How plain a language is spoken by all th_The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley

the human race) effected some great change in the condition of his

nature, and applied fire to culinary purposes; thus inventing an

expedient for screening from his disgust the horrors of the shambles.

From this moment his vitals were devoured by the vulture of disease. It

consumed his being in every shape of its loathsome and infinite variety,

inducing the soul-quelling sinkings of premature and violent death. All

vice rose from the ruin of healthful innocence. Tyranny, superstition,

commerce, and inequality were then first known, when reason vainly

attempted to guide the wanderings of exacerbated passion. I conclude

this part of the subject with an extract from Mr. Newton’s “Defence of

Vegetable Regimen”, from whom I have borrowed this interpretation of the

fable of Prometheus.

‘Making allowance for such transposition of the events of the allegory

as time might produce after the important truths were forgotten, which

this portion of the ancient mythology was intended to transmit, the

drift of the fable seems to be this:—Man at his creation was endowed

with the gift of perpetual youth; that is, he was not formed to be a

sickly suffering creature as we now see him, but to enjoy health, and to

sink by slow degrees into the bosom of his parent earth without disease

or pain. Prometheus first taught the use of animal food (primus bovem

occidit Prometheus (Plin. “Nat. Hist”. lib. 7 sect. 57.)) and of fire,

with which to render it more digestible and pleasing to the taste.

Jupiter, and the rest of the gods, foreseeing the consequences of these

inventions, were amused or irritated at the short-sighted devices of the

newly-formed creature, and left him to experience the sad effects of

them. Thirst, the necessary concomitant of a flesh diet’ (perhaps of all

diet vitiated by culinary preparation), ‘ensued; water was resorted to,

and man forfeited the inestimable gift of health which he had received

from heaven: he became diseased, the partaker of a precarious existence,

and no longer descended slowly to his grave. (“Return to Nature”.

Cadell, 1811.)

But just disease to luxury succeeds,

And every death its own avenger breeds;

The fury passions from that blood began,

And turned on man a fiercer savage—man.

Man, and the animals whom he has infected with his society, or depraved

by his dominion, are alone diseased. The wild hog, the mouflon, the

bison, and the wolf; are perfectly exempt from malady, and invariably

die either from external violence or natural old age. But the domestic

hog, the sheep, the cow, and the dog, are subject to an incredible

variety of distempers; and, like the corruptors of their nature, have

physicians who thrive upon their miseries. The supereminence of man is

like Satan’s, a supereminence of pain; and the majority of his species,

doomed to penury, disease, and crime, have reason to curse the untoward

event that, by enabling him to communicate his sensations, raised him

above the level of his fellow-animals. But the steps that have been

taken are irrevocable. The whole of human science is comprised in one

question:—How can the advantages of intellect and civilization be

reconciled with the liberty and pure pleasures of natural life? How can

we take the benefits and reject the evils of the system, which is now

interwoven with all the fibres of our being?—I believe that abstinence

from animal food and spirituous liquors would in a great measure

capacitate us for the solution of this important question.

It is true that mental and bodily derangement is attributable in part to

other deviations from rectitude and nature than those which concern

diet. The mistakes cherished by society respecting the connection of the

sexes, whence the misery and diseases of unsatisfied celibacy,

unenjoying prostitution, and the premature arrival of puberty,

necessarily spring; the putrid atmosphere of crowded cities; the

exhalations of chemical processes; the muffling of our bodies in

superfluous apparel; the absurd treatment of infants:—all these and

innumerable other causes contribute their mite to the mass of human

evil.

Comparative anatomy teaches us that man resembles frugivorous animals in

everything, and carnivorous in nothing; he has neither claws wherewith

to seize his prey, nor distinct and pointed teeth to tear the living

fibre. A Mandarin of the first class, with nails two inches long, would

probably find them alone inefficient to hold even a hare. After every

subterfuge of gluttony, the bull must be degraded into the ox, and the

ram into the wether, by an unnatural and inhuman operation, that the

flaccid fibre may offer a fainter resistance to rebellious nature. It is

only by softening and disguising dead flesh by culinary preparation that

it is rendered susceptible of mastication or digestion; and that the

sight of its bloody juices and raw horror does not excite intolerable

loathing and disgust. Let the advocate of animal food force himself to a

decisive experiment on its fitness, and, as Plutarch recommends, tear a

living lamb with his teeth, and plunging his head into its vitals slake

his thirst with the steaming blood; when fresh from the deed of horror,

let him revert to the irresistible instincts of nature that would rise

in judgement against it, and say, ‘Nature formed me for such work as

this.’ Then, and then only, would he be consistent.

Man resembles no carnivorous animal. There is no exception, unless man

be one, to the rule of herbivorous animals having cellulated colons.

The orang-outang perfectly resembles man both in the order and number of

his teeth. The orang-outang is the most anthropomorphous of the ape

tribe, all of which are strictly frugivorous. There is no other species

of animals, which live on different food, in which this analogy exists.

(Cuvier, “Lecons d’Anat. Comp”. tom. 3, pages 169, 373, 448, 465, 480.

Rees’s “Cyclopaedia”, article Man.) In many frugivorous animals, the

canine teeth are more pointed and distinct than those of man. The

resemblance also of the human stomach to that of the orang-outang is

greater than to that of any other animal.

The intestines are also identical with those of herbivorous animals,

which present a larger surface for absorption and have ample and

cellulated colons. The caecum also, though short, is larger than that of

carnivorous animals; and even here the orang-outang retains its

accustomed similarity.

The structure of the human frame, then, is that of one fitted to a pure

vegetable diet, in every essential particular. It is true that the

reluctance to abstain from animal food, in those who have been long

accustomed to its stimulus, is so great in some persons of weak minds as

to be scarcely overcome; but this is far from bringing any argument in

its favour. A lamb, which was fed for some time on flesh by a ship’s

crew, refused its natural diet at the end of the voyage. There are

numerous instances of horses, sheep, oxen, and even wood-pigeons, having

been taught to live upon flesh, until they have loathed their natural

aliment. Young children evidently prefer pastry, oranges, apples, and

other fruit, to the flesh of animals; until, by the gradual depravation

of the digestive organs, the free use of vegetables has for a time

produced serious inconveniences; FOR A TIME, I say, since there never

was an instance wherein a change from spirituous liquors and animal food

to vegetables and pure water has failed ultimately to invigorate the

body, by rendering its juices bland and consentaneous, and to restore to

the mind that cheerfulness and elasticity which not one in fifty

possesses on the present system. A love of strong liquors is also with

difficulty taught to infants. Almost every one remembers the wry faces

which the first glass of port produced. Unsophisticated instinct is

invariably unerring; but to decide on the fitness of animal food from

the perverted appetites which its constrained adoption produces; is to

make the criminal a judge in his own cause: it is even worse, it is

appealing to the infatuated drunkard in a question of the salubrity of

brandy.

What is the cause of morbid action in the animal system? Not the air we

breathe, for our fellow-denizens of nature breathe the same uninjured;

not the water we drink (if remote from the pollutions of man and his

inventions (The necessity of resorting to some means of purifying water,

and the disease which arises from its adulteration in civilized

countries, is sufficiently apparent. See Dr. Lambe’s “Reports on

Cancer”. I do not assert that the use of water is in itself unnatural,

but that the unperverted palate would swallow no liquid capable of

occasioning disease.)), for the animals drink it too; not the earth we

tread upon; not the unobscured sight of glorious nature, in the wood,

the field, or the expanse of sky and ocean; nothing that we are or do in

common with the undiseased inhabitants of the forest. Something, then,

wherein we differ from them: our habit of altering our food by fire, so

that our appetite is no longer a just criterion for the fitness of its

gratification. Except in children, there remain no traces of that

instinct which determines, in all other animals, what aliment is natural

or otherwise; and so perfectly obliterated are they in the reasoning

adults of our species, that it has become necessary to urge

considerations drawn from comparative anatomy to prove that we are

naturally frugivorous.

Crime is madness. Madness is disease. Whenever the cause of disease

shall be discovered, the root, from which all vice and misery have so

long overshadowed the globe, will lie bare to the axe. All the exertions

of man, from that moment, may be considered as tending to the clear

profit of his species. No sane mind in a sane body resolves upon a real

crime. It is a man of violent passions, bloodshot eyes, and swollen

veins, that alone can grasp the knife of murder. The system of a simple

diet promises no Utopian advantages. It is no mere reform of

legislation, whilst the furious passions and evil propensities of the

human heart, in which it had its origin, are still unassuaged. It

strikes at the root of all evil, and is an experiment which may be tried

with success, not alone by nations, but by small societies, families,

and even individuals. In no cases has a return to vegetable diet

produced the slightest injury; in most it has been attended with changes

undeniably beneficial. Should ever a physician be born with the genius

of Locke, I am persuaded that he might trace all bodily and mental

derangements to our unnatural habits, as clearly as that philosopher has

traced all knowledge to sensation. What prolific sources of disease are

not those mineral and vegetable poisons that have been introduced for

its extirpation! How many thousands have become murderers and robbers,

bigots and domestic tyrants, dissolute and abandoned adventurers, from

the use of fermented liquors; who, had they slaked their thirst only

with pure water, would have lived but to diffuse the happiness of their

own unperverted feelings! How many groundless opinions and absurd

institutions have not received a general sanction from the sottishness

and intemperance of individuals! Who will assert that, had the populace

of Paris satisfied their hunger at the ever-furnished table of vegetable

nature, they would have lent their brutal suffrage to the

proscription-list of Robespierre? Could a set of men, whose passions

were not perverted by unnatural stimuli, look with coolness on an auto

da fe? Is it to be believed that a being of gentle feelings, rising from

his meal of roots, would take delight in sports of blood? Was Nero a man

of temperate life? could you read calm health in his cheek, flushed with

ungovernable propensities of hatred for the human race? Did Muley

Ismael’s pulse beat evenly, was his skin transparent, did his eyes beam

with healthfulness, and its invariable concomitants, cheerfulness and

benignity? Though history has decided none of these questions, a child

could not hesitate to answer in the negative. Surely the bile-suffused

cheek of Buonaparte, his wrinkled brow, and yellow eye, the ceaseless

inquietude of his nervous system, speak no less plainly the character of

his unresting ambition than his murders and his victories. It is

impossible, had Buonaparte descended from a race of vegetable feeders,

that he could have had either the inclination or the power to ascend the

throne of the Bourbons. The desire of tyranny could scarcely be excited

in the individual, the power to tyrannize would certainly not be

delegated by a society neither frenzied by inebriation nor rendered

impotent and irrational by disease. Pregnant indeed with inexhaustible

calamity is the renunciation of instinct, as it concerns our physical

nature; arithmetic cannot enumerate, nor reason perhaps suspect, the

multitudinous sources of disease in civilized life. Even common water,

that apparently innoxious pabulum, when corrupted by the filth of

populous cities, is a deadly and insidious destroyer. (Lambe’s “Reports

on Cancer”.) Who can wonder that all the inducements held out by God

Himself in the Bible to virtue should have been vainer than a nurse’s

tale; and that those dogmas, by which He has there excited and justified

the most ferocious propensities, should have alone been deemed

essential; whilst Christians are in the daily practice of all those

habits which have infected with disease and crime, not only the

reprobate sons, but those favoured children of the common Father’s love?

