Selected Poems and Prose

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  55 I heard all this from the old woman.

  Then there came down from Langdale Pike

  A cloud with lightning, wind and hail;

  It swept over the mountains like

  An Ocean,—and I heard it strike

  60 The woods and crags of Grasmere vale.

  And I saw the black storm come

  Nearer, minute after minute,

  Its thunder made the cataracts dumb,

  With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum

  65 It neared as if the Devil was in it.

  The Devil was in it:—he had bought

  Peter for half a crown; and when

  The storm which bore him vanished, nought

  That in the house that storm had caught

  70 Was ever seen again.

  The gaping neighbours came next day—

  They found all vanished from the shore:

  The Bible, whence he used to pray

  Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;

  75 Smashed glass—and nothing more!

  Part Second

  The Devil

  The Devil, I safely can aver,

  Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;

  Nor is he, as some sages swear,

  A spirit, neither here nor there,

  80 In nothing—yet in every thing.

  He is—what we are; for sometimes

  The Devil is a gentleman;

  At others a bard bartering rhymes

  For sack; a statesman spinning crimes,

  85 A swindler, living as he can;

  A thief who cometh in the night,

  With whole boots and net pantaloons,

  Like someone whom it were not right

  To mention;—or the luckless wight

  90 From whom he steals nine silver spoons.

  But in this case he did appear

  Like a slop-merchant from Wapping

  And with smug face, and eye severe

  On every side did perk and peer

  95 Till he saw Peter dead or napping.

  He had on an upper Benjamin

  (For he was of the driving schism)

  In the which he wrapped his skin

  From the storm he travelled in,

  100 For fear of rheumatism.

  He called the ghost out of the corse;—

  It was exceedingly like Peter,—

  Only its voice was hollow and hoarse—

  It had a queerish look of course—

  105 Its dress too was a little neater.

  The Devil knew not, his name and lot;

  Peter knew not that he was Bell:

  Each had an upper stream of thought

  Which made all seem as it was not;

  110 Fitting itself to all things well.

  Peter thought he had parents dear,

  Brothers, sisters, cousins, cronies,

  In the fens of Lincolnshire;

  He perhaps had found them there

  115 Had he gone and boldly shown his

  Solemn phiz in his own village;

  Where he thought, oft when a boy

  He’d clombe the orchard walls to pillage

  The produce of his neighbours’ tillage

  120 With marvellous pride and joy.

  And the Devil thought he had,

  ’Mid the misery and confusion

  Of an unjust war, just made

  A fortune by the gainful trade

  125Of giving soldiers rations bad—

  The world is full of strange delusion—

  That he had a mansion planned

  In a square like Grosvenor square,

  That he was aping fashion, and

  130That he now came to Westmorland

  To see what was romantic there.

  And all this, though quite ideal,—

  Ready at a breath to vanish,—

  Was a state not more unreal

  135Than the peace he could not feel

  Or the care he could not banish.

  After a little conversation

  The Devil told Peter, if he chose

  He’d bring him to the world of fashion

  140By giving him a situation

  In his own service—and new clothes.

  And Peter bowed, quite pleased and proud,

  And after waiting some few days

  For a new livery—dirty yellow

  145Turned up with black—the wretched fellow

  Was bowled to Hell on the Devil’s chaise.

  Part Third

  Hell

  Hell is a city much like London;—

  A populous and a smoky city;

  There are all sorts of people undone

  150And there is little or no fun done;

  Small justice shown, and still less pity.

  There is a Castles, and a Canning,

  A Cobbett, and a Castlereagh;

  All sorts of caitiff corpses planning

  155All sorts of cozening for trepanning

  Corpses less corrupt than they.

  There is a * * *, who has lost

  His wits, or sold them, none knows which:

  He walks about a double ghost,

  160And though as thin as Fraud almost—

  Ever grows more grim and rich.

  There is a Chancery Court; a King;

  A manufacturing mob; a set

  Of thieves who by themselves are sent

  165Similar thieves to represent;

  An Army;—and a public debt.

  Which last is a scheme of Paper money,

  And means—being interpreted—

  ‘Bees keep your wax—give us the honey

  170And we will plant while skies are sunny

  Flowers, which in winter serve instead.’

  There is great talk of Revolution—

  And a great chance of Despotism—

  German soldiers—camps—confusion—

  175Tumults—lotteries—rage—delusion—

  Gin—suicide and Methodism;

  Taxes too, on wine and bread,

  And meat, and beer, and tea, and cheese

  From which those patriots pure are fed

  180Who gorge before they reel to bed

  The tenfold essence of all these.

