Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  When the tide was raging fearfully, 1070

  Dragged Lionel’s mother, weak and pale,

  Then died beside her on the sand,

  And she that temple thence had planned;

  But it was Lionel’s own hand

  Had wrought the image. Each new moon

  That lady did, in this lone fane,

  The rites of a religion sweet

  Whose god was in her heart and brain.

  The seasons’ loveliest flowers were strewn

  On the marble floor beneath her feet, 1080

  And she brought crowns of sea-buds white

  Whose odor is so sweet and faint,

  And weeds, like branching chrysolite,

  Woven in devices fine and quaint;

  And tears from her brown eyes did stain

  The altar; need but look upon

  That dying statue, fair and wan,

  If tears should cease, to weep again;

  And rare Arabian odors came,

  Through the myrtle copses, steaming thence 1090

  From the hissing frankincense,

  Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,

  Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome —

  That ivory dome, whose azure night

  With golden stars, like heaven, was bright

  O’er the split cedar’s pointed flame;

  And the lady’s harp would kindle there

  The melody of an old air,

  Softer than sleep; the villagers

  Mixed their religion up with hers, 1100

  And, as they listened round, shed tears.

  One eve he led me to this fane.

  Daylight on its last purple cloud

  Was lingering gray, and soon her strain

  The nightingale began; now loud,

  Climbing in circles the windless sky,

  Now dying music; suddenly

  ‘T is scattered in a thousand notes;

  And now to the hushed ear it floats

  Like field-smells known in infancy, 1110

  Then, failing, soothes the air again.

  We sate within that temple lone,

  Pavilioned round with Parian stone;

  His mother’s harp stood near, and oft

  I had awakened music soft

  Amid its wires; the nightingale

  Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale.

  ‘Now drain the cup,’ said Lionel,

  ‘Which the poet-bird has crowned so well

  With the wine of her bright and liquid song! 1120

  Heard’st thou not sweet words among

  That heaven-resounding minstrelsy?

  Heard’st thou not that those who die

  Awake in a world of ecstasy?

  That love, when limbs are interwoven,

  And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,

  And thought, to the world’s dim boundaries clinging,

  And music, when one beloved is singing,

  Is death? Let us drain right joyously

  The cup which the sweet bird fills for me.’ 1130

  He paused, and to my lips he bent

  His own; like spirit his words went

  Through all my limbs with the speed of fire;

  And his keen eyes, glittering through mine,

  Filled me with the flame divine

  Which in their orbs was burning far,

  Like the light of an unmeasured star

  In the sky of midnight dark and deep;

  Yes, ‘t was his soul that did inspire

  Sounds which my skill could ne’er awaken; 1140

  And first, I felt my fingers sweep

  The harp, and a long quivering cry

  Burst from my lips in symphony;

  The dusk and solid air was shaken,

  As swift and swifter the notes came

  From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,

  And from my bosom, laboring

  With some unutterable thing.

  The awful sound of my own voice made

  My faint lips tremble; in some mood 1150

  Of wordless thought Lionel stood

  So pale, that even beside his cheek

  The snowy column from its shade

  Caught whiteness; yet his countenance,

  Raised upward, burned with radiance

  Of spirit-piercing joy whose light,

  Like the moon struggling through the night

  Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break

  With beams that might not be confined.

  I paused, but soon his gestures kindled 1160

  New power, as by the moving wind

  The waves are lifted; and my song

  To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,

  And, from the twinkling wires among,

  My languid fingers drew and flung

  Circles of life-dissolving sound,

  Yet faint; in aëry rings they bound

  My Lionel, who, as every strain

  Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien

  Sunk with the sound relaxedly; 1170

  And slowly now he turned to me,

  As slowly faded from his face

  That awful joy; with look serene

  He was soon drawn to my embrace,

  And my wild song then died away

  In murmurs; words I dare not say

  We mixed, and on his lips mine fed

  Till they methought felt still and cold.

