Selected Poems and Prose Read Online

There is one road

To peace and that is truth, which follow ye!

Love sometimes leads astray to misery.

350Yet think not tho’ subdued—and I may well

Say that I am subdued—that the full Hell

Within me would infect the untainted breast

Of sacred nature with its own unrest;

As some perverted beings think to find

355In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind

Which scorn or hate have wounded—O how vain!

The dagger heals not but may rend again …

Believe that I am ever still the same

In creed as in resolve, and what may tame

360My heart, must leave the understanding free

Or all would sink in this keen agony—

Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry,

Or with my silence sanction tyranny,

Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain

365In any madness which the world calls gain,

Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern

As those which make me what I am, or turn

To avarice or misanthropy or lust …

Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!

370Till then the dungeon may demand its prey,

And poverty and shame may meet and say—

Halting beside me on the public way—

“That love-devoted youth is ours—let’s sit

Beside him—he may live some six months yet.”

375Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,

May ask some willing victim, or ye friends

May fall under some sorrow which this heart

Or hand may share or vanquish or avert;

I am prepared: in truth with no proud joy

380To do or suffer aught, as when a boy

I did devote to justice and to love

My nature, worthless now!…

                                          ‘I must remove

A veil from my pent mind. ’Tis torn aside!

O, pallid as death’s dedicated bride,

385Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,

Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s call

I haste, invited to thy wedding ball

To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom

Thou hast deserted me … and made the tomb

390Thy bridal bed … but I beside your feet

Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet—

Thus … wide awake tho’ dead … yet stay, O stay!

Go not so soon—I know not what I say—

Hear but my reasons … I am mad, I fear,

395My fancy is o’erwrought … thou art not here …

Pale art thou, ’tis most true … but thou art gone,

Thy work is finished … I am left alone!—

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

   ‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast

Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest

400As in repayment of the warmth it lent?

Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?

Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought

That thou wert she who said “You kiss me not

Ever, I fear you cease to love me now”—

405In truth I loved even to my overthrow

Her, who would fain forget these words: but they

Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

   ‘You say that I am proud—that when I speak

My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break

410The spirit it expresses … Never one

Humbled himself before, as I have done!

Even the instinctive worm on which we tread

Turns, tho’ it wound not—then with prostrate head

Sinks in the dust and writhes like me—and dies?

415No: wears a living death of agonies!

As the slow shadows of the pointed grass

Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass

Slow, ever-moving,—making moments be

As mine seem—each an immortality!

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

420   ‘That you had never seen me—never heard

My voice, and more than all had ne’er endured

The deep pollution of my loathed embrace—

That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face—

That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out

425The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root

With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’er

Our hearts had for a moment mingled there

To disunite in horror—these were not

With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought

430Which flits athwart our musings, but can find

No rest within a pure and gentle mind …

Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word

And cearedst my memory o’er them,—for I heard

And can forget not … they were ministered

435One after one, those curses. Mix them up

Like self-destroying poisons in one cup,

And they will make one blessing, which thou ne’er

Didst imprecate for, on me,—death.

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

                                                ‘It were

A cruel punishment for one most cruel,

440If such can love, to make that love the fuel

Of the mind’s hell—hate, scorn, remorse, despair:

But me—whose heart a stranger’s tear might wear

As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,

Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan

445For woes which others hear not, and could see

The absent with the glance of phantasy,

And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,

Following the captive to his dungeon deep;

Me—who am as a nerve o’er which do creep

450The else unfelt oppressions of this earth

And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth

When all beside was cold—that thou on me

Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony—

Such curses are from lips once eloquent

455With love’s too partial praise—let none relent

Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name

Henceforth, if an example for the same

They seek … for thou on me lookedst so, and so—

And didst speak thus … and thus … I live to shew

460How much men bear and die not!

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

                                             ‘Thou wilt tell

With the grimace of hate how horrible

It was to meet my love when thine grew less;

Thou wilt admire how I could e’er address

Such features to love’s work … this taunt, tho’ true,

465(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue

Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)

Shall not be thy defence … for since thy lip

Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled

With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled

470Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught

But as love changes what it loveth not

After long years and many trials.

