One eve he led me to this fane:Daylight on its last purple cloudWas lingering gray, and soon her strainThe nightingale began; now loud, _1105Climbing in circles the windless sky,Now dying music; suddenly’Tis scattered in a thousand notes,And now to the hushed ear it floatsLike field smells known in infancy, _1110Then failing, soothes the air again.We sate within that temple lone,Pavilioned round with Parian stone:His mother’s harp stood near, and oftI had awakened music soft _1115Amid its wires: the nightingaleWas pausing in her heaven-taught tale:‘Now drain the cup,’ said Lionel,‘Which the poet-bird has crowned so wellWith the wine of her bright and liquid song! _1120Heardst thou not sweet words amongThat heaven-resounding minstrelsy?Heard’st thou not that those who dieAwake in a world of ecstasy?That love, when limbs are interwoven, _1125And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,And thought, to the world’s dim boundaries clinging,And music, when one beloved is singing,Is death? Let us drain right joyouslyThe cup which the sweet bird fills for me.’ _1130He paused, and to my lips he bentHis own: like spirit his words wentThrough all my limbs with the speed of fire;And his keen eyes, glittering through mine,Filled me with the flame divine, _1135Which in their orbs was burning far,Like the light of an unmeasured star,In the sky of midnight dark and deep:Yes, ’twas his soul that did inspireSounds, which my skill could ne’er awaken; _1140And first, I felt my fingers sweepThe harp, and a long quivering cryBurst from my lips in symphony:The dusk and solid air was shaken,As swift and swifter the notes came _1145From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,And from my bosom, labouringWith some unutterable thing:The awful sound of my own voice madeMy faint lips tremble; in some mood _1150Of wordless thought Lionel stoodSo pale, that even beside his cheekThe snowy column from its shadeCaught whiteness: yet his countenance,Raised upward, burned with radiance _1155Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light,Like the moon struggling through the nightOf whirlwind-rifted clouds, did breakWith beams that might not be confined.I paused, but soon his gestures kindled _1160New power, as by the moving windThe waves are lifted, and my songTo low soft notes now changed and dwindled,And from the twinkling wires among,My languid fingers drew and flung _1165Circles of life-dissolving sound,Yet faint; in aery rings they boundMy Lionel, who, as every strainGrew fainter but more sweet, his mienSunk with the sound relaxedly; _1170And slowly now he turned to me,As slowly faded from his faceThat awful joy: with looks sereneHe was soon drawn to my embrace,And my wild song then died away _1175In murmurs: words I dare not sayWe mixed, and on his lips mine fedTill they methought felt still and cold:‘What is it with thee, love?’ I said:No word, no look, no motion! yes, _1180There was a change, but spare to guess,Nor let that moment’s hope be told.I looked, and knew that he was dead,And fell, as the eagle on the plainFalls when life deserts her brain, _1185And the mortal lightning is veiled again.
O that I were now dead! but such(Did they not, love, demand too much,Those dying murmurs?) he forbade.O that I once again were mad! _1190And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,For I would live to share thy woe.Sweet boy! did I forget thee too?Alas, we know not what we doWhen we speak words.No memory more _1195Is in my mind of that sea shore.Madness came on me, and a troopOf misty shapes did seem to sitBeside me, on a vessel’s poop,And the clear north wind was driving it. _1200Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,And the stars methought grew unlike ours,And the azure sky and the stormless seaMade me believe that I had died,And waked in a world, which was to me _1205Drear hell, though heaven to all beside:Then a dead sleep fell on my mind,Whilst animal life many long yearsHad rescued from a chasm of tears;And when I woke, I wept to find _1210That the same lady, bright and wise,With silver locks and quick brown eyes,The mother of my Lionel,Had tended me in my distress,And died some months before. Nor less _1215Wonder, but far more peace and joy,Brought in that hour my lovely boy;For through that trance my soul had wellThe impress of thy being kept;And if I waked, or if I slept, _1220No doubt, though memory faithless be,Thy image ever dwelt on me;And thus, O Lionel, like theeIs our sweet child. ’Tis sure most strangeI knew not of so great a change, _1225As that which gave him birth, who nowIs all the solace of my woe.
That Lionel great wealth had leftBy will to me, and that of allThe ready lies of law bereft _1230My child and me, might well befall.But let me think not of the scorn,Which from the meanest I have borne,When, for my child’s beloved sake,I mixed with slaves, to vindicate _1235The very laws themselves do make:Let me not say scorn is my fate,Lest I be proud, suffering the sameWith those who live in deathless fame.
She ceased.—‘Lo, where red morning thro’ the woods _1240Is burning o’er the dew;’ said Rosalind.And with these words they rose, and towards the floodOf the blue lake, beneath the leaves now windWith equal steps and fingers intertwined:Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore _1245Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypressesCleave with their dark green cones the silent skies,And with their shadows the clear depths below,And where a little terrace from its bowers,Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, _1250Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o’erThe liquid marble of the windless lake;And where the aged forest’s limbs look hoar,Under the leaves which their green garments make,They come: ’Tis Helen’s home, and clean and white, _1255Like one which tyrants spare on our own landIn some such solitude, its casements brightShone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun,And even within ’twas scarce like Italy.And when she saw how all things there were planned, _1260As in an English home, dim memoryDisturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as oneWhose mind is where his body cannot be,Till Helen led her where her child yet slept,And said, ‘Observe, that brow was Lionel’s, _1265Those lips were his, and so he ever keptOne arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it.You cannot see his eyes—they are two wellsOf liquid love: let us not wake him yet.’But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept _1270A shower of burning tears, which fell uponHis face, and so his opening lashes shoneWith tears unlike his own, as he did leapIn sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.
