It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.
In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt’s poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.
WAR.
Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled
Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.
See! on yon heath what countless victims lie,
Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky;
Tell then the cause, ‘tis sure the avenger’s rage 5
Has swept these myriads from life’s crowded stage:
Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies,
He shudders in death’s latest agonies;
Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek,
Yet does his parting breath essay to speak — 10
‘Oh God! my wife, my children — Monarch thou
For whose support this fainting frame lies low;
For whose support in distant lands I bleed,
Let his friends’ welfare be the warrior’s meed.
He hears me not — ah! no — kings cannot hear, 15
For passion’s voice has dulled their listless ear.
To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan,
Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant’s anguished groan.
Oh! now I die — but still is death’s fierce pain —
God hears my prayer — we meet, we meet again.’ 20
He spake, reclined him on death’s bloody bed,
And with a parting groan his spirit fled.
Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe
The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow;
For you how many a mother weeps her son, 25
Snatched from life’s course ere half his race was run!
For you how many a widow drops a tear,
In silent anguish, on her husband’s bier!
‘Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,’ she cries,
‘Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? 30
Is this the system which Thy powerful sway,
Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay,
Formed and approved? — it cannot be — but oh!
Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.’
‘Tis not — He never bade the war-note swell, 35
He never triumphed in the work of hell —
Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed,
Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.
Ah! when will come the sacred fated time,
When man unsullied by his leaders’ crime, 40
Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride,
Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men’s side?
Ah! when will come the time, when o’er the plain
No more shall death and desolation reign?
When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, 45
And the stern warrior’s arm the sickle wield?
Not whilst some King, in cold ambition’s dreams,
Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes;
Not whilst for private pique the public fall,
And one frail mortal’s mandate governs all. 50
Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway;
Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away.
Careless who lives or dies — so that he gains
Some trivial point for which he took the pains.
What then are Kings? — I see the trembling crowd, 55
I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud;
Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile,
But April’s sunshine is a Monarch’s smile —
Kings are but dust — the last eventful day
Will level all and make them lose their sway; 60
Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch’s hand,
And from the warrior’s grasp wrest the ensanguined brand.
Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone,
Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown?
And love and concord hast thou swept away, 65
As if incongruous with thy parted sway?
Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear.
Now o’er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear,
With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train; —
List’ning he pauses on the embattled plain, 70
Then speeding swiftly o’er the ensanguined heath,
Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death.
See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car,
He scents the battle’s carnage from afar;
Hell and Destruction mark his mad career, 75
He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear;
Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell,
That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell.
‘It is thy work!’ I hear a voice repeat,
Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; 80
And at the orphan’s sigh, the widow’s moan,
Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne —
‘It is thy work, O Monarch;’ now the sound
Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around,
Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell 85
That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell,
Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove,
Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.
FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.
‘Tis midnight now — athwart the murky air,
Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam;
From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare,
It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.
I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, 5
I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings;
My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind
The mazy volume of commingling things,
When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.
I heard a yell — it was not the knell, 10
When the blasts on the wild lake sleep,
That floats on the pause of the summer gale’s swell,
O’er the breast of the waveless deep.
I thought it had been death’s accents cold
That bade me recline on the shore; 15
I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould,
And thought to breathe no more.
But a heavenly sleep
That did suddenly steep
In balm my bosom’s pain, 20
Pervaded my soul,
And free from control,
Did mine intellect range again.
Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud,
Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; 25
My form upborne by viewless aether rode,
And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night.
What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears,
What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye!
Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, 30
More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by,
And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.
But fairer than the spirits of the air,
More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry,
Than the enthusiast’s fancied love more fair, 35
Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky.
Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band
Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away;
They welcome virtue to its native land,
And songs of triumph greet the joyous day 40
When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.
Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul,
E’en though the tide of time has rolled between;
They mock weak matter’s impotent control,
And seek of endless life the eternal scene. 45
At death’s vain summons THIS will never die,
In Nature’s chaos THIS will not decay —
These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie
Thy soul, O Charlotte, ‘yond this chain of clay,
To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. 50
Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore
A tyrant’s heart-strings from his guilty breast,
Thine was the daring at a tyrant’s gore,
To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest;
And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear 55
From its base shrine a despot’s haughty soul,
To laugh at sorrow in secure despair,
To mock, with smiles, life’s lingering control,
And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.
Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep 60
With endless tortures goad their guilty shades.
I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep
Along the burning length of yon arcades;
And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain;
He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. 65
‘Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain,
With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell
To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.’
…
Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet
They echo to the sound of angels’ feet. 70
…
Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread,
For there is prepared thy nuptial bed.
Oh haste — hark! hark! — they’re gone.
…
CHORUS OF SPIRITS:
Stay, ye days of contentment and joy,
Whilst love every care is erasing, 75
Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy,
And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.
And if any soft passion be near,
Which mortals, frail mortals, can know,
Let love shed on the bosom a tear, 80
And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.
SYMPHONY.
FRANCIS:
‘Soft, my dearest angel, stay,
Oh! you suck my soul away;
Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow!
Tides of maddening passion roll, 85
And streams of rapture drown my soul.
Now give me one more billing kiss,
Let your lips now repeat the bliss,
Endless kisses steal my breath,
No life can equal such a death.’ 90
CHARLOTTE:
‘Oh! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fair,
And I will clasp thy form;
Serene is the breath of the balmy air,
But I think, love, thou feelest me warm
And I will recline on thy marble neck 95
Till I mingle into thee;
And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek,
And thou shalt give kisses to me.
For here is no morn to flout our delight,
Oh! dost thou not joy at this? 100
And here we may lie an endless night,
A long, long night of bliss.’
Spirits! when raptures move,
Say what it is to love,
When passion’s tear stands on the cheek, 105
When bursts the unconscious sigh;
And the tremulous lips dare not speak
What is told by the soul-felt eye.
But what is sweeter to revenge’s ear
Than the fell tyrant’s last expiring yell? 110
Yes! than love’s sweetest blisses ‘tis more dear
To drink the floatings of a despot’s knell.
I wake—’tis done—’tis over.
DESPAIR.
And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm
In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night?
Can you, ye flow’rets, spread your perfumed balm
Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright?
And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still 5
Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high?
Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill,
And, in the eternal mansions of the sky,
Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?
Hark! I hear music on the zephyr’s wing, 10
Louder it floats along the unruffled sky;
Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string —
Now faint in distant air the murmurs die.
Awhile it stills the tide of agony.
Now — now it loftier swells — again stern woe 15
Arises with the awakening melody.
Again fierce torments, such as demons know,
In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.
Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm,
Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, 20
Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form,
And roll the tempest’s wildest swell along.
Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash,
Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder’s roar;
Arouse the whirlwind — and let ocean dash 25
In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore, —
Destroy this life or let earth’s fabric be no more.
Yes! every tie that links me here is dead;
Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey,
Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, 30
I come, terrific power, I come away.
Then o’er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell,
In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain;
And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell,
I’ll echo back their deadly yells again, 35
Cursing the power that ne’er made aught in vain.
FRAGMENT.
Yes! all is past — swift time has fled away,
Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind;
How long will horror nerve this frame of clay?
I’m dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.
Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, 5
And yet that may not ever, ever be,
Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell;
Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me;
Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.
I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, 10
I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes,
The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge,
And on the blast a frightful yell arose.
Wild flew the meteors o’er the maddened main,
Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; 15
Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain,
Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air,
‘Twas like a spirit’s song, but yet more soft and fair.
I met a maniac — like he was to me,
I said—’Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? 20
And canst thou not contend with agony,
That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?’
‘Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form,
And I will go to slumber in her grave;
And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, 25
Will sweep at midnight o’er the wildered wave;
Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?’
‘Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear,
This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more —
But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, 30
Can shriek in horror to the tempest’s roar.’
THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.
What was the shriek that struck Fancy’s ear
As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?
Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind,
And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.
It is the Benshie’s moan on the storm, 5
Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin,
Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps,
Winged with the power of some ruthless king,
And sweeps o’er the breast of the prostrate plain.
It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell 10
That poured its low moan on the stillness of night:
It was not a ghost of the guilty dead,
Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore;
But aye at the close of seven years’ end,
That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, 15
And aye at the close of seven years’ end,
A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill
Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath.
It is not the shade of a murdered man,
Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, 20
And howls in the pause of the eddying storm.
This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill,
‘Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul.
‘Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon’s scream,
Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o’er the corpse 25
Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell.
It tells the approach of a mystic form,
A white courser bears the shadowy sprite;
More thin they are than the mists of the mountain,
When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. 30
More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona,
When winter rides on the northern blast,
And howls in the midst of the leafless wood.
Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving,
And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, 35
Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky,
The phantom courser scours the waste,
And his rider howls in the thunder’s roar.
O’er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven
Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. 40
The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure,
Yet the ‘wildered peasant, that oft passes by,
With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form:
And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead,
The startled passenger shudders to hear, 45
More distinct than the thunder’s wildest roar.
Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns
To eternity, curses the champion of Erin,
Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight,
And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons; 50
Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs,
Though ‘wildered by death, yet never to die!
Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares,
Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch
Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain; 55
Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead
In horror pause on the fitful gale.
They float on the swell of the eddying tempest,
And scared seek the caves of gigantic…
Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds 60
On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake,
And mingles its swell with the moonlight air.
MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.
Art thou indeed forever gone,
Forever, ever, lost to me?
Must this poor bosom beat alone,
Or beat at all, if not for thee?
Ah! why was love to mortals given, 5
To lift them to the height of Heaven,
Or dash them to the depths of Hell?
Yet I do not reproach thee, dear!
Ah, no! the agonies that swell
This panting breast, this frenzied brain, 10
Might wake my—’s slumb’ring tear.
Oh! Heaven is witness I did love,
And Heaven does know I love thee still,
Does know the fruitless sick’ning thrill,
When reason’s judgement vainly strove 15
To blot thee from my memory;
But which might never, never be.
Oh! I appeal to that blest day
When passion’s wildest ecstasy
Was coldness to the joys I knew, 20
When every sorrow sunk away.
Oh! I had never lived before,
But now those blisses are no more.
And now I cease to live again,
I do not blame thee, love; ah, no! 25
The breast that feels this anguished woe.
Throbs for thy happiness alone.
Two years of speechless bliss are gone,
I thank thee, dearest, for the dream.
‘Tis night — what faint and distant scream 30
Comes on the wild and fitful blast?
It moans for pleasures that are past,
It moans for days that are gone by.
Oh! lagging hours, how slow you fly!
I see a dark and lengthened vale, 35
The black view closes with the tomb;
But darker is the lowering gloom
That shades the intervening dale.
In visioned slumber for awhile
I seem again to share thy smile, 40
I seem to hang upon thy tone.
Again you say, ‘Confide in me,
For I am thine, and thine alone,
And thine must ever, ever be.’
But oh! awak’ning still anew, 45
Athwart my enanguished senses flew
A fiercer, deadlier agony!
POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.
CONTENTS
VICTORIA.
ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.
SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.
ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.
BEREAVEMENT.
THE DROWNED LOVER.
STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.
VICTORIA.
(Another version of “The Triumph of Conscience” immediately preceding.)
1.
‘Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling;
One glimmering lamp was expiring and low;
Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling,
Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, —
They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. 5
2.
‘Twas then that I started! — the wild storm was howling,
Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky;
Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling,
And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.
3.
My heart sank within me — unheeded the war 10
Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke; —
Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear —
This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear;
But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.
4.
‘Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, 15
The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode;
In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding,
She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.
5. I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—’
…
ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.
1.
Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast,
When o’er the dark aether the tempest is swelling,
And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?
2.
For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, 5
Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath;
Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest’s fury,
Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.
3.
And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling,
O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; 10
In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling,
It breaks on the pause of the elements’ jar.
4.
On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o’er the mountain
Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead:
On the mist of the tempest which hangs o’er the fountain,
Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.
SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.
1.
The death-bell beats! —
The mountain repeats
The echoing sound of the knell;
And the dark Monk now
Wraps the cowl round his brow, 5
As he sits in his lonely cell.
2.
And the cold hand of death
Chills his shuddering breath,
As he lists to the fearful lay
Which the ghosts of the sky, 10
As they sweep wildly by,
Sing to departed day.
And they sing of the hour
When the stern fates had power
To resolve Rosa’s form to its clay. 15
3.
But that hour is past;
And that hour was the last
Of peace to the dark Monk’s brain.
Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast;
And he strove to suppress them in vain. 20
4.
Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor,
When the death-knell struck on his ear. —
‘Delight is in store
For her evermore;
But for me is fate, horror, and fear.’ 25
5.
Then his eyes wildly rolled,
When the death-bell tolled,
And he raged in terrific woe.
And he stamped on the ground, —
But when ceased the sound, 30
Tears again began to flow.
6.
And the ice of despair
Chilled the wild throb of care,
And he sate in mute agony still;
Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, 35
And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.
7.
Then he knelt in his cell: —
And the horrors of hell
Were delights to his agonized pain,
And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, 40
Which else must for ever remain.
8.
And in fervent pray’r he knelt on the ground,
Till the abbey bell struck One:
His feverish blood ran chill at the sound:
A voice hollow and horrible murmured around — 45
‘The term of thy penance is done!’
9.
Grew dark the night;
The moonbeam bright
Waxed faint on the mountain high;
And, from the black hill, 50
Went a voice cold and still, —
‘Monk! thou art free to die.’
10.
Then he rose on his feet,
And his heart loud did beat,
And his limbs they were palsied with dread; 55
Whilst the grave’s clammy dew
O’er his pale forehead grew;
And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.
11.
And the wild midnight storm
Raved around his tall form, 60
As he sought the chapel’s gloom:
And the sunk grass did sigh
To the wind, bleak and high,
As he searched for the new-made tomb.
12.
And forms, dark and high, 65
Seemed around him to fly,
And mingle their yells with the blast:
And on the dark wall
Half-seen shadows did fall,
As enhorrored he onward passed. 70
13.
And the storm-fiends wild rave
O’er the new-made grave,
And dread shadows linger around.
The Monk called on God his soul to save,
And, in horror, sank on the ground. 75
14.
Then despair nerved his arm
To dispel the charm,
And he burst Rosa’s coffin asunder.
And the fierce storm did swell
More terrific and fell, 80
And louder pealed the thunder.
15.
And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng,
Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead:
And their grisly wings, as they floated along,
Whistled in murmurs dread. 85
16.
And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared
Which dripped with the chill dew of hell.
In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared,
And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared,
As he stood within the cell. 90
17.
And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain;
But each power was nerved by fear. —
‘I never, henceforth, may breathe again;
Death now ends mine anguished pain. —
The grave yawns, — we meet there.’ 95
18.
And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound,
So deadly, so lone, and so fell,
That in long vibrations shuddered the ground;
And as the stern notes floated around,
A deep groan was answered from hell.
ST. IRVYNE’S TOWER.
1.
How swiftly through Heaven’s wide expanse
Bright day’s resplendent colours fade!
How sweetly does the moonbeam’s glance
With silver tint St. Irvyne’s glade!
2.
No cloud along the spangled air, 5
Is borne upon the evening breeze;
How solemn is the scene! how fair
The moonbeams rest upon the trees!
3.
Yon dark gray turret glimmers white,
Upon it sits the mournful owl; 10
Along the stillness of the night,
Her melancholy shriekings roll.
4.
But not alone on Irvyne’s tower,
The silver moonbeam pours her ray;
It gleams upon the ivied bower, 15
It dances in the cascade’s spray.
5.
‘Ah! why do dark’ning shades conceal
The hour, when man must cease to be?
Why may not human minds unveil
The dim mists of futurity? — 20
6.
‘The keenness of the world hath torn
The heart which opens to its blast;
Despised, neglected, and forlorn,
Sinks the wretch in death at last.’
BEREAVEMENT.
1.
How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner,
As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops, to Perfection’s remembrance, a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, 5
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
2.
Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death? 10
Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save
The spirit, that faded away with the breath.
Eternity points in its amaranth bower,
Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lower,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, 15
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.
THE DROWNED LOVER.
1.
Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary,
Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam;
Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary,
She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.
I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, 5
As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle;
And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle,
‘Stay thy boat on the lake, — dearest Henry, I come.’
2.
High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection,
As lightly her form bounded over the lea, 10
And arose in her mind every dear recollection;
‘I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.’
How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing,
When sympathy’s swell the soft bosom is moving,
And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, 15
Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!
3.
Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve,
And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air;
Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?
Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? 20
Thy love’s pallid corse the wild surges are laving,
O’er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving;
But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving,
In eternity’s bowers, a seat for thee there.
6. — The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.
STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.
(Published by Forman, “Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1876; dated 1810.)
Tremble, Kings despised of man!
Ye traitors to your Country,
Tremble! Your parricidal plan
At length shall meet its destiny…
We all are soldiers fit to fight, 5
But if we sink in glory’s night
Our mother Earth will give ye new
The brilliant pathway to pursue
Which leads to Death or Victory…
THE DEVIL’S WALK: A BALLAD
Shelley’s first major poetical work was published as a broadside in 1812, consisting of seven irregular ballad stanzas of 49 lines.
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