountains;The clearest echoes of the hills,The softest notes of falling rills, _70The melodies of birds and bees,The murmuring of summer seas,And pattering rain, and breathing dew,And airs of evening; and it knewThat seldom-heard mysterious sound, _75Which, driven on its diurnal round,As it floats through boundless day,Our world enkindles on its way.—All this it knows, but will not tellTo those who cannot question well _80The Spirit that inhabits it;It talks according to the witOf its companions; and no moreIs heard than has been felt before,By those who tempt it to betray _85These secrets of an elder day:But, sweetly as its answers willFlatter hands of perfect skill,It keeps its highest, holiest toneFor our beloved Jane alone. _90
NOTES: _12 Of more than ever]Of love that never 1833. _46 woods Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; winds 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition. _58 this Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; that 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition. _61 thine own Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; its own 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition. _76 on Trelawny manuscript, 1839, 2nd edition; in 1832, 1833, 1839, 1st edition. _90 Jane Trelawny manuscript; friend 1832, 1833, editions 1839.
***
[Published in part (lines 7-24) by Medwin (under the title, “An Ariette for Music. To a Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar”), “The Athenaeum”, November 17, 1832; reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition. Republished in full (under the title, To —.), “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition. The Trelawny manuscript is headed “To Jane”. Mr. C.W. Frederickson of Brooklyn possesses a transcript in an unknown hand.]
1.The keen stars were twinkling,And the fair moon was rising among them,Dear Jane!The guitar was tinkling,But the notes were not sweet till you sung them _5Again.
2.As the moon’s soft splendourO’er the faint cold starlight of HeavenIs thrown,So your voice most tender _10To the strings without soul had then givenIts own.
3.The stars will awaken,Though the moon sleep a full hour later,To-night; _15No leaf will be shakenWhilst the dews of your melody scatterDelight.
4.Though the sound overpowers,Sing again, with your dear voice revealing _20A toneOf some world far from ours,Where music and moonlight and feelingAre one.
NOTES: _3 Dear *** 1839, 2nd edition. _7 soft]pale Fred. manuscript. _10 your 1839, 2nd edition.; thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript. _11 had then 1839, 2nd edition; has 1832, 1839, 1st edition; hath Fred. manuscript. _12 Its]Thine Fred. manuscript. _17 your 1839, 2nd edition; thy 1832, 1839, 1st edition, Fred. manuscript. _19 sound]song Fred. manuscript. _20 your dear 1839, 2nd edition; thy sweet 1832, 1839, 1st edition; thy soft Fred. manuscript.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
Rough wind, that moanest loudGrief too sad for song;Wild wind, when sullen cloudKnells all the night long;Sad storm whose tears are vain, _5Bare woods, whose branches strain,Deep caves and dreary main,—Wail, for the world’s wrong!
NOTE: _6 strain cj. Rossetti; stain edition 1824.
***
[Published from the Boscombe manuscripts by Dr. Garnett, “Macmillan’sMagazine”, June, 1862; reprinted, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
She left me at the silent timeWhen the moon had ceased to climbThe azure path of Heaven’s steep,And like an albatross asleep,Balanced on her wings of light, _5Hovered in the purple night,Ere she sought her ocean nestIn the chambers of the West.She left me, and I stayed aloneThinking over every tone _10Which, though silent to the ear,The enchanted heart could hear,Like notes which die when born, but stillHaunt the echoes of the hill;And feeling ever—oh, too much!— _15The soft vibration of her touch,As if her gentle hand, even now,Lightly trembled on my brow;And thus, although she absent were,Memory gave me all of her _20That even Fancy dares to claim:—Her presence had made weak and tameAll passions, and I lived aloneIn the time which is our own;The past and future were forgot, _25As they had been, and would be, not.But soon, the guardian angel gone,The daemon reassumed his throneIn my faint heart. I dare not speakMy thoughts, but thus disturbed and weak _30I sat and saw the vessels glideOver the ocean bright and wide,Like spirit-winged chariots sentO’er some serenest elementFor ministrations strange and far; _35As if to some Elysian starSailed for drink to medicineSuch sweet and bitter pain as mine.And the wind that winged their flightFrom the land came fresh and light, _40And the scent of winged flowers,And the coolness of the hoursOf dew, and sweet warmth left by day,Were scattered o’er the twinkling bay.And the fisher with his lamp _45And spear about the low rocks dampCrept, and struck the fish which cameTo worship the delusive flame.Too happy they, whose pleasure soughtExtinguishes all sense and thought _50Of the regret that pleasure leaves,Destroying life alone, not peace!