So Rosalind and Helen lived together _1275Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again,Such as they were, when o’er the mountain heatherThey wandered in their youth, through sun and rain.And after many years, for human thingsChange even like the ocean and the wind, _1280Her daughter was restored to Rosalind,And in their circle thence some visitingsOf joy ‘mid their new calm would intervene:A lovely child she was, of looks serene,And motions which o’er things indifferent shed _1285The grace and gentleness from whence they came.And Helen’s boy grew with her, and they fedFrom the same flowers of thought, until each mindLike springs which mingle in one flood became,And in their union soon their parents saw _1290The shadow of the peace denied to them.And Rosalind, for when the living stemIs cankered in its heart, the tree must fall,Died ere her time; and with deep grief and aweThe pale survivors followed her remains _1295Beyond the region of dissolving rains,Up the cold mountain she was wont to callHer tomb; and on Chiavenna’s precipiceThey raised a pyramid of lasting ice,Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, _1300Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,The last, when it had sunk; and thro’ the nightThe charioteers of Arctos wheeled roundIts glittering point, as seen from Helen’s home,Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, _1305With willing steps climbing that rugged height,And hang long locks of hair, and garlands boundWith amaranth flowers, which, in the clime’s despite,Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light:Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom _1310Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.
Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,Whose sufferings too were less, Death slowlier ledInto the peace of his dominion cold:She died among her kindred, being old. _1315And know, that if love die not in the deadAs in the living, none of mortal kindAre blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.
NOTES: _63 from there]from thee edition 1819. _366 fell]ran edition 1819. _405-_408 See Editor’s Note on this passage. _551 Where]When edition 1819. _572 Ay, overflowing]Aye overflowing edition 1819. _612 dear]clear cj. Bradley. _711 gore editions 1819, 1839. See Editor’s Note. _932 Where]When edition 1819. _1093-_1096 See Editor’s Note. _1168-_1171] See Editor’s Note. _1209 rescue]rescued edition 1819. See Editor’s Note.
“Rosalind and Helen” was begun at Marlow, and thrown aside—till I found it; and, at my request, it was completed. Shelley had no care for any of his poems that did not emanate from the depths of his mind, and develop some high or abstruse truth. When he does touch on human life and the human heart, no pictures can be more faithful, more delicate, more subtle, or more pathetic. He never mentioned Love but he shed a grace borrowed from his own nature, that scarcely any other poet has bestowed on that passion. When he spoke of it as the law of life, which inasmuch as we rebel against we err and injure ourselves and others, he promulgated that which he considered an irrefragable truth. In his eyes it was the essence of our being, and all woe and pain arose from the war made against it by selfishness, or insensibility, or mistake. By reverting in his mind to this first principle, he discovered the source of many emotions, and could disclose the secrets of all hearts, and his delineations of passion and emotion touch the finest chords of our nature.
“Rosalind and Helen” was finished during the summer of 1818, while we were at the Baths of Lucca.
***
[Composed at Este after Shelley’s first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the “Posthumous Poems”, London, 1824 (edition Mrs. Shelley). Shelley’s original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt’s “Examiner”; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the manuscript to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This manuscript, found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described at length in Mr. Forman’s Library Edition of the poems (volume 3 page 107). The date, ‘May, 1819,’ affixed to “Julian and Maddalo” in the “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Sources of the text are (1) “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; (2) the Hunt manuscript; (3) a fair draft of the poem amongst the Boscombe manuscripts; (4) “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st and 2nd editions (Mrs. Shelley). Our text is that of the Hunt manuscript, as printed in Forman’s Library Edition of the Poems, 1876, volume 3, pages 103-30; variants of 1824 are indicated in the footnotes; questions of punctuation are dealt with in the notes at the end of the volume.]
The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme,The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring,Are saturated not—nor Love with tears.—VIRGIL’S “Gallus”.
Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries.
Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious.
Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart.