Omnipotence itself could not save them from the consequences of this

original and universal sin.

There is no disease, bodily or mental, which adoption of vegetable diet

and pure water has not infallibly mitigated, wherever the experiment has

been fairly tried. Debility is gradually converted into strength;

disease into healthfulness; madness, in all its hideous variety, from

the ravings of the fettered maniac to the unaccountable irrationalities

of ill-temper, that make a hell of domestic life, into a calm and

considerate evenness of temper, that alone might offer a certain pledge

of the future moral reformation of society. On a natural system of diet,

old age would be our last and our only malady; the term of our existence

would be protracted; we should enjoy life, and no longer preclude others

from the enjoyment of it; all sensational delights would be infinitely

more exquisite and perfect; the very sense of being would then be a

continued pleasure, such as we now feel it in some few and favoured

moments of our youth. By all that is sacred in our hopes for the human

race, I conjure those who love happiness and truth to give a fair trial

to the vegetable system. Reasoning is surely superfluous on a subject

whose merits an experience of six months would set for ever at rest. But

it is only among the enlightened and benevolent that so great a

sacrifice of appetite and prejudice can be expected, even though its

ultimate excellence should not admit of dispute. It is found easier, by

the short-sighted victims of disease, to palliate their torments by

medicine than to prevent them by regimen. The vulgar of all ranks are

invariably sensual and indocile; yet I cannot but feel myself persuaded

that when the benefits of vegetable diet are mathematically proved, when

it is as clear that those who live naturally are exempt from premature

death as that nine is not one, the most sottish of mankind will feel a

preference towards a long and tranquil, contrasted with a short and

painful, life. On the average, out of sixty persons four die in three

years. Hopes are entertained that, in April, 1814, a statement will be

given that sixty persons, all having lived more than three years on

vegetables and pure water, are then IN PERFECT HEALTH. More than two

years have now elapsed; NOT ONE OF THEM HAS DIED; no such example will

be found in any sixty persons taken at random. Seventeen persons of all

ages (the families of Dr. Lambe and Mr. Newton) have lived for seven

years on this diet without a death, and almost without the slightest

illness. Surely, when we consider that some of those were infants, and

one a martyr to asthma now nearly subdued, we may challenge any

seventeen persons taken at random in this city to exhibit a parallel

case. Those who may have been excited to question the rectitude of

established habits of diet by these loose remarks, should consult Mr.

Newton’s luminous and eloquent essay. (“Return to Nature, or Defence of

Vegetable Regimen”. Cadell, 1811.)

When these proofs come fairly before the world, and are clearly seen by

all who understand arithmetic, it is scarcely possible that abstinence

from aliments demonstrably pernicious should not become universal. In

proportion to the number of proselytes, so will be the weight of

evidence; and when a thousand persons can be produced, living on

vegetables and distilled water, who have to dread no disease but old

age, the world will be compelled to regard animal flesh and fermented

liquors as slow but certain poisons. The change which would be produced

by simpler habits on political economy is sufficiently remarkable. The

monopolizing eater of animal flesh would no longer destroy his

constitution by devouring an acre at a meal, and many loaves of bread

would cease to contribute to gout, madness and apoplexy, in the shape of

a pint of porter, or a dram of gin, when appeasing the long-protracted

famine of the hardworking peasant’s hungry babes. The quantity of

nutritious vegetable matter, consumed in fattening the carcase of an ox,

would afford ten times the sustenance, undepraving indeed, and incapable

of generating disease, if gathered immediately from the bosom of the

earth. The most fertile districts of the habitable globe are now

actually cultivated by men for animals, at a delay and waste of aliment

absolutely incapable of calculation. It is only the wealthy that can, to

any great degree, even now, indulge the unnatural craving for dead

flesh, and they pay for the greater licence of the privilege by

subjection to supernumerary diseases. Again, the spirit of the nation

that should take the lead in this great reform would insensibly become

agricultural; commerce, with all its vice, selfishness, and corruption,

would gradually decline; more natural habits would produce gentler

manners, and the excessive complication of political relations would be

so far simplified that every individual might feel and understand why he

loved his country, and took a personal interest in its welfare. How

would England, for example, depend on the caprices of foreign rulers if

she contained within herself all the necessaries, and despised whatever

they possessed of the luxuries, of life? How could they starve her into

compliance with their views? Of what consequence would it be that they

refused to take her woollen manufactures, when large and fertile tracts

of the island ceased to be allotted to the waste of pasturage? On a

natural system of diet we should require no spices from India; no wines

from Portugal, Spain, France, or Madeira; none of those multitudinous

articles of luxury, for which every corner of the globe is rifled, and

which are the causes of so much individual rivalship, such calamitous

and sanguinary national disputes. In the history of modern times, the

avarice of commercial monopoly, no less than the ambition of weak and

wicked chiefs, seems to have fomented the universal discord, to have

added stubbornness to the mistakes of cabinets, and indocility to the

infatuation of the people. Let it ever be remembered that it is the

direct influence of commerce to make the interval between the richest

and the poorest man wider and more unconquerable. Let it be remembered

that it is a foe to everything of real worth and excellence in the human

character. The odious and disgusting aristocracy of wealth is built upon

the ruins of all that is good in chivalry or republicanism; and luxury

is the forerunner of a barbarism scarce capable of cure. Is it

impossible to realize a state of society, where all the energies of man

shall be directed to the production of his solid happiness? Certainly,

if this advantage (the object of all political speculation) be in any

degree attainable, it is attainable only by a community which holds out

no factitious incentives to the avarice and ambition of the few, and

which is internally organized for the liberty, security, and comfort of

the many. None must be entrusted with power (and money is the completest

species of power) who do not stand pledged to use it exclusively for the

general benefit. But the use of animal flesh and fermented liquors

directly militates with this equality of the rights of man. The peasant

cannot gratify these fashionable cravings without leaving his family to

starve. Without disease and war, those sweeping curtailers of

population, pasturage would include a waste too great to be afforded.

The labour requisite to support a family is far lighter’ than is usually

supposed. (It has come under the author’s experience that some of the

workmen on an embankment in North Wales, who, in consequence of the

inability of the proprietor to pay them, seldom received their wages,

have supported large families by cultivating small spots of sterile

ground by moonlight. In the notes to Pratt’s poem, “Bread, or the Poor”,

is an account of an industrious labourer who, by working in a small

garden, before and after his day’s task, attained to an enviable state

of independence.) The peasantry work, not only for themselves, but for

the aristocracy, the army, and the manufacturers.

The advantage of a reform in diet is obviously greater than that of any

other. It strikes at the root of the evil. To remedy the abuses of

legislation, before we annihilate the propensities by which they are

produced, is to suppose that by taking away the effect the cause will

cease to operate. But the efficacy of this system depends entirely on

the proselytism of individuals, and grounds its merits, as a benefit to

the community, upon the total change of the dietetic habits in its

members. It proceeds securely from a number of particular cases to one

that is universal, and has this advantage over the contrary mode, that

one error does not invalidate all that has gone before.

Let not too much, however, be expected from this system. The healthiest

among us is not exempt from hereditary disease. The most symmetrical,

athletic, and longlived is a being inexpressibly inferior to what he

would have been, had not the unnatural habits of his ancestors

accumulated for him a certain portion of malady and deformity. In the

most perfect specimen of civilized man, something is still found wanting

by the physiological critic. Can a return to nature, then,

instantaneously eradicate predispositions that have been slowly taking

root in the silence of innumerable ages?—Indubitably not. All that I

contend for is, that from the moment of the relinquishing all unnatural

habits no new disease is generated; and that the predisposition to

hereditary maladies gradually perishes, for want of its accustomed

supply. In cases of consumption, cancer, gout, asthma, and scrofula,

such is the invariable tendency of a diet of vegetables and pure water.

Those who may be induced by these remarks to give the vegetable system a

fair trial, should, in the first place, date the commencement of their

practice from the moment of their conviction. All depends upon breaking

through a pernicious habit resolutely and at once. Dr. Trotter asserts

that no drunkard was ever reformed by gradually relinquishing his dram.

(See Trotter on the Nervous Temperament.) Animal flesh, in its effects

on the human stomach, is analogous to a dram. It is similar in the kind,

though differing in the degree, of its operation. The proselyte to a

pure diet must be warned to expect a temporary diminution of muscular

strength. The subtraction of a powerful stimulus will suffice to account

for this event. But it is only temporary, and is succeeded by an equable

capability for exertion, far surpassing his former various and

fluctuating strength. Above all, he will acquire an easiness of

breathing, by which such exertion is performed, with a remarkable

exemption from that painful and difficult panting now felt by almost

every one after hastily climbing an ordinary mountain. He will be

equally capable of bodily exertion, or mental application, after as

before his simple meal. He will feel none of the narcotic effects of

ordinary diet. Irritability, the direct consequence of exhausting

stimuli, would yield to the power of natural and tranquil impulses. He

will no longer pine under the lethargy of ennui, that unconquerable

weariness of life, more to be dreaded than death itself. He will escape

the epidemic madness, which broods over its own injurious notions of the

Deity, and ‘realizes the hell that priests and beldams feign.’ Every man

forms, as it were, his god from his own character; to the divinity of

one of simple habits no offering would be more acceptable than the

happiness of his creatures. He would be incapable of hating or

persecuting others for the love of God. He will find, moreover, a system

of simple diet to be a system of perfect epicurism. He will no longer be

incessantly occupied in blunting and destroying those organs from which

he expects his gratification. The pleasures of taste to be derived from

a dinner of potatoes, beans, peas, turnips, lettuces, with a dessert of

apples, gooseberries, strawberries, currants, raspberries, and in

winter, oranges, apples and pears, is far greater than is supposed.

These who wait until they can eat this plain fare with the sauce of

appetite will scarcely join with the hypocritical sensualist at a

lord-mayor’s feast, who declaims against the pleasures of the table.

Solomon kept a thousand concubines, and owned in despair that all was

vanity. The man whose happiness is constituted by the society of one

amiable woman would find some difficulty in sympathizing with the

disappointment of this venerable debauchee.