NOTES: _11 though silent Relics 1862; though now silent Mac. Mag. 1862. _31 saw Relics 1862; watched Mac. Mag. 1862.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
1.We meet not as we parted,We feel more than all may see;My bosom is heavy-hearted,And thine full of doubt for me:—One moment has bound the free. _5
2.That moment is gone for ever,Like lightning that flashed and died—Like a snowflake upon the river—Like a sunbeam upon the tide,Which the dark shadows hide. _10
3.That moment from time was singledAs the first of a life of pain;The cup of its joy was mingled—Delusion too sweet though vain!Too sweet to be mine again. _15
4.Sweet lips, could my heart have hiddenThat its life was crushed by you,Ye would not have then forbiddenThe death which a heart so trueSought in your briny dew. _20
5.………Methinks too little costFor a moment so found, so lost! _25
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
There was a little lawny isletBy anemone and violet,Like mosaic, paven:And its roof was flowers and leavesWhich the summer’s breath enweaves, _5Where nor sun nor showers nor breezePierce the pines and tallest trees,Each a gem engraven;—Girt by many an azure waveWith which the clouds and mountains pave _10A lake’s blue chasm.
***
[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]
Bright wanderer, fair coquette of Heaven,To whom alone it has been givenTo change and be adored for ever,Envy not this dim world, for neverBut once within its shadow grew _5One fair as—
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.]
These are two friends whose lives were undivided;So let their memory be, now they have glidedUnder the grave; let not their bones be parted,For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
***
This morn thy gallant barkSailed on a sunny sea:’Tis noon, and tempests darkHave wrecked it on the lee.Ah woe! ah woe!By Spirits of the deepThou’rt cradled on the billowTo thy eternal sleep.
Thou sleep’st upon the shoreBeside the knelling surge,And Sea-nymphs evermoreShall sadly chant thy dirge.They come, they come,The Spirits of the deep,—While near thy seaweed pillowMy lonely watch I keep.
From far across the seaI hear a loud lament,By Echo’s voice for theeFrom Ocean’s caverns sent.O list! O list!The Spirits of the deep!They raise a wail of sorrow,While I forever weep.
With this last year of the life of Shelley these Notes end. They are not what I intended them to be. I began with energy, and a burning desire to impart to the world, in worthy language, the sense I have of the virtues and genius of the beloved and the lost; my strength has failed under the task. Recurrence to the past, full of its own deep and unforgotten joys and sorrows, contrasted with succeeding years of painful and solitary struggle, has shaken my health. Days of great suffering have followed my attempts to write, and these again produced a weakness and languor that spread their sinister influence over these notes. I dislike speaking of myself, but cannot help apologizing to the dead, and to the public, for not having executed in the manner I desired the history I engaged to give of Shelley’s writings. (I at one time feared that the correction of the press might be less exact through my illness; but I believe that it is nearly free from error. Some asterisks occur in a few pages, as they did in the volume of “Posthumous Poems”, either because they refer to private concerns, or because the original manuscript was left imperfect. Did any one see the papers from which I drew that volume, the wonder would be how any eyes or patience were capable of extracting it from so confused a mass, interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sense could only be deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem rather intuitive than founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made.)