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POEMS  BY  TENNYSON.  Illustrated  by  Eleanor 
Fortescue-Brickdale. 

POEMS  BY  JOHN  KEATS.  Illustrated  and  de- 
corated by  Robert  Anning  Bell.  With  an  Introduction  by 
Professor  Walter  Raleigh,  M.A.     Fourth  Edition. 

POEMS  BY  ROBERT  BROWNING.  Illustrated 
and  decorated  by  Byam  Shaw.  With  an  Introduction  by 
Richard  Garnett,  LL.D.,  C.B.    Third  Edition. 

POEMS     BY     PERCY     BYSSHE     SHELLEY. 

Illustrated  and  decorated  by  Robert  Anning  Bell.    With  an 
Introduction  by  Professor  Walter  Raleigh,  M.A. 

ENGLISH     LYRICS     FROM     SPENSER    TO 

MILTON.     Illustrated  and  decorated  by  R.  Anning  Bell. 
With  an  Introduction  by  John  Dennis. 

THE  POEMS  OF  EDGAR  ALLEN  POE.  Illus- 
trated and  decorated  by  W.  Heath  Robinson.  With  an 
Introduction  by  H.  Noel  Williams.    Second  Edition. 


LONDON:  GEORGE  BELL  &  SONS 


POEMS 

BY 

PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY 


POEMS  BY 
PERCY  BYSHE 

SHELLEY 


INTRODVCTION  BY 
WALTER  RALEIGH 
ILLVSTR  ATIONS  BY 
ROBERT  ANN1NGBELL 


LONDON- 
GEORGE 
BELL  AND 
SONS. 


First  published,  1902. 
Cheaper  Reissue  1907 


CHISWICK   PRESS  :    CHARLES  WHITTINGHAM   AND  CO. 
TOOKS   COURT,   CHANCERY   LANE,    LONDON. 


PAGE 

ALASTOR ;  or  the  Spirit  of  Solitude 5 

MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

A    Summer     Evening     Churchyard  —  Lechlade, 

Gloucestershire 33 

To  Coleridge 34 

Sonnet  to  Wordsworth 36 

ozymandias 36 

Hymn  to  Intellectual  Beauty  . 37 

Lines  written  among  the  Euganean  Hills  ...  40 

Stanzas  written  in  Dejection,  near  Naples    .    .  51 
Sonnet— 

"  Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live  "    .     .  53 

Ode  to  the  West  Wind 53 

The  Sensitive  Plant 57 

The  Cloud 68 

To  a  Skylark 73 

Arethusa 77 

Hymn  of  Apollo 82 

Hymn  of  Pan    . 84 

The  Question       87 


vi  CONTENTS 


PAOB 


The  Two  Spirits  :  An  Allegory 89 

Ode  to  Naples 92 

Lines  from  "Fiordispina" 98 

To  Jane— 

The  Invitation 99 

To  Jane— 

The  Recollection 101 


CHORUSES  FROM  "HELLAS" 

"We  strew  these  opiate  flowers"  .  . 
"Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not" 
"In  the  great  morning  of  the  world" 
"Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever" 
"The  world's  great  age  begins  anew". 

SHORTER   LYRICS 


109 
no 
no 
112 
113 


On  Fanny  Goodwin 119 

Lines— 

"  That  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child  " 119 

Fragment  on  Home 120 

Passage  of  the  Apennines 121 

The  Past 121 

To  Mary— 

"  O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here" 122 

The  Indian  Serenade 123 

Two  Fragments  to  Mary — 

"  My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast  thou  gone"      .     .  124 

"  The  world  is  dreary  " 124 

Fragments — 

Questions 125 

Love  the  Universe 125 

Visitations  of  Calm  Thoughts 125 

Love's  Philosophy 126 

To 

"  I  fear  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden  " 127 

Song— 

"  Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou  " 127 

Song  of  Proserpine,  while  gathering  Flowers  on 

the  Plain  of  Enna 130 

To  the  Moon 131 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

The  World's  Wanderers 131 

Time  Long  Past 132 

To  Night 132 

From  the  Arabic:   An  Imitation 134 

To  Emilia  Viviani 135 

Time 136 

To  

"  Music,  when  soft  voices  die  " 136 

Mutability 136 

The  Aziola 138 

To-morrow    .    .    • 138 

To 

"  One  word  is  too  often  profaned  " 139 

To  

"  When  passion's  trance  is  overpast " 140 

A  Bridal  Song 141 

Lines— 

"  When  the  Lamp  is  shattered  " 141 

To  Jane — 

"  The  keen  stars  are  twinkling  " 143 

Song  from  "Charles  I." — 

"  A  Widow  Bird  sate  mourning  " 144 

DIRGES   AND    LAMENTS 

The  Dirge  of  Beatrice  (From  "  The  Cenci ")    ...  149 

Autumn:   A  Dirge 150 

Dirge  for  the  Year 151 

A  Lament— 

"O  world!     OLife!    OTime!" 152 

Remembrance 153 

A  Dirge — 

"  Rough  wind,  that  moanest  loud  " 1 54 

EPIPSYCHIDION 159 

ADONAIS 181 

THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 207 

PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 235 

b 


INTRODUCTION 

More  than  the  others  of  that  group  of  English 
poets  who  flourished  at  the  beginning  of  the 
nineteenth  century,  and  whose  work,  taken  as 
a  whole,  gives  to  English  literature  its  all  but 
greatest  glory,  Shelley  was  the  inheritor  and 
the  exponent  of  the  ideas  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution. The  French  Revolution  aroused  and 
then  disappointed  Wordsworth,  causing  him  to 
turn  away  from  political  ideals  and  to  seek  con- 
solation in  universal  nature ;  it  made  Byron  a 
rebel,  and  Southey  a  Laureate ;  but  it  gave 
birth  to  Shelley.     And  the  chief  effect  of  the 


x  INTRODUCTION 

Revolution  on  English  life  and  thought  is  to 
be  sought  in  literature  rather  than  in  politics. 
The  great  wave  that  broke  over  Europe  in  the 
roar  of  the  Napoleonic  wars  spent  its  strength 
in  vain  on  the  political  structure  of  these  islands, 
but  the  air  was  long  salt  with  its  spray.  And 
the  poems  of  Shelley,  if  it  be  not  too  fanciful  to 
prolong  the  figure,  are  the  rainbow  lights  seen 
in  the  broken  wave. 

