The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that season winter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but few days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extreme beauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on the subject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama; full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He had recommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a play. Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, or whether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings and wanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he best loved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside for one of the most mystical of his poems, the “Triumph of Life”, on which he was employed at the last.
His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among our friends several sailors. His favourite companion, Edward Ellerker Williams, of the 8th Light Dragoons, had begun his life in the navy, and had afterwards entered the army; he had spent several years in India, and his love for adventure and manly exercises accorded with Shelley’s taste. It was their favourite plan to build a boat such as they could manage themselves, and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at every hour and season the pleasure they loved best. Captain Roberts, R.N., undertook to build the boat at Genoa, where he was also occupied in building the “Bolivar” for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open boat, on a model taken from one of the royal dockyards. I have since heard that there was a defect in this model, and that it was never seaworthy. In the month of February, Shelley and his friend went to Spezia to seek for houses for us. Only one was to be found at all suitable; however, a trifle such as not finding a house could not stop Shelley; the one found was to serve for all. It was unfurnished; we sent our furniture by sea, and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from his impatience, made our removal. We left Pisa on the 26th of April.
The Bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and divided by a rocky promontory into a larger and smaller one. The town of Lerici is situated on the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller bay, which bears the name of this town, is the village of San Terenzo. Our house, Casa Magni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the door, a steep hill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on which it was situated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house at the summit of the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being finished, and it was falling into ruin. He had (and this to the Italians had seemed a glaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted up the olives on the hillside, and planted forest trees. These were mostly young, but the plantation was more in English taste than I ever elsewhere saw in Italy; some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled their dark massy foliage, and formed groups which still haunt my memory, as then they satiated the eye with a sense of loveliness. The scene was indeed of unimaginable beauty. The blue extent of waters, the almost landlocked bay, the near castle of Lerici shutting it in to the east, and distant Porto Venere to the west; the varied forms of the precipitous rocks that bound in the beach, over which there was only a winding rugged footpath towards Lerici, and none on the other side; the tideless sea leaving no sands nor shingle, formed a picture such as one sees in Salvator Rosa’s landscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine vanished when the sirocco raged—the ‘ponente’ the wind was called on that shore. The gales and squalls that hailed our first arrival surrounded the bay with foam; the howling wind swept round our exposed house, and the sea roared unremittingly, so that we almost fancied ourselves on board ship. At other times sunshine and calm invested sea and sky, and the rich tints of Italian heaven bathed the scene in bright and ever-varying tints.
The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbours of San Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived among. Many a night they passed on the beach, singing, or rather howling; the women dancing about among the waves that broke at their feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud wild chorus. We could get no provisions nearer than Sarzana, at a distance of three miles and a half off, with the torrent of the Magra between; and even there the supply was very deficient. Had we been wrecked on an island of the South Seas, we could scarcely have felt ourselves farther from civilisation and comfort; but, where the sun shines, the latter becomes an unnecessary luxury, and we had enough society among ourselves. Yet I confess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task, especially as I was suffering in my health, and could not exert myself actively.
At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was expected with great impatience. On Monday, 12th May, it came. Williams records the long-wished-for fact in his journal: ‘Cloudy and threatening weather. M. Maglian called; and after dinner, and while walking with him on the terrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of Porto Venere, which proved at length to be Shelley’s boat. She had left Genoa on Thursday last, but had been driven back by the prevailing bad winds. A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they speak most highly of her performances. She does indeed excite my surprise and admiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off the land to try her: and I find she fetches whatever she looks at. In short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer.’—It was thus that short-sighted mortals welcomed Death, he having disguised his grim form in a pleasing mask! The time of the friends was now spent on the sea; the weather became fine, and our whole party often passed the evenings on the water when the wind promised pleasant sailing. Shelley and Williams made longer excursions; they sailed several times to Massa. They had engaged one of the seamen who brought her round, a boy, by name Charles Vivian; and they had not the slightest apprehension of danger. When the weather was unfavourable, they employed themselves with alterations in the rigging, and by building a boat of canvas and reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the other for the convenience of landing in waters too shallow for the larger vessel. When Shelley was on board, he had his papers with him; and much of the “Triumph of Life” was written as he sailed or weltered on that sea which was soon to engulf him.
The heats set in in the middle of June; the days became excessively hot. But the sea-breeze cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always put Shelley in spirits. A long drought had preceded the heat; and prayers for rain were being put up in the churches, and processions of relics for the same effect took place in every town. At this time we received letters announcing the arrival of Leigh Hunt at Genoa. Shelley was very eager to see him. I was confined to my room by severe illness, and could not move; it was agreed that Shelley and Williams should go to Leghorn in the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed our minds! Living on the sea-shore, the ocean became as a plaything: as a child may sport with a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest, and spreads destruction over all, so did we fearlessly and blindly tamper with danger, and make a game of the terrors of the ocean. Our Italian neighbours, even, trusted themselves as far as Massa in the skiff; and the running down the line of coast to Leghorn gave no more notion of peril than a fair-weather inland navigation would have done to those who had never seen the sea. Once, some months before, Trelawny had raised a warning voice as to the difference of our calm bay and the open sea beyond; but Shelley and his friend, with their one sailor-boy, thought themselves a match for the storms of the Mediterranean, in a boat which they looked upon as equal to all it was put to do.
