And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.
Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined,
Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind,
When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene,
And a figure advanced — tall in form — fierce in mien. 40
A mantle encircled his shadowy form,
As light as a gossamer borne on the storm,
Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze,
Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze. —
SPIRIT:
Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, 45
And Conrad has cause to remember it well,
He ruined my Mother, despised me his son,
I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.
I was nearly expiring—’twas close of the day, —
A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, 50
He gave me the power from whence I was hurled,
To return to revenge, to return to the world, —
Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms,
I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms,
On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride, 55
And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride —
He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide,
Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride,
He clasped the fair Agnes — he raised her on high,
And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky — 60
All was now silent, — and over the tomb,
Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom,
Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone,
And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.
DECEMBER, 1809.
GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!
The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas. — The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.
Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,
In the pathless dell beneath,
Hark! night ravens loudly sing,
Tidings of despair and death. —
Horror covers all the sky, 5
Clouds of darkness blot the moon,
Prepare! for mortal thou must die,
Prepare to yield thy soul up soon —
Fierce the tempest raves around,
Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, 10
Crashing thunder shakes the ground,
Fire and tumult fill the sky. —
Hark! the tolling village bell,
Tells the hour of midnight come,
Now can blast the powers of Hell, 15
Fiend-like goblins now can roam —
See! his crest all stained with rain,
A warrior hastening speeds his way,
He starts, looks round him, starts again,
And sighs for the approach of day. 20
See! his frantic steed he reins,
See! he lifts his hands on high,
Implores a respite to his pains,
From the powers of the sky. —
He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, 25
Fatigue had bent his lofty form,
To rest his wearied limbs awhile,
Fatigued with wandering and the storm.
… …
Slow the door is opened wide —
With trackless tread a stranger came, 30
His form Majestic, slow his stride,
He sate, nor spake, — nor told his name —
Terror blanched the warrior’s cheek,
Cold sweat from his forehead ran,
In vain his tongue essayed to speak, — 35
At last the stranger thus began:
‘Mortal! thou that saw’st the sprite,
Tell me what I wish to know,
Or come with me before ‘tis light,
Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. 40
‘Fierce the avenging Demon’s ire,
Fiercer than the wintry blast,
Fiercer than the lightning’s fire,
When the hour of twilight’s past’ —
The warrior raised his sunken eye. 45
It met the stranger’s sullen scowl,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,’
In burning letters chilled his soul.
WARRIOR:
Stranger! whoso’er you are,
I feel impelled my tale to tell — 50
Horrors stranger shalt thou hear,
Horrors drear as those of Hell.
O’er my Castle silence reigned,
Late the night and drear the hour,
When on the terrace I observed, 55
A fleeting shadowy mist to lower. —
Light the cloud as summer fog,
Which transient shuns the morning beam;
Fleeting as the cloud on bog,
That hangs or on the mountain stream. — 60
Horror seized my shuddering brain,
Horror dimmed my starting eye.
In vain I tried to speak, — In vain
My limbs essayed the spot to fly —
At last the thin and shadowy form, 65
With noiseless, trackless footsteps came, —
Its light robe floated on the storm,
Its head was bound with lambent flame.
In chilling voice drear as the breeze
Which sweeps along th’ autumnal ground, 70
Which wanders through the leafless trees,
Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.
‘Thou art mine and I am thine,
‘Till the sinking of the world,
I am thine and thou art mine, 75
‘Till in ruin death is hurled —
‘Strong the power and dire the fate,
Which drags me from the depths of Hell,
Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate,
Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, 80
‘Haply I might ne’er have shrank
From flames that rack the guilty dead,
Haply I might ne’er have sank
On pleasure’s flowery, thorny bed —
—’But stay! no more I dare disclose, 85
Of the tale I wish to tell,
On Earth relentless were my woes,
But fiercer are my pangs in Hell —
‘Now I claim thee as my love,
Lay aside all chilling fear, 90
My affection will I prove,
Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!
‘For thou art mine, and I am thine,
‘Till the dreaded judgement day,
I am thine, and thou art mine — 95
Night is past — I must away.’
Still I gazed, and still the form
Pressed upon my aching sight,
Still I braved the howling storm,
When the ghost dissolved in night. — 100
Restless, sleepless fled the night,
Sleepless as a sick man’s bed,
When he sighs for morning light,
When he turns his aching head, —
Slow and painful passed the day. 105
Melancholy seized my brain,
Lingering fled the hours away,
Lingering to a wretch in pain. —
At last came night, ah! horrid hour,
Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, 110
When demons ride the clouds that lower,
— The phantom sat upon my bed.
In hollow voice, low as the sound
Which in some charnel makes its moan,
What floats along the burying ground, 115
The phantom claimed me as her own.
Her chilling finger on my head,
; With coldest touch congealed my soul —
Cold as the finger of the dead,
Or damps which round a tombstone roll — 120
Months are passed in lingering round,
Every night the spectre comes,
With thrilling step it shakes the ground,
With thrilling step it round me roams —
Stranger! I have told to thee, 125
All the tale I have to tell —
Stranger! canst thou tell to me,
How to ‘scape the powers of Hell? —
STRANGER:
Warrior! I can ease thy woes,
Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me — 130
Warrior! I can all disclose,
Follow, follow, follow me.
Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing,
Its mantle stretches o’er the sky,
Yet the midnight ravens sing, 135
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’
At last they saw a river clear,
That crossed the heathy path they trod,
The Stranger’s look was wild and drear,
The firm Earth shook beneath his nod — 140
He raised a wand above his head,
He traced a circle on the plain,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead with silent footsteps came.
A burning brilliance on his head, 145
Flaming filled the stormy air,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead in motley crowd were there. —
‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come along,
Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, 150
Quickly raise th’ avenging Song,
Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.’
Horrid shapes in mantles gray,
Flit athwart the stormy night,
‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, 155
Come away before ‘tis light.’
See! the sheeted Ghost they bring,
Yelling dreadful o’er the heath,
Hark! the deadly verse they sing,
Tidings of despair and death! 160
The yelling Ghost before him stands,
See! she rolls her eyes around,
Now she lifts her bony hands,
Now her footsteps shake the ground.
STRANGER:
Phantom of Theresa say, 165
Why to earth again you came,
Quickly speak, I must away!
Or you must bleach for aye in flame, —
PHANTOM:
Mighty one I know thee now,
Mightiest power of the sky, 170
Know thee by thy flaming brow,
Know thee by thy sparkling eye.
That fire is scorching! Oh! I came,
From the caverned depth of Hell,
My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, 175
Mighty one! I know thee well. —
STRANGER:
Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite,
Drag her to the depth beneath,
Take her swift, before ‘tis light,
Take her to the cells of death! 180
Thou that heardst the trackless dead,
In the mouldering tomb must lie,
Mortal! look upon my head,
Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.
Of glowing flame a cross was there, 185
Which threw a light around his form,
Whilst his lank and raven hair,
Floated wild upon the storm. —
The warrior upwards turned his eyes,
Gazed upon the cross of fire, 190
There sat horror and surprise,
There sat God’s eternal ire. —
A shivering through the Warrior flew,
Colder than the nightly blast,
Colder than the evening dew, 195
When the hour of twilight’s past. —
Thunder shakes th’ expansive sky,
Shakes the bosom of the heath,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die’ —
The warrior sank convulsed in death. 200
JANUARY, 1810.
FRAGMENT, OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.
‘Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling,
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low, —
Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! 5
‘Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky,
Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by. —
My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar 10
Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke,
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear,
This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear,
But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke.
‘Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, 15
The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode,
Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode. —
I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!
… …
POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON
Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that Noted Female who attempted the Life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.
Shelley’s second poetry collection was published in November, 1810, with collaborations from his friend Thomas Jefferson Hogg, who was a fellow student at Oxford. It was printed in pamphlet form by John Munday and Henry Slatter, consisting of fictional fragments that were in the nature of a burlesque. The collection was one Shelley’s earliest political works, expressing his views on government, war and society in general.
Shelley and Hogg presented the poems as being written by Margaret Nicholson herself and edited by her nephew, John FitzVictor, published after her death. John FitzVictor was not a real person, but created by Shelley and Hogg, as a play of words on the co-author of Original Poetry by Victor and Cazire. Margaret Nicholson was a real person who is most remembered today due to this collection, though she had attempted to assassinate King George III with a knife in 1786.
In the poems Shelley attacks the British monarchy as oppressive and burdensome on the people. He expresses his anti-war views, blaming absolutist and monarchist governments for causing needless wars. These political views would be developed further and to greater effect in Queen Mab in 1812.
The collection was published in a limited run of 250 copies, achieving little interest, and was not reprinted until 1877 by Harry Buxton Forman, making it one of the most obscure of Shelley’s works.
The original title page
CONTENTS
WAR.
FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.
SYMPHONY.
DESPAIR.
FRAGMENT.
THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.
MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.
Margaret Nicholson attempting to assassinate his Majesty King George III, 1786
ADVERTISEMENT.
The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.
In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious c
ollection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.
WAR.
Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, ‘tis sure the avenger’s rage 5
Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death’s latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak — 10
‘Oh God! my wife, my children — Monarch thou
For whose support this fainting frame lies low;
For whose support in distant lands I bleed,
Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed.
He hears me not — ah! no — kings cannot hear, 15
For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear.
To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan,
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan.
Oh! now I die — but still is death’s fierce pain —
God hears my prayer — we meet, we meet again.’ 20
He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed,
And with a parting groan his spirit fled.
Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe
The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow;
For you how many a mother weeps her son, 25
Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run!
For you how many a widow drops a tear,
In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier!
‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries,
‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? 30
Is this the system which Thy powerful sway,
Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay,
Formed and approved? — it cannot be — but oh!
Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’
‘Tis not — He never bade the war-note swell, 35
He never triumphed in the work of hell —
Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed,
Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.
Ah! when will come the sacred fated time,
When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime, 40
Percy Bysshe Shelley Page 3