I address myself not only to the young enthusiast, the ardent devotee of

truth and virtue, the pure and passionate moralist, yet unvitiated by

the contagion of the world. He will embrace a pure system, from its

abstract truth, its beauty, its simplicity, and its promise of

wide-extended benefit; unless custom has turned poison into food, he

will hate the brutal pleasures of the chase by instinct; it will be a

contemplation full of horror, and disappointment to his mind, that

beings capable of the gentlest and most admirable sympathies should take

delight in the death-pangs and last convulsions of dying animals. The

elderly man, whose youth has been poisoned by intemperance, or who has

lived with apparent moderation, and is afflicted with a wide variety of

painful maladies, would find his account in a beneficial change produced

without the risk of poisonous medicines. The mother, to whom the

perpetual restlessness of disease and unaccountable deaths incident to

her children are the causes of incurable unhappiness, would on this diet

experience the satisfaction of beholding their perpetual healths and

natural playfulness. (See Mr. Newton’s book. His children are the most

beautiful and healthy creatures it is possible to conceive; the girls

are perfect models for a sculptor; their dispositions are also the most

gentle and conciliating; the judicious treatment, which they experience

in other points, may be a correlative cause of this. In the first five

years of their life, of 18,000 children that are born, 7,500 die of

various diseases; and how many more of those that survive are not

rendered miserable by maladies not immediately mortal? The quality and

quantity of a woman’s milk are materially injured by the use of dead

flesh. In an island near Iceland, where no vegetables are to be got, the

children invariably die of tetanus before they are three weeks old, and

the population is supplied from the mainland.—Sir G. Mackenzie’s

“History of Iceland”. See also “Emile”, chapter 1, pages 53, 54, 56.)

The most valuable lives are daily destroyed by diseases that it is

dangerous to palliate and impossible to cure by medicine. How much

longer will man continue to pimp for the gluttony of Death, his most

insidious, implacable, and eternal foe?

Alla drakontas agrious kaleite kai pardaleis kai leontas, autoi de

miaiphoneite eis omoteta katalipontes ekeinois ouden ekeinois men gar o

phonos trophe, umin de opson estin...“Oti gar ouk estin anthropo kata

phusin to sarkophagein, proton men apo ton somaton deloutai tes

kataskeues. Oudeni gar eoike to anthropou soma ton epi sarkophagia

gegonoton, ou grupotes cheilous, ouk ozutes onuchos, ou traxutes odontos

prosestin, ou koilias eutonia kai pneumatos thermotes, trepsai kai

katergasasthai dunate to baru kai kreodes all autothen e phusis te

leioteti ton odonton kai te smikroteti tou stomatos kai te malakoteti

tes glosses kai te pros pepsin ambluteti tou pneumatos, exomnutai ten

sarkophagian. Ei de legeis pephukenai seauton epi toiauten edoden, o

boulei phagein proton autos apokteinon, all autos dia seauton, me

chesamenos kopidi mede tumpano tini mede pelekei alla, os lukoi kai

arktoi kai leontes autoi osa esthiousi phoneuousin, anele degmati boun e

stomati sun, e apna e lagoon diarrexon kai phage prospeson eti zontos,

os ekeina...Emeis d’ outos en to miaiphono truphomen, ost ochon to kreas

prosagoreuomen, eit ochon pros auto to kreas deometha, anamignuntes

elaion oinon meli garon oxos edusmasi Suriakois Arabikois, oster ontos

nekron entaphiazontes. Kai gar outos auton dialuthenton kai

melachthenton kai tropon tina prosapenton ergon esti ten pechin

kratesai, kai diakratepheises de deinas barutetas empoiei kai nosodeis

apechias...Outo to proton agprion ti zoon ebrothe kai kakourgon, eit

ornis tis e ichthus eilkusto kai geusamenon outo kai promeletesan en

ekeinois to thonikon epi boun ergaten elthe kai to kosmion probaton kai

ton oikouron alektruona kai kata mikron outo ten aplestian stomosantes

epi sphagas anthropon kai polemous kai phonous proelthon.—Plout. peri

tes Sarkophagias.

***

NOTE ON QUEEN MAB, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

Shelley was eighteen when he wrote “Queen Mab”; he never published it.

When it was written, he had come to the decision that he was too young

to be a ‘judge of controversies’; and he was desirous of acquiring ‘that

sobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism.’ But he

never doubted the truth or utility of his opinions; and, in printing and

privately distributing “Queen Mab”, he believed that he should further

their dissemination, without occasioning the mischief either to others

or himself that might arise from publication. It is doubtful whether he

would himself have admitted it into a collection of his works. His

severe classical taste, refined by the constant study of the Greek

poets, might have discovered defects that escape the ordinary reader;

and the change his opinions underwent in many points would have

prevented him from putting forth the speculations of his boyish days.

But the poem is too beautiful in itself, and far too remarkable as the

production of a boy of eighteen, to allow of its being passed over:

besides that, having been frequently reprinted, the omission would be

vain. In the former edition certain portions were left out, as shocking

the general reader from the violence of their attack on religion. I

myself had a painful feeling that such erasures might be looked upon as

a mark of disrespect towards the author, and am glad to have the

opportunity of restoring them. The notes also are reprinted entire—not

because they are models of reasoning or lessons of truth, but because

Shelley wrote them, and that all that a man at once so distinguished and

so excellent ever did deserves to be preserved. The alterations his

opinions underwent ought to be recorded, for they form his history.

A series of articles was published in the “New Monthly Magazine” during

the autumn of the year 1832, written by a man of great talent, a

fellow-collegian and warm friend of Shelley: they describe admirably the

state of his mind during his collegiate life. Inspired with ardour for

the acquisition of knowledge, endowed with the keenest sensibility and

with the fortitude of a martyr, Shelley came among his fellow-creatures,

congregated for the purposes of education, like a spirit from another

sphere; too delicately organized for the rough treatment man uses

towards man, especially in the season of youth, and too resolute in

carrying out his own sense of good and justice, not to become a victim.

To a devoted attachment to those he loved he added a determined

resistance to oppression. Refusing to fag at Eton, he was treated with

revolting cruelty by masters and boys: this roused instead of taming his

spirit, and he rejected the duty of obedience when it was enforced by

menaces and punishment. To aversion to the society of his

fellow-creatures, such as he found them when collected together in

societies, where one egged on the other to acts of tyranny, was joined

the deepest sympathy and compassion; while the attachment he felt for

individuals, and the admiration with which he regarded their powers and

their virtues, led him to entertain a high opinion of the perfectibility

of human nature; and he believed that all could reach the highest grade

of moral improvement, did not the customs and prejudices of society

foster evil passions and excuse evil actions.

The oppression which, trembling at every nerve yet resolute to heroism,

it was his ill-fortune to encounter at school and at college, led him to

dissent in all things from those whose arguments were blows, whose faith

appeared to engender blame and hatred. ‘During my existence,’ he wrote

to a friend in 1812, ‘I have incessantly speculated, thought, and read.’

His readings were not always well chosen; among them were the works of

the French philosophers: as far as metaphysical argument went, he

temporarily became a convert. At the same time, it was the cardinal

article of his faith that, if men were but taught and induced to treat

their fellows with love, charity, and equal rights, this earth would

realize paradise. He looked upon religion, as it is professed, and above

all practised, as hostile instead of friendly to the cultivation of

those virtues which would make men brothers.

Can this be wondered at? At the age of seventeen, fragile in health and

frame, of the purest habits in morals, full of devoted generosity and

universal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain wisdom, resolved at

every personal sacrifice to do right, burning with a desire for

affection and sympathy,—he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth as a

criminal.

The cause was that he was sincere; that he believed the opinions which

he entertained to be true. And he loved truth with a martyr’s love; he

was ready to sacrifice station and fortune, and his dearest affections,

at its shrine. The sacrifice was demanded from, and made by, a youth of

seventeen. It is a singular fact in the history of society in the

civilized nations of modern times that no false step is so irretrievable

as one made in early youth. Older men, it is true, when they oppose

their fellows and transgress ordinary rules, carry a certain prudence or

hypocrisy as a shield along with them. But youth is rash; nor can it

imagine, while asserting what it believes to be true, and doing what it

believes to be right, that it should be denounced as vicious, and

pursued as a criminal.

Shelley possessed a quality of mind which experience has shown me to be

of the rarest occurrence among human beings: this was his UNWORLDLINESS.

The usual motives that rule men, prospects of present or future

advantage, the rank and fortune of those around, the taunts and

censures, or the praise, of those who were hostile to him, had no

influence whatever over his actions, and apparently none over his

thoughts. It is difficult even to express the simplicity and directness

of purpose that adorned him. Some few might be found in the history of

mankind, and some one at least among his own friends, equally

disinterested and scornful, even to severe personal sacrifices, of every

baser motive. But no one, I believe, ever joined this noble but passive

virtue to equal active endeavours for the benefit of his friends and

mankind in general, and to equal power to produce the advantages he

desired. The world’s brightest gauds and its most solid advantages were

of no worth in his eyes, when compared to the cause of what he

considered truth, and the good of his fellow-creatures. Born in a

position which, to his inexperienced mind, afforded the greatest

facilities to practise the tenets he espoused, he boldly declared the

use he would make of fortune and station, and enjoyed the belief that he

should materially benefit his fellow-creatures by his actions; while,

conscious of surpassing powers of reason and imagination, it is not

strange that he should, even while so young, have believed that his

written thoughts would tend to disseminate opinions which he believed

conducive to the happiness of the human race.

If man were a creature devoid of passion, he might have said and done

all this with quietness. But he was too enthusiastic, and too full of

hatred of all the ills he witnessed, not to scorn danger. Various

disappointments tortured, but could not tame, his soul. The more enmity

he met, the more earnestly he became attached to his peculiar views, and

hostile to those of the men who persecuted him.

He was animated to greater zeal by compassion for his fellow-creatures.

His sympathy was excited by the misery with which the world is burning.

He witnessed the sufferings of the poor, and was aware of the evils of

ignorance. He desired to induce every rich man to despoil himself of

superfluity, and to create a brotherhood of property and service, and

was ready to be the first to lay down the advantages of his birth. He

was of too uncompromising a disposition to join any party. He did not in

his youth look forward to gradual improvement: nay, in those days of

intolerance, now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look forward to

the sort of millennium of freedom and brotherhood which he thought the

proper state of mankind as to the present reign of moderation and

improvement. Ill-health made him believe that his race would soon be

run; that a year or two was all he had of life. He desired that these

years should be useful and illustrious. He saw, in a fervent call on his

fellow-creatures to share alike the blessings of the creation, to love

and serve each other, the noblest work that life and time permitted him.

In this spirit he composed “Queen Mab”.

He was a lover of the wonderful and wild in literature, but had not

fostered these tastes at their genuine sources—the romances and

chivalry of the middle ages—but in the perusal of such German works as

were current in those days. Under the influence of these he, at the age

of fifteen, wrote two short prose romances of slender merit. The

sentiments and language were exaggerated, the composition imitative and

poor. He wrote also a poem on the subject of Ahasuerus—being led to it

by a German fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in Lincoln’s Inn

Fields. This fell afterwards into other hands, and was considerably

altered before it was printed. Our earlier English poetry was almost

unknown to him. The love and knowledge of Nature developed by

Wordsworth—the lofty melody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge’s

poetry—and the wild fantastic machinery and gorgeous scenery adopted by

Southey—composed his favourite reading; the rhythm of “Queen Mab” was

founded on that of “Thalaba”, and the first few lines bear a striking

resemblance in spirit, though not in idea, to the opening of that poem.