I rode one evening with Count MaddaloUpon the bank of land which breaks the flowOf Adria towards Venice: a bare strandOf hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand,Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, _5Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,Is this; an uninhabited sea-side,Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,Abandons; and no other object breaksThe waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes _10Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makesA narrow space of level sand thereon,Where ’twas our wont to ride while day went down.This ride was my delight. I love all wasteAnd solitary places; where we taste _15The 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; and yet moreThan all, with a remembered friend I love _20To ride as then I rode;—for the winds droveThe living spray along the sunny airInto our faces; the blue heavens were bare,Stripped to their depths by the awakening north;And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth _25Harmonising with solitude, and sentInto our hearts aereal merriment.So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought,Winging itself with laughter, lingered not,But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours, _30Charged with light memories of remembered hours,None slow enough for sadness: till we cameHomeward, which always makes the spirit tame.This day had been cheerful but cold, and nowThe sun was sinking, and the wind also. _35Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may beTalk interrupted with such railleryAs mocks itself, because it cannot scornThe thoughts it would extinguish: —’twas forlorn,Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell, _40The devils held within the dales of HellConcerning God, freewill and destiny:Of all that earth has been or yet may be,All that vain men imagine or believe,Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, _45We descanted; and I (for ever stillIs it not wise to make the best of ill?)Argued against despondency, but prideMade my companion take the darker side.The sense that he was greater than his kind _50Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blindBy gazing on its own exceeding light.Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight,Over the horizon of the mountains;—Oh,How beautiful is sunset, when the glow _55Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!Thy mountains, seas and vineyards, and the towersOf cities they encircle!—it was oursTo stand on thee, beholding it: and then, _60Just where we had dismounted, the Count’s menWere waiting for us with the gondola.—As those who pause on some delightful wayThough bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stoodLooking upon the evening, and the flood _65Which lay between the city and the shore,Paved with the image of the sky…the hoarAnd aery Alps towards the North appearedThrough mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark rearedBetween the East and West; and half the sky _70Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonryDark purple at the zenith, which still grewDown the steep West into a wondrous hueBrighter than burning gold, even to the rentWhere the swift sun yet paused in his descent _75Among the many-folded hills: they wereThose famous Euganean hills, which bear,As seen from Lido thro’ the harbour piles,The likeness of a clump of peaked isles—And then—as if the Earth and Sea had been _80Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seenThose mountains towering as from waves of flameAround the vaporous sun, from which there cameThe inmost purple spirit of light, and madeTheir very peaks transparent. ‘Ere it fade,’ _85Said my companion, ‘I will show you soonA better station’—so, o’er the laguneWe glided; and from that funereal barkI leaned, and saw the city, and could markHow from their many isles, in evening’s gleam, _90Its temples and its palaces did seemLike fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven.I was about to speak, when—‘We are evenNow at the point I meant,’ said Maddalo,And bade the gondolieri cease to row. _95‘Look, Julian, on the west, and listen wellIf you hear not a deep and heavy bell.’I looked, and saw between us and the sunA building on an island; such a oneAs age to age might add, for uses vile, _100A windowless, deformed and dreary pile;And on the top an open tower, where hungA bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung;We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue:The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled _105In strong and black relief.—‘What we beholdShall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,’Said Maddalo, ‘and ever at this hourThose who may cross the water, hear that bellWhich calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, _110To vespers.’—‘As much skill as need to prayIn thanks or hope for their dark lot have theyTo their stern maker,’ I replied. ‘O ho!You talk as in years past,’ said Maddalo.‘’Tis strange men change not. You were ever still _115Among Christ’s flock a perilous infidel,A wolf for the meek lambs—if you can’t swimBeware of Providence.’ I looked on him,But the gay smile had faded in his eye.‘And such,’—he cried, ‘is our mortality, _120And this must be the emblem and the signOf what should be eternal and divine!—And like that black and dreary bell, the soul,Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must tollOur thoughts and our desires to meet below _125Round the rent heart and pray—as madmen doFor what? they know not,—till the night of deathAs sunset that strange vision, severethOur memory from itself, and us from allWe sought and yet were baffled.’ I recall _130The sense of what he said, although I marThe force of his expressions. The broad starOf day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill,And the black bell became invisible,And the red tower looked gray, and all between _135The churches, ships and palaces were seenHuddled in gloom;—into the purple seaThe orange hues of heaven sunk silently.We hardly spoke, and soon the gondolaConveyed me to my lodging by the way. _140The following morn was rainy, cold, and dim:Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him,And whilst I waited with his child I played;A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made;A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, _145Graceful without design and unforeseeing,With eyes—Oh speak not of her eyes!—which seemTwin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleamWith such deep meaning, as we never seeBut in the human countenance: with me _150She was a special favourite: I had nursedHer fine and feeble limbs when she came firstTo this bleak world; and she yet seemed to knowOn second sight her ancient playfellow,Less changed than she was by six months or so; _155For after her first shyness was worn outWe sate there, rolling billiard balls about,When the Count entered. Salutations past—‘The word you spoke last night might well have castA darkness on my spirit—if man be _160The passive thing you say, I should not seeMuch harm in the religions and old saws(Tho’ I may never own such leaden laws)Which break a teachless nature to the yoke:Mine is another faith.’—thus much I spoke _165And noting he replied not, added: ‘SeeThis lovely child, blithe, innocent and free;She spends a happy time with little care,While we to such sick thoughts subjected areAs came on you last night. It is our will _170That thus enchains us to permitted ill—We might be otherwise—we might be allWe dream of happy, high, majestical.Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek,But in our mind? and if we were not weak _175Should we be less in deed than in desire?’‘Ay, if we were not weak—and we aspireHow vainly to be strong!’ said Maddalo:‘You talk Utopia.’ ‘It remains to know,’I then rejoined, ‘and those who try may find _180How strong the chains are which our spirit bind;Brittle perchance as straw…We are assuredMuch may be conquered, much may be endured,Of what degrades and crushes us. We knowThat we have power over ourselves to do _185And suffer—what, we know not till we try;But something nobler than to live and die—So taught those kings of old philosophyWho reigned, before Religion made men blind;And those who suffer with their suffering kind _190Yet feel their faith, religion.’ ‘My dear friend,’Said Maddalo, ‘my judgement will not bendTo your opinion, though I think you mightMake such a system refutation-tightAs far as words go. I knew one like you _195Who to this city came some months ago,With whom I argued in this sort, and heIs now gone mad,—and so he answered me,—Poor fellow! but if you would like to go,We’ll visit him, and his wild talk will show _200How vain are such aspiring theories.’‘I hope to prove the induction otherwise,And that a want of that true theory, still,Which seeks a “soul of goodness” in things illOr in himself or others, has thus bowed _205His being—there are some by nature proud,Who patient in all else demand but this—To love and be beloved with gentleness;And being scorned, what wonder if they dieSome living death? this is not destiny _210But man’s own wilful ill.’As thus I spokeServants announced the gondola, and weThrough the fast-falling rain and high-wrought seaSailed to the island where the madhouse stands.We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, _215Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,And laughter where complaint had merrier been,Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayersAccosted us. We climbed the oozy stairsInto an old courtyard. I heard on high, _220Then, fragments of most touching melody,But looking up saw not the singer there—Through the black bars in the tempestuous airI saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, _225Of those who on a sudden were beguiledInto strange silence, and looked forth and smiledHearing sweet sounds. Then I: ‘Methinks there wereA cure of these with patience and kind care,If music can thus move…but what is he _230Whom we seek here?’ ‘Of his sad historyI know but this,’ said Maddalo: ‘he cameTo Venice a dejected man, and fameSaid he was wealthy, or he had been so;Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; _235But he was ever talking in such sortAs you do—far more sadly—he seemed hurt,Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,To hear but of the oppression of the strong,Or those absurd deceits (I think with you _240In some respects, you know) which carry throughThe excellent impostors of this earthWhen they outface detection—he had worth,Poor fellow! but a humorist in his way’—‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ‘I cannot say: _245A lady came with him from France, and whenShe left him and returned, he wandered thenAbout yon lonely isles of desert sandTill he grew wild—he had no cash or landRemaining,—the police had brought him here— _250Some fancy took him and he would not bearRemoval; so I fitted up for himThose rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers,Which had adorned his life in happier hours, _255And instruments of music—you may guessA stranger could do little more or lessFor one so gentle and unfortunate:And those are his sweet strains which charm the weightFrom madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear _260A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’—‘Nay, this was kind of you—he had no claim,As the world says’—‘None—but the very sameWhich I on all mankind were I as heFallen to such deep reverse;—his melody _265Is interrupted—now we hear the dinOf madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin;Let us now visit him; after this strainHe ever communes with himself again,And sees nor hears not any.’ Having said _270These words, we called the keeper, and he ledTo an apartment opening on the sea—There the poor wretch was sitting mournfullyNear a piano, his pale fingers twinedOne with the other, and the ooze and wind _275Rushed through an open casement, and did swayHis hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;His head was leaning on a music book,And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;His lips were pressed against a folded leaf _280In hue too beautiful for health, and griefSmiled in their motions as they lay apart—As one who wrought from his own fervid heartThe eloquence of passion, soon he raisedHis sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed _285And spoke—sometimes as one who wrote, and thoughtHis words might move some heart that heeded not,If sent to distant lands: and then as oneReproaching deeds never to be undoneWith wondering self-compassion; then his speech _290Was lost in grief, and then his words came eachUnmodulated, cold, expressionless,—But that from one jarred accent you might guessIt was despair made them so uniform:And all the while the loud and gusty storm _295Hissed through the window, and we stood behindStealing his accents from the envious windUnseen. I yet remember what he saidDistinctly: such impression his words made.
‘Month after month,’ he cried, ‘to bear this load _300And as a jade urged by the whip and goadTo drag life on, which like a heavy chainLengthens behind with many a link of pain!—And not to speak my grief—O, not to dareTo give a human voice to my despair, _305But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile onAs if I never went aside to groan,And wear this mask of falsehood even to thoseWho are most dear—not for my own repose—Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be _310So heavy as that falsehood is to me—But that I cannot bear more altered facesThan needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,More misery, disappointment, and mistrustTo own me for their father…Would the dust _315Were covered in upon my body now!That the life ceased to toil within my brow!And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.
‘What Power delights to torture us? I know _320That to myself I do not wholly oweWhat now I suffer, though in part I may.Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the wayWhere wandering heedlessly, I met pale PainMy shadow, which will leave me not again— _325If I have erred, there was no joy in error,But pain and insult and unrest and terror;I have not as some do, bought penitenceWith pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,For then,—if love and tenderness and truth _330Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,My creed should have redeemed me from repenting;But loathed scorn and outrage unrelentingMet love excited by far other seemingUntil the end was gained…as one from dreaming _335Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my stateSuch as it is.—‘O Thou, my spirit’s mateWho, for thou art compassionate and wise,Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyesIf this sad writing thou shouldst ever see— _340My secret groans must be unheard by thee,Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to knowThy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.
