Vampyre' and Other Writings

by Polidori, John William; Bishop, Franklin Charles;

  I was conveyed home, where I was for a long time delirious; I became calm but not less miserable. My attendants then gave me a letter, which had been found upon my wife’s dressing table, after my departure in chase of her. She was innocent, she had not fled with Huldebrand, but with her father. Huldebrand had upon that condition agreed to conceal my crime, my shame. She had left her home, her children; had sacrificed her own to shield my name from infamy. I did not at this intelligence relapse into the violent ravings I had undergone. I sunk into a state of apathy, whence nothing could rouse me. I refused even to see my children, and hardly ever leaving my chamber, I spent the night and day with short intervals to self-reproach in combating inflictions of the mind more dreadful than any corporeal penance of the holy anchorite.

  Many years had thus passed, I had not once seen my children, not even heard of them, for I would speak with no one. I at last saw them by accident. You know Olivieri’s violent character. He had constantly inquired after me, always baffled by the servants in his wish of seeing me; he at last seized his opportunity, but Louisa had watched him, and they both appeared in my sight struggling with one another; for she was trying to hinder his disturbing me. If Matilda herself had stood before me she could not have affected me more; for Louisa, though her features are different, her eye dark, has the expression that gave such power to her mother’s looks, playing upon her face. She at last, no longer capable of resisting her brother, threw herself at my feet, and earnestly begged me not to be offended with her dear Olivieri. I took her to my arms. From that moment I was aroused. I could not leave my daughter, but gave up all my time to the education of my children; but I brought another curse upon my head, for I neglected Olivieri; except in his literary studies I did not assist him, his mind was allowed to be biassed by any one who chose to trouble themselves with acting upon him. Louisa on the contrary was my constant companion, she rewarded my care. You know her, if ever a wretch like me might have hope, it must be in the prayers such a being can offer up for me to the throne of Heaven.

  After some time I proposed journeying through the different countries of Europe, to show my children the different peculiarities of nations. We had already entered Switzerland when my son left me. I had been accustomed to his often quitting me for days together, and hardly noticed his departure. Louisa and myself proceeded to the different spots remarkable for their beauty or sublimity. On the Wengern Alp we saw you. We soon after heard daily of the feats of Ernestus Berchtold and Olivieri. I don’t know why, but the thought of the chamois hunter we had seen being this Ernestus, first struck my daughter, and I soon joined in the belief. A letter from Olivieri appointed Interlaken as the place of meeting; we went there. Events in which you were concerned brought us again to Milan.

  The immense riches I had obtained from the spirit under my command, though much diminished, were yet more than sufficient to maintain us in sufficient splendour, not to fear any thing like a competition. But Olivieri and yourself were gamblers. Louisa forced me again to risk an infliction equally severe as the last, for your sake. I could not resist her prayers for you. I again called the spirit from his immortal haunts, and Olivieri’s infamy was the consequence. Your debts had proved so enormous, that in my attempt at saving him from an ignominious death, I was again obliged, though I knew the horrible powers of the demon, to call upon him. I did so. He announced to me that I had exhausted my spells, and that after this infliction, as nothing round me would remain, on which he could breathe his pestilential breath, he would no longer obey my summons. I called upon him to take back his gold, he laughed and left me. I had no suspicion of Olivieri’s seduction of your sister; when therefore his letter was put into my hands, you may imagine how your noble conduct affected me. I did not speak of it, for what could a father say? Must I even acknowledge it to you, I sometimes rested upon it with a feeling of consolation, for I hoped, that crime of my son’s might be the infliction upon his father, meant by the demon as passing all others. Louisa I thought might then be spared, and you two might at least be happy.

  But you married; I dreamt of happiness, on Louisa’s birthday accompanied you to your room, and the demon’s threat I found had indeed been fulfilled. Your mother’s portrait was Matilda’s. Olivieri had seduced, you married a daughter of Matilda, of Matilda’s husband, and I was the murderer of her father.

  from Ximenes, The Wreath and Other Poems

  (1819)

  Sonnet

  To the Night

  O Starry night! thou art most beauteous fair,

  And I could gaze on thee, till my sight ached –

  Thy cooling zephyrs play amidst my hair,

  And cool my fever’d brain, which long has waked –

  Such stillness seizes on the ear – the beams

  Of yonder galaxy steal on the eye

  With such soft soothing power – the whole it seems

  Would bid us seek for heaven above that sky –

  And hope for peace beyond that bright’ning zone,

  Which seems to keep her near yon heave’nly throne; –

  But still thou pleasest more, ‘cause thou canst show

  The image of ___’s pow’r when flow

  Such magic words, as still man’s stormy breast,

  Such rays as sooth e’en mem’ry, future fears to rest.

  Sonnet

  On being told that I was changed

  I’m changed, ay changed indeed! The festal board

  Was wont to cheer – but nothing now can gain

  A passing smile, or transient bliss afford –

  For I ______’s love cannot obtain –

  My comrades jeer and say a drop of dew,

  From off the verge of midnight Hecate’s broom,

  Fell in my mouth, as grief those accents drew,

  In which absorpt I wailed by saddened doom –

  Some tell me that of late a poisonous tear

  From bleared old maid fell in the merry cup,

  In which I pledged her love – which drop would bear

  My senses down and bring grim madness up –

  But I’m not mad, tho’ dazzled now by her lov’d face,

  As by the sun’s bright disk, on all, her form I trace.

  The Wreath

  To _________

  O thou! For whom this humble Wreath is formed,

  Not from the flow’rs that deck the lowly meads,

  But from those flow’rs Apollo’s ray has warmed,

  On which the dance Thalia often leads.

  Despise it not, because the flow’rs are dull,

  Or ill arranged – my heart beat high with fears,

  My eyes with love’s despairing tears were full,

  Looking to pluck the robe Parnassus wears.

  For since thy image burst upon my sight,

  My fancy paints but heaven as a meet place,

  Where thou couldst dwell, and I a mortal wight,

  But pine to see the spot, which thou may’st grace.

  Despise then not my Wreath, they beauty blame alone,

  And let thy lover’s sufferings for the crime atone.

  Written at the Grimsel

  In Switzerland

  In vain I seek these solitary rocks,

  Which seem to leave no track upon their side

  For man to tread upon. – These enduring blocks

  Of the world’s masonry, o’er which storms glide

  Powerless, unmoved stern in their might yet stand,

  And leave no room for man’s destructive hand. –

  Yet I am vainly hid within their breast,

  They cannot breathe on me their quiet rest –

  Man’s passions will intrude, man’s wants assail

  E’en me – whose tongue is dead, save when the gale

  Strikes on my ear with harsh but plaintive note,

  Exciting words which mingling with it float,

  And make the echoing rocks respond my grief,

  As if I’d take from sympathy relief. –


  But vain illusion! E’en fond hope is dead,

  And all save angry passions hence have fled,

  Angry with fates, who gave but visions’ food

  Unto my mind, when, foolish youth! I woo’d

  Their smiles. – Oh why, tormenting fiend-like sprites

  Thus let me go midst passion’s, folly’s flights,

  Midst men in fine, with visions in my mind,

  That I midst them might friendship, virtue find? –

  Oh why still in my soul, those hopes of fame,

  Which brought the sigh when busy morning came

  Stealing from midnight lamp those studious hours

  Midst which I cull’d the various fragrant flowers

  That grow where’er the Muses’ feet may tread,

  And which I hoped enwreath’d might deck my head

  And bright with glorious gleam, might shining there,

  For ages show an undiminish’d lair –

  Why make me strike the lyre as I felt

  That happiness in some vale lonely dwelt,

  Waiting for me, when from my sounding lyre

  Such strains should flow as fit a poet’s fire –

  Why let me read th’ historic page, where’s told

  In lying tales, that men could freedom hold,

  That men in ancient times of Grecian sage

  Gainst meaner passions constant war would wage.

  But these, e’en these, I might forgive, forget,

  But why that vision send? – Was it to whet

  The point of all your stings? That vision sent

  Of one so meekly bright, if the moon lent

  Her soothing ray, she had not been more fair,

  Nor could she be more light, if from the air

  Yon blushing lovely cloud, that seems to lave

  In the sun’s western ray, ere in the wave

  He sinks to rest; not if yon cloud came down

  To vest around its lightness as a gown

  Upon her limbs, could she appear more light –

  And, as she pass’d, wending her air flight

  To whence she came, methought I heard a sigh

  As wafted on the breeze come from the sky,

  Methough I saw grief passing o’er her brow

  As she gazed on me, chance she wished to show

  She felt my pains – But I awoke, and lo!

  The morn, stealing upon the upland brow,

  Had rayed herself in mist as if to hide

  In pity her light rosy glorious pride

  Seeming as tho’ she wished me still to dream,

  And not to break this only joyous gleam.

  Fool that I was! I let that image rest

  Upon my mind – I hugg’d it to my breast –

  Forgetting that such forms to heaven alone

  Are given to hover round the Godhead’s throne –

  For oh! I vainly yet must seek this haunt,

  Which solitude to make its dwelling’s wont,

  I cannot fly that beauteous form – one time

  I saw her on yon beetling rock – I climb –

  Bounding from crag to crag, I haste to clasp

  Her airy shape – the mist has mock’d my grasp –

  And high on tow’ry pinnacle I stand

  Gazing on scenes subdued by man’s foul hand,

  To fly the sight of which I’d sought this cave

  In hopes of rest their absence never gave –

  Oft, oft, I’m wak’d from slumbers by her voice,

  Which seems with her to call me to rejoice;

  But all that strikes my ear is the harsh sound

  Of the lone breeze that wanton beats around.

  Oh! Why then fliest thou Time! With slacken’d wing?

  Why not with thee old blear-eyed age e’en bring?

  It’s whit’ning snows would drop upon my head,

  At last ‘twould lead me to a quiet bed. –

  Or if e’en years should pass, length’ning my age,

  Ere death my foes in battle might engage,

  Still hoping to begin my journey’s toil,

  I might with pleasure gaze, leaving this coil,

  On all that once had reft me of my peace,

  Conscious I went, where they’d no longer teaze.

  Ximenes

  XIMENES: Must I then once again call up afresh

  Sorrows past cure? – My memory alone,

  Ere my lips speak, renews my heart’s anguish

  And maddens every thought, till I avoid

  With anxious care the very name of her

  Who wrought my woe; and in oblivion try

  To drown all traces of my wretched lot –

  Vainly I thought that time with lenient hand

  Would mitigate my grief’s severer pangs –

  But still with age its poison seems to spread.

  When first we met in Florence, lively youth

  And buoyant hope spread o’er my future years

  Such brilliant hues, as if the magic wand

  Of old dames elf had been at pleasant work –

  My heart then opened to the sun of love,

  As the soft hare-bell, when Aurora’s tints

  Glow in the east, expands its silken leaves

  To the life-giving orb. – The maid I lov’d

  Was then the pride of Florence, and excell’d

  In every grace, each rival’s lessen’d charms –

  But why so fondly dwell upon the theme?

  She is not mine – the thought disturbs my brain –

  It burns with all the phrensy of despair. –

  From a dramatic tragedy originally entitled Count Orlando; or, The Modern Abraham, Act I, scene ii.

  The Fall of the Angels

  A Sacred Poem

  (1821)

  Canto the First

  Section 1

  The Creation of the World

  I

  Through infinite, eternal space ’twas night

  And darkness: scarcely the blue lightning shone,

  As, flashing idly thro’ it’s harmless flight,

  It lit discordant elements alone.

  Oblivion spread its vast long limbs, with sullen pride,

  Midst the loved, changeless shades, that every thing could hide:

  No speck of beauty, sparkling there on high,

  As some meek flower, that breaks the snow to shine,

  No sun sail’d, like a ship, across the sky,

  A startling show of pomp and power divine.

  II

  Then sounds alone, like Etna’s breathings, broke

  Upon the wilder’d ear of Seraphin,

  And seem’d as if the presence they bespoke

  Of one who mock’d at God and scoff’d at him.

  For element ’gainst element was loudly warring,

  And latent flames, and waves, and rocks, were broken jarring;

  Then were unknown fair music’s magic power,

  The still soft sounding of the speaking wave,

  The rolling crash of clouds, that proudly lower

  As if the Almighty used the voice they gave.

  X

  Yet all was barren; nothing but a stream

  Of splendent suns and stars attracts the sight:

  Mingling, they deckt each other with a gleam,

  Each caught its beauty from its brother’s light.

  But, by the grateful sight of seraph’s joy beguiled,

  Jehovah, pleased, look’d on his vast work and smiled:

  Then suddenly they see the planets move,

  They see, upon the barren glittering earth,

  The bending corn, the forests, nodding grove,

  And worlds and oceans teeming one great birth.

  from The Diary of Dr John William Polidori

  (1816)

  24 April I left London at 10 in the morning, with Lord Byron, Scrope Davies, Esq., and J. Hobhouse, Esq.

  The view from Shooter’s Hill was extensive
and beautiful, being on a much larger scale than the view from Stirling.

  The plain, enamelled with various colours according to the different growth of the corn, spread far before our sight, was divided irregularly by the river. The Thames next, with its majestic waves, flowed in the plain below, bearing numerous fleets upon its flood. Its banks in many parts were beautiful. The chalky banks were alternated with the swelling hills, rising from the waves, of the pleasing green-brown, the effect of the first dawn of spring on the vegetable creation.

  At Canterbury we saw the Cathedral. I know not how it was, whether my mind had been prepared by the previous sight of glorious nature to receive pleasing impressions, but the spot where the high altar and Thomas à Becket’s tomb stood seemed to me one of the most beautiful effects that I had ever seen arising from Saxo-Gothic architecture; for, though it had not all the airiness and awe-inspiring height that I had seen in other cathedrals, yet its simple beauty pleased me more than anything I had yet seen.

  Remounting, we soon arrived at Dover, where we slept, when the packet-boat captain had sufficiently disturbed us.

  25 April This day was spent at Dover. The greater part was occupied in procuring what had been neglected in London, and in seeing the carriage well packed up. After dinner, however, we went in search of Churchill’s tomb, raised, we had learned, to his memory by his friend Wilkes. Arrived at the house of the sexton, he led us to a ruined church, passing through which we came into a churchyard, where children, heedless and unconscious of what they trampled on, sportively ran amid the raised turf graves. He pointed out to us a tombstone, undistinguished from those of the tradesmen near him, having merely, like them, a square tablet stuck into the ground, whereon was written, ‘Here lie the remains of the celebrated Churchill.’

  Life to the last enjoyed, here Churchill lies.

  Candidate

  The green turf was beginning already to decay upon his tomb, which when the sexton heard us lamenting he assured us that his grave, as well as the rest, would be newly decked as soon as Nature had vested its fullest green – for that was an old custom.