Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  For what thou art shall perish utterly,

  But what is thine may never cease to be;

  Death is no foe to virtue: earth has seen

  Love’s brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, 565

  Mingling with freedom’s fadeless laurels there,

  And presaging the truth of visioned bliss.

  Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene

  Of linked and gradual being has confirmed?

  Hopes that not vainly thou, and living fires 570

  Of mind as radiant and as pure as thou,

  Have shone upon the paths of men — return,

  Surpassing Spirit, to that world, where thou

  Art destined an eternal war to wage

  With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot 575

  The germs of misery from the human heart.

  Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe

  The thorny pillow of unhappy crime,

  Whose impotence an easy pardon gains,

  Watching its wanderings as a friend’s disease: 580

  Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy

  Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will,

  When fenced by power and master of the world.

  Thou art sincere and good; of resolute mind,

  Free from heart-withering custom’s cold control, 585

  Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued.

  Earth’s pride and meanness could not vanquish thee,

  And therefore art thou worthy of the boon

  Which thou hast now received: virtue shall keep

  Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod, 590

  And many days of beaming hope shall bless

  Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love.

  Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy

  Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch

  Light, life and rapture from thy smile. 595

  The Daemon called its winged ministers.

  Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car,

  That rolled beside the crystal battlement,

  Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness.

  The burning wheels inflame 600

  The steep descent of Heaven’s untrodden way.

  Fast and far the chariot flew:

  The mighty globes that rolled

  Around the gate of the Eternal Fane

  Lessened by slow degrees, and soon appeared 605

  Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs

  That ministering on the solar power

  With borrowed light pursued their narrower way.

  Earth floated then below:

  The chariot paused a moment; 610

  The Spirit then descended:

  And from the earth departing

  The shadows with swift wings

  Speeded like thought upon the light of Heaven.

  The Body and the Soul united then, 615

  A gentle start convulsed Ianthe’s frame:

  Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed;

  Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained:

  She looked around in wonder and beheld

  Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, 620

  Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love,

  And the bright beaming stars

  That through the casement shone.

  PRINCE ATHANASE

  A FRAGMENT.

  The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase was a good deal modelled on “Alastor”. In the first sketch of the poem, he named it “Pandemos and Urania”. Athanase seeks through the world the One whom he may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is embarked, a lady who appears to him to embody his ideal of love and beauty. But she proves to be Pandemos, or the earthly and unworthy Venus; who, after disappointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Athanase, crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. ‘On his deathbed, the lady who can really reply to his soul comes and kisses his lips’ (“The Deathbed of Athanase”). The poet describes her [in the words of the final fragment, page 164]. This slender note is all we have to aid our imagination in shaping out the form of the poem, such as its author imagined. [Mrs. Shelley’s Note.]

  Written at Marlow in 1817, towards the close of the year; first published in “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. Part 1 is dated by Mrs. Shelley, ‘December, 1817,’ the remainder, ‘Marlow, 1817.’ The verses were probably rehandled in Italy during the following year. Sources of the text are (1) “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; (2) “Poetical Works” 1839, editions 1st and 2nd; (3) a much-tortured draft amongst the Bodleian manuscripts, collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. For (1) and (2) Mrs. Shelley is responsible. Our text (enlarged by about thirty lines fro the Bodleian manuscript) follows for the most part the “Poetical Works”, 1839; verbal exceptions are pointed out in the footnotes. See also the Editor’s Notes at the end of this volume, and Mr. Locock’s “Examination of Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library”, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1903.

  CONTENTS

  PRINCE ATHANASE. PART 1.

  PRINCE ATHANASE. PART 2.

  PRINCE ATHANASE. PART 1.

  There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel,

  Had grown quite weak and gray before his time;

  Nor any could the restless griefs unravel

  Which burned within him, withering up his prime

  And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. 5

  Not his the load of any secret crime,

  For nought of ill his heart could understand,

  But pity and wild sorrow for the same; —

  Not his the thirst for glory or command,

  Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame; 10

  Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast,

  And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame,

  Had left within his soul their dark unrest:

  Nor what religion fables of the grave

  Feared he, — Philosophy’s accepted guest. 15

  For none than he a purer heart could have,

  Or that loved good more for itself alone;

  Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave.

  What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown,

  Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind? — 20

  If with a human sadness he did groan,

  He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;

  Just, innocent, with varied learning fed;

  And such a glorious consolation find

  In others’ joy, when all their own is dead: 25

  He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,

  And yet, unlike all others, it is said

  That from such toil he never found relief.

  Although a child of fortune and of power,

  Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, 30

  His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower

  Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate

  Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

  Pitying the tumult of their dark estate. —

  Yet even in youth did he not e’er abuse 35

  The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

  Those false opinions which the harsh rich use

  To blind the world they famish for their pride;

  Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

  But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, 40

  With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise,

  His riches and his cares he did divide.

  Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise,

  What he dared do or think, though men might start,

  He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; 45

  Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart,

  And to his many friends — all loved him well —

  Whate’er he knew or felt he would impart,

  If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell;

  If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes 50

  He neither spurned nor hated — though with fell
/>
  And mortal hate their thousand voices rose,

  They passed like aimless arrows from his ear —

  Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

  To those, or them, or any, whom life’s sphere 55

  May comprehend within its wide array.