‘Ye few by whom my nature has been weighedIn friendship, let me not that name degrade _345By placing on your hearts the secret loadWhich crushes mine to dust. There is one roadTo peace and that is truth, which follow ye!Love sometimes leads astray to misery.Yet think not though subdued—and I may well _350Say that I am subdued—that the full HellWithin me would infect the untainted breastOf sacred nature with its own unrest;As some perverted beings think to findIn scorn or hate a medicine for the mind _355Which scorn or hate have wounded—O how vain!The dagger heals not but may rend again…Believe that I am ever still the sameIn creed as in resolve, and what may tameMy heart, must leave the understanding free, _360Or all would sink in this keen agony—Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry;Or with my silence sanction tyranny;Or seek a moment’s shelter from my painIn any madness which the world calls gain, _365Ambition or revenge or thoughts as sternAs those which make me what I am; or turnTo avarice or misanthropy or lust…Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, _370And Poverty and Shame may meet and say—Halting beside me on the public way—“That love-devoted youth is ours—let’s sitBeside him—he may live some six months yet.”Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, _375May ask some willing victim; or ye friendsMay fall under some sorrow which this heartOr hand may share or vanquish or avert;I am prepared—in truth, with no proud joy—To do or suffer aught, as when a boy _380I did devote to justice and to loveMy nature, worthless now!…‘I must removeA veil from my pent mind. ’Tis torn aside!O, pallid as Death’s dedicated bride,Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, _385Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s callI haste, invited to thy wedding-ballTo greet the ghastly paramour, for whomThou hast deserted me…and made the tombThy bridal bed…But I beside your feet _390Will lie and watch ye from my winding-sheet—Thus…wide awake tho’ dead…yet stay, O stay!Go not so soon—I know not what I say—Hear but my reasons…I am mad, I fear,My fancy is o’erwrought…thou art not here… _395Pale art thou, ’tis most true…but thou art gone,Thy work is finished…I am left alone!—…‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breastWhich, like a serpent, thou envenomestAs in repayment of the warmth it lent? _400Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?Did not thy love awaken mine? I thoughtThat thou wert she who said, “You kiss me notEver, I fear you do not love me now”—In truth I loved even to my overthrow _405Her, who would fain forget these words: but theyCling to her mind, and cannot pass away.…‘You say that I am proud—that when I speakMy lip is tortured with the wrongs which breakThe spirit it expresses…Never one _410Humbled himself before, as I have done!Even the instinctive worm on which we treadTurns, though it wound not—then with prostrate headSinks in the dusk and writhes like me—and dies?No: wears a living death of agonies! _415As the slow shadows of the pointed grassMark the eternal periods, his pangs pass,Slow, ever-moving,—making moments beAs mine seem—each an immortality!…‘That you had never seen me—never heard _420My voice, and more than all had ne’er enduredThe deep pollution of my loathed embrace—That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face—That, like some maniac monk, I had torn outThe nerves of manhood by their bleeding root _425With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’erOur hearts had for a moment mingled thereTo disunite in horror—these were notWith thee, like some suppressed and hideous thoughtWhich flits athwart our musings, but can find _430No rest within a pure and gentle mind…Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word,And searedst my memory o’er them,—for I heardAnd can forget not…they were ministeredOne after one, those curses. Mix them up _435Like self-destroying poisons in one cup,And they will make one blessing which thou ne’erDidst imprecate for, on me,—death.…‘It wereA cruel punishment for one most cruel,If such can love, to make that love the fuel _440Of the mind’s hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair:But ME—whose heart a stranger’s tear might wearAs water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,Who loved and pitied all things, and could moanFor woes which others hear not, and could see _445The absent with the glance of phantasy,And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,Following the captive to his dungeon deep;ME—who am as a nerve o’er which do creepThe else unfelt oppressions of this earth, _450And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,When all beside was cold—that thou on meShouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony—Such curses are from lips once eloquentWith love’s too partial praise—let none relent _455Who intend deeds too dreadful for a nameHenceforth, if an example for the sameThey seek…for thou on me lookedst so, and so—And didst speak thus…and thus…I live to showHow much men bear and die not!…‘Thou wilt tell _460With the grimace of hate, how horribleIt was to meet my love when thine grew less;Thou wilt admire how I could e’er addressSuch features to love’s work…this taunt, though true,(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue _465Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)Shall not be thy defence…for since thy lipMet mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindledWith soft fire under mine, I have not dwindledNor changed in mind or body, or in aught _470But as love changes what it loveth notAfter long years and many trials.
‘How vainAre words! I thought never to speak again,Not even in secret,—not to mine own heart—But from my lips the unwilling accents start, _475And from my pen the words flow as I write,Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears…my sightIs dim to see that charactered in vainOn this unfeeling leaf which burns the brainAnd eats into it…blotting all things fair _480And wise and good which time had written there.