  There are mincing women, mewing,

  (Like cats, who amant miserè,)*

  Of their own virtue, and pursuing

  185Their gentler sisters to that ruin,

  Without which—what were chastity?†

  Lawyers—judges—old hobnobbers

  Are there—Bailiffs—Chancellors—

  Bishops—great and little robbers—

  190Rhymesters—pamphleteers—stock jobbers—

  Men of glory in the wars,—

  Things whose trade is, over ladies

  To lean, and flirt, and stare, and simper,

  Till all that is divine in woman

  195Grows cruel, courteous, smooth, inhuman,

  Crucified ’twixt a smile and whimper.

  Thrusting, toiling, wailing, moiling,

  Frowning, preaching—such a riot!

  Each with never ceasing labour

  200Whilst he thinks he cheats his neighbour

  Cheating his own heart of quiet.

  And all these, meet at levees;—

  Dinners convivial and political;—

  Suppers of epic poets;—teas,

  205Where small talk dies in agonies;—

  Breakfasts professional and critical;—

  Lunches and snacks so aldermanic

  That one would furnish forth ten dinners,

  Where reigns a Cretan-tongued panic

  210Lest news Russ, Dutch or Alemannic

  Should make some losers, and some winners;—

  At conversazioni—balls—

  Conventicles and drawing-rooms—

  Courts of law—committees—calls

  215Of a morning—clubs—book stalls—

  Churches—masquerades and tombs.

  And th
is is Hell—and in this smother

  All are damnable and damned;

  Each one damning, damns the other;

  220They are damned by one another,

  By none other are they damned.

  ’Tis a lie to say, ‘God damns!’*

  Where was Heaven’s Attorney General

  When they first gave out such flams?

  225Let there be an end of shams;

  They are mines of poisonous mineral.

  Statesmen damn themselves to be

  Cursed; and lawyers damn their souls

  To the auction of a fee:

  230Churchmen damn themselves to see

  God’s sweet love in burning coals.

  The rich are damned beyond all cure

  To taunt, and starve, and trample on

  The weak, and wretched: and the poor

  235Damn their broken hearts to endure

  Stripe on stripe, with groan on groan.

  Sometimes the poor are damned indeed

  To take,—not means for being blest,—

  But Cobbett’s snuff, revenge; that weed

  240From which the worms that it doth feed

  Squeeze less than they before possessed.

  And some few, like we know who,

  Damned—but God alone knows why—

  To believe their minds are given

  245To make this ugly Hell a Heaven;

  In which faith they live and die.

  Thus, as in a Town plague-stricken,

  Each man be he sound or no

  Must indifferently sicken;

  250As when day begins to thicken

  None knows a pigeon from a crow,—

  So good and bad, sane and mad,

  The oppressor and the oppressed;

  Those who weep to see what others

  255Smile to inflict upon their brothers;

  Lovers, haters, worst and best;

  All are damned—they breathe an air

  Thick, infected, joy-dispelling:

  Each pursues what seems most fair,

  260Mining like moles, through mind, and there

  Scoop palace-caverns vast, where Care

  In throned state is ever dwelling.

  Part Fourth

  Sin

  Lo! Peter in Hell’s Grosvenor square

  A footman in the Devil’s service!

  265And the misjudging world would swear

  That every man in service there

  To virtue would prefer vice.

  But, Peter, though now damned, was not

  What Peter was before damnation.

  270Men oftentimes prepare a lot

  Which ere it finds them, is not what

  Suits with their genuine station.

  All things that Peter saw and felt

  Had a peculiar aspect to him;

  275And when they came within the belt

  Of his own nature, seemed to melt

  Like cloud to cloud, into him.

  And so the outward world uniting

  To that within him, he became

  280Considerably uninviting

  To those, who meditation slighting,

  Were moulded in a different frame.

  And he scorned them, and they scorned him;

  And he scorned all they did; and they

  285Did all that men of their own trim

  Are wont to do to please their whim,

  Drinking, lying, swearing, play.

  Such were his fellow servants: thus

  His virtue, like our own, was built

  290Too much on that indignant fuss

  Hypocrite Pride stirs up in us

  To bully out another’s guilt.

  He had a mind which was somehow

  At once circumference and centre

  295Of all he might or feel or know;

  Nothing went ever out, although

  Something did ever enter.

  He had as much imagination

  As a pint-pot:—he never could

  300Fancy another situation

  From which to dart his contemplation,

  Than that wherein he stood.

