The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley Read Online

I shall endeavour to extract, from the midst of insult and contempt and maledictions, those admonitions which may tend to correct whatever imperfections such censurers may discover in this my first serious appeal to the Public. If certain Critics were as clear-sighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their virulent writings! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with their paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the Public judge that my composition is worthless, I shall indeed bow before the tribunal from which Milton received his crown of immortality; and shall seek to gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which may nerve me to some new enterprise of thought which may not be worthless. I cannot conceive that Lucretius, when he meditated that poem whose doctrines are yet the basis of our metaphysical knowledge, and whose eloquence has been the wonder of mankind, wrote in awe of such censure as the hired sophists of the impure and superstitious noblemen of Rome might affix to what he should produce. It was at the period when Greece was led captive, and Asia made tributary to the Republic, fast verging itself to slavery and ruin, that a multitude of Syrian captives, bigoted to the worship of their obscene Ashtaroth, and the unworthy successors of Socrates and Zeno, found there a precarious subsistence by administering, under the name of freedmen, to the vices and vanities of the great. These wretched men were skilled to plead, with a superficial but plausible set of sophisms, in favour of that contempt for virtue which is the portion of slaves, and that faith in portents, the most fatal substitute for benevolence in the imaginations of men, which, arising from the enslaved communities of the East, then first began to overwhelm the western nations in its stream. Were these the kind of men whose disapprobation the wise and lofty-minded Lucretius should have regarded with a salutary awe? The latest and perhaps the meanest of those who follow in his footsteps would disdain to hold life on such conditions.

The Poem now presented to the Public occupied little more than six months in the composition. That period has been devoted to the task with unremitting ardour and enthusiasm. I have exercised a watchful and earnest criticism on my work as it grew under my hands. I would willingly have sent it forth to the world with that perfection which long labour and revision is said to bestow. But I found that, if I should gain something in exactness by this method, I might lose much of the newness and energy of imagery and language as it flowed fresh from my mind. And, although the mere composition occupied no more than six months, the thoughts thus arranged were slowly gathered in as many years.

I trust that the reader will carefully distinguish between those opinions which have a dramatic propriety in reference to the characters which they are designed to elucidate, and such as are properly my own. The erroneous and degrading idea which men have conceived of a Supreme Being, for instance, is spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself. The belief which some superstitious persons whom I have brought upon the stage entertain of the Deity, as injurious to the character of his benevolence, is widely different from my own. In recommending also a great and important change in the spirit which animates the social institutions of mankind, I have avoided all flattery to those violent and malignant passions of our nature which are ever on the watch to mingle with and to alloy the most beneficial innovations. There is no quarter given to Revenge, or Envy, or Prejudice. Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law which should govern the moral world.

DEDICATION

                         There is no danger to a man, that knows

                         What life and death is: there’s not any law

                         Exceeds his knowledge; neither is it lawful

                         That he should stoop to any other law.

                                                 —CHAPMAN.

TO MARY — —

I

                 So now my summer task is ended, Mary,

                    And I return to thee, mine own heart’s home;

                 As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faëry,

                    Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome;

5

5                  Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame become

                 A star among the stars of mortal night,

                    If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom,

                 Its doubtful promise thus I would unite

               With thy belovèd name, thou Child of love and light.

II

10

10             The toil which stole from thee so many an hour,

                    Is ended,—and the fruit is at thy feet!

                 No longer where the woods to frame a bower

                    With interlacèd branches mix and meet,

                    Or where with sound like many voices sweet,

15

15             Waterfalls leap among wild islands green,

                    Which framed for my lone boat a lone retreat

                 Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen:

               But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been.

III

                 Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friends, when first

20

20                The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass.

                 I do remember well the hour which burst

                    My spirit’s sleep: a fresh May-dawn it was,

                    When I walked forth upon the glittering grass,

                 And wept, I knew not why; until there rose

25

25                From the near schoolhouse, voices, that, alas!

                 Were but one echo from a world of woes—

               The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.

IV

                 And then I clasped my hands and looked around—

                    —But none was near to mock my streaming eyes,

30

30             Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground—

                    So, without shame, I spake:—‘I will be wise,

                    And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies

                 Such power, for I grow weary to behold

                    The selfish and the strong still tyrannise

35

35             Without reproach or check.’ I then controlled

               My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold.

V

                 And from that hour did I with earnest thought

                    Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore,

                 Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught

40

40                I cared to learn, but from that secret store

                    Wrought linkèd armour for my soul, before

                 It might walk forth to war among mankind;

                    Thus power and hope were strengthened more and more

                 Within me, till there came upon my mind

45

45           A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined.

VI

                 Alas, that love should be a blight and snare

                    To those who seek all sympathies in one!—

                 Such once I sought in vain; then black despair,

                    The shadow of a starless night, was thrown

50

50                Over the world in which I moved alone:—

                 Yet never found I one not false to me,

                    Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone

                 Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be

               Aught but a lifeless clod, until revived by thee.

VII

55

55             Thou Friend, whose presence on my wintry heart

                    Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain;

                 How beautiful and calm and free thou wert

                    In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain

                    Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain,

60

60             And walked as free as light the clouds among,

                    Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain

                 From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung

               To meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long!

VIII

                 No more alone through the world’s wilderness,

65

65                Although I trod the paths of high intent,

                 I journeyed now: no more companionless,

                    Where solitude is like despair, I went.—

                    There is the wisdom of a stern content

                 When Poverty can blight the just and good,

70

70                When Infamy dares mock the innocent,

                 And cherished friends turn with the multitude

               To trample: this was ours, and we unshaken stood!

IX

                 Now has descended a serener hour,

                    And with inconstant fortune, friends return;

75

75             Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power

                    Which says:—Let scorn be not repaid with scorn.

                    And from thy side two gentle babes are born

                 To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we

                    Most fortunate beneath life’s beaming morn;

80

80             And these delights, and thou, have been to me

               The parents of the Song I consecrate to thee.

X

                 Is it, that now my inexperienced fingers

                    But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?

                 Or, must the lyre on which my spirit lingers

85

85                Soon pause in silence, ne’er to sound again,

                    Though it might shake the Anarch Custom’s reign,

                 And charm the minds of men to Truth’s own sway

                    Holier than was Amphion’s? I would fain

                 Reply in hope—but I am worn away,

90

90           And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey.

XI

                 And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak:

                    Time may interpret to his silent years.

                 Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek,

                    And in the light thine ample forehead wears,

95

95                And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears,

                 And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy

                    Is whispered, to subdue my fondest fears:

                 And through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see

               A lamp of vestal fire burning internally.

XII

100

100           They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth,

                    Of glorious parents, thou aspiring Child.

                 I wonder not—for One then left this earth

                    Whose life was like a setting planet mild,

                    Which clothed thee in the radiance undefiled

105

105           Of its departing glory; still her fame

                    Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild

                 Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim

               The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name.

XIII

                 One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit,

110

110              Which was the echo of three thousand years;

                 And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it,

                    As some lone man who in a desert hears

                    The music of his home:—unwonted fears

                 Fell on the pale oppressors of our race,

115

115              And Faith, and Custom, and low-thoughted cares,

                 Like thunder-stricken dragons, for a space

               Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place.

XIV

                 Truth’s deathless voice pauses among mankind!

                    If there must be no response to my cry—

120

120           If men must rise and stamp with fury blind

                 On his pure name who loves them,—thou and I,

                    Sweet friend! can look from our tranquillity

                 Like lamps into the world’s tempestuous night,—

                    Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by

125

125           Which wrap them from the foundering seaman’s sight,

               That burn from year to year with unextinguished light.

CANTO I

I

                 When the last hope of trampled France had failed

                    Like a brief dream of unremaining glory,

                 From visions of despair I rose, and scaled

130

130              The peak of an aëreal promontory,

                    Whose caverned base with the vexed surge was hoary;

                 And saw the golden dawn break forth, and waken

                    Each cloud, and every wave:—but transitory

                 The calm: for sudden, the firm earth was shaken,

135

135         As if by the last wreck its frame were overtaken.

II

                 So as I stood, one blast of muttering thunder

                    Burst in far peals along the waveless deep,

                 When, gathering fast, around, above, and under,

                    Long trains of tremulous mist began to creep,

140

140              Until their complicating lines did steep

                 The orient sun in shadow:—not a sound

                    Was heard; one horrible repose did keep

                 The forests and the floods, and all around

               Darkness more dread than night was poured upon the ground.

III

145

145           Hark! ’tis the rushing of a wind that sweeps

                    Earth and the ocean. See! the lightnings yawn

                 Deluging Heaven with fire, and the lashed deeps

                    Glitter and boil beneath: it rages on,

                    One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves upthrown,

150

150           Lightning, and hail, and darkness eddying by.

                    There is a pause—the sea-birds, that were gone

                 Into their caves to shriek, come forth, to spy

               What calm has fall’n on earth, what light is in the sky.

IV

                 For, where the irresistible storm had cloven

155

155              That fearful darkness, the blue sky was seen

                 Fretted with many a fair cloud interwoven

                    Most delicately, and the ocean green,

                    Beneath that opening spot of blue serene,

                 Quivered like burning emerald: calm was spread

160

160              On all below; but far on high, between

                 Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds fled,

               Countless and swift as leaves on autumn’s tempest shed.

V

                 For ever, as the war became more fierce

                    Between the whirlwinds and the rack on high,

165

165           That spot grew more serene; blue light did pierce

                    The woof of those white clouds, which seem to lie

                    Far, deep, and motionless; while through the sky

                 The pallid semicircle of the moon

                    Passed on, in slow and moving majesty;

170

170           Its upper horn arrayed in mists, which soon

               But slowly fled, like dew beneath the beams of noon.

VI

                 I could not choose but gaze; a fascination

                    Dwelt in that moon, and sky, and clouds, which drew

                 My fancy thither, and in expectation

175

175              Of what I knew not, I remained:—the hue

                    Of the white moon, amid that heaven so blue,

                 Suddenly stained with shadow did appear;

                    A speck, a cloud, a shape, approaching grew,

                 Like a great ship in the sun’s sinking sphere

180

180         Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came anear.

VII

                 Even like a bark, which from a chasm of mountains,

                    Dark, vast, and overhanging, on a river

                 Which there collects the strength of all its fountains,

                    Comes forth, whilst with the speed its frame doth quiver,

185

185              Sails, oars, and stream, tending to one endeavour;

                 So, from that chasm of light a wingèd Form

                    On all the winds of heaven approaching ever

                 Floated, dilating as it came: the storm

               Pursued it with fierce blasts, and lightnings swift and warm.

VIII

190

190           A course precipitous, of dizzy speed,

                    Suspending thought and breath; a monstrous sight!

                 For in the air do I behold indeed

                    An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight:—

                    And now relaxing its impetuous flight,

195

195           Before the aëreal rock on which I stood,

                    The Eagle, hovering, wheeled to left and right,

                 And hung with lingering wings over the flood,

               And startled with its yells the wide air’s solitude.

IX

                 A shaft of light upon its wings descended,

200

200              And every golden feather gleamed therein—

                 Feather and scale, inextricably blended.

                    The Serpent’s mailed and many-coloured skin

                    Shone through the plumes its coils were twined within

                 By many a swoln and knotted fold, and high

205

205              And far, the neck, receding lithe and thin,

                 Sustained a crested head, which warily

               Shifted and glanced before the Eagle’s steadfast eye.

X

                 Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling

                    With clang of wings and scream, the Eagle sailed

210

210           Incessantly—sometimes on high concealing

                    Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed,

                    Drooped through the air; and still it shrieked and wailed,

                 And casting back its eager head, with beak

                    And talon unremittingly assailed

215

215           The wreathèd Serpent, who did ever seek

               Upon his enemy’s heart a mortal wound to wreak.

XI

                 What life, what power, was kindled and arose

                    Within the sphere of that appalling fray!

                 For, from the encounter of those wondrous foes,

220

220              A vapour like the sea’s suspended spray

                    Hung gathered: in the void air, far away,

                 Floated the shattered plumes; bright scales did leap,

                    Where’er the Eagle’s talons made their way,

                 Like sparks into the darkness;—as they sweep,

225

225         Blood stains the snowy foam of the tumultuous deep.

XII

                 Swift chances in that combat—many a check,

                    And many a change, a dark and wild turmoil;

                 Sometimes the Snake around his enemy’s neck

                    Locked in stiff rings his adamantine coil,

230

230              Until the Eagle, faint with pain and toil,

                 Remitted his strong flight, and near the sea

                    Languidly fluttered, hopeless so to foil

                 His adversary, who then reared on high

               His red and burning crest, radiant with victory.

