B. S.”, 1870. Rossetti’s title is “Mother and Son”.)
1.
She was an aged woman; and the years
Which she had numbered on her toilsome way
Had bowed her natural powers to decay.
She was an aged woman; yet the ray
Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, 5
Pressed into light by silent misery,
Hath soul’s imperishable energy.
She was a cripple, and incapable
To add one mite to gold-fed luxury:
And therefore did her spirit dimly feel 10
That poverty, the crime of tainting stain,
Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.
2.
One only son’s love had supported her.
She long had struggled with infirmity,
Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die, 15
When fate has spared to rend some mental tie,
Would many wish, and surely fewer dare.
But, when the tyrant’s bloodhounds forced the child
For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield —
Bend to another’s will — become a thing 20
More senseless than the sword of battlefield —
Then did she feel keen sorrow’s keenest sting;
And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.
3.
For seven years did this poor woman live
In unparticipated solitude. 25
Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude
Picking the scattered remnants of its wood.
If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve.
The gleanings of precarious charity
Her scantiness of food did scarce supply. 30
The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt
Within her ghastly hollowness of eye:
Each arrow of the season’s change she felt.
Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run,
One only hope: it was — once more to see her son. 35
4.
It was an eve of June, when every star
Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live.
She rested on the moor. ‘Twas such an eve
When first her soul began indeed to grieve:
Then he was here; now he is very far. 40
The sweetness of the balmy evening
A sorrow o’er her aged soul did fling,
Yet not devoid of rapture’s mingled tear:
A balm was in the poison of the sting.
This aged sufferer for many a year 45
Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed
A sigh — and turning round, clasped William to her breast!
5.
And, though his form was wasted by the woe
Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak,
Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek 50
Of slavery’s violence and scorn did speak,
Yet did the aged woman’s bosom glow.
The vital fire seemed re-illumed within
By this sweet unexpected welcoming.
Oh, consummation of the fondest hope 55
That ever soared on Fancy’s wildest wing!
Oh, tenderness that foundst so sweet a scope!
Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway,
When THOU canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they!
6.
Her son, compelled, the country’s foes had fought, 60
Had bled in battle; and the stern control
Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul
Utterly poisoned life’s unmingled bowl,
And unsubduable evils on him brought.
He was the shadow of the lusty child 65
Who, when the time of summer season smiled,
Did earn for her a meal of honesty,
And with affectionate discourse beguiled
The keen attacks of pain and poverty;
Till Power, as envying her this only joy, 70
From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.
7.
And now cold charity’s unwelcome dole
Was insufficient to support the pair;
And they would perish rather than would bear
The law’s stern slavery, and the insolent stare 75
With which law loves to rend the poor man’s soul —
The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise
Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys
Wake in this scene of legal misery.
…
TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by
Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1812.
Rossetti’s title is “The Mexican Revolution”.)
1.
Brothers! between you and me
Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar:
Yet in spirit oft I see
On thy wild and winding shore
Freedom’s bloodless banners wave, — 5
Feel the pulses of the brave
Unextinguished in the grave, —
See them drenched in sacred gore, —
Catch the warrior’s gasping breath
Murmuring ‘Liberty or death!’ 10
2.
Shout aloud! Let every slave,
Crouching at Corruption’s throne,
Start into a man, and brave
Racks and chains without a groan:
And the castle’s heartless glow, 15
And the hovel’s vice and woe,
Fade like gaudy flowers that blow —
Weeds that peep, and then are gone
Whilst, from misery’s ashes risen,
Love shall burst the captive’s prison. 20
3.
Cotopaxi! bid the sound
Through thy sister mountains ring,
Till each valley smile around
At the blissful welcoming!
And, O thou stern Ocean deep, 25
Thou whose foamy billows sweep
Shores where thousands wake to weep
Whilst they curse a villain king,
On the winds that fan thy breast
Bear thou news of Freedom’s rest! 30
4.
Can the daystar dawn of love,
Where the flag of war unfurled
Floats with crimson stain above
The fabric of a ruined world?
Never but to vengeance driven 35
When the patriot’s spirit shriven
Seeks in death its native Heaven!
There, to desolation hurled,
Widowed love may watch thy bier,
Balm thee with its dying tear. 40
TO IRELAND.
(Published, 1-10, by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; 11-17, 25-28, by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; 18-24 by Kingsland, “Poet-Lore”, July, 1892. Dated 1812.)
1.
Bear witness, Erin! when thine injured isle
Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile,
Its cornfields waving in the winds that sweep
The billowy surface of thy circling deep!
Thou tree whose shadow o’er the Atlantic gave 5
Peace, wealth and beauty, to its friendly wave, its blossoms fade,
And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade;
Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty fruit,
Whose chillness struck a canker to its root. 10
2.
I could stand
Upon thy shores, O Erin, and could count
The billows that, in their unceasing swell,
Dash on thy beach, and every wave might seem
An instrument in Time the giant’s grasp, 15
To burst the barriers of Eternity.
Proceed, thou giant, conquering and to conquer;
March on thy lonely way! The nations fall
Beneath thy noiseless footstep; pyramids
That for millenniums have defied the blast, 20
And laughed at lightnings, thou dost crush to nought.
Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp,
Is but the fungus of a winter day
That thy light footstep presses into dust.
Thou art a conqueror, Time; all things give way 25
Before thee but the ‘fixed and virtuous will’;
The sacred sympathy of soul which was
When thou wert not, which shall be when thou perishest.
…
ON ROBERT EMMET’S GRAVE.
(Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated 1812.)
…
6.
No trump tells thy virtues — the grave where they rest
With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by fame,
Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune caressed,
Shall pass like a mist from the light of thy name.
7.
When the storm-cloud that lowers o’er the day-beam is gone, 5
Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine;
When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan,
She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.
THE RETROSPECT: CWM ELAN, 1812.
(Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887.)
A scene, which ‘wildered fancy viewed
In the soul’s coldest solitude,
With that same scene when peaceful love
Flings rapture’s colour o’er the grove,
When mountain, meadow, wood and stream 5
With unalloying glory gleam,
And to the spirit’s ear and eye
Are unison and harmony.
The moonlight was my dearer day;
Then would I wander far away, 10
And, lingering on the wild brook’s shore
To hear its unremitting roar,
Would lose in the ideal flow
All sense of overwhelming woe;
Or at the noiseless noon of night 15
Would climb some heathy mountain’s height,
And listen to the mystic sound
That stole in fitful gasps around.
I joyed to see the streaks of day
Above the purple peaks decay, 20
And watch the latest line of light
Just mingling with the shades of night;
For day with me was time of woe
When even tears refused to flow;
Then would I stretch my languid frame 25
Beneath the wild woods’ gloomiest shade,
And try to quench the ceaseless flame
That on my withered vitals preyed;
Would close mine eyes and dream I were
On some remote and friendless plain, 30
And long to leave existence there,
If with it I might leave the pain
That with a finger cold and lean
Wrote madness on my withering mien.
It was not unrequited love 35
That bade my ‘wildered spirit rove;
‘Twas not the pride disdaining life,
That with this mortal world at strife
Would yield to the soul’s inward sense,
Then groan in human impotence, 40
And weep because it is not given
To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven.
‘Twas not that in the narrow sphere
Where Nature fixed my wayward fate
There was no friend or kindred dear 45
Formed to become that spirit’s mate,
Which, searching on tired pinion, found
Barren and cold repulse around;
Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gave
New graces to the narrow grave. 50
For broken vows had early quelled
The stainless spirit’s vestal flame;
Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled,
Then the envenomed arrow came,
And Apathy’s unaltering eye 55
Beamed coldness on the misery;
And early I had learned to scorn
The chains of clay that bound a soul
Panting to seize the wings of morn,
And where its vital fires were born 60
To soar, and spur the cold control
Which the vile slaves of earthly night
Would twine around its struggling flight.
Oh, many were the friends whom fame
Had linked with the unmeaning name, 65
Whose magic marked among mankind
The casket of my unknown mind,
Which hidden from the vulgar glare
Imbibed no fleeting radiance there.
My darksome spirit sought — it found 70
A friendless solitude around.
For who that might undaunted stand,
The saviour of a sinking land,
Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant’s slave,
And fatten upon Freedom’s grave, 75
Though doomed with her to perish, where
The captive clasps abhorred despair.
They could not share the bosom’s feeling,
Which, passion’s every throb revealing,
Dared force on the world’s notice cold 80
Thoughts of unprofitable mould,
Who bask in Custom’s fickle ray,
Fit sunshine of such wintry day!
They could not in a twilight walk
Weave an impassioned web of talk, 85
Till mysteries the spirits press
In wild yet tender awfulness,
Then feel within our narrow sphere
How little yet how great we are!
But they might shine in courtly glare, 90
Attract the rabble’s cheapest stare,
And might command where’er they move
A thing that bears the name of love;
They might be learned, witty, gay,
Foremost in fashion’s gilt array, 95
On Fame’s emblazoned pages shine,
Be princes’ friends, but never mine!
Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime,
Mocking the blunted scythe of Time,
Whence I would watch its lustre pale 100
Steal from the moon o’er yonder vale
Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast,
Bared to the stream’s unceasing flow,
Ever its giant shade doth cast
On the tumultuous surge below: 105
Woods, to whose depths retires to die
The wounded Echo’s melody,
And whither this lone spirit bent
The footstep of a wild intent:
Meadows! whose green and spangled breast 110
These fevered limbs have often pressed,
Until the watchful fiend Despair
Slept in the soothing coolness there!
Have not your varied beauties seen
The sunken eye, the withering mien, 115
Sad traces of the unuttered pain
That froze my heart and burned my brain.
How changed since Nature’s summer form
Had last the power my grief to charm,
Since last ye soothed my spirit’s sadness, 120
Strange chaos of a mingled madness!
Changed! — not the loathsome worm that fed
In the dark mansions of the dead,
Now soaring through the fields of air,
And gathering purest nectar there, 125
A butterfly, whose million hues
The dazzled eye of wonder views,
Long lingering on a work so strange,
Has undergone so bright a change.
How do I feel my happiness? 130
I cannot tell, but they may guess
Whose every gloomy feeling gone,
Friendship and passion feel alone;
Who see mortality’s dull clouds
Before affection’s murmur fly, 135
Whilst the mild glances of her eye
Pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds
The spirit’s inmost sanctuary.
O thou! whose virtues latest known,
First in this heart yet claim’st a throne; 140
Whose downy sceptre still shall share
The gentle sway with virtue there;
Thou fair in form, and pure in mind,
Whose ardent friendship rivets fast
The flowery band our fates that bind, 145
Which incorruptible shall last
When duty’s hard and cold control
Has thawed around the burning soul, —
The gloomiest retrospects that bind
With crowns of thorn the bleeding mind, 150
The prospects of most doubtful hue
That rise on Fancy’s shuddering view, —
Are gilt by the reviving ray
Which thou hast flung upon my day.
FRAGMENT OF A SONNET.
TO HARRIET.
(Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August 1, 1812.)
Ever as now with Love and Virtue’s glow
May thy unwithering soul not cease to burn,
Still may thine heart with those pure thoughts o’erflow
Which force from mine such quick and warm return.
TO HARRIET.
(Published, 5-13, by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876; 58-69, by Shelley, “Notes to Queen Mab”, 1813; and entire (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated 1812.)
It is not blasphemy to hope that Heaven
More perfectly will give those nameless joys
Which throb within the pulses of the blood
And sweeten all that bitterness which Earth
Infuses in the heaven-born soul. O thou 5
Whose dear love gleamed upon the gloomy path
Which this lone spirit travelled, drear and cold,
Yet swiftly leading to those awful limits
Which mark the bounds of Time and of the space
When Time shall be no more; wilt thou not turn 10
Those spirit-beaming eyes and look on me,
Until I be assured that Earth is Heaven,
And Heaven is Earth? — will not thy glowing cheek,
Glowing with soft suffusion, rest on mine,
And breathe magnetic sweetness through the frame 15
Of my corporeal nature, through the soul
Now knit with these fine fibres? I would give
The longest and the happiest day that fate
Has marked on my existence but to feel
ONE soul-reviving kiss…O thou most dear, 20
‘Tis an assurance that this Earth is Heaven,
And Heaven the flower of that untainted seed
Which springeth here beneath such love as ours.
Harriet! let death all mortal ties dissolve,
But ours shall not be mortal! The cold hand 25
Of Time may chill the love of earthly minds
Half frozen now; the frigid intercourse
Of common souls lives but a summer’s day;
It dies, where it arose, upon this earth.
But ours! oh, ‘tis the stretch of Fancy’s hope 30
To portray its continuance as now,
Warm, tranquil, spirit-healing; nor when age
Has tempered these wild ecstasies, and given
A soberer tinge to the luxurious glow
Which blazing on devotion’s pinnacle 35
Makes virtuous passion supersede the power
Of reason; nor when life’s aestival sun
To deeper manhood shall have ripened me;
Nor when some years have added judgement’s store
To all thy woman sweetness, all the fire 40
Which throbs in thine enthusiast heart; not then
Shall holy friendship (for what other name
May love like ours assume?), not even then
Shall Custom so corrupt, or the cold forms
Of this desolate world so harden us, 45
As when we think of the dear love that binds
Our souls in soft communion, while we know
Each other’s thoughts and feelings, can we say
Unblushingly a heartless compliment,
Praise, hate, or love with the unthinking world, 50
Or dare to cut the unrelaxing nerve
That knits our love to virtue. Can those eyes,
Beaming with mildest radiance on my heart
To purify its purity, e’er bend
To soothe its vice or consecrate its fears? 55
Never, thou second Self! Is confidence
So vain in virtue that I learn to doubt
The mirror even of Truth? Dark flood of Time,
Roll as it listeth thee; I measure not
By month or moments thy ambiguous course. 60
Another may stand by me on thy brink,,
And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken,
Which pauses at my feet. The sense of love,
The thirst for action, and the impassioned thought
Prolong my being; if I wake no more, 65
My life more actual living will contain
Than some gray veteran’s of the world’s cold school,
Whose listless hours unprofitably roll
By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed,
Virtue and Love! unbending Fortitude, 70
Freedom, Devotedness and Purity!
That life my Spirit consecrates to you.
TO A BALLOON LADEN WITH KNOWLEDGE.
(Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.)
Bright ball of flame that through the gloom of even
Silently takest thine aethereal way,
And with surpassing glory dimm’st each ray
Twinkling amid the dark blue depths of Heaven, —
Unlike the fire thou bearest, soon shalt thou 5
Fade like a meteor in surrounding gloom,
Whilst that, unquenchable, is doomed to glow
A watch-light by the patriot’s lonely tomb;
A ray of courage to the oppressed and poor;
A spark, though gleaming on the hovel’s hearth, 10
Which through the tyrant’s gilded domes shall roar;
A beacon in the darkness of the Earth;
A sun which, o’er the renovated scene,
Shall dart like Truth where Falsehood yet has been.
ON LAUNCHING SOME BOTTLES FILLED WITH KNOWLEDGE INTO THE BRISTOL CHANNEL.
(Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.)
Vessels of heavenly medicine! may the breeze
Auspicious waft your dark green forms to shore;
Safe may ye stem the wide surrounding roar
Of the wild whirlwinds and the raging seas;
And oh! if Liberty e’er deigned to stoop 5
From yonder lowly throne her crownless brow,
Sure she will breathe around your emerald group
The fairest breezes of her West that blow.
Yes! she will waft ye to some freeborn soul
Whose eye-beam, kindling as it meets your freight, 10
Her heaven-born flame in suffering Earth will light,
Until its radiance gleams from pole to pole,
And tyrant-hearts with powerless envy burst
To see their night of ignorance dispersed.
FAREWELL TO NORTH DEVON.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated August, 1812.)
Where man’s profane and tainting hand
Nature’s primaeval loveliness has marred,
And some few souls of the high bliss debarred
Which else obey her powerful command;
…mountain piles 5
That load in grandeur Cambria’s emerald vales.
ON LEAVING LONDON FOR WALES.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Dowden,
“Life of Shelley”, 1887; dated November, 1812.)
Hail to thee, Cambria! for the unfettered wind
Which from thy wilds even now methinks I feel,
Chasing the clouds that roll in wrath behind,
And tightening the soul’s laxest nerves to steel;
True mountain Liberty alone may heal 5
The pain which Custom’s obduracies bring,
And he who dares in fancy even to steal
One draught from Snowdon’s ever sacred spring
Blots out the unholiest rede of worldly witnessing.
And shall that soul, to selfish peace resigned, 10
So soon forget the woe its fellows share?
Can Snowdon’s Lethe from the free-born mind
So soon the page of injured penury tear?
Does this fine mass of human passion dare
To sleep, unhonouring the patriot’s fall, 15
Or life’s sweet load in quietude to bear
While millions famish even in Luxury’s hall,
And Tyranny, high raised, stern lowers on all?
No, Cambria! never may thy matchless vales
A heart so false to hope and virtue shield; 20
Nor ever may thy spirit-breathing gales
Waft freshness to the slaves who dare to yield.
For me!…the weapon that I burn to wield
I seek amid thy rocks to ruin hurled,
That Reason’s flag may over Freedom’s field, 25
Symbol of bloodless victory, wave unfurled,
A meteor-sign of love effulgent o’er the world.
…
Do thou, wild Cambria, calm each struggling thought;
Cast thy sweet veil of rocks and woods between,
That by the soul to indignation wrought 30
Mountains and dells be mingled with the scene;
Let me forever be what I have been,
But not forever at my needy door
Let Misery linger speechless, pale and lean;
I am the friend of the unfriended poor, — 35
Let me not madly stain their righteous cause in gore.
THE WANDERING JEW’S SOLILOQUY.
(Published (from the Esdaile manuscript book) by Bertram Dobell, 1887.)
Is it the Eternal Triune, is it He
Who dares arrest the wheels of destiny
And plunge me in the lowest Hell of Hells?
Will not the lightning’s blast destroy my frame?
Will not steel drink the blood-life where it swells? 5
No — let me hie where dark Destruction dwells,
To rouse her from her deeply caverned lair,
And, taunting her cursed sluggishness to ire,
Light long Oblivion’s death-torch at its flame
And calmly mount Annihilation’s pyre. 10
Tyrant of Earth! pale Misery’s jackal Thou!
Are there no stores of vengeful violent fate
Within the magazines of Thy fierce hate?
No poison in the clouds to bathe a brow
That lowers on Thee with desperate contempt? 15
Where is the noonday Pestilence that slew
The myriad sons of Israel’s favoured nation?
Where the destroying Minister that flew
Pouring the fiery tide of desolation
Upon the leagued Assyrian’s attempt? 20
Where the dark Earthquake-daemon who engorged
At the dread word Korah’s unconscious crew?
Or the Angel’s two-edged sword of fire that urged
Our primal parents from their bower of bliss
(Reared by Thine hand) for errors not their own 25
By Thine omniscient mind foredoomed, foreknown?
Yes! I would court a ruin such as this,
Almighty Tyrant! and give thanks to Thee —
Drink deeply — drain the cup of hate; remit this — I may die.
EVENING. TO HARRIET.
(Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed July 31, 1813.)
O thou bright Sun! beneath the dark blue line
Of western distance that sublime descendest,
And, gleaming lovelier as thy beams decline,
Thy million hues to every vapour lendest,
And, over cobweb lawn and grove and stream 5
Sheddest the liquid magic of thy light,
Till calm Earth, with the parting splendour bright,
Shows like the vision of a beauteous dream;
What gazer now with astronomic eye
Could coldly count the spots within thy sphere? 10
Such were thy lover, Harriet, could he fly
The thoughts of all that makes his passion dear,
And, turning senseless from thy warm caress, —
Pick flaws in our close-woven happiness.
TO IANTHE.
(Published by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887. Composed September, 1813.)
I love thee, Baby! for thine own sweet sake;
Those azure eyes, that faintly dimpled cheek,
Thy tender frame, so eloquently weak,
Love in the sternest heart of hate might wake;
But more when o’er thy fitful slumber bending 5
Thy mother folds thee to her wakeful heart,
Whilst love and pity, in her glances blending,
All that thy passive eyes can feel impart:
More, when some feeble lineaments of her,
Who bore thy weight beneath her spotless bosom, 10
As with deep love I read thy face, recur, —
More dear art thou, O fair and fragile blossom;
Dearest when most thy tender traits express
The image of thy mother’s loveliness.
SONG FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 58.)
See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast;
It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale — is fast.
Paler is yon maiden; 5
Faster is her heart’s decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away.
FRAGMENT FROM THE WANDERING JEW.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847, 1 page 56.)
The Elements respect their Maker’s seal!
Still Like the scathed pine tree’s height,
Braving the tempests of the night
Have I ‘scaped the flickering flame.
Like the scathed pine, which a monument stands 5
Of faded grandeur, which the brands
Of the tempest-shaken air
Have riven on the desolate heath;
Yet it stands majestic even in death,
And rears its wild form there. 10,
TO THE QUEEN OF MY HEART.
(Published as Shelley’s by Medwin, “The Shelley Papers”, 1833, and by Mrs. Shelley, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition; afterwards suppressed as of doubtful authenticity.)
1.
Shall we roam, my love,
To the twilight grove,
When the moon is rising bright;
Oh, I’ll whisper there,
In the cool night-air, 5
What I dare not in broad daylight!
2.
I’ll tell thee a part
Of the thoughts that start
To being when thou art nigh;
And thy beauty, more bright 10
Than the stars’ soft light,
Shall seem as a weft from the sky.
3.
When the pale moonbeam
On tower and stream
Sheds a flood of silver sheen, 15
How I love to gaze
As the cold ray strays
O’er thy face, my heart’s throned queen!
4.
Wilt thou roam with me
To the restless sea, 20
And linger upon the steep,
And list to the flow
Of the waves below
How they toss and roar and leap?
5.
Those boiling waves, 25
And the storm that raves
At night o’er their foaming crest,
Resemble the strife
That, from earliest life,
The passions have waged in my breast.
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