  Yet his was individual mind,

  And new-created all he saw

  305In a new manner, and refined

  Those new creations, and combined

  Them by a master-spirit’s law,

  Thus—though unimaginative,

  An apprehension clear, intense,

  310Of his mind’s work, had made alive

  The things it wrought on; I believe

  Wakening a sort of thought in sense.

  But from the first ’twas Peter’s drift

  To be a kind of moral eunuch;

  315He touched the hem of Nature’s shift,

  Felt faint—and never dared uplift

  The closest, all-concealing tunic.

  She laughed the while, with an arch smile,

  And kissed him with a sister’s kiss,

  320And said—‘My best Diogenes,

  I love you well—but, if you please,

  Tempt not again my deepest bliss.

  ‘’Tis you are cold—for I, not coy,

  Yield love for love, frank, warm and true:

  325And Burns, a Scottish Peasant boy,—

  His errors prove it—knew my joy

  More, learned friend, than you.

  ‘Bocca baciata non perde ventura

  Anzi rinnuova come fa la luna:—

  330So thought Boccaccio, whose sweet words might cure a

  Male prude like you from what you now endure, a

  Low-tide in soul, like a stagnant laguna.’

  Then Peter rubbed his eyes severe,

  And smoothed his spacious forehead down

  335With his broad palm:—’twixt love and fear,

  He looked, as he no doubt felt, queer;

  And in his dream sate down.

  The Devil was no uncommon creature;

  A leaden-witted thief—just huddled

  340Out of the dross and scum of nature;

  A toadlike lump of limb and feature,

  With mind, and heart, and fancy muddled.

  He was that heavy, dull, cold thing

  The Spirit of Evil well may be:

  345A drone too base to have a sting;

  Who gluts, and limes his lazy wing,

  And calls lust, luxury.

  Now he was quite, the kind of wight

  Round whom collect, at a fixed aera,

  350Venison, turtle, hock and claret,—

  Good cheer—and those who come to share it—

  And best East Indian Madeira!

  It was his fancy to invite

  Men of science, wit and learning;

  355Who came to lend each other light:—

  He proudly thought that his gold’s might

  Had set those spirits burning.

  And men of learning, science, wit,

  Considered him as you and I

  360Think of some rotten tree, and sit

  Lounging and dining under it,

  Exposed to the wide sky.

  And all the while, with loose fat smile

  The willing wretch sat winking there,

  365Believing ’twas his power that made

  That jovial scene—and that all paid

  Homage to his unnoticed chair.

  Though to be sure this place was Hell;

  He was the Devil—and all they—

  370What though the claret circled well,

  And wit, like ocean, rose and fell—

  Were damned eternally.

  Part Fifth

  Grace

  Among the guests who often staid

  Till the Devil’s petit soupers,

  375A man there came, fair as a maid,

  And Peter noted what he said,

  Standing behind his master’s chair.

  He was a mighty poet—and

  A subtle-souled Psychologist;

  380All things he seemed to understandr />
  Of old or new—of sea or land—

  But his own mind—which was a mist.

  This was a man who might have turned

  Hell into Heaven—and so in gladness

  385A Heaven unto himself have earned;

  But he in shadows undiscerned

  Trusted,—and damned himself to madness.

  He spoke of Poetry, and how

  ‘Divine it was—a light—a love—

  390A spirit which like wind doth blow

  As it listeth, to and fro;

  A dew rained down from God above,

  ‘A Power which comes and goes like dream,

  And which none can ever trace—

  395Heaven’s light on Earth—Truth’s brightest beam,’

  And when he ceased there lay the gleam

  Of those words upon his face.

  Now Peter when he heard such talk

  Would, heedless of a broken pate

  400Stand like a man asleep, or baulk

  Some wishing guest of knife or fork,

  Or drop and break his master’s plate.

  At night he oft would start and wake

  Like a lover, and began

  405In a wild measure songs to make

  On moor, and glen, and rocky lake,

  And on the heart of man;—

  And on the universal sky;—

  And the wide earth’s bosom green;—

  410And the sweet, strange mystery

  Of what beyond these things may lie,

  And yet remain unseen.

  For in his thought he visited

  The spots in which, ere dead and damned,

  415He his wayward life had led;

  Yet knew not whence the thoughts were fed

  Which thus his fancy crammed.

  And these obscure remembrances

  Stirred such harmony in Peter,

  420That whensoever he should please,

  He could speak of rocks and trees