His fertile imagination, and ear tuned to the finest sense of harmony,

preserved him from imitation. Another of his favourite books was the

poem of “Gebir” by Walter Savage Landor. From his boyhood he had a

wonderful facility of versification, which he carried into another

language; and his Latin school-verses were composed with an ease and

correctness that procured for him prizes, and caused him to be resorted

to by all his friends for help. He was, at the period of writing “Queen

Mab”, a great traveller within the limits of England, Scotland, and

Ireland. His time was spent among the loveliest scenes of these

countries. Mountain and lake and forest were his home; the phenomena of

Nature were his favourite study. He loved to inquire into their causes,

and was addicted to pursuits of natural philosophy and chemistry, as far

as they could be carried on as an amusement. These tastes gave truth and

vivacity to his descriptions, and warmed his soul with that deep

admiration for the wonders of Nature which constant association with her

inspired.

He never intended to publish “Queen Mab” as it stands; but a few years

after, when printing “Alastor”, he extracted a small portion which he

entitled “The Daemon of the World”. In this he changed somewhat the

versification, and made other alterations scarcely to be called

improvements.

Some years after, when in Italy, a bookseller published an edition of

“Queen Mab” as it originally stood. Shelley was hastily written to by

his friends, under the idea that, deeply injurious as the mere

distribution of the poem had proved, the publication might awaken fresh

persecutions. At the suggestion of these friends he wrote a letter on

the subject, printed in the “Examiner” newspaper—with which I close

this history of his earliest work.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘EXAMINER.’

‘Sir,

‘Having heard that a poem entitled “Queen Mab” has been surreptitiously

published in London, and that legal proceedings have been instituted

against the publisher, I request the favour of your insertion of the

following explanation of the affair, as it relates to me.

‘A poem entitled “Queen Mab” was written by me at the age of eighteen, I

daresay in a sufficiently intemperate spirit—but even then was not

intended for publication, and a few copies only were struck off, to be

distributed among my personal friends. I have not seen this production

for several years. I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless in

point of literary composition; and that, in all that concerns moral and

political speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations of

metaphysical and religious doctrine, it is still more crude and

immature. I am a devoted enemy to religious, political, and domestic

oppression; and I regret this publication, not so much from literary

vanity, as because I fear it is better fitted to injure than to serve

the sacred cause of freedom. I have directed my solicitor to apply to

Chancery for an injunction to restrain the sale; but, after the

precedent of Mr. Southey’s “Wat Tyler” (a poem written, I believe, at

the same age, and with the same unreflecting enthusiasm), with little

hope of success.

‘Whilst I exonerate myself from all share in having divulged opinions

hostile to existing sanctions, under the form, whatever it may be, which

they assume in this poem, it is scarcely necessary for me to protest

against the system of inculcating the truth of Christianity or the

excellence of Monarchy, however true or however excellent they may be,

by such equivocal arguments as confiscation and imprisonment, and

invective and slander, and the insolent violation of the most sacred

ties of Nature and society.

‘SIR,

‘I am your obliged and obedient servant,

‘PERCY B. SHELLEY.

‘Pisa, June 22, 1821.’

***

[Of the following pieces the “Original Poetry by Victor and Cazire”, the

Poems from “St. Irvyne, or The Rosicrucian”, “The Posthumous Fragments

of Margaret Nicholson” and “The Devil’s Walk”, were published by Shelley

himself; the others by Medwin, Rossetti, Forman and Dowden, as indicated

in the several prefatory notes.]

VERSES ON A CAT.

[Published by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1800.]

A cat in distress,

Nothing more, nor less;

Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye,

As I am a sinner,

It waits for some dinner _5

To stuff out its own little belly.

You would not easily guess

All the modes of distress

Which torture the tenants of earth;

And the various evils, _10

Which like so many devils,

Attend the poor souls from their birth.

Some a living require,

And others desire

An old fellow out of the way; _15

And which is the best

I leave to be guessed,

For I cannot pretend to say.

One wants society,

Another variety, _20

Others a tranquil life;

Some want food,

Others, as good,

Only want a wife.

But this poor little cat _25

Only wanted a rat,

To stuff out its own little maw;

And it were as good

SOME people had such food,

To make them HOLD THEIR JAW! _30

***

FRAGMENT: OMENS.

[Published by Medwin, “Shelley Papers”, 1833; dated 1807.]

Hark! the owlet flaps his wings

In the pathless dell beneath;

Hark! ’tis the night-raven sings

Tidings of approaching death.

***

EPITAPHIUM.

[LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY’S ELEGY.]

[Published by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847; dated 1808-9.]

Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali

Cespitis dormit juvenis, nec illi

Fata ridebant, popularis ille

Nescius aurae.

Musa non vultu genus arroganti _5

Rustica natum grege despicata,

Et suum tristis puerum notavit

Sollicitudo.

Indoles illi bene larga, pectus

Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit, _10

Et pari tantis meritis beavit

Munere coelum.

Omne quad moestis habuit miserto

Corde largivit lacrimam, recepit

Omne quod coelo voluit, fidelis _15

Pectus amici.

Longius sed tu fuge curiosus

Caeteras laudes fuge suspicari,

Caeteras culpas fuge velle tractas

Sede tremenda. _20

Spe tremescentes recubant in illa

Sede virtutes pariterque culpae,

In sui Patris gremio, tremenda

Sede Deique.

***

IN HOROLOGIUM.

[Published by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847; dated 1809.]

Inter marmoreas Leonorae pendula colles

Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas.

Quas MANIBUS premit illa duas insensa papillas

Cur mihi sit DIGITO tangere, amata, nefas?

***

A DIALOGUE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858;

dated 1809. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

DEATH:

For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,

I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave,

Where Innocence sleeps ‘neath the peace-giving sod,

And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny’s nod;

I offer a calm habitation to thee,— _5

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

My mansion is damp, cold silence is there,

But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair;

Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,

Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of Death. _10

I offer a calm habitation to thee,—

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL:

Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose,

It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes,

It longs in thy cells to deposit its load, _15

Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,—

Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,

And Bigotry’s bloodhounds lose scent of their prey.

Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o’er,

What awaits on Futurity’s mist-covered shore? _20

DEATH:

Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil

The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale;

Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,

That will hail their blest advent to regions above.

For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway, _25

And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.

Hast thou loved?—Then depart from these regions of hate,

And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate.

I offer a calm habitation to thee.—

Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me? _30

MORTAL:

Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the ray

Which after thy night introduces the day;

How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest’s breath,

Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death!

I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all, _35

Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall,

And duty forbids, though I languish to die,

When departure might heave Virtue’s breast with a sigh.

O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,

And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine. _40

NOTE:

_22 o’er Esdaile manuscript; on 1858.

***

TO THE MOONBEAM.

[Published by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858: dated 1809.

Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale,

To bathe this burning brow.

Moonbeam, why art thou so pale,

As thou walkest o’er the dewy dale,

Where humble wild-flowers grow? _5

Is it to mimic me?

But that can never be;

For thine orb is bright,

And the clouds are light,

That at intervals shadow the star-studded night. _10

Now all is deathy still on earth;

Nature’s tired frame reposes;

And, ere the golden morning’s birth

Its radiant hues discloses,

Flies forth its balmy breath. _15

But mine is the midnight of Death,

And Nature’s morn

To my bosom forlorn

Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn.

Wretch! Suppress the glare of madness _20

Struggling in thine haggard eye,

For the keenest throb of sadness,

Pale Despair’s most sickening sigh,

Is but to mimic me;

And this must ever be, _25

When the twilight of care,

And the night of despair,

Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there.

NOTE:

_28 rankle Esdaile manuscript wake 1858.

***

THE SOLITARY.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870;

dated 1810. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

Dar’st thou amid the varied multitude

To live alone, an isolated thing?

To see the busy beings round thee spring,

And care for none; in thy calm solitude,

A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude _5

To Zephyr’s passing wing?

Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,

Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother’s hate,

Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate

As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: _10

He bears a load which nothing can remove,

A killing, withering weight.

He smiles—’tis sorrow’s deadliest mockery;

He speaks—the cold words flow not from his soul;

He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,— _15

Yet, yet he longs—although he fears—to die;

He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly,

Dull life’s extremest goal.

***

TO DEATH.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1810.

Included (under the title, “To Death”) in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

Death! where is thy victory?

To triumph whilst I die,

To triumph whilst thine ebon wing

Enfolds my shuddering soul?

O Death! where is thy sting? _5

Not when the tides of murder roll,

When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss,

Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this—

When in his hour of pomp and power

His blow the mightiest murderer gave, _10

Mid Nature’s cries the sacrifice

Of millions to glut the grave;

When sunk the Tyrant Desolation’s slave;

Or Freedom’s life-blood streamed upon thy shrine;

Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine? _15

To know in dissolution’s void

That mortals’ baubles sunk decay;

That everything, but Love, destroyed

Must perish with its kindred clay,—

Perish Ambition’s crown, _20

Perish her sceptred sway:

From Death’s pale front fades Pride’s fastidious frown.

In Death’s damp vault the lurid fires decay,

That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue’s beam—

That all the cares subside, _25

Which lurk beneath the tide

Of life’s unquiet stream;—

Yes! this is victory!

And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky,

To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled; _30

To baffle the lean passions of their prey,

To sleep within the palace of the dead!

Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne

His countless courtiers mock the words they say,

Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, _35

As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe

Which props the column of unnatural state!

You the plainings, faint and low,

From Misery’s tortured soul that flow, _40

Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command

The war-fiend riots o’er a peaceful land!

You Desolation’s gory throng

Shall bear from Victory along _45

To that mysterious strand.

NOTE:

_10 murderer Esdaile manuscript; murders 1858.

***

LOVE’S ROSE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1810.

Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts,

Live not through the waste of time!

Love’s rose a host of thorns invests;

Cold, ungenial is the clime,

Where its honours blow. _5

Youth says, ‘The purple flowers are mine,’

Which die the while they glow.

Dear the boon to Fancy given,

Retracted whilst it’s granted:

Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven, _10

Although on earth ’tis planted,

Where its honours blow,

While by earth’s slaves the leaves are riven

Which die the while they glow.

Age cannot Love destroy, _15

But perfidy can blast the flower,

Even when in most unwary hour

It blooms in Fancy’s bower.

Age cannot Love destroy,

But perfidy can rend the shrine _20

In which its vermeil splendours shine.

NOTES:

Love’s Rose—The title is Rossetti’s, 1870.

_2 not through Esdaile manuscript; they this, 1858.

***

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870;

dated 1810. Included (four unpublished eight-line stanzas) in the

Esdaile manuscript book.)]