On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow of future ill darkened the present hour, such was over my mind when they went. During the whole of our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of coming evil brooded over my mind, and covered this beautiful place and genial summer with the shadow of coming misery. I had vainly struggled with these emotions—they seemed accounted for by my illness; but at this hour of separation they recurred with renewed violence. I did not anticipate danger for them, but a vague expectation of evil shook me to agony, and I could scarcely bring myself to let them go. The day was calm and clear; and, a fine breeze rising at twelve, they weighed for Leghorn. They made the run of about fifty miles in seven hours and a half. The “Bolivar” was in port; and, the regulations of the Health-office not permitting them to go on shore after sunset, they borrowed cushions from the larger vessel, and slept on board their boat.
They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The want of rain was severely felt in the country. The weather continued sultry and fine. I have heard that Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits. Not long before, talking of presentiment, he had said the only one that he ever found infallible was the certain advent of some evil fortune when he felt peculiarly joyous. Yet, if ever fate whispered of coming disaster, such inaudible but not unfelt prognostics hovered around us. The beauty of the place seemed unearthly in its excess: the distance we were at from all signs of civilization, the sea at our feet, its murmurs or its roaring for ever in our ears,—all these things led the mind to brood over strange thoughts, and, lifting it from everyday life, caused it to be familiar with the unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us; and each day, as the voyagers did not return, we grew restless and disquieted, and yet, strange to say, we were not fearful of the most apparent danger.
The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt—of days passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that took firmer root even as they were more baseless—was changed to the certainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors for evermore.
There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains of those we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of the coast, we were not permitted to have possession of them—the law with respect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should be burned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plague into Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length, through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charge d’Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes after the bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny in carrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions, and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was a fearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched and blistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burnt relics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose. And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that remained on earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory to the world—whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and good,—to be buried with him!
The concluding stanzas of the “Adonais” pointed out where the remains ought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay buried in the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley’s ashes were conveyed; and they rest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur at intervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He selected the hallowed place himself; there is
‘the sepulchre,Oh, not of him, but of our joy!—…And gray walls moulder round, on which dull TimeFeeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,Pavilioning the dust of him who plannedThis refuge for his memory, doth standLike flame transformed to marble; and beneath,A field is spread, on which a newer bandHave pitched in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.’
Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy left behind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something in Shelley’s fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be so mitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner all that is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle that remains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, it invests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly allied may regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse all such ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it now seems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figures his skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seen upon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away, no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched the vessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on its homeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore, when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and several larger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Roberts looked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean except their little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he could scarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have been driven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation made as to the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found, through the exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in ten fathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as had floated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had been placed when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Roberts possessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy, and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of the Ionian islands, on which she was wrecked.)—who but will regard as a prophecy the last stanza of the “Adonais”?
‘The breath whose might I have invoked in songDescends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven,Far from the shore, far from the trembling throngWhose sails were never to the tempest given;The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,The soul of Adonais, like a star,Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.’
Putney, May 1, 1839.
1914.
***
[Of the Translations that follow a few were published by Shelley himself, others by Mrs. Shelley in the “Posthumous Poems”, 1824, or the “Poetical Works”, 1839, and the remainder by Medwin (1834, 1847), Garnett (1862), Rossetti (1870), Forman (1876) and Locock (1903) from the manuscript originals. Shelley’s “Translations” fall between the years 1818 and 1822.]
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. This alone of the “Translations” is included in the Harvard manuscript book. ‘Fragments of the drafts of this and the other Hymns of Homer exist among the Boscombe manuscripts’ (Forman).]
1.Sing, Muse, the son of Maia and of Jove,The Herald-child, king of ArcadiaAnd all its pastoral hills, whom in sweet loveHaving been interwoven, modest MayBore Heaven’s dread Supreme. An antique grove _5Shadowed the cavern where the lovers layIn the deep night, unseen by Gods or Men,And white-armed Juno slumbered sweetly then.
2.Now, when the joy of Jove had its fulfilling,And Heaven’s tenth moon chronicled her relief, _10She gave to light a babe all babes excelling,A schemer subtle beyond all belief;A shepherd of thin dreams, a cow-stealing,A night-watching, and door-waylaying thief,Who ‘mongst the Gods was soon about to thieve, _15And other glorious actions to achieve.
3.The babe was born at the first peep of day;He began playing on the lyre at noon,And the same evening did he steal awayApollo’s herds;—the fourth day of the moon _20On which him bore the venerable May,From her immortal limbs he leaped full soon,Nor long could in the sacred cradle keep,But out to seek Apollo’s herds would creep.
4.Out of the lofty cavern wandering _25He found a tortoise, and cried out—‘A treasure!’(For Mercury first made the tortoise sing)The beast before the portal at his leisureThe flowery herbage was depasturing,Moving his feet in a deliberate measure _30Over the turf. Jove’s profitable sonEying him laughed, and laughing thus begun:—
5.‘A useful godsend are you to me now,King of the dance, companion of the feast,Lovely in all your nature! Welcome, you _35Excellent plaything! Where, sweet mountain-beast,Got you that speckled shell? Thus much I know,You must come home with me and be my guest;You will give joy to me, and I will doAll that is in my power to honour you. _40
6.‘Better to be at home than out of door,So come with me; and though it has been saidThat you alive defend from magic power,I know you will sing sweetly when you’re dead.’Thus having spoken, the quaint infant bore, _45Lifting it from the grass on which it fedAnd grasping it in his delighted hold,His treasured prize into the cavern old.
