A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the idea of the following lines:
1.Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink,First of this thing, and that thing, and t’other thing think;Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind,That the sense or the subject I never can find:This word is wrong placed,—no regard to the sense,The present and future, instead of past tense,Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore,I think I shall never attempt to write more,With patience I then my thoughts must arraign,Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, _10Like them too must wait in due patience and thought,Or else my fine works will all come to nought.My wit too’s so copious, it flows like a river,But disperses its waters on black and white never;Like smoke it appears independent and free, _15But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee—Then at length all my patience entirely lost,My paper and pens in the fire are tossed;But come, try again—you must never despair,Our Murray’s or Entick’s are not all so rare, _20Implore their assistance—they’ll come to your aid,Perform all your business without being paid,They’ll tell you the present tense, future and past,Which should come first, and which should come last,This Murray will do—then to Entick repair, _25To find out the meaning of any word rare.This they friendly will tell, and ne’er make you blush,With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush!Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put,Not minding the if’s, the be’s, and the but, _30Then read it all over, see how it will run,How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun,Your writings may then with old Socrates vie,May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie,May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. _35The pattern or satire to all of the age;But stop—a mad author I mean not to turn,Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn,Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined,My letters may make some slight food for the mind; _40That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart,In all the warm language that flows from the heart.Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains,It bids me step forward and just hold the reins,My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, _45Such as I fear can be made but by few—Of writers this age has abundance and plenty,Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty,Three score of them wits who all sharply vie,To try what odd creature they best can belie, _50A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write,And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,]One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire,And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire,T’other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, _55And just like a cobbler the old writings mend,The twenty are those who for pulpits indite,And pore over sermons all Saturday night.And now my good friends—who come after I mean,As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. _60Or like cobblers at mending I never did try,Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie;As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest,So here I believe the matter must rest.—I’ve heard your complaint—my answer I’ve made, _65And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid,Adieu my good friend; pray never despair,But grammar and sense and everything dare,Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free,Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, _70Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense,But read it all over and make it out sense.What a tiresome girl!—pray soon make an end,Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend.Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try— _75So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.
2.
For your letter, dear — [Hattie], accept my best thanks,Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter,All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, _5Which only are fit for the tardy and late,As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,How fair the sun shines—a fine day for a walk,Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation,One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation, _10Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong,The burden this is of each morning-call song.So — is going to — you say,I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—]That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright, _15And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight.Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart,Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart,Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways,He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, _20That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake,And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take,A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame,But he fears, for he knows she is not common game,Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, _25He’s not one that’s caught by a sly looking face,Yet that’s TOO divine—such a black sparkling eye,At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die;Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten,More than is meant by most such kind of men, _30For they’re all alike, take them one with another,Begging pardon—with the exception of my brother.Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard,Most opinion’s the same, with the difference of word,Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, _35Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed,As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name,Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame.—So on Friday this City’s gay vortex you quit,And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit— _40Now your parcel’s arrived — [Bysshe’s] letter shall go,I hope all your joy mayn’t be turned into woe,Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain,When it promises sunshine how often comes rain.So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, _45How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh,When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed,How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest.When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand,Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked near the strand, _50And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel,’Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel—May misfortunes dear Girl, ne’er thy happiness cloy,May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy,May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, _55Woes, which thy tender heart never may know,For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear,Though sympathy’s soul to a friend drops a tear.Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written,Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. _60What sober reflections in the midst of this letter!Jocularity sure would have suited much better;But there are exceptions to all common rules,For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools.Now adieu my dear — [Hattie] I’m sure I must tire, _65For if I do, you may throw it into the fire,So accept the best love of your cousin and friend,Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.
NOTE: _19 mischievous]mischevious 1810.
Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling,Cold are the damps on a dying man’s brow,—Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling,And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low;But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, _5More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee,More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee,Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow—
And ah! poor — has felt all this horror,Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: _10‘Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow,She sought her babe’s food at her ruiner’s gate—Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer,He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer,She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, _15Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late.’Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr,That the form of the wasted — reclined;She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar,And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.— _20I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle,I call not yon clouds where the elements battle,But thee, cruel — I call thee unkind!’—
Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain,And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, _25She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o’er the fountain,And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind.‘Ah! go,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the tempest is yelling,’Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling,But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, _30My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—’
Not long lived —, but over her graveWaved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew,Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave,But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. _35Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather,Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather,For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her,Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.—
Come [Harriet]! sweet is the hour,Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around,The anemone’s night-boding flower,Has sunk its pale head on the ground.
’Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn, _5Some mild heart that expands to its blast,’Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,Sinks poor and neglected at last.—
The world with its keenness and woe,Has no charms or attraction for me, _10Its unkindness with grief has laid low,The heart which is faithful to thee.The high trees that wave past the moon,As I walk in their umbrage with you,All declare I must part with you soon, _15All bid you a tender adieu!—
Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell,You and I love, may ne’er meet again;These woods and these meadows can tellHow soft and how sweet was the strain.— _20
Ask not the pallid stranger’s woe,With beating heart and throbbing breast,Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,As though the body needed rest.—
Whose ‘wildered eye no object meets, _5Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,With silent grief his bosom beats,—Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.
Who looks around with fearful eye,And shuns all converse with man kind, _10As though some one his griefs might spy,And soothe them with a kindred mind.
A friend or foe to him the same,He looks on each with equal eye;The difference lies but in the name, _15To none for comfort can he fly.—
’Twas deep despair, and sorrow’s trace,To him too keenly given,Whose memory, time could not efface—His peace was lodged in Heaven.— _20
He looks on all this world bestows,The pride and pomp of power,As trifles best for pageant showsWhich vanish in an hour.
When torn is dear affection’s tie, _25Sinks the soft heart full low;It leaves without a parting sigh,All that these realms bestow.
To me this world’s a dreary blank,All hopes in life are gone and fled,My high strung energies are sank,And all my blissful hopes lie dead.—
The world once smiling to my view, _5Showed scenes of endless bliss and joy;The world I then but little knew,Ah! little knew how pleasures cloy;
All then was jocund, all was gay,No thought beyond the present hour, _10I danced in pleasure’s fading ray,Fading alas! as drooping flower.
Nor do the heedless in the throng,One thought beyond the morrow give[,]They court the feast, the dance, the song, _15Nor think how short their time to live.
The heart that bears deep sorrow’s trace,What earthly comfort can console,It drags a dull and lengthened pace,‘Till friendly death its woes enroll.— _20
The sunken cheek, the humid eyes,E’en better than the tongue can tell;In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies,Where memory’s rankling traces dwell.—
The rising tear, the stifled sigh, _25A mind but ill at ease display,Like blackening clouds in stormy sky,Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.
Thus when souls’ energy is dead,When sorrow dims each earthly view, _30When every fairy hope is fled,We bid ungrateful world adieu.
And said I that all hope was fled,That sorrow and despair were mine,That each enthusiast wish was dead,Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.—
Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow glow, _5That robes with liquid streams of light;Yon distant Mountain’s craggy brow.And shows the rocks so fair,—so bright—
Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,In softer view shows distant hours, _10And portrays each succeeding day,As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,—
The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;Are frozen but to bud anew,Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom, _15Although thy visions be not true,—
Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,God never made thee to deceive,’Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. _20
Yet though despair my life should gloom,Though horror should around me close,With those I love, beyond the tomb,Hope shows a balm for all my woes.
Oh! what is the gain of restless care,And what is ambitious treasure?And what are the joys that the modish share,In their sickly haunts of pleasure?
My husband’s repast with delight I spread, _5What though ’tis but rustic fare,May each guardian angel protect his shed,May contentment and quiet be there.
And may I support my husband’s years,May I soothe his dying pain, _10And then may I dry my fast falling tears,And meet him in Heaven again.
Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,The dastard shall perish, death’s torment shall prove,For fate and revenge are decreed from above.
Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell—
For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,He shall find his reward in his loved maiden’s charms.
In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,The kisses that glow on his love’s dewy lip,And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of lightMay sink into ne’er ending chaos and night,Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.
See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5Our ancestors’ dwellings lie sunk on the ground,Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.
Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,Ah! sunk is our sweet country’s rapturous measure, _10But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15And ‘my countrymen! vengeance!’ incessantly cry.
Fierce roars the midnight stormO’er the wild mountain,Dark clouds the night deform,Swift rolls the fountain—
See! o’er yon rocky height, _5Dim mists are flying—See by the moon’s pale light,Poor Laura’s dying!
Shame and remorse shall howl,By her false pillow— _10Fiercer than storms that roll,O’er the white billow;
No hand her eyes to close,When life is flying,But she will find repose, _15For Laura’s dying!
Then will I seek my love,Then will I cheer her,Then my esteem will prove,When no friend is near her. _20
On her grave I will lie,When life is parted,On her grave I will die,For the false hearted.
Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,‘Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, _5Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,Though the time it is past!—yet the dear recollection,For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.
Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, _10When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.—
And thou dearest friend in his bosom for everMust reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never _15Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.
NOTE: _11 hope-winged]hoped-winged 1810.
Stern, stern is the voice of fate’s fearful command,When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,
’Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending, _5And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,Which never again to his eyes may appear—
And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, _10He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,
Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, _15The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!
Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never,Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear,In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever,The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. _20
Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass,And did you observe his frown?He goeth to say the midnight mass,In holy St. Edmond’s town.
He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, _5And to lay the wandering sprite,Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt,The Abbey’s drear aisle this night.
It saith it will not its wailing cease,‘Till that holy man come near, _10‘Till he pour o’er its grave the prayer of peace,And sprinkle the hallowed tear.
The Canon’s horse is stout and strongThe road is plain and fair,But the Canon slowly wends along, _15And his brow is gloomed with care.
Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate?Sullen echoes the portal bell,It sounds like the whispering voice of fate,It sounds like a funeral knell. _20
The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed,And his frame was convulsed with fear,When a voice was heard distinct and loud,‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’
He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25To Heaven he lifts his eye,He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare,Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.
Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saintsThat frown on the sacred walls, _30His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints,At the Abbot’s feet he falls.
And straight the father’s robe he kissed,Who cried, ‘Grace dwells with thee,The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35At your benedicite.
‘Now haste within! the board is spread,Keen blows the air, and cold,The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed,‘Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,— _40
‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,You’ve journeyed many a mile,To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.
‘Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,Must I meet the wandering shade.
‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay,—For hark! the echoing pile, _50A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away,O lead to the haunted aisle.’
The torches slowly move before,The cross is raised on high,A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55But horror dimmed his eye—
And now they climb the footworn stair,The chapel gates unclose,Now each breathed low a fervent prayer,And fear each bosom froze— _60
Now paused awhile the doubtful bandAnd viewed the solemn scene,—Full dark the clustered columns stand,The moon gleams pale between—
‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom _65Conceals the unquiet shade,Within what dark unhallowed tomb,The corse unblessed was laid.’
‘Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks,And murmurs a mournful plaint, _70Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks,And call on thy patron saint—
The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes,As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine,From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, _75And under yon arch recline.’—
‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb,What memorial sad appears.’—‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom,No memorial sad it bears’— _80
The Canon his paternoster reads,His rosary hung by his side,Now swift to the chancel doors he leads,And untouched they open wide,
Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85To approach to the black marble tomb,‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell,‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’
He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed.Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90A loud yell was borne on the rising blast,And a deep, dying groan arose.
The Monks in amazement shuddering stand,They burst through the chancel’s gloom,From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, _95Points to the black marble tomb.
Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red,In characters fresh and clear—‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead,And his wife lies buried here!’ _100
In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun,To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore,On this eve her noviciate here was begun,And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore;—
O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, _105Remorse she full oft revealed,Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt,And in death her lips he sealed;
Her spirit to penance this night was doomed,‘Till the Canon atoned the deed, _110Here together they now shall rest entombed,‘Till their bodies from dust are freed—
Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof,Round the altar bright lightnings play,Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, _115And the storm dies sudden away—
The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground,And a rosary shone through the gloom,But never again was the Canon there found,Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. _120
‘Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’
I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone— _5I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone,I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones,And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.
‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night,And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light, _10And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day!So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—
‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear,Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier,And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath, _15Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,
‘And I love you to madness my Agnes I love,My constant affection this night will I prove,This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jawAlone will I glut its all conquering maw’— _20
‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share,In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there,I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave,My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’—
‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, _25But spare me those ages of horror and woe,For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day,If you go unattended by Agnes away’—
The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around,The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground, _30Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate,As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—
The youth struck the portal,—the echoing soundWas fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around,The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire, _35And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.
Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined,Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind,When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene,And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien. _40
A mantle encircled his shadowy form,As light as a gossamer borne on the storm,Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze,Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze.—
SPIRIT:Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, _45And Conrad has cause to remember it well,He ruined my Mother, despised me his son,I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.
I was nearly expiring—’twas close of the day,—A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, _50He gave me the power from whence I was hurled,To return to revenge, to return to the world,—
Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms,I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms,On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride, _55And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride—
He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide,Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride,He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high,And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky— _60
All was now silent,—and over the tomb,Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom,Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone,And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.
The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.
Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,In the pathless dell beneath,Hark! night ravens loudly sing,Tidings of despair and death.—
Horror covers all the sky, _5Clouds of darkness blot the moon,Prepare! for mortal thou must die,Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—
Fierce the tempest raves around,Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, _10Crashing thunder shakes the ground,Fire and tumult fill the sky.—
Hark! the tolling village bell,Tells the hour of midnight come,Now can blast the powers of Hell, _15Fiend-like goblins now can roam—
See! his crest all stained with rain,A warrior hastening speeds his way,He starts, looks round him, starts again,And sighs for the approach of day. _20
See! his frantic steed he reins,See! he lifts his hands on high,Implores a respite to his pains,From the powers of the sky.—
He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, _25Fatigue had bent his lofty form,To rest his wearied limbs awhile,Fatigued with wandering and the storm.
… …
Slow the door is opened wide—With trackless tread a stranger came, _30His form Majestic, slow his stride,He sate, nor spake,—nor told his name—
Terror blanched the warrior’s cheek,Cold sweat from his forehead ran,In vain his tongue essayed to speak,— _35At last the stranger thus began:
‘Mortal! thou that saw’st the sprite,Tell me what I wish to know,Or come with me before ’tis light,Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. _40
‘Fierce the avenging Demon’s ire,Fiercer than the wintry blast,Fiercer than the lightning’s fire,When the hour of twilight’s past’—
The warrior raised his sunken eye. _45It met the stranger’s sullen scowl,‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,’In burning letters chilled his soul.
WARRIOR:Stranger! whoso’er you are,I feel impelled my tale to tell— _50Horrors stranger shalt thou hear,Horrors drear as those of Hell.
O’er my Castle silence reigned,Late the night and drear the hour,When on the terrace I observed, _55A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.—
Light the cloud as summer fog,Which transient shuns the morning beam;Fleeting as the cloud on bog,That hangs or on the mountain stream.— _60
Horror seized my shuddering brain,Horror dimmed my starting eye.In vain I tried to speak,—In vainMy limbs essayed the spot to fly—
At last the thin and shadowy form, _65With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,—Its light robe floated on the storm,Its head was bound with lambent flame.
In chilling voice drear as the breezeWhich sweeps along th’ autumnal ground, _70Which wanders through the leafless trees,Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.
‘Thou art mine and I am thine,‘Till the sinking of the world,I am thine and thou art mine, _75‘Till in ruin death is hurled—
‘Strong the power and dire the fate,Which drags me from the depths of Hell,Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate,Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, _80
‘Haply I might ne’er have shrankFrom flames that rack the guilty dead,Haply I might ne’er have sankOn pleasure’s flowery, thorny bed—
—‘But stay! no more I dare disclose, _85Of the tale I wish to tell,On Earth relentless were my woes,But fiercer are my pangs in Hell—
‘Now I claim thee as my love,Lay aside all chilling fear, _90My affection will I prove,Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!
‘For thou art mine, and I am thine,‘Till the dreaded judgement day,I am thine, and thou art mine— _95Night is past—I must away.’