The  ideas  of  the  Revolution  and  the  passion 
of  the  Revolution  glitter  and  vibrate  in  Shelley's 
poems.  And  these  ideas,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered, in  their  earlier  and  cruder  political  forms, 
had  but  a  short  spell  of  life.  They  bred  the 
giant  that  killed  them  ;  the  modern  scientific 
and  historical  temper  finds  it  wellnigh  impossible 
to  regain  the  outlook  of  those  who  stood  breath- 
lessly waiting  for  the  revelation  of  a  new  heaven 
and  a  new  earth.  So  that  it  is  not  to  be  won- 
dered at  if  the  poetry  that  sprang  from  the 
political  creed  has  been  to  some  extent  involved 
in  the  downfall  of  the  creed.  Certain  it  is  that 
few  of  his  readers,  even  among  his  professed 
admirers,  read  Shelley  for  his  meaning ;  few, 
even  among  his  critics,  treat  his  message  seri- 
ously. The  people  of  England,  said  Burke,  want 
"  food  that  will  stick  to  their  ribs " ;  and  the 
remark  condenses  in  a  phrase  all  that  dissatis- 
faction with  theory  and  dream  which  is  heard 
as  an  undertone  in  most  of  the  authoritative 
criticisms  of  Shelley.  The  poet  has  achieved 
immortality,  but  not  on  his  own  terms.     He  is 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

"  a  beautiful  and  ineffectual  angel " — a  decora- 
tor's angel,  one  might  almost  say,  designed  for 
a  vacant  space,  not  the  authentic  messenger  of 
the  will  of  Heaven.  Or  he  is  a  moonlight 
visitant  that  soothes  the  soul  with  melodious 
words  and  beautiful  images  when  the  bonds  of 
reality  are  loosened.  As  a  prophet  he  is  lightly 
esteemed,  but  when  once  the  prophet's  mantle 
is  gently  removed  from  his  shoulders  by  tender 
official  hands,  he  is  welcome  to  stay  with  us, 
and  to  delight  us  in  all  restful  places  by  the 
subtle  marvels  of  his  lyrical  craft,  and  the  iri- 
descent play  of  his  creative  fancy. 

Yet  seeing  that  a  poet  is  a  poet  only  in  so 
far  as  he  reveals  the  beauty  and  the  power  that 
is  universal  and  enduring  caught  from  the  con- 
fused lights  and  shadows  of  his  own  time,  it  is 
worth  the  pains  to  examine  the  main  ideas  that 
animate  the  poetry  of  Shelley.  Some  of  these, 
it  may  not  be  denied,  are  utterly  fallen  from 
power.  Like  other  revolutionary  thinkers, 
Shelley  hopes  for  the  salvation  and  perfection 
of  mankind  by  way  of  an  absolute  breach  with 
the  past.  History  is  to  him  at  best  a  black 
business,  an  orgy  of  fantastic  and  luxurious 
cruelty.  Commerce  is  "the  venal  interchange 
of  all  that  human  art  and  nature  yield."  Gold 
— how  far  would  gold  have  enthralled  the  im- 
agination of  poets  if  it  had  been  a  dull  black 
substance  with  a  slightly  unpleasant  scent  ? — 
gold  is  a  god,  or  demon,  of  dreadful  strength. 
Education  and  tradition,  institution  and  custom 


xii  INTRODUCTION 

are  made  the  marks  of  the  same  impassioned 
invective,  simple  sometimes  almost  to  thought- 
lessness, as  in  that  passage  of  "  Laon  and 
Cythna"  where  British  parental  authority  is 
thus  described  : 

"  The  land  in  which  I  lived  by  a  fell  bane 
Was  withered  up.     Tyrants  dwelt  side  by  side 
And  stabled  in  our  homes ; " 

Sometimes  rising  to  heights  of  grave  denuncia- 
tion, as  in  that  other  passage  where  is  described 
how 

"  The  Queen  of  Slaves, 
The  hood-winked  angel  of  the  blind  and  dead, 
Custom,  with  iron  mace  points  to  the  graves 
Where  her  own  standard  desolately  waves 
Over  the  dust  of  Prophets  and  of  Kings." 

Yet  this  multiplied  oppression,  which  is  im- 
posed on  man  by  man  himself,  which  has  grown 
with  his  growth  and  is  intertwined  with  his 
dearest  interests,  is  conceived  of  by  the  revo- 
lutionary theorists  and,  at  least  in  his  earlier 
poems,  by  Shelley  himself,  as  a  thing  separable 
from  man,  a  burden  laid  on  him  by  some  dark 
unknown  power,  a  net  weaved  around  him  by 
foreign  enemies.  One  resolute  act  of  inspired 
insurrection,  and  the  burden  may  be  cast  off  for 
ever,  the  net  severed  at  a  blow,  leaving  man 
free,  innocent  and  happy,  the  denizen  of  a  golden 
world. 

In  his  later  and  maturer  poems  we  may  de- 
tect Shelley's  growing  suspicion  that  the  burden 
of  man  is  none  other  than  the  weight  of  "  the 


INTRODUCTION  xiii 

superincumbent  hour,"  or  of  the  atmosphere 
that  he  breathes ;  that  the  net  has  its  fibres 
entangled  with  the  nerves  of  his  body  and  the 
veins  and  arteries  that  feed  his  life.  Yet  he 
neither  faltered  nor  repented  ;  he  had  learned 

"  To  hope,  till  hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates ; " 

and  if  the  tyrant  that  oppresses  mankind  is 
immitigable  Reality,  he  will  be  a  rebel  against 
Reality  in  the  name  of  that  fairer  and  no  less 
immortal  power,  the  desire  of  the  heart. 

