The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Plead with awakening earthquake, o’er whose couch

  Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free;

  105

  Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead

  With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence,

  Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man!

  Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words,

  In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die:

  110

  Since such is the reward of innocent lives;

  Such the alleviation of worst wrongs.

  And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men,

  Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears

  To death as to life’s sleep; ’twere just the grave

  115

  Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death,

  And wind me in thine all-embracing arms!

  Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom,

  And rock me to the sleep from which none wake.

  Live ye, who live, subject to one another

  As we were once, who now …

  BERNARDO rushes in.

  120

  Bernardo. Oh, horrible!

  That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer,

  Even till the heart is vacant and despairs,

  Should all be vain! The ministers of death

  Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw

  125

  Blood on the face of one … What if ’twere fancy?

  Soon the heart’s blood of all I love on earth

  Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off

  As if ’twere only rain. O life! O world!

  Cover me! let me be no more! To see

  130

  That perfect mirror of pure innocence

  Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good,

  Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice,

  Who made all lovely thou didst look upon …

  Thee, light of life … dead, dark! while I say, sister,

  135

  To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother,

  Whose love was as a bond to all our loves …

  Dead! The sweet bond broken!

  Enter CAMILLO and Guards.

  They come! Let me

  Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves

  Are blighted … white … cold. Say farewell, before

  140

  Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear

  You speak!

  Beatrice. Farewell, my tender brother. Think

  Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now:

  And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee

  Thy sorrow’s load. Err not in harsh despair,

  145

  But tears and patience. One thing more, my child:

  For thine own sake be constant to the love

  Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I,

  Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame,

  Lived ever holy and unstained. And though

  150

  Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name

  Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow

  For men to point at as they pass, do thou

  Forbear, and never think a thought unkind

  Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves.

  155

  So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain

  Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

  Bernardo. I cannot say, farewell!

  Camillo. Oh, Lady Beatrice!

  Beatrice. Give yourself no unnecessary pain,

  My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie

  160

  My girdle for me, and bind up this hair

  In any simple knot; ay, that does well.

  And yours I see is coming down. How often

  Have we done this for one another; now

  We shall not do it any more. My Lord,

  165

  We are quite ready. Well, ’tis very well.

  THE END.

  NOTE ON THE CENCI, BY MRS. SHELLEY

  THE sort of mistake that Shelley made as to the extent of his own genius and powers, which led him deviously at first, but lastly into the direct track that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious instance of his modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human mind uses at once to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to make its way out of error into the path which Nature has marked out as its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy: he conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always most earnest and energetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate of my powers; and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of the fact) I was far too young to have any chance of succeeding, even moderately, in a species of composition that requires a greater scope of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then have fallen to my lot,—or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever possessed, even at the age of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci.

  On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to be destitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisites was the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He fancied himself to be defective in this portion of imagination: it was that which gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though he laid great store by it as the proper framework to support the sublimest efforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical and abstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion with himself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any specimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of a story, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to him as an occupation.

  The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I: and he had written to me: ‘Remember, remember Charles I. I have been already imagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of St. Leon begins with this proud and true sentiment: “There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute.” Shakespeare was only a human being.’ These words were written in 1818, while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces, where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley’s imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely death, worked to its depths)—his richly gifted mind.

  We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world, anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his presence and loss.3 Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigati
on went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges: Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed.

  At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became waterspouts that churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In this airy cell he wrote the principal part of The Cenci. He was making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon, both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept into the composition of The Cenci; and there is no trace of his new studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as suggested by one in El Purgatorio de San Patricio.

  Shelley wished The Cenci to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure from England, however, he saw Miss O’Neil several times. She was then in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the intense pathos, and sublime vehemence of passion she displayed. She was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in London:

  ‘The object of the present letter is to ask a favour of you. I have written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and opinions which characterize my other compositions; I have attended simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is probable the persons represented really were, together with the greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a development. I send you a translation of the Italian MS. on which my play is founded; the chief circumstance of which I have touched very delicately; for my principal doubt as to whether it would succeed as an acting play hangs entirely on the question as to whether any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be admitted on the stage. I think, however, it will form no objection; considering, first, that the facts are matter of history, and, secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it.4

  ‘I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt of mine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative at present; founding my hopes on this—that, as a composition, it is certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been acted, with the exception of Remorse; that the interest of the plot is incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand, either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a complete incognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do, you will at least favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential, deeply essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and successfully (could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I pleased, and use the celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes.

  ‘What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at Covent Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for Miss O’Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God forbid that I should see her play it—it would tear my nerves to pieces); and in all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The chief male character I confess I should be very unwilling that any one but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with an inferior actor.’

  The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss O’Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept. Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness; as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text when distance prevented him from correcting the press.

  Universal approbation soon stamped The Cenci as the best tragedy of modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: ‘I have been cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition; diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness, generality, and, as Hamlet says, words, words.’ There is nothing that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice, proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution, and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary, but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was not less instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended on character and incident, he would start off in another direction, and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master passion of his soul.

  * * *

  1 The Papal Government formerly took the most extraordinary precautions against the publicity of facts which offer so tragical a demonstration of its own wickedness and weakness; so that the communication of the MS. had become, until very lately, a matter of some difficulty.

  2 An idea in this speech was suggested by a most sublime passage in El Purgatorio de San Patricio of Calderon; the only plagiarism which I have intentionally committed in the whole piece.

  3 Such feelings haunted him when, in The Cenci, he makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Camillo of

  ‘that fair blue-eyed child

  Who was the lodestar of your life:’—

  and say—

  ’All see, since his most swift and piteous death,

  That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,

  And all the things hoped for or done therein

  Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief.’

  4 In speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelley said that it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he had never mentioned expressly Cenci’s worst crime. Every one knew what it must be, but it was never imaged in words—the nearest allusion to it being that portion of Cenci’s curse beginning—

  ‘That, if she have a child,’ etc.

  THE MASK OF ANARCHY

  WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF TH
E MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER

  I

  As I lay asleep in Italy

  There came a voice from over the Sea.

  And with great power it forth led me

  To walk in the visions of Poesy.

  II

  5

  I met Murder on the way—

  He had a mask like Castlereagh—

  Very smooth he looked, yet grim;

  Seven blood-hounds followed him:

  III

  All were fat; and well they might

  10

  Be in admirable plight,

  For one by one, and two by two,

  He tossed them human hearts to chew

  Which from his wide cloak he drew.

  IV

  Next came Fraud, and he had on,

  15

  Like Eldon, an ermined gown;

  His big tears, for he wept well,

  Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

  V

  And the little children, who

  Round his feet played to and fro,

  20

  Thinking every tear a gem,

  Had their brains knocked out by them.

  VI

  Clothed with the Bible, as with light,

  And the shadows of the night,

  Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy

  25

  On a crocodile rode by.

  VII

  And many more destructions played

  In this ghastly masquerade,

  All disguised, even to the eyes,

  Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.

  VIII

  30

  Last came Anarchy: he rode

  On a white horse, splashed with blood;

  He was pale even to the lips,

  Like Death in the Apocalypse.