How eloquent are eyes!

Not the rapt poet’s frenzied lay

When the soul’s wildest feelings stray

Can speak so well as they.

How eloquent are eyes! _5

Not music’s most impassioned note

On which Love’s warmest fervours float

Like them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,—

That your look may light a waste of years, _10

Darting the beam that conquers cares

Through the cold shower of tears.

Love, look thus again!

***

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

[Published by Shelley, 1810. A Reprint, edited by Richard Garnett, C.B.,

LL.D., was issued by John Lane, in 1898. The punctuation of the original

edition is here retained.]

A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could

arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the

idea of the following lines:

Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink,

First of this thing, and that thing, and t’other thing think;

Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind,

That the sense or the subject I never can find:

This word is wrong placed,—no regard to the sense,

The present and future, instead of past tense,

Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore,

I think I shall never attempt to write more,

With patience I then my thoughts must arraign,

Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, _10

Like them too must wait in due patience and thought,

Or else my fine works will all come to nought.

My wit too’s so copious, it flows like a river,

But disperses its waters on black and white never;

Like smoke it appears independent and free, _15

But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee—

Then at length all my patience entirely lost,

My paper and pens in the fire are tossed;

But come, try again—you must never despair,

Our Murray’s or Entick’s are not all so rare, _20

Implore their assistance—they’ll come to your aid,

Perform all your business without being paid,

They’ll tell you the present tense, future and past,

Which should come first, and which should come last,

This Murray will do—then to Entick repair, _25

To find out the meaning of any word rare.

This they friendly will tell, and ne’er make you blush,

With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush!

Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put,

Not minding the if’s, the be’s, and the but, _30

Then read it all over, see how it will run,

How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun,

Your writings may then with old Socrates vie,

May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie,

May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. _35

The pattern or satire to all of the age;

But stop—a mad author I mean not to turn,

Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn,

Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined,

My letters may make some slight food for the mind; _40

That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart,

In all the warm language that flows from the heart.

Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains,

It bids me step forward and just hold the reins,

My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, _45

Such as I fear can be made but by few—

Of writers this age has abundance and plenty,

Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty,

Three score of them wits who all sharply vie,

To try what odd creature they best can belie, _50

A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write,

And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,]

One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire,

And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire,

T’other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, _55

And just like a cobbler the old writings mend,

The twenty are those who for pulpits indite,

And pore over sermons all Saturday night.

And now my good friends—who come after I mean,

As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. _60

Or like cobblers at mending I never did try,

Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie;

As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest,

So here I believe the matter must rest.—

I’ve heard your complaint—my answer I’ve made, _65

And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid,

Adieu my good friend; pray never despair,

But grammar and sense and everything dare,

Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free,

Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, _70

Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense,

But read it all over and make it out sense.

What a tiresome girl!—pray soon make an end,

Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend.

Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try— _75

So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

JANUARY, 1810.

TO MISS — — [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

For your letter, dear — [Hattie], accept my best thanks,

Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,

Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,

The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter,

All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, _5

Which only are fit for the tardy and late,

As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,

How fair the sun shines—a fine day for a walk,

Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation,

One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation, _10

Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong,

The burden this is of each morning-call song.

So — is going to — you say,

I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—]

That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright, _15

And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight.

Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart,

Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart,

Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways,

He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, _20

That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake,

And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take,

A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame,

But he fears, for he knows she is not common game,

Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, _25

He’s not one that’s caught by a sly looking face,

Yet that’s TOO divine—such a black sparkling eye,

At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die;

Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten,

More than is meant by most such kind of men, _30

For they’re all alike, take them one with another,

Begging pardon—with the exception of my brother.

Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard,

Most opinion’s the same, with the difference of word,

Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, _35

Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed,

As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name,

Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame.—

So on Friday this City’s gay vortex you quit,

And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit— _40

Now your parcel’s arrived — [Bysshe’s] letter shall go,

I hope all your joy mayn’t be turned into woe,

Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain,

When it promises sunshine how often comes rain.

So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, _45

How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh,

When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed,

How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest.

When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand,

Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked near the strand, _50

And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel,

’Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel—

May misfortunes dear Girl, ne’er thy happiness cloy,

May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy,

May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, _55

Woes, which thy tender heart never may know,

For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear,

Though sympathy’s soul to a friend drops a tear.

Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written,

Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. _60

What sober reflections in the midst of this letter!

Jocularity sure would have suited much better;

But there are exceptions to all common rules,

For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools.

Now adieu my dear — [Hattie] I’m sure I must tire, _65

For if I do, you may throw it into the fire,

So accept the best love of your cousin and friend,

Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.

APRIL 30, 1810.

NOTE:

_19 mischievous]mischevious 1810.

3. SONG.

Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling,

Cold are the damps on a dying man’s brow,—

Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling,

And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low;

But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, _5

More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee,

More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee,

Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow—

And ah! poor — has felt all this horror,

Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: _10

‘Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow,

She sought her babe’s food at her ruiner’s gate—

Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer,

He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer,

She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, _15

Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late.

’Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr,

That the form of the wasted — reclined;

She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar,

And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.— _20

I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle,

I call not yon clouds where the elements battle,

But thee, cruel — I call thee unkind!’—

Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain,

And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, _25

She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o’er the fountain,

And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind.

‘Ah! go,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the tempest is yelling,

’Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling,

But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, _30

My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—’

Not long lived —, but over her grave

Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew,

Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave,

But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. _35

Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather,

Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather,

For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her,

Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.—

JULY, 1810.

4. SONG.

Come [Harriet]! sweet is the hour,

Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around,

The anemone’s night-boding flower,

Has sunk its pale head on the ground.

’Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn, _5

Some mild heart that expands to its blast,

’Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,

Sinks poor and neglected at last.—

The world with its keenness and woe,

Has no charms or attraction for me, _10

Its unkindness with grief has laid low,

The heart which is faithful to thee.

The high trees that wave past the moon,

As I walk in their umbrage with you,

All declare I must part with you soon, _15

All bid you a tender adieu!—

Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell,

You and I love, may ne’er meet again;

These woods and these meadows can tell

How soft and how sweet was the strain.— _20

APRIL, 1810.

5. SONG.

DESPAIR.

Ask not the pallid stranger’s woe,

With beating heart and throbbing breast,

Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,

As though the body needed rest.—

Whose ‘wildered eye no object meets, _5

Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,

With silent grief his bosom beats,—

Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.

Who looks around with fearful eye,

And shuns all converse with man kind, _10

As though some one his griefs might spy,

And soothe them with a kindred mind.

A friend or foe to him the same,

He looks on each with equal eye;

The difference lies but in the name, _15

To none for comfort can he fly.—

’Twas deep despair, and sorrow’s trace,

To him too keenly given,

Whose memory, time could not efface—

His peace was lodged in Heaven.— _20

He looks on all this world bestows,

The pride and pomp of power,

As trifles best for pageant shows

Which vanish in an hour.

When torn is dear affection’s tie, _25

Sinks the soft heart full low;

It leaves without a parting sigh,

All that these realms bestow.

JUNE, 1810.

6. SONG.

SORROW.

To me this world’s a dreary blank,

All hopes in life are gone and fled,

My high strung energies are sank,

And all my blissful hopes lie dead.—

The world once smiling to my view, _5

Showed scenes of endless bliss and joy;

The world I then but little knew,

Ah! little knew how pleasures cloy;

All then was jocund, all was gay,

No thought beyond the present hour, _10

I danced in pleasure’s fading ray,

Fading alas! as drooping flower.

Nor do the heedless in the throng,

One thought beyond the morrow give[,]

They court the feast, the dance, the song, _15

Nor think how short their time to live.

The heart that bears deep sorrow’s trace,

What earthly comfort can console,

It drags a dull and lengthened pace,

‘Till friendly death its woes enroll.— _20

The sunken cheek, the humid eyes,

E’en better than the tongue can tell;

In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies,

Where memory’s rankling traces dwell.—

The rising tear, the stifled sigh, _25

A mind but ill at ease display,

Like blackening clouds in stormy sky,

Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.

Thus when souls’ energy is dead,

When sorrow dims each earthly view, _30

When every fairy hope is fled,

We bid ungrateful world adieu.

AUGUST, 1810.

7. SONG.

HOPE.

And said I that all hope was fled,

That sorrow and despair were mine,

That each enthusiast wish was dead,

Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.—

Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow glow, _5

That robes with liquid streams of light;

Yon distant Mountain’s craggy brow.

And shows the rocks so fair,—so bright—

Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,

In softer view shows distant hours, _10

And portrays each succeeding day,

As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,—

The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;

Are frozen but to bud anew,

Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom, _15

Although thy visions be not true,—

Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,

Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,

God never made thee to deceive,

’Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. _20

Yet though despair my life should gloom,

Though horror should around me close,

With those I love, beyond the tomb,

Hope shows a balm for all my woes.

AUGUST, 1810.

8. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

Oh! what is the gain of restless care,

And what is ambitious treasure?

And what are the joys that the modish share,

In their sickly haunts of pleasure?

My husband’s repast with delight I spread, _5

What though ’tis but rustic fare,

May each guardian angel protect his shed,

May contentment and quiet be there.

And may I support my husband’s years,

May I soothe his dying pain, _10

And then may I dry my fast falling tears,

And meet him in Heaven again.

JULY, 1810.

9. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,

If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,

The dastard shall perish, death’s torment shall prove,

For fate and revenge are decreed from above.

Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5

Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;

With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,

To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell—

For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,

To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10

And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,

He shall find his reward in his loved maiden’s charms.

In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,

The kisses that glow on his love’s dewy lip,

And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15

The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.

OCTOBER, 1809.

10. THE IRISHMAN’S SONG.

The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light

May sink into ne’er ending chaos and night,

Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,

But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.

See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5

Our ancestors’ dwellings lie sunk on the ground,

Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,

And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.

Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,

Ah! sunk is our sweet country’s rapturous measure, _10

But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,

The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.

Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,

Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,

Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15

And ‘my countrymen! vengeance!’ incessantly cry.

OCTOBER, 1809.

11. SONG.

Fierce roars the midnight storm

O’er the wild mountain,

Dark clouds the night deform,

Swift rolls the fountain—

See! o’er yon rocky height, _5

Dim mists are flying—

See by the moon’s pale light,

Poor Laura’s dying!

Shame and remorse shall howl,

By her false pillow— _10

Fiercer than storms that roll,

O’er the white billow;

No hand her eyes to close,

When life is flying,

But she will find repose, _15

For Laura’s dying!

Then will I seek my love,

Then will I cheer her,

Then my esteem will prove,

When no friend is near her. _20

On her grave I will lie,

When life is parted,

On her grave I will die,

For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

12. SONG.

TO [HARRIET].

Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,

And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,

And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,

‘Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, _5

Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,

Though the time it is past!—yet the dear recollection,

For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,

Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, _10

When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,

And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.—

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever

Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,

He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never _15

Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

AUGUST, 1810.

NOTE:

_11 hope-winged]hoped-winged 1810.

13. SONG.

TO — [HARRIET].

Stern, stern is the voice of fate’s fearful command,

When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,

Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,

Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

’Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending, _5

And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,

Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,

Which never again to his eyes may appear—

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,

Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, _10

He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,

He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,

When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!

As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, _15

The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!

Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never,

Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear,

In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever,

The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. _20

AUGUST, 1810.

14. SAINT EDMOND’S EVE.

Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass,

And did you observe his frown?

He goeth to say the midnight mass,

In holy St. Edmond’s town.

He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, _5

And to lay the wandering sprite,

Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt,

The Abbey’s drear aisle this night.

It saith it will not its wailing cease,

‘Till that holy man come near, _10

‘Till he pour o’er its grave the prayer of peace,

And sprinkle the hallowed tear.

The Canon’s horse is stout and strong

The road is plain and fair,

But the Canon slowly wends along, _15

And his brow is gloomed with care.

Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate?

Sullen echoes the portal bell,

It sounds like the whispering voice of fate,

It sounds like a funeral knell. _20

The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed,

And his frame was convulsed with fear,

When a voice was heard distinct and loud,

‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’

He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25

To Heaven he lifts his eye,

He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare,

Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.

Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints

That frown on the sacred walls, _30

His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints,

At the Abbot’s feet he falls.

And straight the father’s robe he kissed,

Who cried, ‘Grace dwells with thee,

The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35

At your benedicite.

‘Now haste within! the board is spread,

Keen blows the air, and cold,

The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed,

‘Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,— _40

‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,

You’ve journeyed many a mile,

To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,

That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

‘Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45

Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,

Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,

Must I meet the wandering shade.

‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay,—

For hark! the echoing pile, _50

A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away,

O lead to the haunted aisle.’

The torches slowly move before,

The cross is raised on high,

A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55

But horror dimmed his eye—

And now they climb the footworn stair,

The chapel gates unclose,

Now each breathed low a fervent prayer,

And fear each bosom froze— _60

Now paused awhile the doubtful band

And viewed the solemn scene,—

Full dark the clustered columns stand,

The moon gleams pale between—

‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom _65

Conceals the unquiet shade,

Within what dark unhallowed tomb,

The corse unblessed was laid.’

‘Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks,

And murmurs a mournful plaint, _70

Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks,

And call on thy patron saint—

The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes,

As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine,

From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, _75

And under yon arch recline.’—

‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb,

What memorial sad appears.’—

‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom,

No memorial sad it bears’— _80

The Canon his paternoster reads,

His rosary hung by his side,

Now swift to the chancel doors he leads,

And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85

To approach to the black marble tomb,

‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell,

‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed.

Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90

A loud yell was borne on the rising blast,

And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand,

They burst through the chancel’s gloom,

From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, _95

Points to the black marble tomb.

Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red,

In characters fresh and clear—

‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead,

And his wife lies buried here!’ _100

In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun,

To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore,

On this eve her noviciate here was begun,

And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore;—

O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, _105

Remorse she full oft revealed,

Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt,

And in death her lips he sealed;

Her spirit to penance this night was doomed,

‘Till the Canon atoned the deed, _110

Here together they now shall rest entombed,

‘Till their bodies from dust are freed—

Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof,

Round the altar bright lightnings play,

Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, _115

And the storm dies sudden away—

The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground,

And a rosary shone through the gloom,

But never again was the Canon there found,

Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. _120

15. REVENGE.

‘Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,

Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,

The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,

You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’

I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone— _5

I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone,

I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones,

And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.

‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night,

And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light, _10

And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day!

So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—

‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear,

Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier,

And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath, _15

Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,

‘And I love you to madness my Agnes I love,

My constant affection this night will I prove,

This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jaw

Alone will I glut its all conquering maw’— _20

‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share,

In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there,

I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave,

My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’—

‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, _25

But spare me those ages of horror and woe,

For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day,

If you go unattended by Agnes away’—

The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around,

The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground, _30

Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate,

As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—

The youth struck the portal,—the echoing sound

Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around,

The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire, _35

And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.

Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined,

Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind,

When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene,

And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien. _40

A mantle encircled his shadowy form,

As light as a gossamer borne on the storm,

Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze,

Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze.—

SPIRIT:

Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, _45

And Conrad has cause to remember it well,

He ruined my Mother, despised me his son,

I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.

I was nearly expiring—’twas close of the day,—

A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, _50

He gave me the power from whence I was hurled,

To return to revenge, to return to the world,—

Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms,

I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms,

On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride, _55

And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride—

He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide,

Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride,

He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high,

And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky— _60

All was now silent,—and over the tomb,

Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom,

Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone,

And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.

DECEMBER, 1809.

16. GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!

The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German

Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and

although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead

undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of

Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.

Hark! the owlet flaps her wing,

In the pathless dell beneath,

Hark! night ravens loudly sing,

Tidings of despair and death.—

Horror covers all the sky, _5

Clouds of darkness blot the moon,

Prepare! for mortal thou must die,

Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—

Fierce the tempest raves around,

Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, _10

Crashing thunder shakes the ground,

Fire and tumult fill the sky.—

Hark! the tolling village bell,

Tells the hour of midnight come,

Now can blast the powers of Hell, _15

Fiend-like goblins now can roam—

See! his crest all stained with rain,

A warrior hastening speeds his way,

He starts, looks round him, starts again,

And sighs for the approach of day. _20

See! his frantic steed he reins,

See! he lifts his hands on high,

Implores a respite to his pains,

From the powers of the sky.—

He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, _25

Fatigue had bent his lofty form,

To rest his wearied limbs awhile,

Fatigued with wandering and the storm.

...

Slow the door is opened wide—

With trackless tread a stranger came, _30

His form Majestic, slow his stride,

He sate, nor spake,—nor told his name—

Terror blanched the warrior’s cheek,

Cold sweat from his forehead ran,

In vain his tongue essayed to speak,— _35

At last the stranger thus began:

‘Mortal! thou that saw’st the sprite,

Tell me what I wish to know,

Or come with me before ’tis light,

Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. _40

‘Fierce the avenging Demon’s ire,

Fiercer than the wintry blast,

Fiercer than the lightning’s fire,

When the hour of twilight’s past’—

The warrior raised his sunken eye. _45

It met the stranger’s sullen scowl,

‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,’

In burning letters chilled his soul.

WARRIOR:

Stranger! whoso’er you are,

I feel impelled my tale to tell— _50

Horrors stranger shalt thou hear,

Horrors drear as those of Hell.

O’er my Castle silence reigned,

Late the night and drear the hour,

When on the terrace I observed, _55

A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.—

Light the cloud as summer fog,

Which transient shuns the morning beam;

Fleeting as the cloud on bog,

That hangs or on the mountain stream.— _60

Horror seized my shuddering brain,

Horror dimmed my starting eye.

In vain I tried to speak,—In vain

My limbs essayed the spot to fly—

At last the thin and shadowy form, _65

With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,—

Its light robe floated on the storm,

Its head was bound with lambent flame.

In chilling voice drear as the breeze

Which sweeps along th’ autumnal ground, _70

Which wanders through the leafless trees,

Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.

‘Thou art mine and I am thine,

‘Till the sinking of the world,

I am thine and thou art mine, _75

‘Till in ruin death is hurled—

‘Strong the power and dire the fate,

Which drags me from the depths of Hell,

Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate,

Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, _80

‘Haply I might ne’er have shrank

From flames that rack the guilty dead,

Haply I might ne’er have sank

On pleasure’s flowery, thorny bed—

—‘But stay! no more I dare disclose, _85

Of the tale I wish to tell,

On Earth relentless were my woes,

But fiercer are my pangs in Hell—

‘Now I claim thee as my love,

Lay aside all chilling fear, _90

My affection will I prove,

Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!

‘For thou art mine, and I am thine,

‘Till the dreaded judgement day,

I am thine, and thou art mine— _95

Night is past—I must away.’

Still I gazed, and still the form

Pressed upon my aching sight,

Still I braved the howling storm,

When the ghost dissolved in night.— _100

Restless, sleepless fled the night,

Sleepless as a sick man’s bed,

When he sighs for morning light,

When he turns his aching head,—

Slow and painful passed the day. _105

Melancholy seized my brain,

Lingering fled the hours away,

Lingering to a wretch in pain.—

At last came night, ah! horrid hour,

Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, _110

When demons ride the clouds that lower,

—The phantom sat upon my bed.

In hollow voice, low as the sound

Which in some charnel makes its moan,

What floats along the burying ground, _115

The phantom claimed me as her own.

Her chilling finger on my head,

With coldest touch congealed my soul—

Cold as the finger of the dead,

Or damps which round a tombstone roll— _120

Months are passed in lingering round,

Every night the spectre comes,

With thrilling step it shakes the ground,

With thrilling step it round me roams—

Stranger! I have told to thee, _125

All the tale I have to tell—

Stranger! canst thou tell to me,

How to ‘scape the powers of Hell?—

STRANGER:

Warrior! I can ease thy woes,

Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me— _130

Warrior! I can all disclose,

Follow, follow, follow me.

Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing,

Its mantle stretches o’er the sky,

Yet the midnight ravens sing, _135

‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’

At last they saw a river clear,

That crossed the heathy path they trod,

The Stranger’s look was wild and drear,

The firm Earth shook beneath his nod— _140

He raised a wand above his head,

He traced a circle on the plain,

In a wild verse he called the dead,

The dead with silent footsteps came.

A burning brilliance on his head, _145

Flaming filled the stormy air,

In a wild verse he called the dead,

The dead in motley crowd were there.—

‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come along,

Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, _150

Quickly raise th’ avenging Song,

Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.’

Horrid shapes in mantles gray,

Flit athwart the stormy night,

‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, _155

Come away before ’tis light.’

See! the sheeted Ghost they bring,

Yelling dreadful o’er the heath,

Hark! the deadly verse they sing,

Tidings of despair and death! _160

The yelling Ghost before him stands,

See! she rolls her eyes around,

Now she lifts her bony hands,

Now her footsteps shake the ground.

STRANGER:

Phantom of Theresa say, _165

Why to earth again you came,

Quickly speak, I must away!

Or you must bleach for aye in flame,—

PHANTOM:

Mighty one I know thee now,

Mightiest power of the sky, _170

Know thee by thy flaming brow,

Know thee by thy sparkling eye.

That fire is scorching! Oh! I came,

From the caverned depth of Hell,

My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, _175

Mighty one! I know thee well.—

STRANGER:

Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite,

Drag her to the depth beneath,

Take her swift, before ’tis light,

Take her to the cells of death! _180

Thou that heardst the trackless dead,

In the mouldering tomb must lie,

Mortal! look upon my head,

Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.

