I seem to hang upon thy tone.
Again you say, ‘Confide in me,
For I am thine, and thine alone,
And thine must ever, ever be.’
But oh! awak’ning still anew, 45
Athwart my enanguished senses flew
A fiercer, deadlier agony!
POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.
CONTENTS
VICTORIA.
ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.
SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.
ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.
BEREAVEMENT.
THE DROWNED LOVER.
STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.
VICTORIA.
(Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.)
1.
‘Twas dead of the night, when I sat 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
2.
‘Twas then that I started! — the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;
Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.
3.
My heart sank within me — unheeded the war 10
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke; —
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear —
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.
4.
‘Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, 15
The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.
5. I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—’
…
ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.
1.
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o’er the dark aether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
2.
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, 5
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.
3.
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; 10
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.
4.
On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead:
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.
1.
The death-bell beats! —
The mountain repeats
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark Monk now
Wraps the cowl round his brow, 5
As he sits in his lonely cell.
2.
And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky, 10
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.
And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. 15
3.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
Of peace to the dark Monk’s brain.
Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast;
And he strove to suppress them in vain. 20
4.
Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor,
When the death-knell struck on his ear. —
‘Delight is in store
For her evermore;
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.’ 25
5.
Then his eyes wildly rolled,
When the death-bell tolled,
And he raged in terrific woe.
And he stamped on the ground, —
But when ceased the sound, 30
Tears again began to flow.
6.
And the ice of despair
Chilled the wild throb of care,
And he sate in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, 35
And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
7.
Then he knelt in his cell: —
And the horrors of hell
Were delights to his agonized pain,
And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, 40
Which else must for ever remain.
8.
And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One:
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
A voice hollow and horrible murmured around — 45
‘The term of thy penance is done!’
9.
Grew dark the night;
The moonbeam bright
Waxed faint on the mountain high;
And, from the black hill, 50
Went a voice cold and still, —
‘Monk! thou art free to die.’
10.
Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat,
And his limbs they were palsied with dread; 55
Whilst the grave’s clammy dew
O’er his pale forehead grew;
And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.
11.
And the wild midnight storm
Raved around his tall form, 60
As he sought the chapel’s gloom:
And the sunk grass did sigh
To the wind, bleak and high,
As he searched for the new-made tomb.
12.
And forms, dark and high, 65
Seemed around him to fly,
And mingle their yells with the blast:
And on the dark wall
Half-seen shadows did fall,
As enhorrored he onward passed. 70
13.
And the storm-fiends wild rave
O’er the new-made grave,
And dread shadows linger around.
The Monk called on God his soul to save,
And, in horror, sank on the ground. 75
14.
Then despair nerved his arm
To dispel the charm,
And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder.
And the fierce storm did swell
More terrific and fell, 80
And louder pealed the thunder.
15.
And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng,
Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread. 85
16.
And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared
Which dripped with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,
As he stood within the cell. 90
17.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerved by fear. —
‘I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguished pain. —
&n
bsp; The grave yawns, — we meet there.’ 95
18.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,
That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answered from hell.
ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.
1.
How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanse
Bright day’s resplendent colours fade!
How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance
With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!
2.
No cloud along the spangled air, 5
Is borne upon the evening breeze;
How solemn is the scene! how fair
The moonbeams rest upon the trees!
3.
Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl; 10
Along the stillness of the night,
Her melancholy shriekings roll.
4.
But not alone on Irvyne’s tower,
The silver moonbeam pours her ray;
It gleams upon the ivied bower, 15
It dances in the cascade’s spray.
5.
‘Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour, when man must cease to be?
Why may not human minds unveil
The dim mists of futurity? — 20
6.
‘The keenness of the world hath torn
The heart which opens to its blast;
Despised, neglected, and forlorn,
Sinks the wretch in death at last.’
BEREAVEMENT.
1.
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,
As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, 5
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
2.
Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death? 10
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit, that faded away with the breath.
Eternity points in its amaranth bower,
Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, 15
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
THE DROWNED LOVER.
1.
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, 5
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
‘Stay thy boat on the lake, — dearest Henry, I come.’
2.
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea, 10
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, 15
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
3.
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? 20
Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.
6. — The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.
STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.
(Published by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876; dated 1810.)
Tremble, Kings despised of man!
Ye traitors to your Country,
Tremble! Your parricidal plan
At length shall meet its destiny…
We all are soldiers fit to fight, 5
But if we sink in glory’s night
Our mother Earth will give ye new
The brilliant pathway to pursue
Which leads to Death or Victory…
THE DEVIL’S WALK: A BALLAD
Shelley’s first major poetical work was published as a broadside in 1812, consisting of seven irregular ballad stanzas of 49 lines. The Devil’s Walk is a satirical attack and criticism of the British government. The poem was modelled on The Devil’s Thoughts (1799) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Robert Southey.
In 1812 Shelley wished to protest against the actions of the British government and the harsh economic conditions in the country at the time. This poem appeared shortly after the food riots in Devon, where Shelley was living. Prices for grain were at their highest level in 1812, with severe shortages of food and prices being heavily inflated. In the work, Shelley attacks “a brainless King”, the “princely paunch” and “each brawny haunch” of the Prince Regent. The members of both houses of Parliament and the Church are also blamed with scorn.
How the poem first appeared in print
THE DEVIL’S WALK.
A BALLAD.
(Published as a broadside by Shelley, 1812.)
1.
Once, early in the morning, Beelzebub arose,
With care his sweet person adorning,
He put on his Sunday clothes.
2.
He drew on a boot to hide his hoof, 5
He drew on a glove to hide his claw,
His horns were concealed by a Bras Chapeau,
And the Devil went forth as natty a Beau
As Bond-street ever saw.
3.
He sate him down, in London town, 10
Before earth’s morning ray;
With a favourite imp he began to chat,
On religion, and scandal, this and that,
Until the dawn of day.
4.
And then to St. James’s Court he went, 15
And St. Paul’s Church he took on his way;
He was mighty thick with every Saint,
Though they were formal and he was gay.
5.
The Devil was an agriculturist,
And as bad weeds quickly grow, 20
In looking over his farm, I wist,
He wouldn’t find cause for woe.
6.
He peeped in each hole, to each chamber stole,
His promising live-stock to view;
Grinning applause, he just showed them his claws, 25
And they shrunk with affright from his ugly sight,
Whose work they delighted to do.
7.
Satan poked his red nose into crannies so small
One would think that the innocents fair,
Poor lambkins! were just doing nothing at all 30
But settling some dress or arranging some ball,
But the Devil saw deeper there.
8.
A Priest, at whose elbow the Devil during prayer
Sate familiarly, side by side,
Declared that, if the Tempter were there, 35
His presence he would not abide.
Ah! ah! thought Old Nick, that’s a very stale tric
k,
For without the Devil, O favourite of Evil,
In your carriage you would not ride.
9.
Satan next saw a brainless King, 40
Whose house was as hot as his own;
Many Imps in attendance were there on the wing,
They flapped the pennon and twisted the sting,
Close by the very Throne.
10.
Ah! ah! thought Satan, the pasture is good, 45
My Cattle will here thrive better than others;
They dine on news of human blood,
They sup on the groans of the dying and dead,
And supperless never will go to bed;
Which will make them fat as their brothers. 50
11.
Fat as the Fiends that feed on blood,
Fresh and warm from the fields of Spain,
Where Ruin ploughs her gory way,
Where the shoots of earth are nipped in the bud,
Where Hell is the Victor’s prey, 55
Its glory the meed of the slain.
12.
Fat — as the Death-birds on Erin’s shore,
That glutted themselves in her dearest gore,
And flitted round Castlereagh,
When they snatched the Patriot’s heart, that HIS grasp 60
Had torn from its widow’s maniac clasp,
— And fled at the dawn of day.
13.
Fat — as the Reptiles of the tomb,
That riot in corruption’s spoil,
That fret their little hour in gloom, 65
And creep, and live the while.
14.
Fat as that Prince’s maudlin brain,
Which, addled by some gilded toy,
Tired, gives his sweetmeat, and again
Cries for it, like a humoured boy. 70
15.
For he is fat, — his waistcoat gay,
When strained upon a levee day,
Scarce meets across his princely paunch;
And pantaloons are like half-moons
Upon each brawny haunch. 75
16.
How vast his stock of calf! when plenty
Had filled his empty head and heart,
Enough to satiate foplings twenty,
Could make his pantaloon seams start.
17.
The Devil (who sometimes is called Nature), 80
For men of power provides thus well,
Whilst every change and every feature,
Their great original can tell.
18.
Satan saw a lawyer a viper slay,
That crawled up the leg of his table, 85
It reminded him most marvellously
Of the story of Cain and Abel.
19.
Percy Bysshe Shelley Page 5