7.Then scooping with a chisel of gray steel,He bored the life and soul out of the beast.— _50Not swifter a swift thought of woe or wealDarts through the tumult of a human breastWhich thronging cares annoy—not swifter wheelThe flashes of its torture and unrestOut of the dizzy eyes—than Maia’s son _55All that he did devise hath featly done.
8.…And through the tortoise’s hard stony skinAt proper distances small holes he made,And fastened the cut stems of reeds within,And with a piece of leather overlaid _60The open space and fixed the cubits in,Fitting the bridge to both, and stretched o’er allSymphonious cords of sheep-gut rhythmical.
9.When he had wrought the lovely instrument,He tried the chords, and made division meet, _65Preluding with the plectrum, and there wentUp from beneath his hand a tumult sweetOf mighty sounds, and from his lips he sentA strain of unpremeditated witJoyous and wild and wanton—such you may _70Hear among revellers on a holiday.
10.He sung how Jove and May of the bright sandalDallied in love not quite legitimate;And his own birth, still scoffing at the scandal,And naming his own name, did celebrate; _75His mother’s cave and servant maids he planned allIn plastic verse, her household stuff and state,Perennial pot, trippet, and brazen pan,—But singing, he conceived another plan.
11.…Seized with a sudden fancy for fresh meat, _80He in his sacred crib depositedThe hollow lyre, and from the cavern sweetRushed with great leaps up to the mountain’s head,Revolving in his mind some subtle featOf thievish craft, such as a swindler might _85Devise in the lone season of dun night.
12.Lo! the great Sun under the ocean’s bed hasDriven steeds and chariot—the child meanwhile strodeO’er the Pierian mountains clothed in shadows,Where the immortal oxen of the God _90Are pastured in the flowering unmown meadows,And safely stalled in a remote abode.—The archer Argicide, elate and proud,Drove fifty from the herd, lowing aloud.
13.He drove them wandering o’er the sandy way, _95But, being ever mindful of his craft,Backward and forward drove he them astray,So that the tracks which seemed before, were aft;His sandals then he threw to the ocean spray,And for each foot he wrought a kind of raft _100Of tamarisk, and tamarisk-like sprigs,And bound them in a lump with withy twigs.
14.And on his feet he tied these sandals light,The trail of whose wide leaves might not betrayHis track; and then, a self-sufficing wight, _105Like a man hastening on some distant way,He from Pieria’s mountain bent his flight;But an old man perceived the infant passDown green Onchestus heaped like beds with grass.
15.The old man stood dressing his sunny vine: _110‘Halloo! old fellow with the crooked shoulder!You grub those stumps? before they will bear wineMethinks even you must grow a little older:Attend, I pray, to this advice of mine,As you would ‘scape what might appal a bolder— _115Seeing, see not—and hearing, hear not—and—If you have understanding—understand.’
16.So saying, Hermes roused the oxen vast;O’er shadowy mountain and resounding dell,And flower-paven plains, great Hermes passed; _120Till the black night divine, which favouring fellAround his steps, grew gray, and morning fastWakened the world to work, and from her cellSea-strewn, the Pallantean Moon sublimeInto her watch-tower just began to climb. _125
17.Now to Alpheus he had driven allThe broad-foreheaded oxen of the Sun;They came unwearied to the lofty stallAnd to the water-troughs which ever runThrough the fresh fields—and when with rushgrass tall, _130Lotus and all sweet herbage, every oneHad pastured been, the great God made them moveTowards the stall in a collected drove.
18.A mighty pile of wood the God then heaped,And having soon conceived the mystery _135Of fire, from two smooth laurel branches strippedThe bark, and rubbed them in his palms;—on highSuddenly forth the burning vapour leapedAnd the divine child saw delightedly.—Mercury first found out for human weal _140Tinder-box, matches, fire-irons, flint and steel.
19.And fine dry logs and roots innumerousHe gathered in a delve upon the ground—And kindled them—and instantaneousThe strength of the fierce flame was breathed around: _145And whilst the might of glorious Vulcan thusWrapped the great pile with glare and roaring sound,Hermes dragged forth two heifers, lowing loud,Close to the fire—such might was in the God.
20.And on the earth upon their backs he threw _150The panting beasts, and rolled them o’er and o’er,And bored their lives out. Without more adoHe cut up fat and flesh, and down beforeThe fire, on spits of wood he placed the two,Toasting their flesh and ribs, and all the gore _155Pursed in the bowels; and while this was doneHe stretched their hides over a craggy stone.
21.We mortals let an ox grow old, and thenCut it up after long consideration,—But joyous-minded Hermes from the glen _160Drew the fat spoils to the more open stationOf a flat smooth space, and portioned them; and whenHe had by lot assigned to each a rationOf the twelve Gods, his mind became awareOf all the joys which in religion are. _165
22.For the sweet savour of the roasted meatTempted him though immortal. NathelessHe checked his haughty will and did not eat,Though what it cost him words can scarce express,And every wish to put such morsels sweet _170Down his most sacred throat, he did repress;But soon within the lofty portalled stallHe placed the fat and flesh and bones and all.