Still I gazed, and still the formPressed upon my aching sight,Still I braved the howling storm,When the ghost dissolved in night.— _100
Restless, sleepless fled the night,Sleepless as a sick man’s bed,When he sighs for morning light,When he turns his aching head,—
Slow and painful passed the day. _105Melancholy seized my brain,Lingering fled the hours away,Lingering to a wretch in pain.—
At last came night, ah! horrid hour,Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, _110When demons ride the clouds that lower,—The phantom sat upon my bed.
In hollow voice, low as the soundWhich in some charnel makes its moan,What floats along the burying ground, _115The phantom claimed me as her own.
Her chilling finger on my head,With coldest touch congealed my soul—Cold as the finger of the dead,Or damps which round a tombstone roll— _120
Months are passed in lingering round,Every night the spectre comes,With thrilling step it shakes the ground,With thrilling step it round me roams—
Stranger! I have told to thee, _125All the tale I have to tell—Stranger! canst thou tell to me,How to ‘scape the powers of Hell?—
STRANGER:Warrior! I can ease thy woes,Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me— _130Warrior! I can all disclose,Follow, follow, follow me.
Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing,Its mantle stretches o’er the sky,Yet the midnight ravens sing, _135‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’
At last they saw a river clear,That crossed the heathy path they trod,The Stranger’s look was wild and drear,The firm Earth shook beneath his nod— _140
He raised a wand above his head,He traced a circle on the plain,In a wild verse he called the dead,The dead with silent footsteps came.
A burning brilliance on his head, _145Flaming filled the stormy air,In a wild verse he called the dead,The dead in motley crowd were there.—
‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come along,Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, _150Quickly raise th’ avenging Song,Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.’
Horrid shapes in mantles gray,Flit athwart the stormy night,‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, _155Come away before ’tis light.’
See! the sheeted Ghost they bring,Yelling dreadful o’er the heath,Hark! the deadly verse they sing,Tidings of despair and death! _160
The yelling Ghost before him stands,See! she rolls her eyes around,Now she lifts her bony hands,Now her footsteps shake the ground.
STRANGER:Phantom of Theresa say, _165Why to earth again you came,Quickly speak, I must away!Or you must bleach for aye in flame,—
PHANTOM:Mighty one I know thee now,Mightiest power of the sky, _170Know thee by thy flaming brow,Know thee by thy sparkling eye.
That fire is scorching! Oh! I came,From the caverned depth of Hell,My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, _175Mighty one! I know thee well.—
STRANGER:Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite,Drag her to the depth beneath,Take her swift, before ’tis light,Take her to the cells of death! _180
Thou that heardst the trackless dead,In the mouldering tomb must lie,Mortal! look upon my head,Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.
Of glowing flame a cross was there, _185Which threw a light around his form,Whilst his lank and raven hair,Floated wild upon the storm.—
The warrior upwards turned his eyes,Gazed upon the cross of fire, _190There sat horror and surprise,There sat God’s eternal ire.—
A shivering through the Warrior flew,Colder than the nightly blast,Colder than the evening dew, _195When the hour of twilight’s past.—
Thunder shakes th’ expansive sky,Shakes the bosom of the heath,‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die’—The warrior sank convulsed in death. _200
NOTES: _114 its]it 1810. _115 What]query Which?
’Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling,One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,—Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! _5
’Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling,Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky,Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling,And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.—
My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar _10Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke,Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear,This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear,But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke.’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, _15The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode,Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing,She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.—I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!
… …
***
[“St. Irvyne; or The Rosicrucian”, appeared early in 1811 (see “Bibliographical List”). Rossetti (1870) relying on a passage in Medwin’s “Life of Shelley” (1 page 74), assigns 1, 4, 5, and 6 to 1808, and 2 and 4 to 1809. The titles of 1, 3, 4, and 5 are Rossetti’s; those of 2 and 6 are Dowden’s.]
***
[Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.]
1.’Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,—They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. _5
2.’Twas then that I started!—the wild storm was howling,Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.
3.My heart sank within me—unheeded the war _10Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;—Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear—This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.