‘Those who inflict must suffer, for they seeThe work of their own hearts, and this must beOur chastisement or recompense—O child!I would that thine were like to be more mild _485For both our wretched sakes…for thine the mostWho feelest already all that thou hast lostWithout the power to wish it thine again;And as slow years pass, a funereal trainEach with the ghost of some lost hope or friend _490Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bendNo thought on my dead memory?…‘Alas, love!Fear me not…against thee I would not moveA finger in despite. Do I not liveThat thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? _495I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate;And that thy lot may be less desolateThan his on whom thou tramplest, I refrainFrom that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.Then, when thou speakest of me, never say _500“He could forgive not.” Here I cast awayAll human passions, all revenge, all pride;I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hideUnder these words, like embers, every sparkOf that which has consumed me—quick and dark _505The grave is yawning…as its roof shall coverMy limbs with dust and worms under and overSo let Oblivion hide this grief…the airCloses upon my accents, as despairUpon my heart—let death upon despair!’ _510
He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,Then rising, with a melancholy smileWent to a sofa, and lay down, and sleptA heavy sleep, and in his dreams he weptAnd muttered some familiar name, and we _515Wept without shame in his society.I think I never was impressed so much;The man who were not, must have lacked a touchOf human nature…then we lingered not,Although our argument was quite forgot, _520But calling the attendants, went to dineAt Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wineCould give us spirits, for we talked of himAnd nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;And we agreed his was some dreadful ill _525Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,By a dear friend; some deadly change in loveOf one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blotOf falsehood on his mind which flourished not _530But in the light of all-beholding truth;And having stamped this canker on his youthShe had abandoned him—and how much moreMight be his woe, we guessed not—he had storeOf friends and fortune once, as we could guess _535From his nice habits and his gentleness;These were now lost…it were a grief indeedIf he had changed one unsustaining reedFor all that such a man might else adorn.The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; _540For the wild language of his grief was high,Such as in measure were called poetry;And I remember one remark which thenMaddalo made. He said: ‘Most wretched menAre cradled into poetry by wrong, _545They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’
If I had been an unconnected man,I, from this moment, should have formed some planNever to leave sweet Venice,—for to meIt was delight to ride by the lone sea; _550And then, the town is silent—one may writeOr read in gondolas by day or night,Having the little brazen lamp alight,Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair _555Which were twin-born with poetry, and allWe seek in towns, with little to recallRegrets for the green country. I might sitIn Maddalo’s great palace, and his witAnd subtle talk would cheer the winter night _560And make me know myself, and the firelightWould flash upon our faces, till the dayMight dawn and make me wonder at my stay:But I had friends in London too: the chiefAttraction here, was that I sought relief _565From the deep tenderness that maniac wroughtWithin me—’twas perhaps an idle thought—But I imagined that if day by dayI watched him, and but seldom went away,And studied all the beatings of his heart _570With zeal, as men study some stubborn artFor their own good, and could by patience findAn entrance to the caverns of his mind,I might reclaim him from this dark estate:In friendships I had been most fortunate— _575Yet never saw I one whom I would callMore willingly my friend; and this was allAccomplished not; such dreams of baseless goodOft come and go in crowds or solitudeAnd leave no trace—but what I now designed _580Made for long years impression on my mind.The following morning, urged by my affairs,I left bright Venice.After many yearsAnd many changes I returned; the nameOf Venice, and its aspect, was the same; _585But Maddalo was travelling far awayAmong the mountains of Armenia.His dog was dead. His child had now becomeA woman; such as it has been my doomTo meet with few,—a wonder of this earth, _590Where there is little of transcendent worth,Like one of Shakespeare’s women: kindly she,And, with a manner beyond courtesy,Received her father’s friend; and when I askedOf the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, _595And told as she had heard the mournful tale:‘That the poor sufferer’s health began to failTwo years from my departure, but that thenThe lady who had left him, came again.Her mien had been imperious, but she now _600Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought her low.Her coming made him better, and they stayedTogether at my father’s—for I played,As I remember, with the lady’s shawl—I might be six years old—but after all _605She left him.’…’Why, her heart must have been tough:How did it end?’ ‘And was not this enough?They met—they parted.’—‘Child, is there no more?’‘Something within that interval which boreThe stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met: _610Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wetThose wrinkled cheeks with youth’s remembered tears,Ask me no more, but let the silent yearsBe closed and cered over their memoryAs yon mute marble where their corpses lie.’ _615I urged and questioned still, she told me howAll happened—but the cold world shall not know.
‘What think you the dead are?’ ‘Why, dust and clay,What should they be?’ ‘’Tis the last hour of day.Look on the west, how beautiful it is _620Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep blissOf that unutterable light has madeThe edges of that cloud … fadeInto a hue, like some harmonious thought,Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, _625Till it dies … and … betweenThe light hues of the tender, pure, serene,And infinite tranquillity of heaven.Ay, beautiful! but when not…’…‘Perhaps the only comfort which remains _630Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,The which I make, and call it melody.’
NOTES: _45 may Hunt manuscript; can 1824. _99 a one Hunt manuscript; an one 1824. _105 sunk Hunt manuscript; sank 1824. _108 ever Hunt manuscript; even 1824. _119 in Hunt manuscript; from 1824. _124 a Hunt manuscript; an 1824. _171 That Hunt manuscript; Which 1824. _175 mind Hunt manuscript; minds 1824. _179 know 1824; see Hunt manuscript. _188 those Hunt manuscript; the 1824. _191 their Hunt manuscript; this 1824. _218 Moons, etc., Hunt manuscript; The line is wanting in editions 1824 and 1839. _237 far Hunt manuscript; but 1824. _270 nor Hunt manuscript; and 1824. _292 cold Hunt manuscript; and 1824. _318 least Hunt manuscript; last 1824. _323 sweet Hunt manuscript; fresh 1824. _356 have Hunt manuscript; hath 1824. _361 in this keen Hunt manuscript; under this 1824. _362 cry Hunt manuscript; eye 1824. _372 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824. _388 greet Hunt manuscript; meet 1824. _390 your Hunt manuscript; thy 1824. _417 his Hunt manuscript; its 1824. _446 glance Hunt manuscript; glass 1824. _447 with Hunt manuscript; near 1824. _467 lip Hunt manuscript; life 1824. _483 this Hunt manuscript; that 1824. _493 I would Hunt manuscript; I’d 1824. _510 despair Hunt manuscript; my care 1839. _511 leant] See Editor’s Note. _518 were Hunt manuscript; was 1839. _525 his Hunt manuscript; it 1824. _530 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824. _537 were now Hunt manuscript; now were 1824. _588 regrets Hunt manuscript; regret 1824. _569 but Hunt manuscript; wanting in editions 1824 and 1839. _574 his 1824; this [?] Hunt manuscript.