23.And every trace of the fresh butcheryAnd cooking, the God soon made disappear, _175As if it all had vanished through the sky;He burned the hoofs and horns and head and hair,—The insatiate fire devoured them hungrily;—And when he saw that everything was clear,He quenched the coal, and trampled the black dust, _180And in the stream his bloody sandals tossed.
24.All night he worked in the serene moonshine—But when the light of day was spread abroadHe sought his natal mountain-peaks divine.On his long wandering, neither Man nor God _185Had met him, since he killed Apollo’s kine,Nor house-dog had barked at him on his road;Now he obliquely through the keyhole passed,Like a thin mist, or an autumnal blast.
25.Right through the temple of the spacious cave _190He went with soft light feet—as if his treadFell not on earth; no sound their falling gave;Then to his cradle he crept quick, and spreadThe swaddling-clothes about him; and the knaveLay playing with the covering of the bed _195With his left hand about his knees—the rightHeld his beloved tortoise-lyre tight.
26.There he lay innocent as a new-born child,As gossips say; but though he was a God,The Goddess, his fair mother, unbeguiled, _200Knew all that he had done being abroad:‘Whence come you, and from what adventure wild,You cunning rogue, and where have you abodeAll the long night, clothed in your impudence?What have you done since you departed hence? _205
27.‘Apollo soon will pass within this gateAnd bind your tender body in a chainInextricably tight, and fast as fate,Unless you can delude the God again,Even when within his arms—ah, runagate! _210A pretty torment both for Gods and MenYour father made when he made you!’—‘Dear mother,’Replied sly Hermes, ‘wherefore scold and bother?
28.‘As if I were like other babes as old,And understood nothing of what is what; _215And cared at all to hear my mother scold.I in my subtle brain a scheme have got,Which whilst the sacred stars round Heaven are rolledWill profit you and me—nor shall our lotBe as you counsel, without gifts or food, _220To spend our lives in this obscure abode.
29‘But we will leave this shadow-peopled caveAnd live among the Gods, and pass each dayIn high communion, sharing what they haveOf profuse wealth and unexhausted prey; _225And from the portion which my father gaveTo Phoebus, I will snatch my share away,Which if my father will not—natheless I,Who am the king of robbers, can but try.
30.‘And, if Latona’s son should find me out, _230I’ll countermine him by a deeper plan;I’ll pierce the Pythian temple-walls, though stout,And sack the fane of everything I can—Caldrons and tripods of great worth no doubt,Each golden cup and polished brazen pan, _235All the wrought tapestries and garments gay.’—So they together talked;—meanwhile the Day
31.Aethereal born arose out of the floodOf flowing Ocean, bearing light to men.Apollo passed toward the sacred wood, _240Which from the inmost depths of its green glenEchoes the voice of Neptune,—and there stoodOn the same spot in green Onchestus thenThat same old animal, the vine-dresser,Who was employed hedging his vineyard there. _245
32.Latona’s glorious Son began:—‘I prayTell, ancient hedger of Onchestus green,Whether a drove of kine has passed this way,All heifers with crooked horns? for they have beenStolen from the herd in high Pieria, _250Where a black bull was fed apart, betweenTwo woody mountains in a neighbouring glen,And four fierce dogs watched there, unanimous as men.
33.‘And what is strange, the author of this theftHas stolen the fatted heifers every one, _255But the four dogs and the black bull are left:—Stolen they were last night at set of sun,Of their soft beds and their sweet food bereft.—Now tell me, man born ere the world begun,Have you seen any one pass with the cows?’— _260To whom the man of overhanging brows:
34.‘My friend, it would require no common skillJustly to speak of everything I see:On various purposes of good or illMany pass by my vineyard,—and to me _265’Tis difficult to know the invisibleThoughts, which in all those many minds may be:—Thus much alone I certainly can say,I tilled these vines till the decline of day,
35.‘And then I thought I saw, but dare not speak _270With certainty of such a wondrous thing,A child, who could not have been born a week,Those fair-horned cattle closely following,And in his hand he held a polished stick:And, as on purpose, he walked wavering _275From one side to the other of the road,And with his face opposed the steps he trod.’
36.Apollo hearing this, passed quickly on—No winged omen could have shown more clearThat the deceiver was his father’s son. _280So the God wraps a purple atmosphereAround his shoulders, and like fire is goneTo famous Pylos, seeking his kine there,And found their track and his, yet hardly cold,And cried—‘What wonder do mine eyes behold! _285
37.‘Here are the footsteps of the horned herdTurned back towards their fields of asphodel;—But THESE are not the tracks of beast or bird,Gray wolf, or bear, or lion of the dell,Or maned Centaur—sand was never stirred _290By man or woman thus! Inexplicable!Who with unwearied feet could e’er impressThe sand with such enormous vestiges?
38.‘That was most strange—but this is stranger still!’Thus having said, Phoebus impetuously _295Sought high Cyllene’s forest-cinctured hill,And the deep cavern where dark shadows lie,And where the ambrosial nymph with happy willBore the Saturnian’s love-child, Mercury—And a delightful odour from the dew _300Of the hill pastures, at his coming, flew.