  What sadness made that vernal spirit sere? —

  He knew not. Though his life, day after day,

  Was failing like an unreplenished stream,

  Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, 60

  Through which his soul, like Vesper’s serene beam

  Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds,

  Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

  Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods;

  And through his sleep, and o’er each waking hour, 65

  Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

  Were driven within him by some secret power,

  Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar,

  Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower

  O’er castled mountains borne, when tempest’s war 70

  Is levied by the night-contending winds,

  And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear; —

  Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends

  Which wake and feed an everliving woe, —

  What was this grief, which ne’er in other minds 75

  A mirror found, — he knew not — none could know;

  But on whoe’er might question him he turned

  The light of his frank eyes, as if to show

  He knew not of the grief within that burned,

  But asked forbearance with a mournful look; 80

  Or spoke in words from which none ever learned

  The cause of his disquietude; or shook

  With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale:

  So that his friends soon rarely undertook

  To stir his secret pain without avail; — 85

  For all who knew and loved him then perceived

  That there was drawn an adamantine veil

  Between his heart and mind, — both unrelieved

  Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife.

  Some said that he was mad, others believed 90

  That memories of an antenatal life

  Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell;

  And others said that such mysterious grief

  From God’s displeasure, like a darkness, fell

  On souls like his, which owned no higher law 95

  Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible

  By mortal fear or supernatural awe;

  And others,—’’Tis the shadow of a dream

  Which the veiled eye of Memory never saw,

  ‘But through the soul’s abyss, like some dark stream 100

  Through shattered mines and caverns underground,

  Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam

  ‘Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned

  In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure;

  Soon its exhausted waters will have found 105

  ‘A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure,

  O Athanase! — in one so good and great,

  Evil or tumult cannot long endure.

  So spake they: idly of another’s state

  Babbling vain words and fond philosophy; 110

  This was their consolation; such debate

  Men held with one another; nor did he,

  Like one who labours with a human woe,

  Decline this talk: as if its theme might be

  Another, not himself, he to and fro 115

  Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit;

  And none but those who loved him best could know

  That which he knew not, how it galled and bit

  His weary mind, this converse vain and cold;

  For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit 120

  Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold

  Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend

  Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier hold; —

  And so his grief remained — let it remain — untold.

  PRINCE ATHANASE. PART 2.

  FRAGMENT 1.

  Prince Athanase had one beloved friend, 125

  An old, old man, with hair of silver white,

  And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend

  With his wise words; and eyes whose arrowy light

  Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds.

  He was the last whom superstition’s blight 130

  Had spared in Greece — the blight that cramps and blinds, —

  And in his olive bower at Oenoe

  Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds

  A fertile island in the barren sea,

  One mariner who has survived his mates 135

  Many a drear month in a great ship — so he

  With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates

  Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being: —

  ‘The mind becomes that which it contemplates,’ —

  And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing 140

  Their bright creations, grew like wisest men;

  And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing

  A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then,

  O sacred Hellas! many weary years

  He wandered, till the path of Laian’s glen 145

  Was grass-grown — and the unremembered tears

  Were dry in Laian for their honoured chief,

  Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears: —

  And as the lady looked with faithful grief

  From her high lattice o’er the rugged path, 150

  Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief

  And blighting hope, who with the news of death

  Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight,

  She saw between the chestnuts, far beneath,

  An old man toiling up, a weary wight; 155

  And soon within her hospitable hall

  She saw his white hairs glittering in the light

  Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall;

  And his wan visage and his withered mien,

  Yet calm and gentle and majestical. 160

  And Athanase, her child, who must have been

  Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed

  In patient silence.

  FRAGMENT 2.

  Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds

  One amaranth glittering on the path of frost, 165

  When autumn nights have nipped all weaker kinds,

  Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tossed,

  Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled

  From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost,

  The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, 170

  With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore

  And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild.

  And sweet and subtle talk they evermore,

  The pupil and the master, shared; until,

  Sharing that undiminishable store, 175

  The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill

  Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran

  His teacher, and did teach with native skill

  Strange truths and new to that experienced man;

  Still they were friends, as few have ever been 180

  Who mark the extremes of life’s discordant span.

  So in the caverns of the forest green,

  Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar,

  Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen

  By summer woodmen; and when winter’s roar 185

  Sounded o’er earth and sea its blast of war,

  The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,

  Hanging upon the peaked wave afar,

  Then saw their lamp from Laian’s turret gleam,

  Piercing the stormy darkne
ss, like a star 190

  Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,

  Whilst all the constellations of the sky

  Seemed reeling through the storm…They did but seem —

  For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,

  And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, 195

  And far o’er southern waves, immovably

  Belted Orion hangs — warm light is flowing

  From the young moon into the sunset’s chasm. —

  ‘O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing

  ‘On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm 200

  Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness,

  Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm

  ‘Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness,

  Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale, —

  And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, — 205

  ‘And the far sighings of yon piny dale

  Made vocal by some wind we feel not here. —

  I bear alone what nothing may avail

  ‘To lighten — a strange load!’ — No human ear

  Heard this lament; but o’er the visage wan 210

  Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere

  Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran,

  Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake,

  Glassy and dark. — And that divine old man

  Beheld his mystic friend’s whole being shake, 215

  Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest —

  And with a calm and measured voice he spake,

  And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed

  That cold lean hand:—’Dost thou remember yet

  When the curved moon then lingering in the west 220

  ‘Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet,

  How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea?

  ‘Tis just one year — sure thou dost not forget —

  ‘Then Plato’s words of light in thee and me

  Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, 225

  For we had just then read — thy memory

  ‘Is faithful now — the story of the feast;

  And Agathon and Diotima seemed

  From death and dark forgetfulness released…’

  FRAGMENT 3.

  And when the old man saw that on the green

  Leaves of his opening … a blight had lighted 230

  He said: ‘My friend, one grief alone can wean

  A gentle mind from all that once delighted: —

  Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden

  With feelings which should not be unrequited.’ 235

  And Athanase … then smiled, as one o’erladen