  ‘What is it with thee, love?’ I said;

  No word, no look, no motion! yes, 1180

  There was a change, but spare to guess,

  Nor let that moment’s hope be told.

  I looked, — and knew that he was dead;

  And fell, as the eagle on the plain

  Falls when life deserts her brain,

  And the mortal lightning is veiled again.

  Oh, that I were now dead! but such —

  Did they not, love, demand too much,

  Those dying murmurs? — he forbade.

  Oh, that I once again were mad! 1190

  And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,

  For I would live to share thy woe.

  Sweet boy! did I forget thee too?

  Alas, we know not what we do

  When we speak words.

  No memory more

  Is in my mind of that sea-shore.

  Madness came on me, and a troop

  Of misty shapes did seem to sit

  Beside me, on a vessel’s poop,

  And the clear north wind was driving it. 1200

  Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,

  And the stars methought grew unlike ours,

  And the azure sky and the stormless sea

  Made me believe that I had died

  And waked in a world which was to me

  Drear hell, though heaven to all beside.

  Then a dead sleep fell on my mind,

  Whilst animal life many long years

  Had rescued from a chasm of tears;

  And, when I woke, I wept to find 1210

  That the same lady, bright and wise,

  With silver locks and quick brown eyes,

  The mother of my Lionel,

  Had tended me in my distress,

  And died some months before. Nor less

  Wonder, but far more peace and joy,

  Brought in that hour my lovely boy.

  For through that trance my soul had well

  The impress of thy being kept;

  And if I waked or if I slept, 1220

  No doubt, though memory faithless be,

  Thy image ever dwelt on me;

  And thus, O Lionel, like thee

  Is our sweet child. ‘T is sure most strange

  I knew not of so great a change

  As that which gave him birth, who now

  Is all the solace of my woe.

  That Lionel great wealth had left

  By will to me, and that of all

  The ready lies of law be
reft 1230

  My child and me, — might well befall.

  But let me think not of the scorn

  Which from the meanest I have borne,

  When, for my child’s belovèd sake,

  I mixed with slaves, to vindicate

  The very laws themselves do make;

  Let me not say scorn is my fate,

  Lest I be proud, suffering the same

  With those who live in deathless fame.

  She ceased.—’Lo, where red morning through the woods 1240

  Is burning o’er the dew!’ said Rosalind.

  And with these words they rose, and towards the flood

  Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves, now wind

  With equal steps and fingers intertwined.

  Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore

  Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses

  Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies

  And with their shadows the clear depths below,

  And where a little terrace from its bowers

  Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon flowers 1250

  Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o’er

  The liquid marble of the windless lake;

  And where the aged forest’s limbs look hoar

  Under the leaves which their green garments make,

  They come. ‘T is Helen’s home, and clean and white,

  Like one which tyrants spare on our own land

  In some such solitude; its casements bright

  Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun,

  And even within ‘t was scarce like Italy.

  And when she saw how all things there were planned 1260

  As in an English home, dim memory

  Disturbed poor Rosalind; she stood as one

  Whose mind is where his body cannot be,

  Till Helen led her where her child yet slept,

  And said, ‘Observe, that brow was Lionel’s,

  Those lips were his, and so he ever kept

  One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it.

  You cannot see his eyes — they are two wells

  Of liquid love. Let us not wake him yet.’

  But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept 1270

  A shower of burning tears which fell upon

  His face, and so his opening lashes shone

  With tears unlike his own, as he did leap

  In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.

  So Rosalind and Helen lived together

  Thenceforth — changed in all else, yet friends again,

  Such as they were, when o’er the mountain heather

  They wandered in their youth through sun and rain.

  And after many years, for human things

  Change even like the ocean and the wind, 1280

  Her daughter was restored to Rosalind,

  And in their circle thence some visitings

  Of joy ‘mid their new calm would intervene.

  A lovely child she was, of looks serene,

  And motions which o’er things indifferent shed

  The grace and gentleness from whence they came.