39.And Phoebus stooped under the craggy roofArched over the dark cavern:—Maia’s childPerceived that he came angry, far aloof,About the cows of which he had been beguiled; _305And over him the fine and fragrant woofOf his ambrosial swaddling-clothes he piled—As among fire-brands lies a burning sparkCovered, beneath the ashes cold and dark.
40.There, like an infant who had sucked his fill _310And now was newly washed and put to bed,Awake, but courting sleep with weary will,And gathered in a lump, hands, feet, and head,He lay, and his beloved tortoise stillHe grasped and held under his shoulder-blade. _315Phoebus the lovely mountain-goddess knew,Not less her subtle, swindling baby, who
41.Lay swathed in his sly wiles. Round every crookOf the ample cavern, for his kine, ApolloLooked sharp; and when he saw them not, he took _320The glittering key, and opened three great hollowRecesses in the rock—where many a nookWas filled with the sweet food immortals swallow,And mighty heaps of silver and of goldWere piled within—a wonder to behold! _325
42.And white and silver robes, all overwroughtWith cunning workmanship of tracery sweet—Except among the Gods there can be noughtIn the wide world to be compared with it.Latona’s offspring, after having sought _330His herds in every corner, thus did greetGreat Hermes:—‘Little cradled rogue, declareOf my illustrious heifers, where they are!
43.‘Speak quickly! or a quarrel between usMust rise, and the event will be, that I _335Shall hurl you into dismal Tartarus,In fiery gloom to dwell eternally;Nor shall your father nor your mother looseThe bars of that black dungeon—utterlyYou shall be cast out from the light of day, _340To rule the ghosts of men, unblessed as they.
44.To whom thus Hermes slily answered:—‘SonOf great Latona, what a speech is this!Why come you here to ask me what is doneWith the wild oxen which it seems you miss? _345I have not seen them, nor from any oneHave heard a word of the whole business;If you should promise an immense reward,I could not tell more than you now have heard.
45.‘An ox-stealer should be both tall and strong, _350And I am but a little new-born thing,Who, yet at least, can think of nothing wrong:—My business is to suck, and sleep, and flingThe cradle-clothes about me all day long,—Or half asleep, hear my sweet mother sing, _355And to be washed in water clean and warm,And hushed and kissed and kept secure from harm.
46.‘O, let not e’er this quarrel be averred!The astounded Gods would laugh at you, if e’erYou should allege a story so absurd _360As that a new-born infant forth could fareOut of his home after a savage herd.I was born yesterday—my small feet areToo tender for the roads so hard and rough:—And if you think that this is not enough, _365
47.I swear a great oath, by my father’s head,That I stole not your cows, and that I knowOf no one else, who might, or could, or did.—Whatever things cows are, I do not know,For I have only heard the name.’—This said _370He winked as fast as could be, and his browWas wrinkled, and a whistle loud gave he,Like one who hears some strange absurdity.
48.Apollo gently smiled and said:—‘Ay, ay,—You cunning little rascal, you will bore _375Many a rich man’s house, and your arrayOf thieves will lay their siege before his door,Silent as night, in night; and many a dayIn the wild glens rough shepherds will deploreThat you or yours, having an appetite, _380Met with their cattle, comrade of the night!
49.‘And this among the Gods shall be your gift,To be considered as the lord of thoseWho swindle, house-break, sheep-steal, and shop-lift;—But now if you would not your last sleep doze; _385Crawl out!’—Thus saying, Phoebus did upliftThe subtle infant in his swaddling clothes,And in his arms, according to his wont,A scheme devised the illustrious Argiphont.
50.……And sneezed and shuddered—Phoebus on the grass _390Him threw, and whilst all that he had designedHe did perform—eager although to pass,Apollo darted from his mighty mindTowards the subtle babe the following scoff:—‘Do not imagine this will get you off, _395
51.‘You little swaddled child of Jove and May!And seized him:—‘By this omen I shall traceMy noble herds, and you shall lead the way.’—Cyllenian Hermes from the grassy place,Like one in earnest haste to get away, _400Rose, and with hands lifted towards his faceRound both his ears up from his shoulders drewHis swaddling clothes, and—‘What mean you to do
52.‘With me, you unkind God?’—said Mercury:‘Is it about these cows you tease me so? _405I wish the race of cows were perished!—IStole not your cows—I do not even knowWhat things cows are. Alas! I well may sighThat since I came into this world of woe,I should have ever heard the name of one— _410But I appeal to the Saturnian’s throne.’
53.Thus Phoebus and the vagrant MercuryTalked without coming to an explanation,With adverse purpose. As for Phoebus, heSought not revenge, but only information, _415And Hermes tried with lies and rogueryTo cheat Apollo.—But when no evasionServed—for the cunning one his match had found—He paced on first over the sandy ground.
54.…He of the Silver Bow the child of Jove _420Followed behind, till to their heavenly SireCame both his children, beautiful as Love,And from his equal balance did requireA judgement in the cause wherein they strove.O’er odorous Olympus and its snows _425A murmuring tumult as they came arose,—
55.And from the folded depths of the great Hill,While Hermes and Apollo reverent stoodBefore Jove’s throne, the indestructibleImmortals rushed in mighty multitude; _430And whilst their seats in order due they fill,The lofty Thunderer in a careless moodTo Phoebus said:—‘Whence drive you this sweet prey,This herald-baby, born but yesterday?—
56.‘A most important subject, trifler, this _435To lay before the Gods!’—‘Nay, Father, nay,When you have understood the business,Say not that I alone am fond of prey.I found this little boy in a recessUnder Cyllene’s mountains far away— _440A manifest and most apparent thief,A scandalmonger beyond all belief.