Of glowing flame a cross was there, _185

Which threw a light around his form,

Whilst his lank and raven hair,

Floated wild upon the storm.—

The warrior upwards turned his eyes,

Gazed upon the cross of fire, _190

There sat horror and surprise,

There sat God’s eternal ire.—

A shivering through the Warrior flew,

Colder than the nightly blast,

Colder than the evening dew, _195

When the hour of twilight’s past.—

Thunder shakes th’ expansive sky,

Shakes the bosom of the heath,

‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die’—

The warrior sank convulsed in death. _200

JANUARY, 1810.

NOTES:

_114 its]it 1810.

_115 What]query Which?

17. FRAGMENT, OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

’Twas dead of the night when I sate 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

’Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling,

Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky,

Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling,

And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.—

My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar _10

Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke,

Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear,

This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear,

But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke.

’Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, _15

The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode,

Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing,

She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.—

I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!

...

***

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

[“St. Irvyne; or The Rosicrucian”, appeared early in 1811 (see

“Bibliographical List”). Rossetti (1870) relying on a passage in

Medwin’s “Life of Shelley” (1 page 74), assigns 1, 4, 5, and 6 to 1808,

and 2 and 4 to 1809. The titles of 1, 3, 4, and 5 are Rossetti’s; those

of 2 and 6 are Dowden’s.]

***

1.—VICTORIA.

[Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.]

’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

’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.

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.

’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.

I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—’

...

NOTE:

1.—Victoria: without title, 1811.

2.—ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.

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?

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.

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.

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.

NOTE:

2.—On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811;

The Father’s Spectre, Rossetti, 1870.

3.—SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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!’

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.—

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.

NOTE:

3.—Sister Rosa: Ballad, 1811.

4.—ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.

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!

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!

Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,

Upon it sits the mournful owl; _10

Along the stillness of the night,

Her melancholy shriekings roll.

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.

‘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

‘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.’

NOTE:

4.—St. Irvyne’s Tower: Song, 1810.

5.—BEREAVEMENT.

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.

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.

NOTE:

5.—Bereavement: Song, 1811.

6.—THE DROWNED LOVER.

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.’

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!

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.

***

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET MCHOLSON.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted

the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The “Posthumous Fragments”, published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in

November, 1810. See “Bibliographical List”.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology

which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice.

The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately

connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as

we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of

this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of

unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been

rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since

become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to

society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any

curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my

unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which

shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed

they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in

the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.

WAR.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled

Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.

See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,

Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;

Tell then the cause, ’tis sure the avenger’s rage _5

Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:

Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,

He shudders in death’s latest agonies;

Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,

Yet does his parting breath essay to speak— _10

‘Oh God! my wife, my children—Monarch thou

For whose support this fainting frame lies low;

For whose support in distant lands I bleed,

Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed.

He hears me not—ah! no—kings cannot hear, _15

For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear.

To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan,

Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan.

Oh! now I die—but still is death’s fierce pain—

God hears my prayer—we meet, we meet again.’ _20

He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed,

And with a parting groan his spirit fled.

Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe

The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow;

For you how many a mother weeps her son, _25

Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run!

For you how many a widow drops a tear,

In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier!

‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries,

‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? _30

Is this the system which Thy powerful sway,

Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay,

Formed and approved?—it cannot be—but oh!

Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’

’Tis not—He never bade the war-note swell, _35

He never triumphed in the work of hell—

Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed,

Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.

Ah! when will come the sacred fated time,

When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime, _40

Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride,

Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men’s side?

Ah! when will come the time, when o’er the plain

No more shall death and desolation reign?

When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, _45

And the stern warrior’s arm the sickle wield?

Not whilst some King, in cold ambition’s dreams,

Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;

Not whilst for private pique the public fall,

And one frail mortal’s mandate governs all. _50

Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway;

Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away.

Careless who lives or dies—so that he gains

Some trivial point for which he took the pains.

What then are Kings?—I see the trembling crowd, _55

I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud;

Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile,

But April’s sunshine is a Monarch’s smile—

Kings are but dust—the last eventful day

Will level all and make them lose their sway; _60

Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch’s hand,

And from the warrior’s grasp wrest the ensanguined brand.

Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone,

Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown?

And love and concord hast thou swept away, _65

As if incongruous with thy parted sway?

Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear.

Now o’er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear,

With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;—

List’ning he pauses on the embattled plain, _70

Then speeding swiftly o’er the ensanguined heath,

Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death.

See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car,

He scents the battle’s carnage from afar;

Hell and Destruction mark his mad career, _75

He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear;

Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell,

That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell.

‘It is thy work!’ I hear a voice repeat,

Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; _80

And at the orphan’s sigh, the widow’s moan,

Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne—

‘It is thy work, O Monarch;’ now the sound

Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around,

Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell _85

That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell,

Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove,

Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.

NOTE:

War: the title is Woodberry’s, 1893; no title, 1810.

***

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC

AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

’Tis midnight now—athwart the murky air,

Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam;

From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare,

It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.

I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5

I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings;

My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind

The mazy volume of commingling things,

When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.

I heard a yell—it was not the knell, _10

When the blasts on the wild lake sleep,

That floats on the pause of the summer gale’s swell,

O’er the breast of the waveless deep.

I thought it had been death’s accents cold

That bade me recline on the shore; _15

I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould,

And thought to breathe no more.

But a heavenly sleep

That did suddenly steep

In balm my bosom’s pain, _20

Pervaded my soul,

And free from control,

Did mine intellect range again.

Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud,

Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; _25

My form upborne by viewless aether rode,

And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night.

What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears,

What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye!

Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, _30

More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by,

And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.

But fairer than the spirits of the air,

More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry,

Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, _35

Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky.

Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band

Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away;

They welcome virtue to its native land,

And songs of triumph greet the joyous day _40

When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.

Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul,

E’en though the tide of time has rolled between;

They mock weak matter’s impotent control,

And seek of endless life the eternal scene. _45

At death’s vain summons THIS will never die,

In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay—

These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie

Thy soul, O Charlotte, ‘yond this chain of clay,

To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. _50

Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore

A tyrant’s heart-strings from his guilty breast,

Thine was the daring at a tyrant’s gore,

To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest;

And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear _55

From its base shrine a despot’s haughty soul,

To laugh at sorrow in secure despair,

To mock, with smiles, life’s lingering control,

And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.

Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep _60

With endless tortures goad their guilty shades.

I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep

Along the burning length of yon arcades;

And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain;

He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. _65

‘Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain,

With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell

To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.’

...

Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet

They echo to the sound of angels’ feet. _70

...

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread,

For there is prepared thy nuptial bed.

Oh haste—hark! hark!—they’re gone.

...

CHORUS OF SPIRITS:

Stay, ye days of contentment and joy,

Whilst love every care is erasing, _75

Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy,

And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft passion be near,

Which mortals, frail mortals, can know,

Let love shed on the bosom a tear, _80

And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS:

‘Soft, my dearest angel, stay,

Oh! you suck my soul away;

Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow!

Tides of maddening passion roll, _85

And streams of rapture drown my soul.

Now give me one more billing kiss,

Let your lips now repeat the bliss,

Endless kisses steal my breath,

No life can equal such a death.’ _90

CHARLOTTE:

‘Oh! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fair,

And I will clasp thy form;

Serene is the breath of the balmy air,

But I think, love, thou feelest me warm

And I will recline on thy marble neck _95

Till I mingle into thee;

And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek,

And thou shalt give kisses to me.

For here is no morn to flout our delight,

Oh! dost thou not joy at this? _100

And here we may lie an endless night,

A long, long night of bliss.’

Spirits! when raptures move,

Say what it is to love,

When passion’s tear stands on the cheek, _105

When bursts the unconscious sigh;

And the tremulous lips dare not speak

What is told by the soul-felt eye.

But what is sweeter to revenge’s ear

Than the fell tyrant’s last expiring yell? _110

Yes! than love’s sweetest blisses ’tis more dear

To drink the floatings of a despot’s knell.

I wake—’tis done—’tis over.

NOTE:

_66 ye]thou 1810.

***

DESPAIR.

And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm

In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night?

Can you, ye flow’rets, spread your perfumed balm

Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright?

And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still _5

Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high?

Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill,

And, in the eternal mansions of the sky,

Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyr’s wing, _10

Louder it floats along the unruffled sky;

Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string—

Now faint in distant air the murmurs die.

Awhile it stills the tide of agony.

Now—now it loftier swells—again stern woe _15

Arises with the awakening melody.

Again fierce torments, such as demons know,

In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm,

Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, _20

Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form,

And roll the tempest’s wildest swell along.

Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash,

Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder’s roar;

Arouse the whirlwind—and let ocean dash _25

In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore,—

Destroy this life or let earth’s fabric be no more.

Yes! every tie that links me here is dead;

Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey,

Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, _30

I come, terrific power, I come away.

Then o’er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell,

In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain;

And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell,

I’ll echo back their deadly yells again, _35

Cursing the power that ne’er made aught in vain.

***

FRAGMENT.

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away,

Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind;

How long will horror nerve this frame of clay?

I’m dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.

Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, _5

And yet that may not ever, ever be,

Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell;

Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me;

Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, _10

I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes,

The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge,

And on the blast a frightful yell arose.

Wild flew the meteors o’er the maddened main,

Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; _15

Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain,

Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air,

’Twas like a spirit’s song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac—like he was to me,

I said—‘Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? _20

And canst thou not contend with agony,

That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?’

‘Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form,

And I will go to slumber in her grave;

And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, _25

Will sweep at midnight o’er the wildered wave;

Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?’

‘Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear,

This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more—

But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, _30

Can shriek in horror to the tempest’s roar.’

***

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

What was the shriek that struck Fancy’s ear

As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?

Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,

And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.

It is the Benshie’s moan on the storm, _5

Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin,

Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,

Winged with the power of some ruthless king,

And sweeps o’er the breast of the prostrate plain.

It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell _10

That poured its low moan on the stillness of night:

It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,

Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore;

But aye at the close of seven years’ end,

That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, _15

And aye at the close of seven years’ end,

A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill

Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath.

It is not the shade of a murdered man,

Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, _20

And howls in the pause of the eddying storm.

This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill,

’Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul.

’Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon’s scream,

Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o’er the corpse _25

Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell.

It tells the approach of a mystic form,

A white courser bears the shadowy sprite;

More thin they are than the mists of the mountain,

When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. _30

More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona,

When winter rides on the northern blast,

And howls in the midst of the leafless wood.

Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving,

And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, _35

Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky,

The phantom courser scours the waste,

And his rider howls in the thunder’s roar.

O’er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven

Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. _40

The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure,

Yet the ‘wildered peasant, that oft passes by,

With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form:

And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead,

The startled passenger shudders to hear, _45

More distinct than the thunder’s wildest roar.

Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns

To eternity, curses the champion of Erin,

Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight,

And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons; _50

Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs,

Though ‘wildered by death, yet never to die!

Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares,

Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch

Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain; _55

Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead

In horror pause on the fitful gale.

They float on the swell of the eddying tempest,

And scared seek the caves of gigantic...

Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds _60

On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake,

And mingles its swell with the moonlight air.

***

MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.

Art thou indeed forever gone,

Forever, ever, lost to me?

Must this poor bosom beat alone,

Or beat at all, if not for thee?

Ah! why was love to mortals given, _5

To lift them to the height of Heaven,

Or dash them to the depths of Hell?

Yet I do not reproach thee, dear!

Ah, no! the agonies that swell

This panting breast, this frenzied brain, _10

Might wake my —‘s slumb’ring tear.

Oh! Heaven is witness I did love,

And Heaven does know I love thee still,

Does know the fruitless sick’ning thrill,

When reason’s judgement vainly strove _15

To blot thee from my memory;

But which might never, never be.

Oh! I appeal to that blest day

When passion’s wildest ecstasy

Was coldness to the joys I knew, _20

When every sorrow sunk away.

Oh! I had never lived before,

But now those blisses are no more.

And now I cease to live again,

I do not blame thee, love; ah, no! _25

The breast that feels this anguished woe.

Throbs for thy happiness alone.

Two years of speechless bliss are gone,

I thank thee, dearest, for the dream.

’Tis night—what faint and distant scream _30

Comes on the wild and fitful blast?

It moans for pleasures that are past,

It moans for days that are gone by.

Oh! lagging hours, how slow you fly!

I see a dark and lengthened vale, _35

The black view closes with the tomb;

But darker is the lowering gloom

That shades the intervening dale.

In visioned slumber for awhile

I seem again to share thy smile, _40

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!

[End of “Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson”.]

***

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...

***

BIGOTRY’S VICTIM.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated

1809-10. The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind,

The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair?

When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind

Repose trust in his footsteps of air?

No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair, _5

The monster transfixes his prey,

On the sand flows his life-blood away;

Whilst India’s rocks to his death-yells reply,

Protracting the horrible harmony.

Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, _10

Dares fearless to perish defending her brood,

Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches

Thirsting—ay, thirsting for blood;

And demands, like mankind, his brother for food;

Yet more lenient, more gentle than they; _15

For hunger, not glory, the prey

Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead.

Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer’s head.

Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains,

And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air, _20

Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains,

Though a fiercer than tiger is there.

Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair,

Though its shadow eclipses the day,

And the darkness of deepest dismay _25

Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around,

And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

They came to the fountain to draw from its stream

Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see;

They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam, _30

Then perished, and perished like me.

For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee;

The most tenderly loved of my soul

Are slaves to his hated control.

He pursues me, he blasts me! ’Tis in vain that I fly: _35 -

What remains, but to curse him,—to curse him and die?

***

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated

1809-10. The poem, with title as above, is included in the Esdaile

manuscript book.]

Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes,

Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair,

In which the warm current of love never freezes,

As it rises unmingled with selfishness there,

Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, _5

Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise,

Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.

Or where the stern warrior, his country defending,

Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour,

Or o’er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending, _10

Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore

Plants Liberty’s flag on the slave-peopled shore,

With victory’s cry, with the shout of the free,

Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee.

For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning, _15

Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain,

When to others the wished-for arrival of morning

Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain;

But regret is an insult—to grieve is in vain:

And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair _20

Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there?

But still ’twas some Spirit of kindness descending

To share in the load of mortality’s woe,

Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending

Bade sympathy’s tenderest teardrop to flow. _25

Not for THEE soft compassion celestials did know,

But if ANGELS can weep, sure MAN may repine,

May weep in mute grief o’er thy low-laid shrine.

And did I then say, for the altar of glory,

That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers I’d entwine, _30

Though with millions of blood-reeking victims ’twas gory,

Though the tears of the widow polluted its shrine,

Though around it the orphans, the fatherless pine?

Oh! Fame, all thy glories I’d yield for a tear

To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. _35

***

LOVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1811.

The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

Why is it said thou canst not live

In a youthful breast and fair,

Since thou eternal life canst give,

Canst bloom for ever there?

Since withering pain no power possessed, _5

Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue,

Nor time’s dread victor, death, confessed,

Though bathed with his poison dew,

Still thou retain’st unchanging bloom,

Fixed tranquil, even in the tomb. _10

And oh! when on the blest, reviving,

The day-star dawns of love,

Each energy of soul surviving

More vivid, soars above,

Hast thou ne’er felt a rapturous thrill, _15

Like June’s warm breath, athwart thee fly,

O’er each idea then to steal,

When other passions die?

Felt it in some wild noonday dream,

When sitting by the lonely stream, _20

Where Silence says, ‘Mine is the dell’;

And not a murmur from the plain,

And not an echo from the fell,

Disputes her silent reign.

***

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870;

dated 1811.]

By the mossy brink,

With me the Prince shall sit and think;

Shall muse in visioned Regency,

Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty.

***

TO A STAR.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1811.

The title is Rossetti’s (1870).]

Sweet star, which gleaming o’er the darksome scene

Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest,

Spanglet of light on evening’s shadowy veil,

Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake,

Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet _5

Than the expiring morn-star’s paly fires:—

Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep,

And all is hushed,—all, save the voice of Love,

Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast

Of soft Favonius, which at intervals _10

Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but

Lulling the slaves of interest to repose

With that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would look

In thy dear beam till every bond of sense

Became enamoured— _15

***

TO MARY WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870;

dated 1810-11.]

Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow

Struggling in thine haggard eye:

Firmness dare to borrow

From the wreck of destiny;

For the ray morn’s bloom revealing _5

Can never boast so bright an hue

As that which mocks concealing,

And sheds its loveliest light on you.

Yet is the tie departed

Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss? _10

Has it left thee broken-hearted

In a world so cold as this?

Yet, though, fainting fair one,

Sorrow’s self thy cup has given,

Dream thou’lt meet thy dear one,

Never more to part, in Heaven. _15

Existence would I barter

For a dream so dear as thine,

And smile to die a martyr

On affection’s bloodless shrine. _20

Nor would I change for pleasure

That withered hand and ashy cheek,

If my heart enshrined a treasure

Such as forces thine to break.

***

A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS: FROM FACTS, 1811.

[Published (from Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by Rossetti,

“Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870. Rossetti’s title is “Mother

and Son”.]

She was an aged woman; and the years

Which she had numbered on her toilsome way

Had bowed her natural powers to decay.

She was an aged woman; yet the ray

Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, _5

Pressed into light by silent misery,

Hath soul’s imperishable energy.

She was a cripple, and incapable

To add one mite to gold-fed luxury:

And therefore did her spirit dimly feel _10

That poverty, the crime of tainting stain,

Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.

One only son’s love had supported her.

She long had struggled with infirmity,

Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die, _15

When fate has spared to rend some mental tie,

Would many wish, and surely fewer dare.

But, when the tyrant’s bloodhounds forced the child

For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield—

Bend to another’s will—become a thing _20

More senseless than the sword of battlefield—

Then did she feel keen sorrow’s keenest sting;

And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.

For seven years did this poor woman live

In unparticipated solitude. _25

Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude

Picking the scattered remnants of its wood.

If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve.

The gleanings of precarious charity

Her scantiness of food did scarce supply. _30

The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt

Within her ghastly hollowness of eye:

Each arrow of the season’s change she felt.

Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run,

One only hope: it was—once more to see her son. _35

It was an eve of June, when every star

Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live.

She rested on the moor. ’Twas such an eve

When first her soul began indeed to grieve:

Then he was here; now he is very far. _40

The sweetness of the balmy evening

A sorrow o’er her aged soul did fling,

Yet not devoid of rapture’s mingled tear:

A balm was in the poison of the sting.

This aged sufferer for many a year _45

Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed

A sigh—and turning round, clasped William to her breast!

And, though his form was wasted by the woe

Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak,

Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek _50

Of slavery’s violence and scorn did speak,

Yet did the aged woman’s bosom glow.

The vital fire seemed re-illumed within

By this sweet unexpected welcoming.

Oh, consummation of the fondest hope _55

That ever soared on Fancy’s wildest wing!

Oh, tenderness that foundst so sweet a scope!

Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway,

When THOU canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they!

Her son, compelled, the country’s foes had fought, _60

Had bled in battle; and the stern control

Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul

Utterly poisoned life’s unmingled bowl,

And unsubduable evils on him brought.

He was the shadow of the lusty child _65

Who, when the time of summer season smiled,

Did earn for her a meal of honesty,

And with affectionate discourse beguiled

The keen attacks of pain and poverty;

Till Power, as envying her this only joy, _70

From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.

And now cold charity’s unwelcome dole

Was insufficient to support the pair;

And they would perish rather than would bear

The law’s stern slavery, and the insolent stare _75

With which law loves to rend the poor man’s soul—

The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise

Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys

Wake in this scene of legal misery.

...

NOTES:

_28 grieve Esdaile manuscript; feel, 1870.

_37 to those on earth that live Esdaile manuscripts; omitted, 1870.

***

TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by

Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1812.

Rossetti’s title is “The Mexican Revolution”.]

Brothers! between you and me

Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar:

Yet in spirit oft I see

On thy wild and winding shore

Freedom’s bloodless banners wave,— _5

Feel the pulses of the brave

Unextinguished in the grave,—

See them drenched in sacred gore,—

Catch the warrior’s gasping breath

Murmuring ‘Liberty or death!’ _10

Shout aloud! Let every slave,

Crouching at Corruption’s throne,

Start into a man, and brave

Racks and chains without a groan:

And the castle’s heartless glow, _15

And the hovel’s vice and woe,

Fade like gaudy flowers that blow—

Weeds that peep, and then are gone

Whilst, from misery’s ashes risen,

Love shall burst the captive’s prison. _20

Cotopaxi! bid the sound

Through thy sister mountains ring,

Till each valley smile around

At the blissful welcoming!

And, O thou stern Ocean deep, _25

Thou whose foamy billows sweep

Shores where thousands wake to weep

Whilst they curse a villain king,

On the winds that fan thy breast

Bear thou news of Freedom’s rest! _30

Can the daystar dawn of love,

Where the flag of war unfurled

Floats with crimson stain above

The fabric of a ruined world?

Never but to vengeance driven _35

When the patriot’s spirit shriven

Seeks in death its native Heaven!

There, to desolation hurled,

Widowed love may watch thy bier,

Balm thee with its dying tear. _40

***

TO IRELAND.

[Published, 1-10, by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”,

1870; 11-17, 25-28, by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; 18-24 by

Kingsland, “Poet-Lore”, July, 1892. Dated 1812.]

Bear witness, Erin! when thine injured isle

Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile,

Its cornfields waving in the winds that sweep

The billowy surface of thy circling deep!

Thou tree whose shadow o’er the Atlantic gave _5

Peace, wealth and beauty, to its friendly wave, its blossoms fade,

And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade;

Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty fruit,

Whose chillness struck a canker to its root. _10

The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley — Complete · 第 25 / 26 章

How plain a language is spoken by all this! Prometheus (who represents