  And Helen’s boy grew with her, and they fed

  From the same flowers of thought, until each mind

  Like springs which mingle in one flood became;

  And in their union soon their parents saw 1290

  The shadow of the peace denied to them.

  And Rosalind — for when the living stem

  Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall —

  Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe

  The pale survivors followed her remains

  Beyond the region of dissolving rains,

  Up the cold mountain she was wont to call

  Her tomb; and on Chiavenna’s precipice

  They raised a pyramid of lasting ice,

  Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, 1300

  Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,

  The last, when it had sunk; and through the night

  The charioteers of Arctos wheelèd round

  Its glittering point, as seen from Helen’s home,

  Whose sad inhabitants each year would come,

  With willing steps climbing that rugged height,

  And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound

  With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime’s despite,

  Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light;

  Such flowers as in the wintry memory bloom 1310

  Of one friend left adorned that frozen tomb.

  Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,

  Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led

  Into the peace of his dominion cold.

  She died among her kindred, being old.

  And know, that if love die not in the dead

  As in the living, none of mortal kind

  Are blessed as now Helen and Rosalind.

  JULIAN AND MADDALO: A CONVERSATION

  The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme,

  The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring,

  Are saturated not — nor Love with tears.

  VIRGIL’S Gallus.

  Julian and Maddalo is the fruit of Shelley’s first visit to Venice in 1818, where he found Byron, and the poem is a reflection of their companionship, Julian standing for Shelley, Maddalo for Byron, and the child being Byron’s daughter, Allegra. It was written in the fall, at Este, and received its last revision in May, 1819, but was not published, notwithstanding some efforts of Shelley to bring it out, until after his death, when it was included in the Posthumous Poems, 1824. Shelley had it in mind to write three other similar poems, laying the scenes at Rome, Florence and Naples, but he did not carry out the plan. He once refers to the tale, or ‘conversation’ as among ‘his saddest verses;’ but his important comment on it is contained in a letter to Hunt, August 15, 1819:

  ‘I send you a little poem to give to Ollier for publication, but without my name. Peacock will correct the proofs. I wrote it with the idea of offering it to the Examiner, but I find it is too long. It was composed last year at Este; two of the characters you will recognize; and the third is also in some degree a painting from nature, but, with respect to time and place, ideal. You will find the little piece, I think, in some degree consistent with your own ideas of the manner in which poetry ought to be written. I have employed a certain familiar style of language to express the actual way in which people talk with each other, whom education and a certain refinement of sentiment have placed above the use of vulgar idioms. I use the word vulgar in its most extensive sense. The vulgarity of rank and fashion is as gross in its way as that of poverty, and its cant terms equally expressive of base conceptions, and, therefore, equally unfit for poetry. Not that the familiar style is to be admitted in the treatment of a subject wholly ideal, or in that part of any subject which relates to common life, where the passion, exceeding a certain limit, touches the boundaries of that which is ideal. Strong passion expresses itself in metaphor, borrowed from objects alike remote or near, and casts over all the shadow of its own greatness. But what am I about? If my grandmother sucks eggs, was it I who taught her?

  If you would really correct the proof, I need not trouble Peacock, who, I suppose, has enough. Can you take it as a compliment that I prefer to trouble you?

  ‘I do not particularly wish this poem to be known as mine; but, at all events, I would not put my name to it. I leave you to judge whether it is best to throw it into the fire, or to publish it. So much for self — self, that burr that will stick to one.’

  Lord Byron, (1788 – 19 April 1824) was a leading figure in the Romantic movement and a close friend of Shelley.

  Author’s Preface

  COUNT MADDALO is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person o
f the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud. He derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries.

  Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world he is forever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious.

  Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind. The unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart.

  Julian and Maddalo: A Conversation.

  I RODE one evening with Count Maddalo

  Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow

  Of Adria towards Venice. A bare strand

  Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand,

  Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds,

  Such as from earth’s embrace the salt ooze breeds,

  Is this; an uninhabited sea-side,

  Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried,

  Abandons; and no other object breaks