Shelley  is  the  poet  of  desire.  To  him,  as  to 
Blake,  the  promptings  of  desire  were  the  voice 
of  divinity  in  man,  and  instinct  and  impulse  bore 
the  authentic  stamp  of  the  Godhead.  His  pure 
and  clear  and  wonderfully  simple  spirit  could 
hardly  conceive  of  a  duty  that  travels  by  a  dim 
light  through  difficult  and  uncertain  ways,  still 
less  of  a  duty  that  calculates  and  balances  and 
chooses.  When  he  was  lifted  on  the  crest  of 
some  over-mastering  emotion,  he  saw  all  clear  ; 
dropped  into  the  hollow,  he  could  only  wait  for 
another  wave.  It  is  as  if  he  could  not  live  save 
in  the  keen  and  rarified  air  of  some  great  joy  or 
heroic  passion ;  and  his  large  capacity  for  joy 
made  him  the  more  susceptible  to  all  that  thwarts 
or  depresses  or  interrupts  it.  These  two  strains, 
of  rapture  and  of  lament,  of  delight  in  love  and 
beauty,  and  of  protest  against  a  world  where 
love  and  beauty  are  not  fixed  eternal  forms,  run 
through  all  the  poetry  of  Shelley,   answering 


xiv  INTRODUCTION 

each  other  like  the  voices  of  a  chorus.  Our  life 
on  earth  seems  to  him  a  stormy  vision,  a  wintry 
forest,  a  "  cold  common  hell " ;  but  it  has 
moments  of  exaltation  which  belie  it,  and  by 
their  power  and  intensity  hold  out  a  promise  of 
deliverance.  Thought  and  passion  transform 
the  dull  suffering  of  this  life  into  the  likeness  of 
"  a  fiery  martyrdom,"  and  by  their  very  intensity 
bear  witness  to  the  greatness  of  the  issues  at 
stake. 

It  is  somewhat  absurdly  made  a  charge  against 
Shelley  that  the  ideal  which  he  sets  before 
humanity  is  not  a  practicable  or  possible  one. 
He  had  to  deal  with  this  sort  of  criticism  during 
his  lifetime,  and  in  the  preface  to  "  Prometheus 
Unbound  "  he  offers  a  grave  explanation  :  "  It 
is  a  mistake,"  he  says,  "to  suppose  that  I  dedi- 
cate my  poetical  compositions  solely  to  the  direct 
enforcement  of  reform,  or  that  I  consider  them 
in  any  degree  as  containing  a  reasoned  system 
on  the  theory  of  human  life."  No  exact  politi- 
cal programme  is  deducible  from  his  works.  No 
coherent  or  satisfactory  account  can  be  given  of 
the  changes  that  would  be  necessary  to  bring  in 
the  idyllic  society  that  mocks  his  vision  in  the 
distance.  But  if  the  aspirations  of  a  poet  are 
to  be  tethered  to  what  is  demonstrably  attainable, 
the  loftiest  legitimate  ambition  ever  breathed 
in  English  verse  would  perhaps  be  found  in 
those  lines  of  "  The  Excursion"  where  an  earnest 
wish  is  expressed  for  a  System  of  National 
Education  established  universally  by  Govern- 


INTRODUCTION  xv 

ment.  The  creed  of  the  Revolution  was  a 
noble  creed,  and  although  Liberty,  Equality  and 
Fraternity,  considered  as  the  basis  of  a  political 
system,  have  been  sadly  battered  by  critical 
artillery,  they  have  not  yet  been  so  completely 
disgraced  that  it  is  forbidden  to  a  poet  to  desire 
them.  Only  in  a  world  where  they  shall  be 
more  desired  than  they  are  with  us  can  they 
ever  become  possible.  And  the  gist  of  Shelley's 
teaching  lies  not  in  this  or  that  promise  held 
out  of  future  good,  but  in  the  means  that  he  in- 
sists on  for  its  realization.  The  elusive  vague- 
ness of  the  millenium  pictured  in  the  weakest 
part  of  "Prometheus  Unbound"  detracts  no 
whit  from  the  loftiness  and  truth  of  the  great 
speech  of  Demogorgon  and  the  closing  World- 
symphony.  The  early  Christians,  too,  were 
deceived  in  their  hopes  of  the  millennium,  but 
they,  like  the  early  alchemists,  went  not  un- 
rewarded by  "  fair,  unsought  discoveries  by  the 
way." 

The  very  vagueness  of  Shelley's  poetry  is  an 
essential  part  of  its  charm.  He  speaks  the 
language  of  pure  emotion,  where  definite  per- 
ceptions are  melted  in  the  mood  they  generate. 
Possessed  by  the  desire  of  escape,  he  gazes 
calmly  and  steadily  on  nothing  of  earthly  build. 
Every  visible  object  is  merely  another  starting- 
point  for  the  cobwebs  of  dreams.  Like  his  own 
poet, 

"  He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 
The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 


xvi  INTRODUCTION 

The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 
Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be ; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality." 

His  thoughts  travel  incessantly  from  what  he 
sees  to  what  he  desires,  and  his  goal  is  no  more 
distinctly  conceived  than  his  starting-place. 
His  desire  leaps  forth  towards  its  mark,  but  is 
consumed,  like  his  fancied  arrow,  by  the  speed 
of  its  own  flight.  His  devotion  is  "to  some- 
thing afar  from  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  "  ;  the 
voices  that  he  hears  bear  him  vague  messages 
and  hints 

"  Of  some  world  far  from  ours 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling  are  one." 

And  this  perfect  lyrical  vagueness  produces 
some  of  the  most  ghostly  and  bodiless  descrip- 
tions to  be  found  in  all  poetry.  His  scenery  is 
dream-scenery ;  it  can  hardly  be  called  cloud- 
scenery,  for  the  clouds  that  tumble  in  a  June 
sky  are  shapes  of  trim  and  substantial  jollity 
compared  with  the  shifting  and  diffused  ether 
of  his  phantom  visions.  The  scene  of  his  poems 
is  laid  among 

"  Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined  caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist." 

And  the  inhabitants  are  even  less  definite  in 
outline  ;  the  spaces  of  his  imagination  are 

"  Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 

Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless  deep." 


INTRODUCTION  xvii 

The  poet  is  himself  native  to  this  haunted  and 
scarce  visible  world  ;  and  when,  in  "  Epipsychi- 
dion,"  he  tells  of  the  Being  who  communed  with 
him  in  his  youth,  it  is  in  this  world  that  they 
meet: 

"  On  an  imagined  shore, 
Under  the  grey  beak  of  some  promontory 
She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory, 
That  I  beheld  her  not." 

It  is  pleasant  to  consider  what  a  critic  of  the 
school  of  Johnson,  if  any  had  survived,  would 
have  said  of  these  lines.  "  Here,  Sir,"  he  might 
have  said,  "he  tells  us  merely  that  in  a  place 
which  did  not  exist  he  met  nobody.  Whom  did 
he  expect  to  meet  ?  "  Yet  the  spirit  of  Romance, 
which  will  listen  to  no  logic  but  the  logic  of 
feeling,  is  prompt  to  vindicate  Shelley.  The 
kind  of  human  experience  that  he  sets  himself 
to  utter  will  not  admit  of  chastened  and  exact 
language  ;  the  homeless  desires  and  intimations 
that  seem  to  have  no  counterpart  and  no  cause 
among  visible  things  must  create  or  divine  their 
origin  and  object  by  suggestion  and  hyperbole, 
by  groping  analogies,  and  fluttering  denials. 
To  Shelley  life  is  the  great  unreality,  a  painted 
veil,  the  triumphal  procession  of  a  pretender. 
Yet,  here  and  there,  in  the  works  of  Nature  and 
of  Art — "  flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words," 
— there  are  sudden  inexplicable  glories  that 
speak  of  reality  beyond.  It  is  from  the  images 
and  thoughts  that  are  least  of  a  piece  with  the 
daily  economy  of  life,  from  the  faithful  attend- 


xviii  INTRODUCTION 

ants  that  hang  on  the  footsteps  of  our  exiled  per- 
ceptions, and  from  the  dwellers  on  the  boundary 
of  our  alienated  world,  from  shadows  and  echoes, 
dreams  and  memories,  yearnings  and  regrets, 
that  he  would  learn  to  give  expression  to  this 
hidden  reality.  Yet  the  very  attempt  defeats 
itself  and  is  reduced  to  the  bare  negation  of 
appearances.  The  highest  beauty,  as  he  de- 
scribes it,  is  always  invisible  ;  the  liveliest  emo- 
tion passes  into  swoon,  and  takes  on  the  likeness 
of  death.  Demogorgon,  the  lord  of  the  Uni- 
verse, is  "  a  mighty  darkness,  filling  the  seat  of 
power." 

So  habitual  and  familiar  was  Shelley's  con- 
verse with  this  spectral  world  that  both  in  his 
thought  and  in  his  expression  it  held  the  place 
of  what  is  commonly  called  the  real  world.  The 
figures  of  his  poetry  illustrate  what  is  strange  by 
what  is  familiar,  and  it  is  the  shadows  and  spirits 
that  are  familiar.  The  autumn  leaves  scurrying 
before  the  wind  remind  him  of  "  ghosts  from  an 
enchanter  fleeing."  The  skylark  in  the  heavens 
is  "  like  a  poet  hidden  in  the  light  of  thought." 
The  avalanche  on  the  mountain  is  piled  flake 
by  flake,  as  thought  by  thought  is  piled  in 
heaven-defying  minds, 

"Till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots." 

It  is  his  outward  perceptions  that  he  seeks  to 
explain  and  justify  by  a  reference  to  the  ex- 


INTRODUCTION  xix 

istences  and  forms  that  filled  and  controlled  his 
daily  meditations. 

His  poetry,  as  might  be  expected,  has  been 
found  too  remote  and  unsubstantial  to  satisfy 
the  taste  of  many  readers  and  even  of  some  few 
lovers  of  poetry.  It  is  lacking  in  human  interest. 
The  figures  that  he  sets  in  motion  are  for  the 
most  part  creatures  of  his  own  making,  who 
have  no  tangible  being  outside  the  realm  of  his 
imagination.  Minds  that  move  naturally  and 
easily  only  in  the  world  of  concrete  existences 
are  compelled  to  translate  Shelley's  poetry,  as 
it  were,  into  another  dialect  of  the  universal 
language,  if  they  would  grasp  his  meaning.  Too 
often  they  have  refused  the  task ;  they  have 
been  content  to  float  along  on  his  melody,  and 
to  indulge  their  sense  of  colour  with  the  delicate 
tints  of  his  vision.  Even  when  he  is  thus  read, 
there  is  no  denying  the  matchless  quality  of  his 
poetic  genius,  or  the  absolute  mastery  of  his 
art.  But  the  wisdom  of  his  reading  of  life,  and 
the  scope  and  depth  of  his  thought,  have  some- 
times been  questioned. 

He  died  young,  and  the  accumulated  wis- 
dom of  old  experience  was  never  within  his 
reach.  Yet  before  he  died  he  had  graduated  in 
the  school  of  suffering,  and  had  there  learned 
lessons  that  only  the  wise  heart  learns.  "  Pro- 
metheus Unbound  "  is  something  more  than  a 
dance  of  prismatic  lights  and  a  concert  of  sweet 
sounds  ;  it  is  a  record  of  spiritual  experience, 
subtle  in  its  analysis,  profound  in  its  insight. 


xx  INTRODUCTION 

The  supreme  torture  of  Prometheus,  inflicted 
by  the  Furies,  comes  to  him  in  the  form  of 
doubt — doubt  lest  his  age-long  sufferings  should 
all  be  vain,  and  worse  than  vain.  The  Furies, 
who  are  "hollow  underneath,  like  death,"  and 
who  darken  the  dawn  with  their  multitude,  are 
the  ministers  of  pain  and  fear,  of  mistrust  and 
hate.  They  plant  self-contempt  and  shame  in 
young  spirits ;  they  live  in  the  heart  and  brain 
in  the  shape  of  base  desires  and  craven  thoughts. 
Of  all  passions,  the  ugliest  in  Shelley's  eyes  is 
Hate  ;  the  most  terrible  and  maleficent  is  Fear. 
But  Prometheus  through  his  long  agony  feels 
no  fear,  and  no  rancour ;  the  pity  and  love  that 
endure  in  his  heart  are  at  last  victorious,  and 
the  Furies,  baffled,  take  themselves  away.  The 
first  act  is  full  of  psychological  study,  and  Shelley 
throughout  is  speaking  of  what  he  has  felt  and 
known  and  observed.  But  he  embodies  it  in 
such  unearthly  forms,  and  so  carefully  avoids 
the  allegorical  manner,  that  the  details  of  the 
drama,  difficult  as  they  often  are  of  interpreta- 
tion, have  been  wrongly  regarded  as  freaks  of 
ornament  and  fantasy.  The  main  idea,  the 
conception  of  Love  and  Life  as  a  dualism,  and 
of  Love  as  the  sole  principle  of  freedom, 
joy,  beauty  and  harmony,  in  Nature  and  in 
Man,  appears  in  Shelley's  earlier  poems,  and 
strengthens  with  his  growth,  until  it  reaches 
its  most  magnificent  expression  in  the  radiant 
figure  of  Asia  and  the  closing  rhapsody  of 
"  Adonais." 


INTRODUCTION  xxi 

"That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst ;  now  beams  on  me 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality." 

His  early  death,  though  it  has  endeared  him 
the  more  to  his  lovers,  has  also  deprived  him  of 
a  full  meed  of  critical  appreciation.  The  bulk 
of  reputable  criticism  is  written  by  middle-aged 
men,  who  have  made  their  peace  with  the  world, 
on  reasonable  and  honourable  terms,  perhaps, 
but  not  without  concessions.  How  should  they 
do  full  justice  to  the  young  rebels,  the  Marlowes 
and  the  Shelleys,  who  died  under  the  standard 
of  revolt  ?  They  are  tender  to  them,  and  tolerant, 
as  to  their  younger  selves.  But  they  have 
accepted,  where  these  refused,  and  they  cannot 
always  conceal  their  sense  of  the  headstrong 
folly  of  the  refusal.  Nor  can  their  judgment 
be  disabled,  for  they  have  knowledge  on  their 
side,  and  experience,  and  the  practical  lore  of 
life.  Further,  they  can  enlist  poet  against  poet, 
and  over  against  the  heart  that  defies  Power 
which  seems  omnipotent,  they  can  set  the  heart 
that  watches  and  receives.  Is  there  not  more 
of  human  wisdom  to  be  learned  from  the  quiet 
harvester  of  the  twilight  than  from  the  glittering 
apostle  of  the  dawn  ?  Yet  there  is  a  wisdom 
that  is  not  born  of  acceptance;  and  the  spirit 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

that  is  to  be  tamed  to  the  uses  of  this  world,  if 
it  has  much  to  learn,  has  something  also  to  for- 
get. The  severest  criticism  that  the  world  and 
the  uses  of  the  world  are  called  upon  to  undergo 
is  that  which  looks  out  on  them,  ever  afresh, 
from  the  surprised  and  troubled  eyes  of  a  child. 
In  the  debate  of  Youth  and  Age,  neither  can 
expect  to  have  it  all  his  own  way.  It  is  therefore 
no  unqualified  condemnation  of  Shelley's  poetry 
to  say  that  it  appeals  chiefly  to  the  young.  And 
it  is  not  true  to  say  that  it  appeals  to  no  others. 
Many  men,  it  has  been  said,  are  poets  in  their 
youth  ;  it  would  be  truer  to  say  that  many  born 
subjects  of  prose  are  tickled  by  sentiment  in 
their  youth,  and  beguiled  by  sense  into  believ- 
ing, for  a  time,  that  they  love  poetry.  The  love 
of  poetry  is  not  so  easily  eradicable  ;  it  is  not 
Time's  fool, 

"though  rosy  lips  and  cheeks 
Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come," 

and  wherever  there  are  poets,  to  the  end  of 
time,  Shelley  will  find  lovers. 

Walter  Raleigh. 


It  is  hoped  that  the  present  selection  of 
Shelley's  poems  will  be  found  to  contain  all  of 
his  best-loved  lyrical  pieces.  There  is  no  great 
poet  who  offers  a  more  hopeless  task  to  the 
illustrator,  if  by  illustration  is  understood  a 
drawing  that  helps  to  the  understanding  of  the 
poem.  But  Art  begets  Art,  and  there  is  surely 
nothing  illicit  about  an  embroidery  of  fair  designs 
suggested  by  a  reading  of  the  poems.  If  they 
be  found  superfluous  or  irrelevant,  they  must 
share  that  condemnation  with  the  preface. 


POEMS 

BY 

PERCY   BYSSHE   SHELLEY 


ALASTOR 

OH  THE  SPIRIT  OF| 
SOLITUDE 


Nondum  amabam,  et  amare  amabam,  quaerebam  quid 
amarem,  amans  amare. — Confess.  St.  August. 


ALASTOR 

OR   THE   SPIRIT   OF   SOLITUDE 

Earth,  ocean,  air,  beloved  brotherhood  ! 
If  our  great  Mother  has  imbued  my  soul 
With  aught  of  natural  piety  to  feel 
Your  love,  and  recompense  the  boon  with  mine ; 
If  dewy  morn,  and  odorous  noon,  and  even, 
With  sunset  and  its  gorgeous  ministers, 
And  solemn  midnight's  tingling  silentness  ; 
If  autumn's  hollow  sighs  in  the  sere  wood, 
And  winter  robing  with  pure  snow  and  crowns 
Of  starry  ice  the  grey  grass  and  bare  boughs  ; 
If  spring's  voluptuous  pantings  when  she  breathes 
Her  first  sweet  kisses,  have  been  dear  to  me  ; 
If  no  bright  bird,  insect,  or  gentle  beast 


6  ALASTOR 

I  consciously  have  injured,  but  still  loved 
And  cherished  these  my  kindred  ;  then  forgive 
This  boast,  beloved  brethren,  and  withdraw- 
No  portion  of  your  wonted  favour  now. 

Mother  of  this  unfathomable  world  ! 
Favour  my  solemn  song,  for  I  have  loved 
Thee  ever,  and  thee  only  ;  I  have  watched 
Thy  shadow,  and  the  darkness  of  thy  steps, 
And  my  heart  ever  gazes  on  the  depth 
Of  thy  deep  mysteries.     I  have  made  my  bed 
In  charnels  and  on  coffins,  where  black  death 
Keeps  record  of  the  trophies  won  from  thee, 
Hoping  to  still  these  obstinate  questionings 
Of  thee  and  thine,  by  forcing  some  lone  ghost, 
Thy  messenger,  to  render  up  the  tale 
Of  what  we  are.     In  lone  and  silent  hours, 
When  night  makes  a  weird  sound  of  its  own  stillness, 
Like  an  inspired  and  desperate  alchymist 
Staking  his  very  life  on  some  dark  hope, 
Have  I  mixed  awful  talk  and  asking  looks 
With  my  most  innocent  love,  until  strange  tears 
Uniting  with  those  breathless  kisses,  made 
Such  magic  as  compels  the  charmed  night 
To  render  up  thy  charge  :  .  .  .  and,  though  ne'er  yet 
Thou  hast  unveiled  thy  inmost  sanctuary, 
Enough  from  incommunicable  dream, 
And  twilight  phantasms,  and  deep  noonday  thought, 
Has  shone  within  me,  that  serenely  now 
And  moveless,  as  a  long-forgotten  lyre 
Suspended  in  the  solitary  dome 
Of  some  mysterious  and  deserted  fane, 
I  wait  thy  breath,  Great  Parent,  that  my  strain 
May  modulate  with  murmurs  of  the  air, 
And  motions  of  the  forests  and  the  sea, 
And  voice  of  living  beings,  and  woven  hymns 
Of  night  and  day,  and  the  deep  heart  of  man. 


ALASTOR 

There  was  a  Poet  whose  untimely  tomb 
No  human  hands  with  pious  reverence  reared, 
But  the  charmed  eddies  of  autumnal  winds 
Built  o'er  his  mouldering  bones  a  pyramid 
Of  mouldering  leaves  in  the  waste  wilderness  : — 
A  lovely  youth, — no  mourning  maiden  decked 
With  weeping  flowers,  or  votive  cypress  wreath, 
The  lone  couch  of  his  everlasting  sleep  : — 
Gentle,  and  brave,  and  generous, — no  lorn  bard 
Breathed  o'er  his  dark  fate  one  melodious  sigh  : 
He  lived,  he  died,  he  sung,  in  solitude. 
Strangers  have  wept  to  hear  his  passionate  notes, 
And  virgins,  as  unknown  he  passed,  have  pined 
And  wasted  for  fond  love  of  his  wild  eyes. 
The  fire  of  those  soft  orbs  has  ceased  to  burn, 
And  Silence,  too  enamoured  of  that  voice, 
Locks  its  mute  music  in  her  rugged  cell. 

By  solemn  vision,  and  bright  silver  dream, 
His  infancy  was  nurtured.     Every  sight 
And  sound  from  the  vast  earth  and  ambient  air, 
Sent  to  his  heart  its  choicest  impulses. 
The  fountains  of  divine  philosophy 
Fled  not  his  thirsting  lips,  and  all  of  great, 
Or  good,  or  lovely,  which  the  sacred  past 
In  truth  or  fable  consecrates,  he  felt 
And  knew.     When  early  youth  had  passed,  he  left 
His  cold  fireside  and  alienated  home 
To  seek  strange  truths  in  undiscovered  lands. 
Many  a  wide  waste  and  tangled  wilderness 
Has  lured  his  fearless  steps  ;  and  he  has  bought 
With  his  sweet  voice  and  eyes,  from  savage  men, 
His  rest  and  food.     Nature's  most  secret  steps 
He  like  her  shadow  has  pursued,  where'er 
The  red  volcano  overcanopies 
Its  fields  of  snow  and  pinnacles  of  ice 
With  burning  smoke,  or  where  bitumen  lakes 


8  ALASTOR 

On  black  bare  pointed  islets  ever  beat 
With  sluggish  surge,  or  where  the  secret  caves 
Rugged  and  dark,  winding  among  the  springs 
Of  fire  and  poison,  inaccessible 
To  avarice  or  pride,  their  starry  domes 
Of  diamond  and  of  gold  expand  above 
Numberless  and  immeasureable  halls, 
Frequent  with  crystal  column,  and  clear  shrines 
Of  pearl,  and  thrones  radiant  with  chrysolite. 
Nor  had  that  scene  of  ampler  majesty 
Than  gems  or  gold,  the  varying  roof  of  heaven 
And  the  green  earth,  lost  in  his  heart  its  claims 
To  love  and  wonder  ;  he  would  linger  long 
In  lonesome  vales,  making  the  wild  his  home, 
Until  the  doves  and  squirrels  would  partake 
From  his  innocuous  hand  his  bloodless  food, 
Lured  by  the  gentle  meaning  of  his  looks, 
And  the  wild  antelope,  that  starts  whene'er 
The  dry  leaf  rustles  in  the  brake,  suspend 
Her  timid  steps  to  gaze  upon  a  form 
More  graceful  than  her  own. 

His  wandering  step, 
Obedient  to  high  thoughts,  has  visited 
The  awful  ruins  of  the  days  of  old  : 
Athens,  and  Tyre,  and  Balbec,  and  the  waste 
Where  stood  Jerusalem,  the  fallen  towers 
Of  Babylon,  the  eternal  pyramids, 
Memphis  and  Thebes,  and  whatsoe'er  of  strange 
Sculptured  on  alabaster  obelisk, 
Or  jasper  tomb,  or  mutilated  sphynx, 
Dark  Aethiopia  in  her  desert  hills 
Conceals.     Among  the  ruined  temples  there, 
Stupendous  columns,  and  wild  images 
Of  more  than  man,  where  marble  daemons  watch 
The  Zodiac's  brazen  mystery,  and  dead  men 
Hang  their  mute  thoughts  on  the  mute  walls  around, 
He  lingered,  poring  on  memorials 


ALASTOR  9 

Of  the  world's  youth,  through  the  long  burning  day 
Gazed  on  those  speechless  shapes,  nor,  when  the  moon 
Filled  the  mysterious  halls  with  floating  shades, 
Suspended  he  that  task,  but  ever  gazed 
And  gazed,  till  meaning  on  his  vacant  mind 
Flashed  like  strong  inspiration,  and  he  saw 
The  thrilling  secrets  of  the  birth  of  time. 

Meanwhile  an  Arab  maiden  brought  his  food, 
Her  daily  portion,  from  her  father's  tent, 
And  spread  her  matting  for  his  couch,  and  stole 
From  duties  and  repose  to  tend  his  steps  : — 
Enamoured,  yet  not  daring  for  deep  awe 
To  speak  her  love : — and  watched  his  nightly  sleep, 
Sleepless  herself,  to  gaze  upon  his  lips 
Parted  in  slumber,  whence  the  regular  breath 
Of  innocent  dreams  arose  :  then,  when  red  morn 
Made  paler  the  pale  moon,  to  her  cold  home 
Wildered,  and  wan,  and  panting,  she  returned. 

The  Poet  wandering  on,  through  Arabie 
And  Persia,  and  the  wild  Carmanian  waste, 
And  o'er  the  aerial  mountains  which  pour  down 
Indus  and  Oxus  from  their  icy  caves, 
In  joy  and  exultation  held  his  way ; 
Till  in  the  vale  of  Cashmire,  far  within 
Its  loneliest  dell,  where  odorous  plants  entwine 
Beneath  the  hollow  rocks  a  natural  bower, 
Beside  a  sparkling  rivulet  he  stretched 
His  languid  limbs.     A  vision  on  his  sleep 
There  came,  a  dream  of  hopes  that  never  yet 
Had  flushed  his  cheek.     He  dreamed  a  veiled  maid 
Sate  near  him,  talking  in  low  solemn  tones. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  of  his  own  soul 
Heard  in  the  calm  of  thought ;  its  music  long, 
Like  woven  sounds  of  streams  and  breezes,  held 
His  inmost  sense  suspended  in  its  web 


io  ALASTOR 

Of  many-coloured  woof  and  shifting  hues. 

Knowledge  and  truth  and  virtue  were  her  theme 

And  lofty  hopes  of  divine  liberty, 

Thoughts  the  most  dear  to  him,  and  poesy, 

Herself  a  poet.     Soon  the  solemn  mood 

Of  her  pure  mind  kindled  through  all  her  frame 

A  permeating  fire  :  wild  numbers  then 

She  raised,  with  voice  stifled  in  tremulous  sobs 

Subdued  by  its  own  pathos  :  her  fair  hands 

Were  bare  alone,  sweeping  from  some  strange  harp 

Strange  symphony,  and  in  their  branching  veins 

The  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale. 

The  beating  of  her  heart  was  heard  to  fill 

The  pauses  of  her  music,  and  her  breath 

Tumultuously  accorded  with  those  fits 

Of  intermitted  song.     Sudden  she  rose, 

As  if  her  heart  impatiently  endured 

Its  bursting  burthen  :  at  the  sound  he  turned, 

And  saw  by  the  warm  light  of  their  own  life 

Her  glowing  limbs  beneath  the  sinuous  veil 

Of  woven  wind,  her  outspread  arms  now  bare, 

Her  dark  locks  floating  in  the  breath  of  night, 

Her  beamy  bending  eyes,  her  parted  lips 

Outstretched,  and  pale,  and  quivering  eagerly. 

His  strong  heart  sunk  and  sickened  with  excess 

Of  love.     He  reared  his  shuddering  limbs  and  quelled 

His  gasping  breath,  and  spread  his  arms  to  meet 

Her  panting  bosom  :  .  .  .  she  drew  back  a  while, 

Then,  yielding  to  the  irresistible  joy, 

With  frantic  gesture  and  short  breathless  cry 

Folded  his  frame  in  her  dissolving  arms. 

Now  blackness  veiled  his  dizzy  eyes,  and  night 

Involved  and  swallowed  up  the  vision  ;  sleep, 

Like  a  dark  flood  suspended  in  its  course, 

Rolled  back  its  impulse  on  his  vacant  brain. 

Roused  by  the  shock  he  started  from  his  trance — 


ALASTOR  ii 

The  cold  white  light  of  morning,  the  blue  moon 

Low  in  the  west,  the  clear  and  garish  hills, 

The  distinct  valley  and  the  vacant  woods, 

Spread  round  him  where  he  stood.     Whither  have  fled 

The  hues  of  heaven  that  canopied  his  bower 

Of  yesternight  ?  The  sounds  that  soothed  his  sleep, 

The  mystery  and  the  majesty  of  Earth, 

The  joy,  the  exultation  ?  His  wan  eyes 

Gaze  on  the  empty  scene  as  vacantly 

As  ocean's  moon  looks  on  the  moon  in  heaven. 

The  spirit  of  sweet  human  love  has  sent 

A  vision  to  the  sleep  of  him  who  spurned 

Her  choicest  gifts.     He  eagerly  pursues 

Beyond  the  realms  of  dream  that  fleeting  shade  ; 

He  overleaps  the  bounds.     Alas  !  alas  ! 

Were  limbs,  and  breath,  and  being  intertwined 

Thus  treacherously  ?  Lost,  lost,  for  ever  lost, 

In  the  wide  pathless  desert  of  dim  sleep, 

That  beautiful  shape !  Does  the  dark  gate  of  death 

Conduct  to  thy  mysterious  paradise, 

O  Sleep  ?  Does  the  bright  arch  of  rainbow  clouds, 

And  pendent  mountains  seen  in  the  calm  lake, 

Lead  only  to  a  black  and  watery  depth, 

While  death's  blue  vault,  with  loathliest  vapours  hung, 

Where  every  shade  which  the  foul  grave  exhales 

Hides  its  dead  eye  from  the  detested  day, 

Conduct,  O  Sleep,  to  thy  delightful  realms  ? 

This  doubt  with  sudden  tide  flowed  on  his  heart, 

The  insatiate  hope  which  it  awakened  stung 

His  brain  even  like  despair. 