4.’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, _15The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.
5. I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—’
…
NOTE: 1.—Victoria: without title, 1811.
1.Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yellingRise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,When o’er the dark aether the tempest is swelling,And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
2.For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, _5Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury,Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.
3.And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; _10In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.
4.On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountainPerhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead:On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain,Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
NOTE: 2.—On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811; The Father’s Spectre, Rossetti, 1870.
1.The death-bell beats!—The mountain repeatsThe echoing sound of the knell;And the dark Monk nowWraps the cowl round his brow, _5As he sits in his lonely cell.
2.And the cold hand of deathChills his shuddering breath,As he lists to the fearful layWhich the ghosts of the sky, _10As they sweep wildly by,Sing to departed day.And they sing of the hourWhen the stern fates had powerTo resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. _15
3.But that hour is past;And that hour was the lastOf peace to the dark Monk’s brain.Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast;And he strove to suppress them in vain. _20
4.Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor,When the death-knell struck on his ear.—‘Delight is in storeFor her evermore;But for me is fate, horror, and fear.’ _25
5.Then his eyes wildly rolled,When the death-bell tolled,And he raged in terrific woe.And he stamped on the ground,—But when ceased the sound, _30Tears again began to flow.
6.And the ice of despairChilled the wild throb of care,And he sate in mute agony still;Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, _35And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
7.Then he knelt in his cell:—And the horrors of hellWere delights to his agonized pain,And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, _40Which else must for ever remain.
8.And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground,Till the abbey bell struck One:His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:A voice hollow and horrible murmured around— _45‘The term of thy penance is done!’
9.Grew dark the night;The moonbeam brightWaxed faint on the mountain high;And, from the black hill, _50Went a voice cold and still,—‘Monk! thou art free to die.’
10.Then he rose on his feet,And his heart loud did beat,And his limbs they were palsied with dread; _55Whilst the grave’s clammy dewO’er his pale forehead grew;And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.
11.And the wild midnight stormRaved around his tall form, _60As he sought the chapel’s gloom:And the sunk grass did sighTo the wind, bleak and high,As he searched for the new-made tomb.
12.And forms, dark and high, _65Seemed around him to fly,And mingle their yells with the blast:And on the dark wallHalf-seen shadows did fall,As enhorrored he onward passed. _70
13.And the storm-fiends wild raveO’er the new-made grave,And dread shadows linger around.The Monk called on God his soul to save,And, in horror, sank on the ground. _75
14.Then despair nerved his armTo dispel the charm,And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder.And the fierce storm did swellMore terrific and fell, _80And louder pealed the thunder.
15.And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng,Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead:And their grisly wings, as they floated along,Whistled in murmurs dread. _85
16.And her skeleton form the dead Nun rearedWhich dripped with the chill dew of hell.In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared,And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,As he stood within the cell. _90
17.And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;But each power was nerved by fear.—‘I never, henceforth, may breathe again;Death now ends mine anguished pain.—The grave yawns,—we meet there.’ _95
18.And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,So deadly, so lone, and so fell,That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;And as the stern notes floated around,A deep groan was answered from hell.
NOTE: 3.—Sister Rosa: Ballad, 1811.
1.How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanseBright day’s resplendent colours fade!How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glanceWith silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!
2.No cloud along the spangled air, _5Is borne upon the evening breeze;How solemn is the scene! how fairThe moonbeams rest upon the trees!
3.Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,Upon it sits the mournful owl; _10Along the stillness of the night,Her melancholy shriekings roll.
4.But not alone on Irvyne’s tower,The silver moonbeam pours her ray;It gleams upon the ivied bower, _15It dances in the cascade’s spray.
5.‘Ah! why do dark’ning shades concealThe hour, when man must cease to be?Why may not human minds unveilThe dim mists of futurity?— _20
6.‘The keenness of the world hath tornThe heart which opens to its blast;Despised, neglected, and forlorn,Sinks the wretch in death at last.’
NOTE: 4.—St. Irvyne’s Tower: Song, 1810.