XIII

235

235           Then on the white edge of the bursting surge,

                    Where they had sunk together, would the Snake

                 Relax his suffocating grasp, and scourge

                    The wind with his wild writhings; for to break

                    That chain of torment, the vast bird would shake

240

240           The strength of his unconquerable wings

                    As in despair, and with his sinewy neck,

                 Dissolve in sudden shock those linked rings,

               Then soar—as swift as smoke from a volcano springs.

XIV

                 Wile baffled wile, and strength encountered strength,

245

245              Thus long, but unprevailing:—the event

                 Of that portentous fight appeared at length:

                    Until the lamp of day was almost spent

                    It had endured, when lifeless, stark, and rent,

                 Hung high that mighty Serpent, and at last

250

250              Fell to the sea, while o’er the continent,

                 With clang of wings and scream the Eagle passed,

               Heavily borne away on the exhausted blast.

XV

                 And with it fled the tempest, so that ocean

                    And earth and sky shone through the atmosphere—

255

255           Only, ’twas strange to see the red commotion

                    Of waves like mountains o’er the sinking sphere

                    Of sunset sweep, and their fierce roar to hear

                 Amid the calm: down the steep path I wound

                    To the sea-shore—the evening was most clear

260

260           And beautiful, and there the sea I found

               Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slumber bound.

XVI

                 There was a Woman, beautiful as morning,

                    Sitting beneath the rocks, upon the sand

                 Of the waste sea—fair as one flower adorning

265

265              An icy wilderness—each delicate hand

                    Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band

                 Of her dark hair had fall’n, and so she sate

                    Looking upon the waves; on the bare strand

                 Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait,

270

270         Fair as herself, like Love by Hope left desolate.

XVII

                 It seemed that this fair Shape had looked upon

                    That unimaginable fight, and now

                 That her sweet eyes were weary of the sun,

                    As brightly it illustrated her woe;

275

275              For in the tears which silently to flow

                 Paused not, its lustre hung: she watching aye

                    The foam-wreaths which the faint tide wove below

                 Upon the spangled sands, groaned heavily,

               And after every groan looked up over the sea.

XVIII

280

280           And when she saw the wounded Serpent make

                    His path between the waves, her lips grew pale,

                 Parted, and quivered; the tears ceased to break

                    From her immovable eyes; no voice of wail

                    Escaped her; but she rose, and on the gale

285

285           Loosening her star-bright robe and shadowy hair

                    Poured forth her voice; the caverns of the vale

                 That opened to the ocean, caught it there,

               And filled with silver sounds the overflowing air.

XIX

                 She spake in language whose strange melody

290

290              Might not belong to earth. I hear, alone,

                 What made its music more melodious be,

                    The pity and the love of every tone;

                    But to the Snake those accents sweet were known

                 His native tongue and hers; nor did he beat

295

295              The hoar spray idly then, but winding on

                 Through the green shadows of the waves that meet

               Near to the shore, did pause beside her snowy feet.

XX

                 Then on the sands the Woman sate again,

                    And wept and clasped her hands, and all between,

300

300           Renewed the unintelligble strain

                    Of her melodious voice and eloquent mien;

                    And she unveiled her bosom, and the green

                 And glancing shadows of the sea did play

                    O’er its marmoreal depth:—one moment seen,

305

305           For ere the next, the Serpent did obey

               Her voice, and, coiled in rest in her embrace it lay.

XXI

                 Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes

                    Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet fair,

                 While yet the daylight lingereth in the skies

310

310              Which cleaves with arrowy beams the dark-red air,

                    And said: ‘To grieve is wise, but the despair

                 Was weak and vain which led thee here from sleep:

                    This shalt thou know, and more, if thou dost dare

                 With me and with this Serpent, o’er the deep,

315

315         A voyage divine and strange, companionship to keep.’

XXII

                 Her voice was like the wildest, saddest tone,

                    Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard long ago.

                 I wept. ‘Shall this fair woman all alone,

                    Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go?

320

320              His head is on her heart, and who can know

                 How soon he may devour his feeble prey?’—

                    Such were my thoughts, when the tide gan to flow;

                 And that strange boat like the moon’s shade did sway

               Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay:—

XXIII

325

325           A boat of rare device, which had no sail

                    But its own curvèd prow of thin moonstone,

                 Wrought like a web of texture fine and frail,

                    To catch these gentlest winds which are not known

                    To breathe, but by the steady speed alone

330

330           With which it cleaves the sparkling sea; and now

                    We are embarked—the mountains hang and frown

                 Over the starry deep that gleams below,

               A vast and dim expanse, as o’er the waves we go.

XXIV

                 And as we sailed, a strange and awful tale

335

335              That Woman told, like such mysterious dream

                 As makes the slumberer’s cheek with wonder pale!

                    ’Twas midnight, and around, a shoreless stream,

                    Wide ocean rolled, when that majestic theme

                 Shrined in her heart found utterance, and she bent

340

340              Her looks on mine; those eyes a kindling beam

                 Of love divine into my spirit sent,

               And ere her lips could move, made the air eloquent.

XXV

                 ‘Speak not to me, but hear! Much shalt thou learn,

                    Much must remain unthought, and more untold,

345

345           In the dark Future’s ever-flowing urn:

                    Know then, that from the depth of ages old,

                    Two Powers o’er mortal things dominion hold

                 Ruling the world with a divided lot,

                    Immortal, all-pervading, manifold,

350

350           Twin Genii, equal Gods—when life and thought

               Sprang forth, they burst the womb of inessential Nought.

XXVI

                 ‘The earliest dweller of the world, alone,

                    Stood on the verge of chaos. Lo! afar

                 O’er the wide wild abyss two meteors shone,

355

355              Sprung from the depth of its tempestuous jar:

                    A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star

                 Mingling their beams in combat—as he stood,

                    All thoughts within his mind waged mutual war,

                 In dreadful sympathy—when to the flood

360

360         That fair Star fell, he turned and shed his brother’s blood.

XXVII

                 ‘Thus evil triumphed, and the Spirit of evil,

                    One Power of many shapes which none may know,

                 One Shape of many names; the Fiend did revel

                    In victory, reigning o’er a world of woe,

365

365              For the new race of man went to and fro,

                 Famished and homeless, loathed and loathing, wild,

                    And hating good—for his immortal foe,

                 He changed from starry shape, beauteous and mild,

               To a dire Snake, with man and beast unreconciled.

XXVIII

370

370           ‘The darkness lingering o’er the dawn of things,

                    Was Evil’s breath and life; this made him strong

                 To soar aloft with overshadowing wings;

                    And the great Spirit of Good did creep among

                    The nations of mankind, and every tongue

375

375           Cursed and blasphemed him as he passed; for none

                    Knew good from evil, though their names were hung

                 In mockery o’er the fane where many a groan,

               As King, and Lord, and God, the conquering Fiend did own,—

XXIX

                 ‘The Fiend, whose name was Legion; Death, Decay,

                    Earthquake and Blight, and Want, and Madness pale,

                 Wingèd and wan diseases, an array

                    Numerous as leaves that strew the autumnal gale;

                    Poison, a snake in flowers, beneath the veil

                 Of food and mirth hiding his mortal head;

385

385              And, without whom all these might nought avail,

                 Fear, Hatred, Faith, and Tyranny, who spread

               Those subtle nets which snare the living and the dead.

XXX

                 ‘His spirit is their power, and they his slaves

                    In air, and light, and thought, and language, dwell;

390

390           And keep their state from palaces to graves,

                    In all resorts of men—invisible,

                    But when, in ebon mirror, Nightmare fell

                 To tyrant or impostor bids them rise,

                    Black-wingèd demon forms—whom, from the hell,

395

395           His reign and dwelling beneath nether skies,

               He loosens to their dark and blasting ministries.

XXXI

                 In the world’s youth his empire was as firm

                    As its foundations … Soon the Spirit of Good,

                 Though in the likeness of a loathsome worm,

400

400              Sprang from the billows of the formless flood,

                    Which shrank and fled; and with that Fiend of blood

                 Renewed the doubtful war … Thrones then first shook,

                    And earth’s immense and trampled multitude

                 In hope on their own powers began to look,

405

405         And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine shrine forsook.

XXXII

                 ‘Then Greece arose, and to its bards and sages,

                    In dream, the golden-pinioned Genii came,

                 Even where they slept amid the night of ages,

                    Steeping their hearts in the divinest flame

410

410              Which thy breath kindled, Power of holiest name!

                 And oft in cycles since, when darkness gave

                    New weapons to thy foe, their sunlike fame

                 Upon the combat shone—a light to save,

               Like Paradise spread forth beyond the shadowy grave.

XXXIII

415

415           ‘Such is this conflict—when mankind doth strive

                    With its oppressors in a strife of blood,

                 Or when free thoughts, like lightnings, are alive,

                    And in each bosom of the multitude

                    Justice and truth with Custom’s hydra brood

420

420           Wage silent war; when Priests and Kings dissemble

                    In smiles or frowns their fierce disquietude,

                 When round pure hearts a host of hopes assemble,

               The Snake and Eagle meet—the world’s foundations tremble!

XXXIV

                 ‘Thou hast beheld that fight—when to thy home

425

425              Thou dost return, steep not its hearth in tears;

                 Though thou may’st hear that earth is now become

                    The tyrant’s garbage, which to his compeers,

                    The vile reward of their dishonoured years,

                 He will dividing give.—The victor Fiend,

430

430              Omnipotent of yore, now quails, and fears

                 His triumph dearly won, which soon will lend

               An impulse swift and sure to his approaching end.

XXXV

                 List, stranger, list, mine is an human form,

                    Like that thou wearest—touch me—shrink not now!

435

435           My hand thou feel’st is not a ghost’s, but warm

                    With human blood.—’Twas many years ago,

                    Since first my thirsting soul aspired to know

                 The secrets of this wondrous world, when deep

                    My heart was pierced with sympathy, for woe

                 Which could not be mine own—and thought did keep,

               In dream, unnatural watch beside an infant’s sleep.

XXXVI

                 ‘Woe could not be mine own, since far from men

                    I dwelt, a free and happy orphan child,

                 By the sea-shore, in a deep mountain-glen;

445

445              And near the waves, and through the forests wild,

                    I roamed, to storm and darkness reconciled:

                 For I was calm while tempest shook the sky:

                    But when the breathless heavens in beauty smiled,

                 I wept, sweet tears, yet too tumultuously

450

450         For peace, and clasped my hands aloft in ecstasy.

XXXVII

                 ‘These were forebodings of my fate—before

                    A woman’s heart beat in my virgin breast,

                 It had been nurtured in divinest lore:

                    A dying poet gave me books, and blessed

455

455              With wild but holy talk the sweet unrest

                 In which I watched him as he died away—

                    A youth with hoary hair—a fleeting guest

                 Of our lone mountains: and this lore did sway

               My spirit like a storm, contending there alway.

XXXVIII

460

460           ‘Thus the dark tale which history doth unfold

                    I knew, but not, methinks, as others know,

                 For they weep not; and Wisdom had unrolled

                    The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal woe,—

                    To few can she that warning vision show—

465

465           For I loved all things with intense devotion;

                    So that when Hope’s deep source in fullest flow,

                 Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant ocean

               Of human thoughts—mine shook beneath the wide emotion.

XXXIX

                 ‘When first the living blood through all these veins

                    Kindled a thought in sense, great France sprang forth,

                 And seized, as if to break, the ponderous chains

                    Which bind in woe the nations of the earth.

                    I saw, and started from my cottage-hearth;

                 And to the clouds and waves in tameless gladness,

475

475              Shrieked, till they caught immeasurable mirth—

                 And laughed in light and music: soon, sweet madness

               Was poured upon my heart, a soft and thrilling sadness.

XL

                 ‘Deep slumber fell on me:—my dreams were fire—

                    Soft and delightful thoughts did rest and hover

480

480           Like shadows o’er my brain; and strange desire,

                    The tempest of a passion, raging over

                    My tranquil soul, its depths with light did cover,—

                 Which passed; and calm, and darkness, sweeter far,

                    Came—then I loved; but not a human lover!

485

485           For when I rose from sleep, the Morning Star

               Shone through the woodbine-wreaths which round my casement were.

XLI

                 ’Twas like an eye which seemed to smile on me.

                    I watched, till by the sun made pale, it sank

                 Under the billows of the heaving sea;

490

490              But from its beams deep love my spirit drank,

                    And to my brain the boundless world now shrank

                 Into one thought—one image—yes, for ever!