57.‘I never saw his like either in HeavenOr upon earth for knavery or craft:—Out of the field my cattle yester-even, _445By the low shore on which the loud sea laughed,He right down to the river-ford had driven;And mere astonishment would make you daftTo see the double kind of footsteps strangeHe has impressed wherever he did range. _450
58.‘The cattle’s track on the black dust, full wellIs evident, as if they went towardsThe place from which they came—that asphodelMeadow, in which I feed my many herds,—HIS steps were most incomprehensible— _455I know not how I can describe in wordsThose tracks—he could have gone along the sandsNeither upon his feet nor on his hands;—
59.‘He must have had some other stranger modeOf moving on: those vestiges immense, _460Far as I traced them on the sandy road,Seemed like the trail of oak-toppings:—but thenceNo mark nor track denoting where they trodThe hard ground gave:—but, working at his fence,A mortal hedger saw him as he passed _465To Pylos, with the cows, in fiery haste.
60.‘I found that in the dark he quietlyHad sacrificed some cows, and before lightHad thrown the ashes all dispersedlyAbout the road—then, still as gloomy night, _470Had crept into his cradle, either eyeRubbing, and cogitating some new sleight.No eagle could have seen him as he layHid in his cavern from the peering day.
61.‘I taxed him with the fact, when he averred _475Most solemnly that he did neither seeNor even had in any manner heardOf my lost cows, whatever things cows be;Nor could he tell, though offered a reward,Not even who could tell of them to me.’ _480So speaking, Phoebus sate; and Hermes thenAddressed the Supreme Lord of Gods and Men:—
62.‘Great Father, you know clearly beforehandThat all which I shall say to you is sooth;I am a most veracious person, and _485Totally unacquainted with untruth.At sunrise Phoebus came, but with no bandOf Gods to bear him witness, in great wrath,To my abode, seeking his heifers there,And saying that I must show him where they are, _490
63.‘Or he would hurl me down the dark abyss.I know that every Apollonian limbIs clothed with speed and might and manliness,As a green bank with flowers—but unlike himI was born yesterday, and you may guess _495He well knew this when he indulged the whimOf bullying a poor little new-born thingThat slept, and never thought of cow-driving.
64.‘Am I like a strong fellow who steals kine?Believe me, dearest Father—such you are— _500This driving of the herds is none of mine;Across my threshold did I wander ne’er,So may I thrive! I reverence the divineSun and the Gods, and I love you, and careEven for this hard accuser—who must know _505I am as innocent as they or you.
65.‘I swear by these most gloriously-wrought portals(It is, you will allow, an oath of might)Through which the multitude of the ImmortalsPass and repass forever, day and night, _510Devising schemes for the affairs of mortals—I am guiltless; and I will requite,Although mine enemy be great and strong,His cruel threat—do thou defend the young!’
66.So speaking, the Cyllenian Argiphont _515Winked, as if now his adversary was fitted:—And Jupiter, according to his wont,Laughed heartily to hear the subtle-wittedInfant give such a plausible account,And every word a lie. But he remitted _520Judgement at present—and his exhortationWas, to compose the affair by arbitration.
67.And they by mighty Jupiter were biddenTo go forth with a single purpose both,Neither the other chiding nor yet chidden: _525And Mercury with innocence and truthTo lead the way, and show where he had hiddenThe mighty heifers.—Hermes, nothing loth,Obeyed the Aegis-bearer’s will—for heIs able to persuade all easily. _530
68.These lovely children of Heaven’s highest LordHastened to Pylos and the pastures wideAnd lofty stalls by the Alphean ford,Where wealth in the mute night is multipliedWith silent growth. Whilst Hermes drove the herd _535Out of the stony cavern, Phoebus spiedThe hides of those the little babe had slain,Stretched on the precipice above the plain.
69.‘How was it possible,’ then Phoebus said,‘That you, a little child, born yesterday, _540A thing on mother’s milk and kisses fed,Could two prodigious heifers ever flay?Even I myself may well hereafter dreadYour prowess, offspring of Cyllenian May,When you grow strong and tall.’—He spoke, and bound _545Stiff withy bands the infant’s wrists around.
70.He might as well have bound the oxen wild;The withy bands, though starkly interknit,Fell at the feet of the immortal child,Loosened by some device of his quick wit. _550Phoebus perceived himself again beguiled,And stared—while Hermes sought some hole or pit,Looking askance and winking fast as thought,Where he might hide himself and not be caught.
71.Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill _555Subdued the strong Latonian, by the mightOf winning music, to his mightier will;His left hand held the lyre, and in his rightThe plectrum struck the chords—unconquerableUp from beneath his hand in circling flight _560The gathering music rose—and sweet as LoveThe penetrating notes did live and move
72.Within the heart of great Apollo—heListened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure.Close to his side stood harping fearlessly _565The unabashed boy; and to the measureOf the sweet lyre, there followed loud and freeHis joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasureOf his deep song, illustrating the birthOf the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: _570
73.And how to the Immortals every oneA portion was assigned of all that is;But chief Mnemosyne did Maia’s sonClothe in the light of his loud melodies;—And, as each God was born or had begun, _575He in their order due and fit degreesSung of his birth and being—and did moveApollo to unutterable love.