1.How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear;When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, _5When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
2.Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,Or summer succeed to the winter of death? _10Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will saveThe spirit, that faded away with the breath.Eternity points in its amaranth bower,Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower,Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, _15When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
NOTE: 5.—Bereavement: Song, 1811.
1.Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, _5As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,‘Stay thy boat on the lake,—dearest Henry, I come.’
2.High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,As lightly her form bounded over the lea, _10And arose in her mind every dear recollection;‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving,And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, _15Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
3.Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? _20Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving,O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.
6.—The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.
***
Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.
[The “Posthumous Fragments”, published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared inNovember, 1810. See “Bibliographical List”.]
The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.
In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.
Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurledDeath, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;Tell then the cause, ’tis sure the avenger’s rage _5Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,He shudders in death’s latest agonies;Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,Yet does his parting breath essay to speak— _10‘Oh God! my wife, my children—Monarch thouFor whose support this fainting frame lies low;For whose support in distant lands I bleed,Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed.He hears me not—ah! no—kings cannot hear, _15For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear.To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan,Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan.Oh! now I die—but still is death’s fierce pain—God hears my prayer—we meet, we meet again.’ _20He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed,And with a parting groan his spirit fled.Oppressors of mankind to YOU we oweThe baleful streams from whence these miseries flow;For you how many a mother weeps her son, _25Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run!For you how many a widow drops a tear,In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier!‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries,‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? _30Is this the system which Thy powerful sway,Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay,Formed and approved?—it cannot be—but oh!Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’’Tis not—He never bade the war-note swell, _35He never triumphed in the work of hell—Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed,Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.Ah! when will come the sacred fated time,When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime, _40Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride,Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men’s side?Ah! when will come the time, when o’er the plainNo more shall death and desolation reign?When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, _45And the stern warrior’s arm the sickle wield?Not whilst some King, in cold ambition’s dreams,Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;Not whilst for private pique the public fall,And one frail mortal’s mandate governs all. _50Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway;Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away.Careless who lives or dies—so that he gainsSome trivial point for which he took the pains.What then are Kings?—I see the trembling crowd, _55I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud;Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile,But April’s sunshine is a Monarch’s smile—Kings are but dust—the last eventful dayWill level all and make them lose their sway; _60Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch’s hand,And from the warrior’s grasp wrest the ensanguined brand.Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone,Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown?And love and concord hast thou swept away, _65As if incongruous with thy parted sway?Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear.Now o’er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear,With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;—List’ning he pauses on the embattled plain, _70Then speeding swiftly o’er the ensanguined heath,Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death.See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car,He scents the battle’s carnage from afar;Hell and Destruction mark his mad career, _75He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear;Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell,That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell.‘It is thy work!’ I hear a voice repeat,Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; _80And at the orphan’s sigh, the widow’s moan,Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne—‘It is thy work, O Monarch;’ now the soundFainter and fainter, yet is borne around,Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell _85That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell,Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove,Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.
NOTE:War: the title is Woodberry’s, 1893; no title, 1810.
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’Tis midnight now—athwart the murky air,Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam;From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare,It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.
I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings;My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bindThe mazy volume of commingling things,When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.
I heard a yell—it was not the knell, _10When the blasts on the wild lake sleep,That floats on the pause of the summer gale’s swell,O’er the breast of the waveless deep.
I thought it had been death’s accents coldThat bade me recline on the shore; _15I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould,And thought to breathe no more.
But a heavenly sleepThat did suddenly steepIn balm my bosom’s pain, _20Pervaded my soul,And free from control,Did mine intellect range again.
Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud,Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; _25My form upborne by viewless aether rode,And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night.What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears,What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye!Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, _30More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by,And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.
But fairer than the spirits of the air,More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry,Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, _35Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky.Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly bandStrewed flowers of bliss that never fade away;They welcome virtue to its native land,And songs of triumph greet the joyous day _40When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.
Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul,E’en though the tide of time has rolled between;They mock weak matter’s impotent control,And seek of endless life the eternal scene. _45At death’s vain summons THIS will never die,In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay—These are the bands which closely, warmly, tieThy soul, O Charlotte, ‘yond this chain of clay,To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. _50