                    Even like the dayspring, poured on vapours dank,

                 The beams of that one Star did shoot and quiver

495

495         Through my benighted mind—and were extinguished never.

XLII

                 ‘The day passed thus: at night, methought in dream

                    A shape of speechless beauty did appear:

                 It stood like light on a careering stream

                    Of golden clouds which shook the atmosphere;

500

500              A wingèd youth, his radiant brow did wear

                 The Morning Star: a wild dissolving bliss

                    Over my frame he breathed, approaching near,

                 And bent his eyes of kindling tenderness

               Near mine, and on my lips impressed a lingering kiss,—

XLIII

505

505           ‘And said: “A Spirit loves thee, mortal maiden,

                    How wilt thou prove thy worth?” Then joy and sleep

                 Together fled, my soul was deeply laden,

                    And to the shore I went to muse and weep;

                    But as I moved, over my heart did creep

510

510           A joy less soft, but more profound and strong

                    Than my sweet dream; and it forbade to keep

                 The path of the sea-shore: that Spirit’s tongue

               Seemed whispering in my heart, and bore my steps along.

XLIV

                 ‘How, to that vast and peopled city led,

515

515              Which was a field of holy warfare then,

                 I walked among the dying and the dead,

                    And shared in fearless deeds with evil men,

                    Calm as an angel in the dragon’s den—

                 How I braved death for liberty and truth,

                    And spurned at peace, and power, and fame—and when

                 Those hopes had lost the glory of their youth,

               How sadly I returned—might move the hearer’s ruth:

XLV

                 ‘Warm tears throng fast! the tale may not be said—

                    Know then, that when this grief had been subdued,

525

525           I was not left, like others, cold and dead;

                    The Spirit whom I loved, in solitude

                    Sustained his child: the tempest-shaken wood,

                 The waves, the fountains, and the hush of night—

                    These were his voice, and well I understood

530

530           His smile divine, when the calm sea was bright

               With silent stars, and Heaven was breathless with delight.

XLVI

                 ‘In lonely glens, amid the roar of rivers,

                    When the dim nights were moonless, have I known

                 Joys which no tongue can tell; my pale lip quivers

535

535              When thought revisits them:—know thou alone,

                    That after many wondrous years were flown,

                 I was awakened by a shriek of woe;

                    And over me a mystic robe was thrown,

                 By viewless hands, and a bright Star did glow

540

540         Before my steps—the Snake then met his mortal foe.’

XLVII

                 ‘Thou fearest not then the Serpent on thy heart?’

                    ‘Fear it!’ she said, with brief and passionate cry,

                 And spake no more: that silence made me start—

                    I looked, and we were sailing pleasantly,

545

545              Swift as a cloud between the sea and sky;

                 Beneath the rising moon seen far away,

                    Mountains of ice, like sapphire, piled on high,

                 Hemming the horizon round, in silence lay

               On the still waters—these we did approach alway.

XLVIII

550

550           And swift and swifter grew the vessel’s motion,

                    So that a dizzy trance fell on my brain—

                 Wild music woke me: we had passed the ocean

                    Which girds the pole, Nature’s remotest reign—

                    And we glode fast o’er a pellucid plain

555

555           Of waters, azure with the noontide day.

                    Ethereal mountains shone around—a Fane

                 Stood in the midst, girt by green isles which lay

               On the blue sunny deep, resplendent far away.

XLIX

                 It was a Temple, such as mortal hand

560

560              Has never built, nor ecstasy, nor dream

                 Reared in the cities of enchanted land:

                    ’Twas likest Heaven, ere yet day’s purple stream

                    Ebbs o’er the western forest, while the gleam

                 Of the unrisen moon among the clouds

565

565              Is gathering—when with many a golden beam

                 The thronging constellations rush in crowds,

               Paving with fire the sky and the marmoreal floods.

L

                 Like what may be conceived of this vast dome,

                    When from the depths which thought can seldom pierce

570

570           Genius beholds it rise, his native home,

                    Girt by the deserts of the Universe;

                    Yet, nor in painting’s light, or mightier verse,

                 Or sculpture’s marble language, can invest

                    That shape to mortal sense—such glooms immerse

575

575           That incommunicable sight, and rest

               Upon the labouring brain and overburdened breast.

LI

                 Winding among the lawny islands fair,

                    Whose blosmy forests starred the shadowy deep,

                 The wingless boat paused where an ivory stair

580

580              Its fretwork in the crystal sea did steep,

                    Encircling that vast Fane’s aërial heap:

                 We disembarked, and through a portal wide

                    We passed—whose roof of moonstone carved, did keep

                 A glimmering o’er the forms on every side,

585

585         Sculptures like life and thought; immovable, deep-eyed.

LII

                 We came to a vast hall, whose glorious roof

                    Was diamond, which had drank the lightning’s sheen

                 In darkness, and now poured it through the woof

                    Of spell-inwoven clouds hung there to screen

590

590              Its blinding splendour—through such veil was seen

                 That work of subtlest power, divine and rare;

                    Orb above orb, with starry shapes between,

                 And hornèd moons, and meteors strange and fair,

               On night-black columns poised—one hollow hemisphere!

LIII

595

595           Ten thousand columns in that quivering light

                    Distinct—between whose shafts wound far away

                 The long and labyrinthine aisles—more bright

                    With their own radiance than the Heaven of Day;

                    And on the jasper walls around, there lay

600

600           Paintings, the poesy of mightiest thought,

                    Which did the Spirit’s history display;

                 A tale of passionate change, divinely taught,

               Which, in their wingèd dance, unconscious Genii wrought.

LIV

                 Beneath, there sate on many a sapphire throne,

605

605              The Great, who had departed from mankind,

                 A mighty Senate;—some, whose white hair shone

                    Like mountain snow, mild, beautiful, and blind;

                    Some, female forms, whose gestures beamed with mind;

                 And ardent youths, and children bright and fair;

610

610              And some had lyres whose strings were intertwined

                 With pale and clinging flames, which ever there

               Waked faint yet thrilling sounds that pierced the crystal air.

LV

                 One seat was vacant in the midst, a throne,

                    Reared on a pyramid like sculptured flame,

615

615           Distinct with circling steps which rested on

                    Their own deep fire—soon as the Woman came

                    Into that hall, she shrieked the Spirit’s name

                 And fell; and vanished slowly from the sight.

                    Darkness arose from her dissolving frame,

620

620           Which gathering, filled that dome of woven light,

               Blotting its spherèd stars with supernatural night.

LVI

                 Then first, two glittering lights were seen to glide

                    In circles on the amethystine floor,

                 Small serpent eyes trailing from side to side,

625

625              Like meteors on a river’s grassy shore,

                    They round each other rolled, dilating more

                 And more—then rose, commingling into one,

                    One clear and mighty planet hanging o’er

                 A cloud of deepest shadow, which was thrown

630

630         Athwart the glowing steps and the crystalline throne.

LVII

                 The cloud which rested on that cone of flame

                    Was cloven; beneath the planet sate a Form,

                 Fairer than tongue can speak or thought may frame,

                    The radiance of whose limbs rose-like and warm

635

635              Flowed forth, and did with softest light inform

                 The shadowy dome, the sculptures, and the state

                    Of those assembled shapes—with clinging charm

                 Sinking upon their hearts and mine. He sate

               Majestic, yet most mild—calm, yet compassionate.

LVIII

640

640           Wonder and joy a passing faintness threw

                    Over my brow—a hand supported me,

                 Whose touch was magic strength: an eye of blue

                    Looked into mine, like moonlight, soothingly;

                    And a voice said.—‘Thou must a listener be

645

645           This day—two mighty Spirits now return,

                    Like birds of calm, from the world’s raging sea,

                 They pour fresh light from Hope’s immortal urn;

               A tale of human power—despair not—list and learn!’

LIX

                 I looked, and lo! one stood forth eloquently,

650

650              His eyes were dark and deep, and the clear brow

                 Which shadowed them was like the morning sky,

                    The cloudless Heaven of Spring, when in their flow

                    Through the bright air, the soft winds as they blow

                 Wake the green world—his gestures did obey

655

655              The oracular mind that made his features glow,

                 And where his curvèd lips half-open lay,

               Passion’s divinest stream had made impetuous way.

LX

                 Beneath the darkness of his outspread hair

                    He stood thus beautiful: but there was One

660

660           Who sate beside him like his shadow there,

                    And held his hand—far lovelier—she was known

                    To be thus fair, by the few lines alone

                 Which through her floating locks and gathered cloak,

                    Glances of soul-dissolving glory, shone:—

665

665           None else beheld her eyes—in him they woke

               Memories which found a tongue as thus he silence broke.

CANTO II

I

                 THE starlight smile of children, the sweet looks

                    Of women, the fair breast from which I fed,

                 The murmur of the unreposing brooks,

670

670              And the green light which, shifting overhead,

                    Some tangled bower of vines around me shed,

                 The shells on the sea-sand, and the wild flowers,

                    The lamplight through the rafters cheerly spread,

                 And on the twining flax—in life’s young hours

675

675         These sights and sounds did nurse my spirit’s folded powers.

II

                 In Argolis, beside the echoing sea,

                    Such impulses within my mortal frame

                 Arose, and they were dear to memory,

                    Like tokens of the dead:—but others came

680

680              Soon, in another shape: the wondrous fame

                 Of the past world, the vital words and deeds

                    Of minds whom neither time nor change can tame,

                 Traditions dark and old, whence evil creeds

               Start forth, and whose dim shade a stream of poison feeds.

III

685

685           I heard, as all have heard, the various story

                    Of human life, and wept unwilling tears.

                 Feeble historians of its shame and glory,

                    False disputants on all its hopes and fears,

                    Victims who worshipped ruin,—chroniclers

690

690           Of daily scorn, and slaves who loathed their state

                    Yet, flattering power, had given its ministers

                 A throne of judgement in the grave:—’twas fate,

               That among such as these my youth should seek its mate.

IV

                 The land in which I lived, by a fell bane

695

695              Was withered up. Tyrants dwelt side by side,

                 And stabled in our homes,—until the chain

                    Stifled the captive’s cry, and to abide

                    That blasting curse men had no shame—all vied

                 In evil, slave and despot; fear with lust

700

700              Strange fellowship through mutual hate had tied,

                 Like two dark serpents tangled in the dust,

               Which on the paths of men their mingling poison thrust.

V

                 Earth, our bright home, its mountains and its waters,

                    And the ethereal shapes which are suspended

705

705           Over its green expanse, and those fair daughters,

                    The clouds, of Sun and Ocean, who have blended

                    The colours of the air since first extended

                 It cradled the young world, none wandered forth

                    To see or feel: a darkness had descended

710

710           On every heart: the light which shows its worth,

               Must among gentle thoughts and fearless take its birth.

VI

                 This vital world, this home of happy spirits,

                    Was as a dungeon to my blasted kind;

                 All that despair from murdered hope inherits

715

715              They sought, and in their helpless misery blind,

                    A deeper prison and heavier chains did find,

                 And stronger tyrants:—a dark gulf before,

                    The realm of a stern Ruler, yawned; behind,

                 Terror and Time conflicting drove, and bore

720

720         On their tempestuous flood the shrieking wretch from shore.

VII

                 Out of that Ocean’s wrecks had Guilt and Woe

                    Framed a dark dwelling for their homeless thought,

                 And, starting at the ghosts which to and fro

                    Glide o’er its dim and gloomy strand, had brought

725

725              The worship thence which they each other taught.

                 Well might men loathe their life, well might they turn

                    Even to the ills again from which they sought

                 Such refuge after death!—well might they learn

               To gaze on this fair world with hopeless unconcern!

VIII

730

730           For they all pined in bondage; body and soul,

                    Tyrant and slave, victim and torturer, bent

                 Before one Power, to which supreme control

                    Over their will by their own weakness lent,

                    Made all its many names omnipotent;

735

735           All symbols of things evil, all divine;

                    And hymns of blood or mockery, which rent

                 The air from all its fanes, did intertwine

               Imposture’s impious toils round each discordant shrine.

IX

                 I heard, as all have heard, life’s various story,

740

740              And in no careless heart transcribed the tale;

                 But, from the sneers of men who had grown hoary

                    In shame and scorn, from groans of crowds made pale

                    By famine, from a mother’s desolate wail

                 O’er her polluted child, from innocent blood

745

745              Poured on the earth, and brows anxious and pale

                 With the heart’s warfare; did I gather food

               To feed my many thoughts: a tameless multitude!

X

                 I wandered through the wrecks of days departed

                    Far by the desolated shore, when even

750

750           O’er the still sea and jagged islets darted

                    The light of moonrise; in the northern Heaven,

                    Among the clouds near the horizon driven,

                 The mountains lay beneath our planet pale;

                    Around me, broken tombs and columns riven

755

755           Looked vast in twilight, and the sorrowing gale

               Waked in those ruins gray its everlasting wail!

XI

                 I knew not who had framed these wonders then,

                    Nor had I heard the story of their deeds;

                 But dwellings of a race of mightier men,

760

760              And monuments of less ungentle creeds

                    Tell their own tale to him who wisely heeds

                 The language which they speak; and now, to me

                    The moonlight making pale the blooming weeds,

                 The bright stars shining in the breathless sea,

765

765         Interpreted those scrolls of mortal mystery.

XII

                 Such man has been, and such may yet become!

                    Ay, wiser, greater, gentler, even than they

                 Who on the fragments of yon shattered dome

                    Have stamped the sign of power—I felt the sway

770

770              Of the vast stream of ages bear away

                 My floating thoughts—my heart beat loud and fast—

                    Even as a storm let loose beneath the ray

                 Of the still moon, my spirit onward past

               Beneath truth’s steady beams upon its tumult cast.

XIII

775

775           It shall be thus no more! too long, too long,

                    Sons of the glorious dead, have ye lain bound

                 In darkness and in ruin!—Hope is strong,

                    Justice and Truth their wingèd child have found—

                    Awake! arise! until the mighty sound

780

780           Of your career shall scatter in its gust

                    The thrones of the oppressor, and the ground

                 Hide the last altar’s unregarded dust,

               Whose Idol has so long betrayed your impious trust!

XIV

                 It must be so—I will arise and waken

785

785              The multitude, and like a sulphurous hill,

                 Which on a sudden from its snows has shaken

                    The swoon of ages, it shall burst and fill

                    The world with cleansing fire: it must, it will—

                 It may not be restrained!—and who shall stand

790

790              Amid the rocking earthquake steadfast still,

                 But Laon? on high Freedom’s desert land

               A tower whose marble walls the leaguèd storms withstand!

XV

                 One summer night, in commune with the hope

                    Thus deeply fed, amid those ruins gray

795

795           I watched, beneath the dark sky’s starry cope;

                    And ever from that hour upon me lay

                    The burden of this hope, and night or day,

                 In vision or in dream, clove to my breast:

                    Among mankind, or when gone far away

800

800           To the lone shores and mountains, ’twas a guest

               Which followed where I fled, and watched when I did rest.

XVI

                 These hopes found words through which my spirit sought

                    To weave a bondage of such sympathy,

                 As might create some response to the thought

805

805              Which ruled me now—and as the vapours lie

                    Bright in the outspread morning’s radiancy,

                 So were these thoughts invested with the light

                    Of language: and all bosoms made reply

                 On which its lustre streamed, whene’er it might

810

810         Through darkness wide and deep those trancèd spirits smite.

XVII

                 Yes, many an eye with dizzy tears was dim,

                    And oft I thought to clasp my own heart’s brother,

                 When I could feel the listener’s senses swim,

                    And hear his breath its own swift gaspings smother

815

815              Even as my words evoked them—and another,

                 And yet another, I did fondly deem,

                    Felt that we all were sons of one great mother;

                 And the cold truth such sad reverse did seem,

               As to awake in grief from some delightful dream.

XVIII

820

820           Yes, oft beside the ruined labyrinth

                    Which skirts the hoary caves of the green deep,

                 Did Laon and his friend, on one gray plinth,

                    Round whose worn base the wild waves hiss and leap,

                    Resting at eve, a lofty converse keep:

825

825           And that this friend was false, may now be said

                    Calmly—that he like other men could weep

                 Tears which are lies, and could betray and spread

               Snares for that guileless heart which for his own had bled.

XIX

                 Then, had no great aim recompensed my sorrow,

830

830              I must have sought dark respite from its stress

                 In dreamless rest, in sleep that sees no morrow—

                    For to tread life’s dismaying wilderness

                    Without one smile to cheer, one voice to bless,

                 Amid the snares and scoffs of human kind,

835

835              Is hard—but I betrayed it not, nor less

                 With love that scorned return, sought to unbind

               The interwoven clouds which make its wisdom blind.

XX

                 With deathless minds which leave where they have passed

                    A path of light, my soul communion knew;

840

840           Till from that glorious intercourse, at last,

                    As from a mine of magic store, I drew

                    Words which were weapons;—round my heart there grew

                 The adamantine armour of their power,

                    And from my fancy wings of golden hue

845

845           Sprang forth—yet not alone from wisdom’s tower,

               A minister of truth, these plumes young Laon bore.

XXI

                 An orphan with my parents lived, whose eyes

                    Were lodestars of delight, which drew me home

                 When I might wander forth; nor did I prize

850

850              Aught human thing beneath Heaven’s mighty dome

                    Beyond this child: so when sad hours were come,

                 And baffled hope like ice still clung to me,

                    Since kin were cold, and friends had now become

                 Heartless and false, I turned from all, to be,

855

855         Cythna, the only source of tears and smiles to thee.

XXII

                 What wert thou then? A child most infantine,

                    Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age

                 In all but its sweet looks and mien divine:

                    Even then, methought, with the world’s tyrant rage

860

860              A patient warfare thy young heart did wage,

                 When those soft eyes of scarcely conscious thought

                    Some tale, or thine own fancies, would engage

                 To overflow with tears, or converse fraught

               With passion, o’er their depths its fleeting light had wrought.

XXIII

865

865           She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness,

                    A power, that from its objects scarcely drew

                 One impulse of her being—in her lightness

                    Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew,

                    Which wanders through the waste air’s pathless blue,

870

870           To nourish some far desert: she did seem

                    Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew,

                 Like the bright shade of some immortal dream

               Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life’s dark stream.

XXIV

                 As mine own shadow was this child to me,

875

875              A second self, far dearer and more fair;

                 Which clothed in undissolving radiancy

                    All those steep paths which languor and despair

                    Of human things, had made so dark and bare,

                 But which I trod alone—nor, till bereft

880

880              Of friends, and overcome by lonely care,

                 Knew I what solace for that loss was left,

               Though by a bitter wound my trusting heart was cleft.

XXV

                 Once she was dear, now she was all I had

                    To love in human life—this playmate sweet,

885

885           This child of twelve years old—so she was made

                    My sole associate, and her willing feet

                    Wandered with mine where earth and ocean meet,

                 Beyond the aëreal mountains whose vast cells

                    The unreposing billows ever beat.

890

890           Through forests wide and old, and lawny dells

               Where boughs of incense droop over the emerald wells.

XXVI

                 And warm and light I felt her clasping hand

                    When twined in mine: she followed where I went,

                 Through the lone paths of our immortal land.

895

895              It had no waste but some memorial lent

                    Which strung me to my toil—some monument

                 Vital with mind: then, Cythna by my side,

                    Until the bright and beaming day were spent,

                 Would rest, with looks entreating to abide,

900

900         Too earnest and too sweet ever to be denied.

XXVII

                 And soon I could not have refused her—thus

                    For ever, day and night, we two were ne’er

                 Parted, but when brief sleep divided us:

                    And when the pauses of the lulling air

905

905              Of noon beside the sea, had made a lair

                 For her soothed senses, in my arms she slept,

                    And I kept watch over her slumbers there,

                 While, as the shifting visions o’er her swept,

               Amid her innocent rest by turns she smiled and wept.

XXVIII

910

910           And, in the murmur of her dreams was heard

                    Sometimes the name of Laon:—suddenly

                 She would arise, and, like the secret bird

                    Whom sunset wakens, fill the shore and sky

                    With her sweet accents—a wild melody!

915

915           Hymns which my soul had woven to Freedom, strong

                    The source of passion, whence they rose, to be;

                 Triumphant strains, which, like a spirit’s tongue,

               To the enchanted waves that child of glory sung—

XXIX

                 Her white arms lifted through the shadowy stream

920

920              Of her loose hair—oh, excellently great

                 Seemed to me then my purpose, the vast theme

                    Of those impassioned songs, when Cythna sate

                    Amid the calm which rapture doth create

                 After its tumult, her heart vibrating,

925

925              Her spirit o’er the ocean’s floating state

                 From her deep eyes far wandering, on the wing

               Of visions that were mine, beyond its utmost spring.

XXX

                 For, before Cythna loved it, had my song

                    Peopled with thoughts the boundless universe,

930

930           A mighty congregation, which were strong

                    Where’er they trod the darkness to disperse

                    The cloud of that unutterable curse

                 Which clings upon mankind:—all things became

                    Slaves to my holy and heroic verse,

935

935           Earth, sea and sky, the planets, life and fame

               And fate, or whate’er else binds the world’s wondrous frame.

XXXI

                 And this beloved child thus felt the sway

                    Of my conceptions, gathering like a cloud

                 The very wind on which it rolls away:

940

940              Hers too were all my thoughts, ere yet, endowed

                    With music and with light, their fountains flowed

                 In poesy; and her still and earnest face,

                    Pallid with feelings which intensely glowed

                 Within, was turned on mine with speechless grace,

945

945         Watching the hopes which there her heart had learned to trace.

XXXII

                 In me, communion with this purest being

                    Kindled intenser zeal, and made me wise

                 In knowledge, which, in hers mine own mind seeing,

                    Left in the human world few mysteries:

950

950              How without fear of evil or disguise

                 Was Cythna!—what a spirit strong and mild,

                    Which death, or pain or peril could despise,

                 Yet melt in tenderness! what genius wild

               Yet mighty, was enclosed within one simple child!

XXXIII

955

955           New lore was this—old age, with its gray hair,

                    And wrinkled legends of unworthy things,

                 And icy sneers, is nought: it cannot dare

                    To burst the chains which life for ever flings

                    On the entangled soul’s aspiring wings,

960

960           So is it cold and cruel, and is made

                    The careless slave of that dark power which brings

                 Evil, like blight, on man, who, still betrayed,

               Laughs o’er the grave in which his living hopes are laid.

XXXIV

                 Nor are the strong and the severe to keep

965

965              The empire of the world: thus Cythna taught

                 Even in the visions of her eloquent sleep,

                    Unconscious of the power through which she wrought

                    The woof of such intelligible thought,

                 As from the tranquil strength which cradled lay

970

970              In her smile-peopled rest, my spirit sought

                 Why the deceiver and the slave has sway

               O’er heralds so divine of truth’s arising day.

XXXV

                 Within that fairest form, the female mind

                    Untainted by the poison-clouds which rest

975

975           On the dark world, a sacred home did find:

                    But else, from the wide earth’s maternal breast,

                    Victorious Evil, which had dispossessed

                 All native power, had those fair children torn,

                    And made them slaves to soothe his vile unrest,

980

980           And minister to lust its joys forlorn,

               Till they had learned to breathe the atmosphere of scorn.

XXXVI

                 This misery was but coldly felt, till she

                    Became my only friend, who had endued

                 My purpose with a wider sympathy;

985

985              Thus, Cythna mourned with me the servitude

                    In which the half of humankind were mewed

                 Victims of lust and hate, the slaves of slaves,

                    She mourned that grace and power were thrown as food

                 To the hyaena lust, who, among graves,

990

990         Over his loathèd meal, laughing in agony, raves.

XXXVII

                 And I, still gazing on that glorious child,

                    Even as these thoughts flushed o’er her:—‘Cythna sweet,

                 Well with the world art thou unreconciled;

                    Never will peace and human nature meet

995

995              Till free and equal man and woman greet

                 Domestic peace; and ere this power can make

                    In human hearts its calm and holy seat,

                 This slavery must be broken’—as I spake,

               From Cythna’s eyes a light of exultation brake.

XXXVIII

1000

1000         She replied earnestly:—‘It shall be mine,

                    This task, mine, Laon!—thou hast much to gain;

                 Nor wilt thou at poor Cythna’s pride repine,

                    If she should lead a happy female train

                    To meet thee over the rejoicing plain,

1005

1005         When myriads at thy call shall throng around

                    The Golden City.’—Then the child did strain

                 My arm upon her tremulous heart, and wound

               Her own about my neck, till some reply she found.

XXXIX

                 I smiled, and spake not.—‘Wherefore dost thou smile

1010

1010            At what I say? Laon, I am not weak,

                 And though my cheek might become pale the while,

                    With thee, if thou desirest, will I seek

                    Through their array of banded slaves to wreak

                 Ruin upon the tyrants. I had thought

1015

1015            It was more hard to turn my unpractised cheek

                 To scorn and shame, and this beloved spot

               And thee, O dearest friend, to leave and murmur not.

XL

                 ‘Whence came I what I am? Thou, Laon, knowest

                    How a young child should thus undaunted be;

1020

1020         Methinks, it is a power which thou bestowest,

                    Through which I seek, by most resembling thee,

                    So to become most good and great and free,

                 Yet far beyond this Ocean’s utmost roar

                    In towers and huts are many like to me,

1025

1025         Who, could they see thine eyes, or feel such lore

               As I have learnt from them, like me would fear no more.

XLI

                 ‘Think’st thou that I shall speak unskilfully,

                    And none will heed me? I remember now,

                 How once, a slave in tortures doomed to die,

1030

1030            Was saved, because in accents sweet and low

                    He sung a song his Judge loved long ago,

                 As he was led to death.—All shall relent

                    Who hear me—tears, as mine have flowed, shall flow,

                 Hearts beat as mine now beats, with such intent

1035

1035       As renovates the world; a will omnipotent!

XLII

                 ‘Yes, I will tread Pride’s golden palaces,

                    Through Penury’s roofless huts and squalid cells

                 Will I descend, where’er in abjectness

                    Woman with some vile slave her tyrant dwells,

1040

1040            There with the music of thine own sweet spells

                 Will disenchant the captives, and will pour

                    For the despairing, from the crystal wells

                 Of thy deep spirit, reason’s mighty lore,

               And power shall then abound, and hope arise once more.

XLIII

1045

1045         ‘Can man be free if woman be a slave?

                    Chain one who lives, and breathes this boundless air.

                 To the corruption of a closèd grave!

                    Can they whose mates are beasts, condemned to bear

                    Scorn, heavier far than toil or anguish, dare

1050

1050         To trample their oppressors? in their home

                    Among their babes, thou knowest a curse would wear

                 The shape of woman—hoary Crime would come

               Behind, and Fraud rebuild religion’s tottering dome.

XLIV

                 ‘I am a child:—I would not yet depart.

1055

1055            When I go forth alone, bearing the lamp

                 Aloft which thou hast kindled in my heart,

                    Millions of slaves from many a dungeon damp

                    Shall leap in joy, as the benumbing cramp

                 Of ages leaves their limbs—no ill may harm

1060

1060            Thy Cythna ever—truth its radiant stamp

                 Has fixed, as an invulnerable charm

               Upon her children’s brow, dark Falsehood to disarm.

XLV

                 ‘Wait yet awhile for the appointed day—

                    Thou wilt depart, and I with tears stall stand

1065

1065         Watching thy dim sail skirt the ocean gray;

                    Amid the dwellers of this lonely land

                    I shall remain alone—and thy command

                 Shall then dissolve the world’s unquiet trance,

                    And, multitudinous as the desert sand

1070

1070         Borne on the storm, its millions shall advance,

               Thronging round thee, the light of their deliverance.

XLVI

                 ‘Then, like the forests of some pathless mountain,

                    Which from remotest glens two warring winds

                 Involve in fire which not the loosened fountain

1075

1075            Of broadest floods might quench, shall all the kinds

                    Of evil, catch from our uniting minds

                 The spark which must consume them;—Cythna then

                    Will have cast off the impotence that binds

                 Her childhood now, and through the paths of men

1080

1080       Will pass, as the charmed bird that haunts the serpent’s den.

XLVII

                 ‘We part!—O Laon, I must dare nor tremble

                    To meet those looks no more!—Oh, heavy stroke!

                 Sweet brother of my soul! can I dissemble

                    The agony of this thought?’—As thus she spoke

1085

1085            The gathered sobs her quivering accents broke,

                 And in my arms she hid her beating breast.

                    I remained still for tears—sudden she woke

                 As one awakes from sleep, and wildly pressed

               My bosom, her whole frame impetuously possessed.

XLVIII

1090

1090         ‘We part to meet again—but yon blue waste,

                    Yon desert wide and deep holds no recess,

                 Within whose happy silence, thus embraced

                    We might survive all ills in one caress:

                    Nor doth the grave—I fear ’tis passionless—

1095

1095         Nor yon cold vacant Heaven:—we meet again

                    Within the minds of men, whose lips shall bless

                 Our memory, and whose hopes its light retain

               When these dissevered bones are trodden in the plain.’

XLIX

                 I could not speak, though she had ceased, for now

1100

1100            The fountains of her feeling, swift and deep,

                 Seemed to suspend the tumult of their flow;

                    So we arose, and by the starlight steep

                    Went homeward—neither did we speak nor weep,

                 But, pale, were calm with passion—thus subdued

1105

1105            Like evening shades that o’er the mountains creep,

                 We moved towards our home; where, in this mood,

               Each from the other sought refuge in solitude.

CANTO III

I

                 WHAT thoughts had sway o’er Cythna’s lonely slumber

                    That night, I know not; but my own did seem

1110

1110         As if they might ten thousand years outnumber

                    Of waking life, the visions of a dream

                    Which hid in one dim gulf the troubled stream

                 Of mind; a boundless chaos wild and vast,

                    Whose limits yet were never memory’s theme:

1115

1115         And I lay struggling as its whirlwinds passed,

               Sometimes for rapture sick, sometimes for pain aghast.

II

                 Two hours, whose mighty circle did embrace

                    More time than might make gray the infant world,

                 Rolled thus, a weary and tumultuous space:

1120

1120            When the third came, like mist on breezes curled,

                    From my dim sleep a shadow was unfurled:

                 Methought, upon the threshold of a cave

                    I sate with Cythna; drooping briony, pearled

                 With dew from the wild streamlet’s shattered wave,

1125

1125       Hung, where we sate to taste the joys which Nature gave.

III

                 We lived a day as we were wont to live,

                    But Nature had a robe of glory on,

                 And the bright air o’er every shape did weave

                    Intenser hues, so that the herbless stone,

1130

1130            The leafless bough among the leaves alone,

                 Had being clearer than its own could be,

                    And Cythna’s pure and radiant self was shown,

                 In this strange vision, so divine to me,

               That, if I loved before, now love was agony.

IV

                 Morn fled, noon came, evening, then night descended,

                    And we prolonged calm talk beneath the sphere

                 Of the calm moon—when suddenly was blended

                    With our repose a nameless sense of fear;

                    And from the cave behind I seemed to hear

1140

1140         Sounds gathering upwards!—accents incomplete,

                    And stifled shrieks,—and now, more near and near,

                 A tumult and a rush of thronging feet

               The cavern’s secret depths beneath the earth did beat.

V

                 The scene was changed, and away, away, away!

1145

1145            Through the air and over the sea we sped,

                 And Cythna in my sheltering bosom lay,

                    And the winds bore me—through the darkness spread

                    Around, the gaping earth then vomited

                 Legions of foul and ghastly shapes, which hung

1150

1150            Upon my flight; and ever, as we fled,

                 They plucked at Cythna—soon to me then clung

               A sense of actual things those monstrous dreams among.

VI

                 And I lay struggling in the impotence

                    Of sleep, while outward life had burst its bound,

1155

1155         Though, still deluded, strove the tortured sense

                    To its dire wanderings to adapt the sound

                    Which in the light of morn was poured around

                 Our dwelling—breathless, pale, and unaware

                    I rose, and all the cottage crowded found

1160

1160         With armèd men, whose glittering swords were bare,

               And whose degraded limbs the tyrant’s garb did wear.

VII

                 And, ere with rapid lips and gathered brow

                    I could demand the cause—a feeble shriek—

                 It was a feeble shriek, faint, far and low,

1165

1165            Arrested me—my mien grew calm and meek,

                    And grasping a small knife, I went to seek

                 That voice among the crowd—’twas Cythna’s cry!

                    Beneath most calm resolve did agony wreak

                 Its whirlwind rage:—so I passed quietly

1170

1170       Till I beheld, where bound, that dearest child did lie.

VIII

                 I started to behold her, for delight

                    And exultation, and a joyance free,

                 Solemn, serene and lofty, filled the light

                    Of the calm smile with which she looked on me:

1175

1175            So that I feared some brainless ecstasy,

                 Wrought from that bitter woe, had wildered her—

                    ‘Farewell! farewell!’ she said, as I drew nigh.

                 ‘At first my peace was marred by this strange stir,

               Now I am calm as truth—its chosen minister.

IX

1180

1180         ‘Look not so, Laon—say farewell in hope,

                    These bloody men are but the slaves who bear

                 Their mistress to her task—it was my scope

                    The slavery where they drag me now, to share,

                    And among captives willing chains to wear

1185

1185         Awhile—the rest thou knowest—return, dear friend!

                    Let our first triumph trample the despair

                 Which would ensnare us now, for in the end,

               In victory or in death our hopes and fears must blend.’

X

                 These words had fallen on my unheeding ear,

1190

1190            Whilst I had watched the motions of the crew

                 With seeming-careless glance; not many were

                    Around her, for their comrades just withdrew

                    To guard some other victim—so I drew

                 My knife, and with one impulse, suddenly

1195

1195            All unaware three of their number slew,

                 And grasped a fourth by the throat, and with loud cry

               My countrymen invoked to death or liberty!

XI

                 What followed then, I know not—for a stroke

                    On my raised arm and naked head, came down,

1200

1200         Filling my eyes with blood—when I awoke,

                    I felt that they had bound me in my swoon,

                    And up a rock which overhangs the town,

                 By the steep path were bearing me: below,

                    The plain was filled with slaughter,—overthrown

1205

1205         The vineyards and the harvests, and the glow

               Of blazing roofs shone far o’er the white Ocean’s flow.

XII

                 Upon that rock a mighty column stood,

                    Whose capital seemed sculptured in the sky,

                 Which to the wanderers o’er the solitude

1210

1210            Of distant seas, from ages long gone by,

                    Had made a landmark; o’er its height to fly

                 Scarcely the cloud, the vulture, or the blast,

                    Has power—and when the shades of evening lie

                 On Earth and Ocean, its carved summits cast

1215

1215       The sunken daylight far through the aërial waste.

XIII

                 They bore me to a cavern in the hill

                    Beneath that column, and unbound me there:

                 And one did strip me stark; and one did fill

                    A vessel from the putrid pool; one bare

1220

1220            A lighted torch, and four with friendless care

                 Guided my steps the cavern-paths along,

                    Then up a steep and dark and narrow stair

                 We wound, until the torch’s fiery tongue

               Amid the gushing day beamless and pallid hung.

XIV

1225

1225         They raised me to the platform of the pile,

                    That column’s dizzy height:—the grate of brass

                 Through which they thrust me, open stood the while,

                    As to its ponderous and suspended mass,

                    With chains which eat into the flesh, alas!

1230

1230         With brazen links, my naked limbs they bound:

                    The grate, as they departed to repass,

                 With horrid clangour fell, and the far sound

               Of their retiring steps in the dense gloom were drowned.

XV

                 The noon was calm and bright:—around that column

1235

1235            The overhanging sky and circling sea

                 Spread forth in silentness profound and solemn

                    The darkness of brief frenzy cast on me,

                    So that I knew not my own misery:

                 The islands and the mountains in the day

1240

1240            Like clouds reposed afar; and I could see

                 The town among the woods below that lay,

               And the dark rocks which bound the bright and glassy bay.

XVI

                 It was so calm, that scarce the feathery weed

                    Sown by some eagle on the topmost stone

1245

1245         Swayed in the air:—so bright, that noon did breed

                    No shadow in the sky beside mine own—

                    Mine, and the shadow of my chain alone.

                 Below, the smoke of roofs involved in flame

                    Rested like night, all else was clearly shown

1250

1250         In that broad glare, yet sound to me none came,

               But of the living blood that ran within my frame.

XVII

                 The peace of madness fled, and ah, too soon!

                    A ship was lying on the sunny main,

                 Its sails were flagging in the breathless noon—

1255

1255            Its shadow lay beyond—that sight again

                    Waked, with its presence, in my trancèd brain

                 The stings of a known sorrow, keen and cold:

                    I knew that ship bore Cythna o’er the plain

                 Of waters, to her blighting slavery sold,

1260

1260       And watched it with such thoughts as must remain untold.

XVIII

                 I watched, until the shades of evening wrapped

                    Earth like an exhalation—then the bark

                 Moved, for that calm was by the sunset snapped.

                    It moved a speck upon the Ocean dark:

1265

1265            Soon the wan stars came forth, and I could mark

                 Its path no more!—I sought to close mine eyes,

                    But like the balls, their lids were stiff and stark;

                 I would have risen, but ere that I could rise,

               My parchèd skin was split with piercing agonies.

XIX

1270

1270         I gnawed my brazen chain, and sought to sever

                    Its adamantine links, that I might die:

                 O Liberty! forgive the base endeavour,

                    Forgive me, if, reserved for victory,

                    The Champion of thy faith e’er sought to fly.—

1275

1275         That starry night, with its clear silence, sent

                    Tameless resolve which laughed at misery

                 Into my soul—linkèd remembrance lent

               To that such power, to me such a severe content.

XX

                 To breathe, to be, to hope, or to despair

1280

1280            And die, I questioned not; nor, though the Sun

                 Its shafts of agony kindling through the air

                    Moved over me, nor though in evening dun,

                    Or when the stars their visible courses run,

                 Or morning, the wide universe was spread

1285

1285            In dreary calmness round me, did I shun

                 Its presence, nor seek refuge with the dead

               From one faint hope whose flower a dropping poison shed.

XXI

                 Two days thus passed—I neither raved nor died—

                    Thirst raged within me, like a scorpion’s nest

1290

1290         Built in mine entrails; I had spurned aside

                    The water-vessel, while despair possessed

                    My thoughts, and now no drop remained! The uprest

                 Of the third sun brought hunger—but the crust

                    Which had been left, was to my craving breast

1295

1295         Fuel, not food. I chewed the bitter dust,

               And bit my bloodless arm, and licked the brazen rust.

XXII

                 My brain began to fail when the fourth morn

                    Burst o’er the golden isles—a fearful sleep,

                 Which through the caverns dreary and forlorn

1300

1300            Of the riven soul, sent its foul dreams to sweep

                    With whirlwind swiftness—a fall far and deep,—

                 A gulf, a void, a sense of senselessness—

                    These things dwelt in me, even as shadows keep

                 Their watch in some dim charnel’s loneliness,

1305

1305       A shoreless sea, a sky sunless and planetless!

XXIII

                 The forms which peopled this terrific trance

                    I well remember—like a choir of devils,

                 Around me they involved a giddy dance;

                    Legions seemed gathering from the misty levels

1310

1310            Of Ocean, to supply those ceaseless revels,

                 Foul, ceaseless shadows:—thought could not divide

                    The actual world from these entangling evils,

                 Which so bemocked themselves, that I descried

               All shapes like mine own self, hideously multiplied.

XXIV

1315

1315         The sense of day and night, of false and true,

                    Was dead within me. Yet two visions burst

                 That darkness—one, as since that hour I knew,

                    Was not a phantom of the realms accursed,

                    Where then my spirit dwelt—but of the first

1320

1320         I know not yet, was it a dream or no.

                    But both, though not distincter, were immersed

                 In hues which, when through memory’s waste they flow,

               Make their divided streams more bright and rapid now.

XXV

                 Methought that grate was lifted, and the seven

1325

1325            Who brought me thither four stiff corpses bare,

                 And from the frieze to the four winds of Heaven

                    Hung them on high by the entangled hair:

                    Swarthy were three—the fourth was very fair:

                 As they retired, the golden moon upsprung,

1330

1330            And eagerly, out in the giddy air,

                 Leaning that I might eat, I stretched and clung

               Over the shapeless depth in which those corpses hung.

XXVI

                 A woman’s shape, now lank and cold and blue,

                    The dwelling of the many-coloured worm,

1335

1335         Hung there; the white and hollow cheek I drew

                    To my dry lips—what radiance did inform

                    Those horny eyes? whose was that withered form?

                 Alas, alas! it seemed that Cythna’s ghost

                    Laughed in those looks, and that the flesh was warm

1340

1340         Within my teeth!—A whirlwind keen as frost

               Then in its sinking gulfs my sickening spirit tossed.

XXVII

                 Then seemed it that a tameless hurricane

                    Arose, and bore me in its dark career

                 Beyond the sun, beyond the stars that wane

1345

1345            On the verge of formless space—it languished there,

                    And dying, left a silence lone and drear,

                 More horrible than famine:—in the deep

                    The shape of an old man did then appear,

                 Stately and beautiful; that dreadful sleep

1350

1350       His heavenly smiles dispersed, and I could wake and weep.

XXVIII

                 And, when the blinding tears had fallen, I saw

                    That column, and those corpses, and the moon,

                 And felt the poisonous tooth of hunger gnaw

                    My vitals, I rejoiced, as if the boon

1355

1355            Of senseless death would be accorded soon;—

                 When from that stony gloom a voice arose,

                    Solemn and sweet as when low winds attune

                 The midnight pines; the grate did then unclose,

               And on that reverend form the moonlight did repose.

XXIX

1360

1360         He struck my chains, and gently spake and smiled:

                    As they were loosened by that Hermit old,

                 Mine eyes were of their madness half beguiled,

                    To answer those kind looks—he did enfold

                    His giant arms around me, to uphold

1365

1365         My wretched frame, my scorchèd limbs he wound

                    In linen moist and balmy, and as cold

                 As dew to drooping leaves;—the chain, with sound

               Like earthquake, through the chasm of that steep stair did bound,

XXX

                 As, lifting me, it fell!—What next I heard,

1370

1370            Were billows leaping on the harbour-bar,

                 And the shrill sea-wind, whose breath idly stirred

                    My hair;—I looked abroad, and saw a star

                    Shining beside a sail, and distant far

                 That mountain and its column, the known mark

1375

1375            Of those who in the wide deep wandering are,

                 So that I feared some Spirit, fell and dark,

               In trance had lain me thus within a fiendish bark.

XXXI

                 For now indeed, over the salt sea-billow

                    I sailed: yet dared not look upon the shape

1380

1380         Of him who ruled the helm, although the pillow

                    For my light head was hollowed in his lap,

                    And my bare limbs his mantle did enwrap,

                 Fearing it was a fiend: at last, he bent

                    O’er me his aged face, as if to snap

1385

1385         Those dreadful thoughts the gentle grandsire bent,

               And to my inmost soul his soothing looks he sent.

XXXII

                 A soft and healing potion to my lips

                    At intervals he raised—now looked on high,

                 To mark if yet the starry giant dips

1390

1390            His zone in the dim sea—now cheeringly,

                    Though he said little, did he speak to me.

                 ‘It is a friend beside thee—take good cheer,

                    Poor victim, thou art now at liberty!’

                 I joyed as those a human tone to hear,

1395

1395       Who in cells deep and lone have languished many a year.

XXXIII

                 A dim and feeble joy, whose glimpses oft

                    Were quenched in a relapse of wildering dreams,

                 Yet still methought we sailed, until aloft

                    The stars of night grew pallid, and the beams

1400

1400            Of morn descended on the ocean-streams,

                 And still that aged man, so grand and mild,

                    Tended me, even as some sick mother seems

                 To hang in hope over a dying child,

               Till in the azure East darkness again was piled.

XXXIV

1405

1405         And then the night-wind steaming from the shore,

                    Sent odours dying sweet across the sea,

                 And the swift boat the little waves which bore,

                    Were cut by its keen keel, though slantingly;

                    Soon I could hear the leaves sigh, and could see

1410

1410         The myrtle-blossoms starring the dim grove,

                    As past the pebbly beach the boat did flee

                 On sidelong wing, into a silent cove,

               Where ebon pines a shade under the starlight wove.

CANTO IV

I

                 THE old man took the oars, and soon the bark

1415

1415            Smote on the beach beside a tower of stone;

                 It was a crumbling heap, whose portal dark

                    With blooming ivy-trails was overgrown;

                    Upon whose floor the spangling sands were strown,

                 And rarest sea-shells, which the eternal flood,

1420

1420            Slave to the mother of the months, had thrown

                 Within the walls of that gray tower, which stood

               A changeling of man’s art, nursed amid Nature’s brood.

II

                 When the old man his boat had anchorèd,

                    He wound me in his arms with tender care,

1425

1425         And very few, but kindly words he said,

                    And bore me through the tower adown a stair,

                    Whose smooth descent some ceaseless step to wear

                 For many a year had fallen.—We came at last

                    To a small chamber, which with mosses rare

1430

1430         Was tapestried, where me his soft hands placed

               Upon a couch of grass and oak-leaves interlaced.

III

                 The moon was darting through the lattices

                    Its yellow light, warm as the beams of day—

                 So warm, that to admit the dewy breeze,

1435

1435            The old man opened them; the moonlight lay

                    Upon a lake whose waters wove their play

                 Even to the threshold of that lonely home:

                    Within was seen in the dim wavering ray

                 The antique sculptured roof, and many a tome

1440

1440       Whose lore had made that sage all that he had become.

IV

>                 The rock-built barrier of the sea was past,—

                    And I was on the margin of a lake,

                 A lonely lake, amid the forests vast

                    And snowy mountains:—did my spirit wake

1445

1445            From sleep as many-coloured as the snake

                 That girds eternity? in life and truth,

                    Might not my heart its cravings ever slake?

                 Was Cythna then a dream, and all my youth,

               And all its hopes and fears, and all its joy and ruth?

V

1450

1450         Thus madness came again,—a milder madness,

                    Which darkened nought but time’s unquiet flow

                 With supernatural shades of clinging sadness;

                    That gentle Hermit, in my helpless woe,

                    By my sick couch was busy to and fro,

1455

1455         Like a strong spirit ministrant of good:

                    When I was healed, he led me forth to show

                 The wonders of his sylvan solitude,

               And we together sate by that isle-fretted flood.

VI

                 He knew his soothing words to weave with skill

1460

1460            From all my madness told; like mine own heart,

                 Of Cythna would he question me, until

                    That thrilling name had ceased to make me start,

                    From his familiar lips—it was not art,

                 Of wisdom and of justice when he spoke—

1465

1465            When mid soft looks of pity, there would dart

                 A glance as keen as is the lightning’s stroke

               When it doth rive the knots of some ancestral oak.

VII

                 Thus slowly from my brain the darkness rolled,

                    My thoughts their due array did re-assume

1470

1470         Through the enchantments of that Hermit old;

                    Then I bethought me of the glorious doom

                    Of those who sternly struggle to relume

                 The lamp of Hope o’er man’s bewildered lot,

                    And, sitting by the waters, in the gloom

1475

1475         Of eve, to that friend’s heart I told my thought—

               That heart which had grown old, but had corrupted not.

VIII

                 That hoary man had spent his livelong age

                    In converse with the dead, who leave the stamp

                 Of ever-burning thoughts on many a page,

1480

1480            When they are gone into the senseless damp

                    Of graves;—his spirit thus became a lamp

                 Of splendour, like to those on which it fed:

                    Through peopled haunts, the City and the Camp,

                 Deep thirst for knowledge had his footsteps led,

1485

1485       And all the ways of men among mankind he read.

IX

                 But custom maketh blind and obdurate

                    The loftiest hearts:—he had beheld the woe

                 In which mankind was bound, but deemed that fate

                    Which made them abject, would preserve them so;

1490

1490            And in such faith, some steadfast joy to know,

                 He sought this cell: but when fame went abroad,

                    That one in Argolis did undergo

                 Torture for liberty, and that the crowd

               High truths from gifted lips had heard and understood;

X

1495

1495         And that the multitude was gathering wide,—

                    His spirit leaped within his aged frame,

                 In lonely peace he could no more abide,

                    But to the land on which the victor’s flame

                    Had fed, my native land, the Hermit came:

1500

1500         Each heart was there a shield, and every tongue

                    Was as a sword, of truth—young Laon’s name

                 Rallied their secret hopes, though tyrants sung

               Hymns of triumphant joy our scattered tribes among.

XI

                 He came to the lone column on the rock,

1505

1505            And with his sweet and mighty eloquence

                 The hearts of those who watched it did unlock,

                    And made them melt in tears of penitence.

                    They gave him entrance free to bear me thence.

                 ‘Since this,’ the old man said, ‘seven years are spent,

1510

1510            While slowly truth on thy benighted sense

                 Has crept; the hope which wildered it has lent

               Meanwhile, to me the power of a sublime intent.

XII

                 ‘Yes, from the records of my youthful state,

                    And from the lore of bards and sages old,

1515

1515         From whatsoe’er my wakened thoughts create

                    Out of the hopes of thine aspirings bold,

                    Have I collected language to unfold

                 Truth to my countrymen; from shore to shore

                    Doctrines of human power my words have told,

1520

1520         They have been heard, and men aspire to more

               Than they have ever gained or ever lost of yore.

XIII

                 ‘In secret chambers parents read, and weep,

                    My writings to their babes, no longer blind;

                 And young men gather when their tyrants sleep,

1525

1525            And vows of faith each to the other bind;

                    And marriageable maidens, who have pined

                 With love, till life seemed melting through their look,

                    A warmer zeal, a nobler hope now find;

                 And every bosom thus is rapt and shook,

1530

1530       Like autumn’s myriad leaves in one swoln mountain-brook.

XIV

                 ‘The tyrants of the Golden City tremble

                    At voices which are heard about the streets,

                 The ministers of fraud can scarce dissemble

                    The lies of their own heart; but when one meets

1535

1535            Another at the shrine, he inly weets,

                 Though he says nothing, that the truth is known;

                    Murderers are pale upon the judgement-seats,

                 And gold grows vile even to the wealthy crone,

               And laughter fills the Fane, and curses shake the Throne.

XV

1540

1540         ‘Kind thoughts, and mighty hopes, and gentle deeds

                    Abound, for fearless love, and the pure law

                 Of mild equality and peace, succeeds

                    To faiths which long have held the world in awe,

                    Bloody and false, and cold:—as whirlpools draw

1545

1545         All wrecks of Ocean to their chasm, the sway

                    Of thy strong genius, Laon, which foresaw

                 This hope, compels all spirits to obey,

               Which round thy secret strength now throng in wide array.

XVI

                 ‘For I have been thy passive instrument’—

1550

1550            (As thus the old man spake, his countenance

                 Gleamed on me like a spirit’s)—‘thou hast lent

                    To me, to all, the power to advance

                    Towards this unforeseen deliverance

                 From our ancestral chains—ay, thou didst rear

1555

1555            That lamp of hope on high, which time nor chance

                 Nor change may not extinguish, and my share

               Of good, was o’er the world its gathered beams to bear.

XVII

                 ‘But I, alas! am both unknown and old,

                    And though the woof of wisdom I know well

1560

1560         To dye in hues of language, I am cold

                    In seeming, and the hopes which inly dwell,

                    My manners note that I did long repel;

                 But Laon’s name to the tumultuous throng

                    Were like the star whose beams the waves compel

1565

1565         And tempests, and his soul-subduing tongue

               Were as a lance to quell the mailèd crest of wrong.

XVIII

                 ‘Perchance blood need not flow, if thou at length

                    Wouldst rise, perchance the very slaves would spare

                 Their brethren and themselves; great is the strength

1570

1570            Of words—for lately did a maiden fair,

                    Who from her childhood has been taught to bear

                 The tyrant’s heaviest yoke, arise, and make

                    Her sex the law of truth and freedom hear,

                 And with these quiet words—“For thine own sake

1575

1575       I prithee spare me;”—did with ruth so take

XIX

                 ‘All hearts, that even the torturer who had bound

                    Her meek calm frame, ere it was yet impaled,

                 Loosened her, weeping then; nor could be found

                    One human hand to harm her—unassailed

1580

1580            Therefore she walks through the great City, veiled

                 In virtue’s adamantine eloquence,

                    ’Gainst scorn, and death and pain thus trebly mailed,

                 And blending, in the smiles of that defence,

               The Serpent and the Dove, Wisdom and Innocence.

XX

1585

1585         ‘The wild-eyed women throng around her path:

                    From their luxurious dungeons, from the dust

                 Of meaner thralls, from the oppressor’s wrath,

                    Or the caresses of his sated lust

                    They congregate:—in her they put their trust;

1590

1590         The tyrants send their armèd slaves to quell

                    Her power;—they, even like a thunder-gust

                 Caught by some forest, bend beneath the spell

               Of that young maiden’s speech, and to their chiefs rebel.

XXI

                 ‘Thus she doth equal laws and justice teach

1595

1595            To woman, outraged and polluted long;

                 Gathering the sweetest fruit in human reach

                    For those fair hands now free, while armèd wrong

                    Trembles before her look, though it be strong;

                 Thousands thus dwell beside her, virgins bright,

1600

1600            And matrons with their babes, a stately throng!

                 Lovers renew the vows which they did plight

               In early faith, and hearts long parted now unite,

XXII

                 ‘And homeless orphans find a home near her,

                    And those poor victims of the proud, no less,

1605

1605         Fair wrecks, on whom the smiling world with stir,

                    Thrusts the redemption of its wickedness:—

                    In squalid huts, and in its palaces

                 Sits Lust alone, while o’er the land is borne

                    Her voice, whose awful sweetness doth repress

1610

1610         All evil, and her foes relenting turn,

               And cast the vote of love in hope’s abandoned urn.

XXIII

                 ‘So in the populous City, a young maiden

                    Has baffled Havoc of the prey which he

                 Marks as his own, whene’er with chains o’erladen

1615

1615            Men make them arms to hurl down tyranny,—

                    False arbiter between the bound and free;

                 And o’er the land, in hamlets and in towns

                    The multitudes collect tumultuously,

                 And throng in arms; but tyranny disowns

1620

               Their claim, and gathers strength around its trembling thrones.

XXIV

                 ‘Blood soon, although unwillingly, to shed,

                    The free cannot forbear—the Queen of Slaves,

                 The hoodwinked Angel of the blind and dead,

                    Custom, with iron mace points to the graves

1625

1625            Where her own standard desolately waves

                 Over the dust of Prophets and of Kings.

                    Many yet stand in her array—“she paves

                 Her path with human hearts,” and o’er it flings

               The wildering gloom of her immeasurable wings.

XXV

1630

1630         ‘There is a plain beneath the City’s wall,

                    Bounded by misty mountains, wide and vast,

                 Millions there lift at Freedom’s thrilling call

                    Ten thousand standards wide, they load the blast

                    Which bears one sound of many voices past,

1635

1635         And startles on his throne their sceptred foe:

                    He sits amid his idle pomp aghast,

                 And that his power hath passed away, doth know—

               Why pause the victor swords to seal his overthrow?

XXVI

                 ‘The tyrant’s guards resistance yet maintain:

1640

1640            Fearless, and fierce, and hard as beasts of blood,

                 They stand a speck amid the peopled plain;

                    Carnage and ruin have been made their food

                    From infancy—ill has become their good,

                 And for its hateful sake their will has wove

1645

1645            The chains which eat their hearts—the multitude

                 Surrounding them, with words of human love,

               Seek from their own decay their stubborn minds to move.

XXVII

                 ‘Over the land is felt a sudden pause,

                    As night and day those ruthless bands around,

1650

1650         The watch of love is kept:—a trance which awes

                    The thoughts of men with hope—as, when the sound

                    Of whirlwind, whose fierce blasts the waves and clouds confound,

                 Dies suddenly, the mariner in fear

                    Feels silence sink upon his heart—thus bound,

1655

1655         The conquerors pause, and oh! may freemen ne’er

               Clasp the relentless knees of Dread the murderer!

XXVIII

                 ‘If blood be shed, ’tis but a change and choice

                    Of bonds,—from slavery to cowardice

                 A wretched fall!—Uplift thy charmèd voice!

1660

1660            Pour on those evil men the love that lies

                    Hovering within those spirit-soothing eyes—

                 Arise, my friend, farewell!’—As thus he spake,

                    From the green earth lightly I did arise,

                 As one out of dim dreams that doth awake,

1665

1665       And looked upon the depth of that reposing lake.

XXIX

                 I saw my countenance reflected there;—

                    And then my youth fell on me like a wind

                 Descending on still waters—my thin hair

                    Was prematurely gray, my face was lined

1670

1670            With channels, such as suffering leaves behind,

                 Not age; my brow was pale, but in my cheek

                    And lips a flush of gnawing fire did find

                 Their food and dwelling; though mine eyes might speak

               A subtle mind and strong within a frame thus weak.

XXX

1675

1675         And though their lustre now was spent and faded,

                    Yet in my hollow looks and withered mien

                 The likeness of a shape for which was braided

                    The brightest woof of genius, still was seen—

                    One who, methought, had gone from the world’s scene,

1680

1680         And left it vacant—’twas her lover’s face—

                    It might resemble her—it once had been

                 The mirror of her thoughts, and still the grace

               Which her mind’s shadow cast, left there a lingering trace.

XXXI

                 What then was I? She slumbered with the dead.

1685

1685            Glory and joy and peace, had come and gone.

                 Doth the cloud perish, when the beams are fled

                    Which steeped its skirts in gold? or, dark and lone,

                    Doth it not through the paths of night unknown,

                 On outspread wings of its own wind upborne

1690

1690            Pour rain upon the earth? The stars are shown,

                 When the cold moon sharpens her silver horn

               Under the sea, and make the wide night not forlorn.

XXXII

                 Strengthened in heart, yet sad, that aged man

                    I left, with interchange of looks and tears,

1695

1695         And lingering speech, and to the Camp began

                    My way. O’er many a mountain-chain which rears

                    Its hundred crests aloft, my spirit bears

                 My frame: o’er many a dale and many a moor,

                    And gaily now meseems serene earth wears

1700

1700         The blosmy spring’s star-bright investiture.

               A vision which aught sad from sadness might allure.

XXXIII

                 My powers revived within me, and I went

                    As one whom winds waft o’er the bending grass,

                 Through many a vale of that broad continent.

1705

1705            At night when I reposed, fair dreams did pass

                    Before my pillow;—my own Cythna was,

                 Not like a child of death, among them ever;

                    When I arose from rest, a woful mass

                 That gentlest sleep seemed from my life to sever,

1710

1710       As if the light of youth were not withdrawn for ever.

XXXIV

                 Aye as I went, that maiden who had reared

                    The torch of Truth afar, of whose high deeds

                 The Hermit in his pilgrimage had heard,

                    Haunted my thoughts.—Ah, Hope its sickness feeds

1715

1715            With whatso’er it finds, or flowers or weeds!

                 Could she be Cythna?—Was that corpse a shade

                    Such as self-torturing thought from madness breeds?

                 Why was this hope not torture? Yet it made

               A light around my steps which would not ever fade.

CANTO V

I

1720

1720         OVER the utmost hill at length I sped,

                    A snowy steep:—the moon was hanging low

                 Over the Asian mountains, and outspread

                    The plain, the City, and the Camp below,

                    Skirted the midnight Ocean’s glimmering flow;

1725

1725         The City’s moonlit spires and myriad lamps,

                    Like stars in a sublunar sky did glow,

                 And fires blazed far amid the scattered camps,

               Like springs of flame, which burst where’er swift Earthquake stamps.

II

                 All slept but those in watchful arms who stood,

1730

1730            And those who sate tending the beacon’s light,

                 And the few sounds from that vast multitude

                    Made silence more profound.—Oh, what a might

                    Of human thought was cradled in that night!

                 How many hearts impenetrably veiled

1735

1735            Beat underneath its shade, what secret fight

                 Evil and good, in woven passions mailed,

               Waged through that silent throng; a war that never failed!

III

                 And now the Power of Good held victory,

                    So, through the labyrinth of many a tent,

1740

1740         Among the silent millions who did lie

                    In innocent sleep, exultingly I went;

                    The moon had left Heaven desert now, but lent

                 From eastern morn the first faint lustre showed

                    An armèd youth—over his spear he bent

1745

1745         His downward face.—‘A friend!’ I cried aloud,

               And quickly common hopes made freemen understood.

IV

                 I sate beside him while the morning beam

                    Crept slowly over Heaven, and talked with him

                 Of those immortal hopes, a glorious theme!

1750

1750            Which led us forth, until the stars grew dim:

                    And all the while, methought, his voice did swim

                 As if it drownèd in remembrance were

                    Of thoughts which make the moist eyes overbrim:

                 At last, when daylight ’gan to fill the air,

1755

1755       He looked on me, and cried in wonder—‘Thou art here!’

V

                 Then, suddenly, I knew it was the youth

                    In whom its earliest hopes my spirit found;

                 But envious tongues had stained his spotless truth,

                    And thoughtless pride his love in silence bound,

1760

1760            And shame and sorrow mine in toils had wound,

                 Whilst he was innocent, and I deluded;

                    The truth now came upon me, on the ground

                 Tears of repenting joy, which fast intruded,

               Fell fast, and o’er its peace our mingling spirits brooded.

VI

1765

1765         Thus, while with rapid lips and earnest eyes

                    We talked, a sound of sweeping conflict spread

                 As from the earth did suddenly arise;

                    From every tent roused by that clamour dread.

                    Our bands outsprung and seized their arms—we sped

1770

1770         Towards the sound: our tribes were gathering far.

                    Those sanguine slaves amid ten thousand dead

                 Stabbed in their sleep, trampled in treacherous war

               The gentle hearts whose power their lives had sought to spare.

VII

                 Like rabid snakes, that sting some gentle child

1775

1775            Who brings them food, when winter false and fair

                 Allures them forth with its cold smiles, so wild

                    They rage among the camp;—they overbear

                    The patriot hosts—confusion, then despair

                 Descends like night—when ‘Laon!’ one did cry:

                    Like a bright ghost from Heaven that shout did scare

                 The slaves, and widening through the vaulted sky,

               Seemed sent from Earth to Heaven in sign of victory.

VIII

                 In sudden panic those false murderers fied,

                    Like insect tribes before the northern gale:

1785

1785         But swifter still, our hosts encompassèd

                    Their shattered ranks, and in a craggy vale,

                    Where even their fierce despair might nought avail,

                 Hemmed them around!—and then revenge and fear

                    Made the high virtue of the patriots fail:

1790

1790         One pointed on his foe the mortal spear—

               I rushed before its point, and cried, ‘Forbear, forbear!’

IX

                 The spear transfixed my arm that was uplifted

                    In swift expostulation, and the blood

                 Gushed round its point: I smiled, and—‘Oh! thou gifted

1795

1795            With eloquence which shall not be withstood,

                    Flow thus!’—I cried in joy, ‘thou vital flood,

                 Until my heart be dry, ere thus the cause

                    For which thou wert aught worthy be subdued—

                 Ah, ye are pale,—ye weep,—your passions pause,—

1800

1800       ’Tis well! ye feel the truth of love’s benignant laws.

X

                 ‘Soldiers, our brethren and our friends are slain.

                    Ye murdered them, I think, as they did sleep!

                 Alas, what have ye done? the slightest pain

                    Which ye might suffer, there were eyes to weep,

                    But ye have quenched them—there were smiles to steep

                 Your hearts in balm, but they are lost in woe;

                    And those whom love did set his watch to keep

                 Around your tents, truth’s freedom to bestow,

               Ye stabbed as they did sleep—but they forgive ye now.

XI

1810

1810         ‘Oh wherefore should ill ever flow from ill,

                    And pain still keener pain for ever breed?

                 We all are brethren—even the slaves who kill

                    For hire, are men; and to avenge misdeed

                    On the misdoer, doth but Misery feed

1815

1815         With her own broken heart! O Earth, O Heaven!

                    And thou, dread Nature, which to every deed

                 And all that lives or is, to be hath given,

               Even as to thee have these done ill, and are forgiven!

XII

                 ‘Join then your hands and hearts, and let the past

1820

1820            Be as a grave which gives not up its dead

                 To evil thoughts.’—A film then overcast

                    My sense with dimness, for the wound, which bled

                    Freshly, swift shadows o’er mine eyes had shed.

                 When I awoke, I lay mid friends and foes,

1825

1825            And earnest countenances on me shed

                 The light of questioning looks, whilst one did close

               My wound with balmiest herbs, and soothed me to repose;

XIII

                 And one whose spear had pierced me, leaned beside,

                    With quivering lips and humid eyes;—and all

1830

1830         Seemed like some brothers on a journey wide

                    Gone forth, whom now strange meeting did befall

                    In a strange land, round one whom they might call

                 Their friend, their chief, their father, for assay

                    Of peril, which had saved them from the thrall

1835

1835         Of death, now suffering. Thus the vast array

               Of those fraternal bands were reconciled that day.

XIV

                 Lifting the thunder of their acclamation,

                    Towards the City then the multitude,

                 And I among them, went in joy—a nation

1840

1840            Made free by love;—a mighty brotherhood

                    Linked by a jealous interchange of good;

                 A glorious pageant, more magnificent

                    Than kingly slaves arrayed in gold and blood,

                 When they return from carnage, and are sent

1845

1845       In triumph bright beneath the populous battlement.

XV

                 Afar, the city-walls were thronged on high,

                    And myriads on each giddy turret clung,

                 And to each spire far lessening in the sky

                    Bright pennons on the idle winds were hung;

1850

1850            As we approached, a shout of joyance sprung

                 At once from all the crowd, as if the vast

                    And peopled Earth its boundless skies among

                 The sudden clamour of delight had cast,

               When from before its face some general wreck had passed.

XVI

1855

1855         Our armies through the City’s hundred gates

                    Were poured, like brooks which to the rocky lair

                 Of some deep lake, whose silence them awaits,

                    Throng from the mountains when the storms are there

                    And, as we passed through the calm sunny air

1860

1860         A thousand flower-inwoven crowns were shed,

                    The token flowers of truth and freedom fair,

                 And fairest hands bound them on many a head,

               Those angels of love’s heaven, that over all was spread.

XVII

                 I trod as one tranced in some rapturous vision:

1865

1865            Those bloody bands so lately reconciled,

                 Were, ever as they went, by the contrition

                    Of anger turned to love, from ill beguiled,

                    And every one on them more gently smiled,

                 Because they had done evil:—the sweet awe

                    Of such mild looks made their own hearts grow mild,

                 And did with soft attraction ever draw

               Their spirits to the love of freedom’s equal law.

XVIII

                 And they, and all, in one loud symphony

                    My name with Liberty commingling, lifted,

1875

1875         ‘The friend and the preserver of the free!

                    The parent of this joy!’ and fair eyes gifted

                    With feelings, caught from one who had uplifted

                 The light of a great spirit, round me shone;

                    And all the shapes of this grand scenery shifted

1880

1880         Like restless clouds before the steadfast sun,—

               Where was that Maid? I asked, but it was known of none.

XIX

                 Laone was the name her love had chosen,

                    For she was nameless, and her birth none knew:

                 Where was Laone now?—The words were frozen

1885

1885            Within my lips with fear; but to subdue

                    Such dreadful hope, to my great task was due,

                 And when at length one brought reply, that she

                    To-morrow would appear, I then withdrew

                 To judge what need for that great throng might be,

1890

1890       For now the stars came thick over the twilight sea.

XX

                 Yet need was none for rest or food to care,

                    Even though that multitude was passing great,

                 Since each one for the other did prepare

                    All kindly succour—Therefore to the gate

1895

1895            Of the Imperial House, now desolate,

                 I passed, and there was found aghast, alone,

                    The fallen Tyrant!—Silently he sate

                 Upon the footstool of his golden throne,

               Which, starred with sunny gems, in its own lustre shone.

XXI

1900

1900         Alone, but for one child, who led before him

                    A graceful dance: the only living thing

                 Of all the crowd, which thither to adore him

                    Flocked yesterday, who solace sought to bring

                    In his abandonment!—She knew the King

1905

1905         Had praised her dance of yore, and now she wove

                    Its circles, aye weeping and murmuring

                 Mid her sad task of unregarded love,

               That to no smiles it might his speechless sadness move.

XXII

                 She fled to him, and wildly clasped his feet

                    When human steps were heard:—he moved nor spoke,

                 Nor changed his hue, nor raised his looks to meet

                    The gaze of strangers—our loud entrance woke

                    The echoes of the hall, which circling broke

                 The calm of its recesses,—like a tomb

1915

1915            Its sculptured walls vacantly to the stroke

                 Of footfalls answered, and the twilight’s gloom

               Lay like a charnel’s mist within the radiant dome.

XXIII

                 The little child stood up when we came nigh;

                    Her lips and cheeks seemed very pale and wan,

1920

1920         But on her forehead, and within her eye

                    Lay beauty, which makes hearts that feed thereon

                    Sick with excess of sweetness; on the throne

                 She leaned;—the King, with gathered brow, and lips

                    Wreathed by long scorn, did inly sneer and frown

1925

1925         With hue like that when some great painter dips

               His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.

XXIV

                 She stood beside him like a rainbow braided

                    Within some storm, when scarce its shadows vast

                 From the blue paths of the swift sun have faded;

1930

1930            A sweet and solemn smile, like Cythna’s cast

                    One moment’s light, which made my heart beat fast,

                 O’er that child’s parted lips—a gleam of bliss,

                    A shade of vanished days,—as the tears passed

                 Which wrapped it, even as with a father’s kiss

1935

1935       I pressed those softest eyes in trembling tenderness.

XXV

                 The sceptred wretch then from that solitude

                    I drew, and, of his change compassionate,

                 With words of sadness soothed his rugged mood.

                    But he, while pride and fear held deep debate,

1940

1940            With sullen guile of ill-dissembled hate

                 Glared on me as a toothless snake might glare:

                    Pity, not scorn I felt, though desolate

                 The desolator now, and unaware

               The curses which he mocked had caught him by the hair.

XXVI

1945

1945         I led him forth from that which now might seem

                    A gorgeous grave: through portals sculptured deep

                 With imagery beautiful as dream

                    We went, and left the shades which tend on sleep

                    Over its unregarded gold to keep

1950

1950         Their silent watch.—The child trod faintingly,

                    And as she went, the tears which she did weep

                 Glanced in the starlight; wildered seemèd she,

               And when I spake, for sobs she could not answer me.

XXVII

                 At last the tyrant cried, ‘She hungers, slave,

1955

1955            Stab her, or give her bread!’—It was a tone

                 Such as sick fancies in a new-made grave

                    Might hear. I trembled, for the truth was known;

                    He with this child had thus been left alone,

                 And neither had gone forth for food,—but he

                    In mingled pride and awe cowered near his throne,

                 And she a nursling of captivity

               Knew nought beyond those walls, nor what such change might be.

XXVIII

                 And he was troubled at a charm withdrawn

                    Thus suddenly; that sceptres ruled no more—

1965

1965         That even from gold the dreadful strength was gone,

                    Which once made all things subject to its power—

                    Such wonder seized him, as if hour by hour

                 The past had come again; and the swift fall

                    Of one so great and terrible of yore,

1970

1970         To desolateness, in the hearts of all

               Like wonder stirred, who saw such awful change befall.

XXIX

                 A mighty crowd, such as the wide land pours

                    Once in a thousand years, now gathered round

                 The fallen tyrant;—like the rush of showers

1975

1975            Of hail in spring, pattering along the ground,

                    Their many footsteps fell, else came no sound

                 From the wide multitude: that lonely man

                    Then knew the burden of his change, and found,

                 Concealing in the dust his visage wan,

1980

1980       Refuge from the keen looks which through his bosom ran.

XXX

                 And he was faint withal: I sate beside him

                    Upon the earth, and took that child so fair

                 From his weak arms, that ill might none betide him

                    Or her:—when food was brought to them, her share

1985

1985            To his averted lips the child did bear,

                 But, when she saw he had enough, she ate

                    And wept the while;—the lonely man’s despair

                 Hunger then overcame, and of his state

               Forgetful, on the dust as in a trance he sate.

XXXI

1990

1990         Slowly the silence of the multitudes

                    Passed, as when far is heard in some lone dell

                 The gathering of a wind among the woods—

                    ‘And he is fallen!’ they cry, ‘he who did dwell

                    Like famine or the plague, or aught more fell

1995

1995         Among our homes, is fallen! the murderer

                    Who slaked his thirsting soul as from a well

                 Of blood and tears with ruin! he is here!

               Sunk in a gulf of scorn from which none may him rear!’

XXXII

                 Then was heard—‘He who judged let him be brought

2000

2000            To judgement! blood for blood cries from the soil

                 On which his crimes have deep pollution wrought!

                    Shall Othman only unavenged despoil?

                    Shall they who by the stress of grinding toil

                 Wrest from the unwilling earth his luxuries,

2005

2005            Perish for crime, while his foul blood may boil,

                 Or creep within his veins at will?—Arise!

               And to high justice make her chosen sacrifice.’

XXXIII

                 ‘What do ye seek? what fear ye,’ then I cried,

                    Suddenly starting forth, ‘that ye should shed

2010

2010         The blood of Othman?—if your hearts are tried

                    In the true love of freedom, cease to dread

                    This one poor lonely man—beneath Heaven spread

                 In purest light above us all, through earth

                    Maternal earth, who doth her sweet smiles shed

2015

2015         For all, let him go free; until the worth

               Of human nature win from these a second birth.

XXXIV

                 ‘What call ye justice? Is there one who ne’er

                    In secret thought has wished another’s ill?—

                 Are ye all pure? Let those stand forth who hear,

2020

2020            And tremble not. Shall they insult and kill,

                    If such they be? their mild eyes can they fill

                 With the false anger of the hypocrite?

                    Alas, such were not pure,—the chastened will

                 Of virtue sees that justice is the light

2025

2025       Of love, and not revenge, and terror and despite.’

XXXV

                 The murmur of the people, slowly dying,

                    Paused as I spake, then those who near me were,

                 Cast gentle looks where the lone man was lying

                    Shrouding his head, which now that infant fair

2030

2030            Clasped on her lap in silence;—through the air

                 Sobs were then heard, and many kissed my feet

                    In pity’s madness, and to the despair

                 Of him whom late they cursed, a solace sweet

               His very victims brought—soft looks and speeches meet.

XXXVI

2035

2035         Then to a home for his repose assigned,

                    Accompanied by the still throng he went

                 In silence, where, to soothe his rankling mind,

                    Some likeness of his ancient state was lent;

                    And if his heart could have been innocent

2040

2040         As those who pardoned him, he might have ended

                    His days in peace; but his straight lips were bent,

                 Men said, into a smile which guile portended,

               A sight with which that child like hope with fear was blended.

XXXVII

                 ’Twas midnight now, the eve of that great day

2045

2045            Whereon the many nations at whose call

                 The chains of earth like mist melted away,

                    Decreed to hold a sacred Festival,

                    A rite to attest the equality of all

                 Who live.