                                          ‘How vain

Are words! I thought never to speak again

Not even in secret,—not to my own heart—

475But from my lips the unwilling accents start

And from my pen the words flow as I write,

Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears … my sight

Is dim to see that charactered in vain

On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain

480And eats into it … blotting all things fair

And wise and good which time had written there.

   ‘Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

The work of their own hearts and this must be

Our chastisement or recompense—O child!

485I would that thine were like to be more mild

For both our wretched sakes … for thine the most

Who feelest already all that thou hast lost

Without the power to wish it thine again;

And as slow years pass, a funereal train

490Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend

Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend

No thought on my dead memory?

*      *      *      *      *      *      *

                                          ‘Alas, love!

Fear me not … against thee I would not move

A finger in despite. Do I not live

495That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?

I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate

And that thy lot may be less desolate

Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain

From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

500Then, when thou speakest of me, never say

He could forgive not. Here I cast away

All human passions, all revenge, all pride;

I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide

Under these words like embers, every spark

505Of that which has consumed me—quick and dark

The grave is yawning … as its roof shall cover

My limbs with dust and worms under and over

So let Oblivion hide this grief … the air

Closes upon my accents, as despair

510Upon my heart—let death upon despair!’

   He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,

Then rising, with a melancholy smile

Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept

A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept

515And muttered some familiar name, and we

Wept without shame in his society.

I think I never was impressed so much;

The man who were not, must have lacked a touch

Of human nature … then we lingered not,

520Although our argument was quite forgot,

But calling the attendants, went to dine

At Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wine

Could give us spirits, for we talked of him

And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;

525And we agreed his was some dreadful ill

Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,

By a dear friend; some deadly change in love

Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;

For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot

530Of falshood on his mind which flourished not

But in the light of all-beholding truth,

And having stamped this canker on his youth

She had abandoned him … and how much more

Might be his woe, we guessed not—he had store

535Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess

From his nice habits and his gentleness;

These were now lost … it were a grief indeed

If he had changed one unsustaining reed

For all that such a man might else adorn.

540The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;

For the wild language of his grief was high,

Such as in measure were called poetry,

And I remember one remark which then

Maddalo made. He said: ‘Most wretched men

545Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’

   If I had been an unconnected man

I, from this moment, should have formed some plan

Never to leave sweet Venice,—for to me

550It was delight to ride by the lone sea;

And then, the town is silent—one may write

Or read in gondolas by day or night

Having the little brazen lamp alight,

Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,

555Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair

Which were twin-born with poetry, and all

We seek in towns, with little to recall

Regrets for the green country. I might sit

In Maddalo’s great palace, and his wit

560And subtle talk would cheer the winter night

And make me know myself, and the firelight

Would flash upon our faces, till the day

Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay.

But I had friends in London too: the chief

565Attraction here, was that I sought relief

From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought

Within me—’twas perhaps an idle thought,

But I imagined that if day by day

I watched him, and but seldom went away,

570And studied all the beatings of his heart

With zeal, as men study some stubborn art

For their own good, and could by patience find

An entrance to the caverns of his mind,

I might reclaim him from his dark estate:

575In friendships I had been most fortunate—

Yet never saw I one whom I would call

More willingly my friend; and this was all

Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good

Oft come and go in crowds and solitude

580And leave no trace—but what I now designed

Made for long years impression on my mind.

The following morning urged by my affairs

I left bright Venice.

                        After many years

And many changes I returned; the name

585Of Venice, and its aspect was the same;

But Maddalo was travelling far away

Among the mountains of Armenia.

His dog was dead. His child had now become

A woman; such as it has been my doom

590To meet with few, a wonder of this earth

Where there is little of transcendent worth,

Like one of Shakespeare’s women: kindly she

And with a manner beyond courtesy

Received her father’s friend; and when I asked

595Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked

And told as she had heard the mournful tale:

That the poor sufferer’s health began to fail

Two years from my departure, but that then

The Lady who had left him, came again.

600‘Her mien had been imperious, but she now

Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought her low.

Her coming made him better, and they stayed

Together at my father’s—for I played

As I remember with the lady’s shawl—

605I might be six years old—but after all

She left him.’ … ‘Why, her heart must have been tough:

How did it end?’ ‘And was this not enough?

They met—they parted.’—‘Child, is there no more?

Something within that interval which bore

610The stamp of why they parted, how they met?’