From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for his family from Lucca to join him.
I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the “Prometheus”; and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote “Julian and Maddalo”. A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.
Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate. Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but they could not resist Shelley’s impetuosity at such a moment. We had scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer, and we returned to Este to weep her loss.
After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.
***
[Composed at Este, September, October, 1818 (Act 1); at Rome, March-April 6, 1819 (Acts 2, 3); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act 4). Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Sources of the text are (1) edition of 1820; (2) text in “Poetical Works”, 1839, prepared with the aid of a list of errata in (1) written out by Shelley; (3) a fair draft in Shelley’s autograph, now in the Bodleian. This has been carefully collated by Mr. C.D. Locock, who prints the result in his “Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library”, Oxford (Clarendon Press), 1903. Our text is that of 1820, modified by edition 1839, and by the Bodleian fair copy. In the following notes B = the Bodleian manuscript; 1820 = the editio princeps, printed by Marchant for C. and J. Ollier, London; and 1839 = the text as edited by Mrs. Shelley in the “Poetical Works”, 1st and 2nd editions, 1839. The reader should consult the notes on the Play at the end of the volume.]
The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.
I have presumed to employ a similar license. The “Prometheus Unbound” of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an ambition which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage, and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement, which, in the Hero of “Paradise Lost”, interfere with the interest. The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling it engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.
This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama.
The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works (since a higher merit would probably be denied me) to which I am willing that my readers should impute this singularity.
One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind.
The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer. The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same; the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare) have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and opinions is now restoring, or is about to be restored.
As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, but because the whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought, and with the contemporary condition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained, unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such internal powers as modify the nature of others; and of such external influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but both. Every man’s mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected, and in which they compose one form. Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between Aeschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope; each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am willing to confess that I have imitated.
Let this opportunity be conceded to me of acknowledging that I have, what a Scotch philosopher characteristically terms, ‘a passion for reforming the world:’ what passion incited him to write and publish his book, he omits to explain. For my part I had rather be damned with Plato and Lord Bacon, than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compositions solely to the direct enforcement of reform, or that I consider them in any degree as containing a reasoned system on the theory of human life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence; nothing can be equally well expressed in prose that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. My purpose has hitherto been simply to familiarise the highly refined imagination of the more select classes of poetical readers with beautiful idealisms of moral excellence; aware that until the mind can love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the unconscious passenger tramples into dust, although they would bear the harvest of his happiness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose, that is, produce a systematical history of what appear to me to be the genuine elements of human society, let not the advocates of injustice and superstition flatter themselves that I should take Aeschylus rather than Plato as my model.
The having spoken of myself with unaffected freedom will need little apology with the candid; and let the uncandid consider that they injure me less than their own hearts and minds by misrepresentation. Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his grave which might otherwise have been unknown.
PROMETHEUS:Monarch of Gods and DAEmons, and all SpiritsBut One, who throng those bright and rolling worldsWhich Thou and I alone of living thingsBehold with sleepless eyes! regard this EarthMade multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou _5Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise,And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,With fear and self-contempt and barren hope.Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate,Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, _10O’er mine own misery and thy vain revenge.Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,And moments aye divided by keen pangsTill they seemed years, torture and solitude,Scorn and despair,—these are mine empire:— _15More glorious far than that which thou surveyestFrom thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God!Almighty, had I deigned to share the shameOf thine ill tyranny, and hung not hereNailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, _20Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever!
No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? _25I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm,Heaven’s ever-changing Shadow, spread below,Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever! _30
The crawling glaciers pierce me with the spearsOf their moon-freezing crystals; the bright chainsEat with their burning cold into my bones.Heaven’s winged hound, polluting from thy lipsHis beak in poison not his own, tears up _35My heart; and shapeless sights come wandering by,The ghastly people of the realm of dream,Mocking me: and the Earthquake-fiends are chargedTo wrench the rivets from my quivering woundsWhen the rocks split and close again behind: _40While from their loud abysses howling throngThe genii of the storm, urging the rageOf whirlwind, and afflict me with keen hail.And yet to me welcome is day and night,Whether one breaks the hoar-frost of the morn, _45Or starry, dim, and slow, the other climbsThe leaden-coloured east; for then they leadThe wingless, crawling hours, one among whom—As some dark Priest hales the reluctant victim—Shall drag thee, cruel King, to kiss the blood _50From these pale feet, which then might trample theeIf they disdained not such a prostrate slave.Disdain! Ah, no! I pity thee. What ruinWill hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven!How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, _55Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,Not exultation, for I hate no more,As then ere misery made me wise. The curseOnce breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,Whose many-voiced Echoes, through the mist _60Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,Which vibrated to hear me, and then creptShuddering through India! Thou serenest Air,Through which the Sun walks burning without beams! _65And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poised wingsHung mute and moveless o’er yon hushed abyss,As thunder, louder than your own, made rockThe orbed world! If then my words had power,Though I am changed so that aught evil wish _70Is dead within; although no memory beOf what is hate, let them not lose it now!What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak.
NOTE: _54 thro’ wide B; thro’ the wide 1820.
FIRST VOICE (FROM THE MOUNTAINS):Thrice three hundred thousand yearsO’er the Earthquake’s couch we stood: _75Oft, as men convulsed with fears,We trembled in our multitude.
SECOND VOICE (FROM THE SPRINGS):Thunderbolts had parched our water,We had been stained with bitter blood,And had run mute, ‘mid shrieks of slaughter, _80Thro’ a city and a solitude.
THIRD VOICE (FROM THE AIR):I had clothed, since Earth uprose,Its wastes in colours not their own,And oft had my serene reposeBeen cloven by many a rending groan. _85
FOURTH VOICE (FROM THE WHIRLWINDS):We had soared beneath these mountainsUnresting ages; nor had thunder,Nor yon volcano’s flaming fountains,Nor any power above or underEver made us mute with wonder. _90
FIRST VOICE:But never bowed our snowy crestAs at the voice of thine unrest.
SECOND VOICE:Never such a sound beforeTo the Indian waves we bore.A pilot asleep on the howling sea _95Leaped up from the deck in agony,And heard, and cried, ‘Ah, woe is me!’And died as mad as the wild waves be.
THIRD VOICE:By such dread words from Earth to HeavenMy still realm was never riven: _100When its wound was closed, there stoodDarkness o’er the day like blood.
FOURTH VOICE:And we shrank back: for dreams of ruinTo frozen caves our flight pursuingMade us keep silence—thus—and thus— _105Though silence is a hell to us.
THE EARTH:The tongueless caverns of the craggy hillsCried, ‘Misery!’ then; the hollow Heaven replied,‘Misery!’ And the Ocean’s purple waves,Climbing the land, howled to the lashing winds, _110And the pale nations heard it, ‘Misery!’
NOTE: _106 as hell 1839, B; a hell 1820.
PROMETHEUS:I hear a sound of voices: not the voiceWhich I gave forth. Mother, thy sons and thouScorn him, without whose all-enduring willBeneath the fierce omnipotence of Jove, _115Both they and thou had vanished, like thin mistUnrolled on the morning wind. Know ye not me,The Titan? He who made his agonyThe barrier to your else all-conquering foe?Oh, rock-embosomed lawns, and snow-fed streams, _120Now seen athwart frore vapours, deep below,Through whose o’ershadowing woods I wandered onceWith Asia, drinking life from her loved eyes;Why scorns the spirit which informs ye, nowTo commune with me? me alone, who checked, _125As one who checks a fiend-drawn charioteer,The falsehood and the force of him who reignsSupreme, and with the groans of pining slavesFills your dim glens and liquid wildernesses:Why answer ye not, still? Brethren!
THE EARTH:They dare not. _130
PROMETHEUS:Who dares? for I would hear that curse again.Ha, what an awful whisper rises up!’Tis scarce like sound: it tingles through the frameAs lightning tingles, hovering ere it strike.Speak, Spirit! from thine inorganic voice _135I only know that thou art moving nearAnd love. How cursed I him?
THE EARTH:How canst thou hearWho knowest not the language of the dead?
PROMETHEUS:Thou art a living spirit; speak as they.
THE EARTH:I dare not speak like life, lest Heaven’s fell King _140Should hear, and link me to some wheel of painMore torturing than the one whereon I roll.Subtle thou art and good; and though the GodsHear not this voice, yet thou art more than God,Being wise and kind: earnestly hearken now. _145
PROMETHEUS:Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim,Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feelFaint, like one mingled in entwining love;Yet ’tis not pleasure.
THE EARTH:No, thou canst not hear:Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known _150Only to those who die.
PROMETHEUS:And what art thou,O, melancholy Voice?
THE EARTH:I am the Earth,Thy mother; she within whose stony veins,To the last fibre of the loftiest treeWhose thin leaves trembled in the frozen air, _155Joy ran, as blood within a living frame,When thou didst from her bosom, like a cloudOf glory, arise, a spirit of keen joy!And at thy voice her pining sons upliftedTheir prostrate brows from the polluting dust, _160And our almighty Tyrant with fierce dreadGrew pale, until his thunder chained thee here.Then, see those million worlds which burn and rollAround us: their inhabitants beheldMy sphered light wane in wide Heaven; the sea _165Was lifted by strange tempest, and new fireFrom earthquake-rifted mountains of bright snowShook its portentous hair beneath Heaven’s frown;Lightning and Inundation vexed the plains;Blue thistles bloomed in cities; foodless toads _170Within voluptuous chambers panting crawled:When Plague had fallen on man, and beast, and worm,And Famine; and black blight on herb and tree;And in the corn, and vines, and meadow-grass,Teemed ineradicable poisonous weeds _175Draining their growth, for my wan breast was dryWith grief; and the thin air, my breath, was stainedWith the contagion of a mother’s hateBreathed on her child’s destroyer; ay, I heardThy curse, the which, if thou rememberest not, _180Yet my innumerable seas and streams,Mountains, and caves, and winds, and yon wide air,And the inarticulate people of the dead,Preserve, a treasured spell. We meditateIn secret joy and hope those dreadful words, _185But dare not speak them.