74.These words were winged with his swift delight:‘You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you _580Deserve that fifty oxen should requiteSuch minstrelsies as I have heard even now.Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight,One of your secrets I would gladly know,Whether the glorious power you now show forth _585Was folded up within you at your birth,
75.‘Or whether mortal taught or God inspiredThe power of unpremeditated song?Many divinest sounds have I admired,The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; _590But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired,And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong,Yet did I never hear except from thee,Offspring of May, impostor Mercury!
76.‘What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, _595What exercise of subtlest art, has givenThy songs such power?—for those who hear may chooseFrom three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven,Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dewsAre sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— _600And I, who speak this praise, am that ApolloWhom the Olympian Muses ever follow:
77.‘And their delight is dance, and the blithe noiseOf song and overflowing poesy;And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice _605Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly;But never did my inmost soul rejoiceIn this dear work of youthful revelryAs now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove;Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. _610
78.‘Now since thou hast, although so very small,Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,—And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall,Witness between us what I promise here,—That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, _615Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear,And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee,And even at the end will ne’er deceive thee.’
79.To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:—‘Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: _620I envy thee no thing I know to teachEven this day:—for both in word and willI would be gentle with thee; thou canst reachAll things in thy wise spirit, and thy sillIs highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, _625Who loves thee in the fulness of his love.
80.‘The Counsellor Supreme has given to theeDivinest gifts, out of the amplitudeOf his profuse exhaustless treasury;By thee, ’tis said, the depths are understood _630Of his far voice; by thee the mysteryOf all oracular fates,—and the dread moodOf the diviner is breathed up; even I—A child—perceive thy might and majesty.
81.‘Thou canst seek out and compass all that wit _635Can find or teach;—yet since thou wilt, come takeThe lyre—be mine the glory giving it—Strike the sweet chords, and sing aloud, and wakeThy joyous pleasure out of many a fitOf tranced sound—and with fleet fingers make _640Thy liquid-voiced comrade talk with thee,—It can talk measured music eloquently.
82.‘Then bear it boldly to the revel loud,Love-wakening dance, or feast of solemn state,A joy by night or day—for those endowed _645With art and wisdom who interrogateIt teaches, babbling in delightful moodAll things which make the spirit most elate,Soothing the mind with sweet familiar play,Chasing the heavy shadows of dismay. _650
83.‘To those who are unskilled in its sweet tongue,Though they should question most impetuouslyIts hidden soul, it gossips something wrong—Some senseless and impertinent reply.But thou who art as wise as thou art strong _655Canst compass all that thou desirest. IPresent thee with this music-flowing shell,Knowing thou canst interrogate it well.
84.‘And let us two henceforth together feed,On this green mountain-slope and pastoral plain, _660The herds in litigation—they will breedQuickly enough to recompense our pain,If to the bulls and cows we take good heed;—And thou, though somewhat over fond of gain,Grudge me not half the profit.’—Having spoke, _665The shell he proffered, and Apollo took;
85.And gave him in return the glittering lash,Installing him as herdsman;—from the lookOf Mercury then laughed a joyous flash.And then Apollo with the plectrum strook _670The chords, and from beneath his hands a crashOf mighty sounds rushed up, whose music shookThe soul with sweetness, and like an adeptHis sweeter voice a just accordance kept.
86.The herd went wandering o’er the divine mead, _675Whilst these most beautiful Sons of JupiterWon their swift way up to the snowy headOf white Olympus, with the joyous lyreSoothing their journey; and their father dreadGathered them both into familiar _680Affection sweet,—and then, and now, and ever,Hermes must love Him of the Golden Quiver,
87.To whom he gave the lyre that sweetly sounded,Which skilfully he held and played thereon.He piped the while, and far and wide rebounded _685The echo of his pipings; every oneOf the Olympians sat with joy astounded;While he conceived another piece of fun,One of his old tricks—which the God of DayPerceiving, said:—‘I fear thee, Son of May;— _690
88.‘I fear thee and thy sly chameleon spirit,Lest thou should steal my lyre and crooked bow;This glory and power thou dost from Jove inherit,To teach all craft upon the earth below;Thieves love and worship thee—it is thy merit _695To make all mortal business ebb and flowBy roguery:—now, Hermes, if you dareBy sacred Styx a mighty oath to swear
89.‘That you will never rob me, you will doA thing extremely pleasing to my heart.’ _700Then Mercury swore by the Stygian dew,That he would never steal his bow or dart,Or lay his hands on what to him was due,Or ever would employ his powerful artAgainst his Pythian fane. Then Phoebus swore _705There was no God or Man whom he loved more.
90.‘And I will give thee as a good-will token,The beautiful wand of wealth and happiness;A perfect three-leaved rod of gold unbroken,Whose magic will thy footsteps ever bless; _710And whatsoever by Jove’s voice is spokenOf earthly or divine from its recess,It, like a loving soul, to thee will speak,And more than this, do thou forbear to seek.