‘Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet

Those wrinkled cheeks with youth’s remembered tears,

Ask me no more, but let the silent years

Be closed and ceared over their memory

615As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.’

I urged and questioned still, she told me how

All happened—but the cold world shall not know.

Stanzas Written in Dejection—December 1818, near Naples

      The Sun is warm, the sky is clear,

      The waves are dancing fast and bright,

      Blue isles and snowy mountains wear

      The purple noon’s transparent might,

5      The breath of the moist earth is light

      Around its unexpanded buds;

      Like many a voice of one delight

      The winds, the birds, the Ocean-floods;

The City’s voice itself is soft, like Solitude’s.

10      I see the Deep’s untrampled floor

      With green and purple seaweeds strown,

      I see the waves upon the shore

      Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown;

      I sit upon the sands alone;

15      The lightning of the noontide Ocean

      Is flashing round me, and a tone

      Arises from its measured motion,

How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

      Alas, I have nor hope nor health,

20      Nor peace within nor calm around,

      Nor that content surpassing wealth

      The sage in meditation found,

      And walked with inward glory crowned;

      Nor fame, nor power nor love nor leisure—

25      Others I see whom these surround,

      Smiling they live and call life pleasure:

To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

      Yet now despair itself is mild

      Even as the winds and waters are;

30      I could lie down like a tired child

      And weep away the life of care

      Which I have borne and yet must bear

      Till Death like Sleep might steal on me,

      And I might feel in the warm air

35      My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.

      Some might lament that I were cold,

      As I, when this sweet day is gone,

      Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,

40      Insults with this untimely moan—

      They might lament,—for I am one

      Whom men love not, and yet regret;

      Unlike this Day, which, when the Sun

      Shall on its stainless glory set,

45Will linger though enjoyed, like joy in Memory yet.

The Two Spirits—An Allegory

First Spirit

O Thou who plumed with strong desire

Would float above the Earth—beware!

A shadow tracks thy flight of fire—

      Night is coming.

5Bright are the regions of the air

And when winds and beams [  ]

It were delight to wander there—

      Night is coming!

Second Spirit

The deathless stars are bright above;

10If I should cross the shade of night

Within my heart is the lamp of love

      And that is day—

And the moon will smile with gentle light

On my golden plumes where’er they move;

15The meteors will linger around my flight

      And make night day.

First Spirit

But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken

Hail and Lightning and stormy rain—

See, the bounds of the air are shaken,

20      Night is coming.

The red swift clouds of the hurricane

Yon declining sun have overtaken,

The clash of the hail sweeps o’er the plain—

      Night is coming.

Second Spirit

25I see the glare and I hear the sound—

I’ll sail on the flood of the tempest dark

With the calm within and light around

      Which make night day;

And thou when the gloom is deep and stark

30Look from thy dull earth slumberbound—

My moonlike flight thou then mayst mark

      On high, far away.

Some say there is a precipice

Where one vast pine hangs frozen to ruin

35O’er piles of snow and chasms of ice

      Mid Alpine mountains,

And that the leagued storm pursuing

That winged shape forever flies

Round those hoar branches, aye renewing

40      Its aery fountains.

Some say when the nights are dry and clear

And the death dews sleep on the morass,

Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller

      Which make night day—

45And a shape like his early love doth pass

Upborne by her wild and glittering hair,

And when he awakes on the fragrant grass

      He finds night day.

Sonnet (‘Lift not the painted veil’)

Lift not the painted veil which those who live

Call Life; though unreal shapes be pictured there,

And it but mimic all we would believe

With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear

5And Hope, twin Destinies, who ever weave

Their shadows o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.

I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,

For his lost heart was tender, things to love,

But found them not, alas! nor was there aught

10The world contains, the which he could approve.

Through the unheeding many he did move,

A splendour among shadows, a bright blot

Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove

For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS

AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE?

PREFACE

The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.

I have presumed to employ a similar licence. The Prometheus Unbound of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an ambition, which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage, and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement, which, in the Hero of Paradise Lost, interfere with the interest. The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling, it engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.

This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening of spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of this drama.

The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works (since a higher merit would probably be denied to me) to which I am willing that my readers should impute this singularity.

One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind.

The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which distinguishes the modern literature of England, has not been, as a general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer. The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same; the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare) have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion.