“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.)
Vessels of heavenly medicine! may the breeze
Auspicious waft your dark green forms to shore;
Safe may ye stem the wide surrounding roar
Of the wild whirlwinds and the raging seas;
And oh! if Liberty e’er deigned to stoop 5
From yonder lowly throne her crownless brow,
Sure she will breathe around your emerald group
The fairest breezes of her West that blow.
Yes! she will waft ye to some freeborn soul
Whose eye-beam, kindling as it meets your freight, 10
Her heaven-born flame in suffering Earth will light,
Until its radiance gleams from pole to pole,
And tyrant-hearts with powerless envy burst
To see their night of ignorance dispersed.
FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.)
Where man’s profane and tainting hand
Nature’s primaeval loveliness has marred,
And some few souls of the high bliss debarred
Which else obey her powerful command;
…mountain piles 5
That load in grandeur Cambria’s emerald vales.
ON LEAVING LONDON FOR WALES.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated November, 1812.)
Hail to thee, Cambria! for the unfettered wind
Which from thy wilds even now methinks I feel,
Chasing the clouds that roll in wrath behind,
And tightening the soul’s laxest nerves to steel;
True mountain Liberty alone may heal 5
The pain which Custom’s obduracies bring,
And he who dares in fancy even to steal
One draught from Snowdon’s ever sacred spring
Blots out the unholiest rede of worldly witnessing.
And shall that soul, to selfish peace resigned, 10
So soon forget the woe its fellows share?
Can Snowdon’s Lethe from the free-born mind
So soon the page of injured penury tear?
Does this fine mass of human passion dare
To sleep, unhonouring the patriot’s fall, 15
Or life’s sweet load in quietude to bear
While millions famish even in Luxury’s hall,
And Tyranny, high raised, stern lowers on all?
No, Cambria! never may thy matchless vales
A heart so false to hope and virtue shield; 20
Nor ever may thy spirit-breathing gales
Waft freshness to the slaves who dare to yield.
For me!…the weapon that I burn to wield
I seek amid thy rocks to ruin hurled,
That Reason’s flag may over Freedom’s field, 25
Symbol of bloodless victory, wave unfurled,
A meteor-sign of love effulgent o’er the world.
…
Do thou, wild Cambria, calm each struggling thought;
Cast thy sweet veil of rocks and woods between,
That by the soul to indignation wrought 30
Mountains and dells be mingled with the scene;
Let me forever be what I have been,
But not forever at my needy door
Let Misery linger speechless, pale and lean;
I am the friend of the unfriended poor, — 35
Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.
THE WANDERING JEW’S SOLILOQUY.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Bertram Dobell, 1887.)
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He
Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny
And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells?
Will not the lightning’s blast destroy my frame?
Will not steel drink the blood-life where it swells? 5
No — let me hie where dark Destruction dwells,
To rouse her from her deeply caverned lair,
And, taunting her cursed sluggishness to ire,
Light long Oblivion’s death-torch at its flame
And calmly mount Annihilation’s pyre. 10
Tyrant of Earth! pale Misery’s jackal Thou!
Are there no stores of vengeful violent fate
Within the magazines of Thy fierce hate?
No poison in the clouds to bathe a brow
That lowers on Thee with desperate contempt? 15
Where is the noonday Pestilence that slew
The myriad sons of Israel’s favoured nation?
Where the destroying Minister that flew
Pouring the fiery tide of desolation
Upon the leagued Assyrian’s attempt? 20
Where the dark Earthquake-daemon who engorged
At the dread word Korah’s unconscious crew?
Or the Angel’s two-edged sword of fire that urged
Our primal parents from their bower of bliss
(Reared by Thine hand) for errors not their own 25
By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, foreknown?
Yes! I would court a ruin such as this,
Almighty Tyrant! and give thanks to Thee —
Drink deeply — drain the cup of hate; remit this — I may die.
EVENING. TO HARRIET.
(Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed July 31, 1813.)
O thou bright Sun! beneath the dark blue line
Of western distance that sublime descendest,
And, gleaming lovelier as thy beams decline,
Thy million hues to every vapour lendest,
And, over cobweb lawn and grove and stream 5
Sheddest the liquid magic of thy light,
Till calm Earth, with the parting splendour bright,
Shows like the vision of a beauteous dream;
What gazer now with astronomic eye
Could coldly count the spots within thy sphere? 10
Such were thy lover, Harriet, could he fly
The thoughts of all that makes his passion dear,
And, turning senseless from thy warm caress, —
Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness.
TO IANTHE.
(Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed September, 1813.)
I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake;
Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek,
Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak,
Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake;
But more when o’er thy fitful slumber bending 5
Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart,
Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending,
All that thy passive eyes can feel impart:
More, when some feeble lineaments of her,
Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, 10
As with deep love I read thy face, recur, —
More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom;
Dearest when most thy tender traits express
The image of thy mother’s loveliness.
SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 58.)
See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast;
It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale — is fast.
Paler is yon maiden; 5
Faster is her heart’s decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away.
FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 56.)
The Elements respect their Maker’s seal!
Still Like the scathed pine tree’s height,
Braving the tempests of the night
Have I ‘scaped t
he flickering flame.
Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands 5
Of faded grandeur, which the brands
Of the tempest-shaken air
Have riven on the desolate heath;
Yet it stands majestic even in death,
And rears its wild form there. 10,
TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “The Shelley Papers”, 1833, and by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition; afterwards suppressed as of doubtful authenticity.)
1.
Shall we roam, my love,
To the twilight grove,
When the moon is rising bright;
Oh, I’ll whisper there,
In the cool night-air, 5
What I dare not in broad daylight!
2.
I’ll tell thee a part
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh;
And thy beauty, more bright 10
Than the stars’ soft light,
Shall seem as a weft from the sky.
3.
When the pale moonbeam
On tower and stream
Sheds a flood of silver sheen, 15
How I love to gaze
As the cold ray strays
O’er thy face, my heart’s throned queen!
4.
Wilt thou roam with me
To the restless sea, 20
And linger upon the steep,
And list to the flow
Of the waves below
How they toss and roar and leap?
5.
Those boiling waves, 25
And the storm that raves
At night o’er their foaming crest,
Resemble the strife
That, from earliest life,
The passions have waged in my breast. 30
6.
Oh, come then, and rove
To the sea or the grove,
When the moon is rising bright;
And I’ll whisper there,
In the cool night-air, 35
What I dare not in broad daylight.
EARLY POEMS 1814-1815.
(The poems which follow appeared, with a few exceptions, either in the volumes published from time to time by Shelley himself, or in the “Posthumous Poems” of 1824, or in the “Poetical Works” of 1839, of which a second and enlarged edition was published by Mrs. Shelley in the same year. A few made their first appearance in some fugitive publication — such as Leigh Hunt’s “Literary Pocket-Book” — and were subsequently incorporated in the collective editions. In every case the editio princeps and (where this is possible) the exact date of composition are indicated below the title.)
STANZA, WRITTEN AT BRACKNELL.
(Composed March, 1814. Published in Hogg’s “Life of Shelley”, 1858.)
Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thy gentle words stir poison there;
Thou hast disturbed the only rest
That was the portion of despair!
Subdued to Duty’s hard control, 5
I could have borne my wayward lot:
The chains that bind this ruined soul
Had cankered then — but crushed it not.
STANZAS. — APRIL, 1814.
(Composed at Bracknell, April, 1814. Published with “Alastor”, 1816.)
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! 5
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:
Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; 10
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head:
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, 15
Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep:
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. 20
Thou in the grave shalt rest — yet till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.
TO HARRIET.
(Composed May, 1814. Published (from the Esdaile manuscript) by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887.)
Thy look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life’s too bitter bowl;
No grief is mine, but that alone 5
These choicest blessings I have known.
Harriet! if all who long to live
In the warm sunshine of thine eye,
That price beyond all pain must give, —
Beneath thy scorn to die; 10
Then hear thy chosen own too late
His heart most worthy of thy hate.
Be thou, then, one among mankind
Whose heart is harder not for state,
Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind, 15
Amid a world of hate;
And by a slight endurance seal
A fellow-being’s lasting weal.
For pale with anguish is his cheek,
His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, 20
Thy name is struggling ere he speak,
Weak is each trembling limb;
In mercy let him not endure
The misery of a fatal cure.
Oh, trust for once no erring guide! 25
Bid the remorseless feeling flee;
‘Tis malice, ‘tis revenge, ‘tis pride,
‘Tis anything but thee;
Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,
And pity if thou canst not love. 30
TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.
(Composed June, 1814. Published in “Posthumous Poems”, 1824.)
1.
Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed;
Yes, I was firm — thus wert not thou; —
My baffled looks did fear yet dread
To meet thy looks — I could not know
How anxiously they sought to shine 5
With soothing pity upon mine.
2.
To sit and curb the soul’s mute rage
Which preys upon itself alone;
To curse the life which is the cage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan, 10
Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.
3.
Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,
The … thou alone should be,
To spend years thus, and be rewarded, 15
As thou, sweet love, requited me
When none were near — Oh! I did wake
From torture for that moment’s sake.
4.
Upon my heart thy accents sweet
Of peace and pity fell like dew 20
On flowers half dead; — thy lips did meet
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw
Their soft persuasion on my brain,
Charming away its dream of pain.
5.
We a
re not happy, sweet! our state 25
Is strange and full of doubt and fear;
More need of words that ills abate; —
Reserve or censure come not near
Our sacred friendship, lest there be
No solace left for thee and me. 30
6.
Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be 35
To hide the love thou feel’st for me.
TO — .
(Published in “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition. See Editor’s Note.)
Yet look on me — take not thine eyes away,
Which feed upon the love within mine own,
Which is indeed but the reflected ray
Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown.
Yet speak to me — thy voice is as the tone 5
Of my heart’s echo, and I think I hear
That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone
Like one before a mirror, without care
Of aught but thine own features, imaged there;
And yet I wear out life in watching thee; 10
A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed
Art kind when I am sick, and pity me…
MUTABILITY.
(Published with “Alastor”, 1816.)
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! — yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings 5
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest. — A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. — One wandering thought pollutes the day; 10
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same! — For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow; 15
Nought may endure but Mutability.
ON DEATH.
(For the date of composition see Editor’s Note.
Published with “Alastor”, 1816.)
THERE IS NO WORK, NOR DEVICE, NOR KNOWLEDGE, NOR WISDOM,
Percy Bysshe Shelley Page 23