91.‘For, dearest child, the divinations high _715Which thou requirest, ’tis unlawful everThat thou, or any other deityShould understand—and vain were the endeavour;For they are hidden in Jove’s mind, and I,In trust of them, have sworn that I would never _720Betray the counsels of Jove’s inmost willTo any God—the oath was terrible.
92.‘Then, golden-wanded brother, ask me notTo speak the fates by Jupiter designed;But be it mine to tell their various lot _725To the unnumbered tribes of human-kind.Let good to these, and ill to those be wroughtAs I dispense—but he who comes consignedBy voice and wings of perfect auguryTo my great shrine, shall find avail in me. _730
93.‘Him will I not deceive, but will assist;But he who comes relying on such birdsAs chatter vainly, who would strain and twistThe purpose of the Gods with idle words,And deems their knowledge light, he shall have missed _735His road—whilst I among my other hoardsHis gifts deposit. Yet, O son of May,I have another wondrous thing to say.
96.‘There are three Fates, three virgin Sisters, whoRejoicing in their wind-outspeeding wings, _740Their heads with flour snowed over white and new,Sit in a vale round which Parnassus flingsIts circling skirts—from these I have learned trueVaticinations of remotest things.My father cared not. Whilst they search out dooms, _745They sit apart and feed on honeycombs.
95.‘They, having eaten the fresh honey, growDrunk with divine enthusiasm, and utterWith earnest willingness the truth they know;But if deprived of that sweet food, they mutter _750All plausible delusions;—these to youI give;—if you inquire, they will not stutter;Delight your own soul with them:—any manYou would instruct may profit if he can.
96.‘Take these and the fierce oxen, Maia’s child— _755O’er many a horse and toil-enduring mule,O’er jagged-jawed lions, and the wildWhite-tusked boars, o’er all, by field or pool,Of cattle which the mighty Mother mildNourishes in her bosom, thou shalt rule— _760Thou dost alone the veil from death uplift—Thou givest not—yet this is a great gift.’
97.Thus King Apollo loved the child of MayIn truth, and Jove covered their love with joy.Hermes with Gods and Men even from that day _765Mingled, and wrought the latter much annoy,And little profit, going far astrayThrough the dun night. Farewell, delightful Boy,Of Jove and Maia sprung,—never by me,Nor thou, nor other songs, shall unremembered be. _770
NOTES: _13 cow-stealing]qy. cattle-stealing? _57 stony Boscombe manuscript. Harvard manuscript; strong edition 1824. _252 neighbouring]neighbour Harvard manuscript. _336 hurl Harvard manuscript, editions 1839; haul edition 1824. _402 Round]Roused edition 1824 only. _488 wrath]ruth Harvard manuscript. _580 heifer-stealing]heifer-killing Harvard manuscript. _673 and like 1839, 1st edition; as of edition 1824, Harvard manuscript. _713 loving]living cj. Rossetti. _761 from Harvard manuscript; of editions 1824, 1839. _764 their love with joy Harvard manuscript; them with love and joy, editions 1824, 1839. _767 going]wandering Harvard manuscript.
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[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition; dated 1818.]
Ye wild-eyed Muses, sing the Twins of Jove,Whom the fair-ankled Leda, mixed in loveWith mighty Saturn’s Heaven-obscuring Child,On Taygetus, that lofty mountain wild,Brought forth in joy: mild Pollux, void of blame, _5And steed-subduing Castor, heirs of fame.These are the Powers who earth-born mortals saveAnd ships, whose flight is swift along the wave.When wintry tempests o’er the savage seaAre raging, and the sailors tremblingly _10Call on the Twins of Jove with prayer and vow,Gathered in fear upon the lofty prow,And sacrifice with snow-white lambs,—the windAnd the huge billow bursting close behind,Even then beneath the weltering waters bear _15The staggering ship—they suddenly appear,On yellow wings rushing athwart the sky,And lull the blasts in mute tranquillity,And strew the waves on the white Ocean’s bed,Fair omen of the voyage; from toil and dread _20The sailors rest, rejoicing in the sight,And plough the quiet sea in safe delight.
NOTE: _6 steed-subduing emend. Rossetti; steel-subduing 1839, 2nd edition.
***
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition; dated 1818.]
Daughters of Jove, whose voice is melody,Muses, who know and rule all minstrelsySing the wide-winged Moon! Around the earth,From her immortal head in Heaven shot forth,Far light is scattered—boundless glory springs; _5Where’er she spreads her many-beaming wingsThe lampless air glows round her golden crown.
But when the Moon divine from Heaven is goneUnder the sea, her beams within abide,Till, bathing her bright limbs in Ocean’s tide, _10Clothing her form in garments glittering far,And having yoked to her immortal carThe beam-invested steeds whose necks on highCurve back, she drives to a remoter skyA western Crescent, borne impetuously. _15Then is made full the circle of her light,And as she grows, her beams more bright and brightAre poured from Heaven, where she is hovering then,A wonder and a sign to mortal men.
The Son of Saturn with this glorious Power _20Mingled in love and sleep—to whom she borePandeia, a bright maid of beauty rareAmong the Gods, whose lives eternal are.
Hail Queen, great Moon, white-armed Divinity,Fair-haired and favourable! thus with thee _25My song beginning, by its music sweetShall make immortal many a glorious featOf demigods, with lovely lips, so wellWhich minstrels, servants of the Muses, tell.