While  day-light  held 
The  sky,  the  Poet  kept  mute  conference 
With  his  still  soul.     At  night  the  passion  came, 
Like  the  fierce  fiend  of  a  distempered  dream, 
And  shook  him  from  his  rest,  and  led  him  forth 
Into  the  darkness. — As  an  eagle  grasped 
In  folds  of  the  green  serpent,  feels  her  breast 


12  ALASTOR 

Burn  with  the  poison,  and  precipitates 

Through  night  and  day,  tempest,  and  calm,  and  cloud, 

Frantic  with  dizzying  anguish,  her  blind  flight 

O'er  the  wide  aery  wilderness  :  thus  driven 

By  the  bright  shadow  of  that  lovely  dream, 

Beneath  the  cold  glare  of  the  desolate  night, 

Through  tangled  swamps  and  deep  precipitous  dells, 

Startling  with  careless  step  the  moon-light  snake, 

He  fled.     Red  morning  dawned  upon  his  flight, 

Shedding  the  mockery  of  its  vital  hues 

Upon  his  cheek  of  death.     He  wandered  on 

Till  vast  Aornos  seen  from  Petra's  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  low  horizon  like  a  cloud  ; 

Through  Balk,  and  where  the  desolated  tombs 

Of  Parthian  kings  scatter  to  every  wind 

Their  wasting  dust,  wildly  he  wandered  on, 

Day  after  day,  a  weary  waste  of  hours, 

Bearing  within  his  life  the  brooding  care 

That  ever  fed  on  its  decaying  flame. 

And  now  his  limbs  were  lean ;  his  scattered  hair 

Sered  by  the  autumn  of  strange  suffering 

Sung  dirges  in  the  wind  ;  his  listless  hand 

Hung  like  dead  bone  within  its  withered  skin ; 

Life,  and  the  lustre  that  consumed  it,  shone 

As  in  a  furnace  burning  secretly 

From  his  dark  eyes  alone.     The  cottagers, 

Who  ministered  with  human  charity 

His  human  wants,  beheld  with  wondering  awe 

Their  fleeting  visitant.     The  mountaineer, 

Encountering  on  some  dizzy  precipice 

That  spectral  form,  deemed  that  the  Spirit  of  wind 

With  lightning  eyes,  and  eager  breath,  and  feet 

Disturbing  not  the  drifted  snow,  had  paused 

In  its  career :  the  infant  would  conceal 

His  troubled  visage  in  his  mother's  robe 

In  terror  at  the  glare  of  those  wild  eyes, 

To  remember  their  strange  light  in  many  a  dream 


ALASTOR  15 

Of  after-times  ;  but  youthful  maidens,  taught 
By  nature,  would  interpret  half  the  woe 
That  wasted  him,  would  call  him  with  false  names 
Brother,  and  friend,  would  press  his  pallid  hand 
At  parting,  and  watch,  dim  through  tears,  the  path 
Of  his  departure  from  their  father's  door. 

At  length  upon  the  lone  Chorasmian  shore 
He  paused,  a  wide  and  melancholy  waste 
Of  putrid  marshes.     A  strong  impulse  urged 
His  steps  to  the  sea-shore.     A  swan  was  there, 
Beside  a  sluggish  stream  among  the  reeds. 
It  rose  as  he  approached,  and  with  strong  wings 
Scaling  the  upward  sky,  bent  its  bright  course 
High  over  the  immeasurable  main. 
His  eyes  pursued  its  flight. — "  Thou  hast  a  home, 
Beautiful  bird  ;  thou  voyagest  to  thine  home, 
Where  thy  sweet  mate  will  twine  her  downy  neck 
With  thine,  and  welcome  thy  return  with  eyes 
Bright  in  the  lustre  of  their  own  fond  joy. 
And  what  am  I  that  I  should  linger  here, 
With  voice  far  sweeter  than  thy  dying  notes, 
Spirit  more  vast  than  thine,  frame  more  attuned 
To  beauty,  wasting  these  surpassing  powers 
In  the  deaf  air,  to  the  blind  earth,  and  heaven 
That  echoes  not  my  thoughts  ?  "  A  gloomy  smile 
Of  desperate  hope  wrinkled  his  quivering  lips. 
For  sleep,  he  knew,  kept  most  relentlessly 
Its  precious  charge,  and  silent  death  exposed, 
Faithless  perhaps  as  sleep,  a  shadowy  lure, 
With  doubtful  smile  mocking  its  own  strange  charms. 

Startled  by  his  own  thoughts  he  looked  around. 
There  was  no  fair  fiend  near  him  not  a  sight 
Or  sound  of  awe  but  in  his  own  deep  mind. 
A  little  shallop  floating  near  the  shore 
Caught  the  impatient  wandering  of  his  gaze. 


16  ALASTOR 

It  had  been  long  abandoned,  for  its  sides 

Gaped  wide  with  many  a  rift,  and  its  frail  joints 

Swayed  with  the  undulations  of  the  tide. 

A  restless  impulse  urged  him  to  embark 

And  meet  lone  Death  on  the  drear  ocean's  waste ; 

For  well  he  knew  that  mighty  Shadow  loves 

The  slimy  caverns  of  the  populous  deep. 

The  day  was  fair  and  sunny,  sea  and  sky 
Drank  its  inspiring  radiance,  and  the  wind 
Swept  strongly  from  the  shore,  blackening  the  waves. 
Following  his  eager  soul,  the  wanderer 
Leaped  in  the  boat,  he  spread  his  cloak  aloft 
On  the  bare  mast,  and  took  his  lonely  seat, 
And  felt  the  boat  speed  o'er  the  tranquil  sea 
Like  a  torn  cloud  before  the  hurricane. 

As  one  that  in  a  silver  vision  floats 
Obedient  to  the  sweep  of  odorous  winds 
Upon  resplendent  clouds,  so  rapidly 
Along  the  dark  and  ruffled  waters  fled 
The  straining  boat. — A  whirlwind  swept  it  on, 
With  fierce  gusts  and  precipitating  force, 
Through  the  white  ridges  of  the  chafed  sea. 
The  waves  arose.     Higher  and  higher  still 
Their  fierce  necks  writhed  beneath  the  tempest's  scourge 
Like  serpents  struggling  in  a  vulture's  grasp. 
Calm  and  rejoicing  in  the  fearful  war 
Of  wave  ruining  on  wave,  and  blast  on  blast 
Descending,  and  black  flood  on  whirlpool  driven 
With  dark  obliterating  course,  he  sate  : 
As  if  their  genii  were  the  ministers 
Appointed  to  conduct  him  to  the  light 
Of  those  beloved  eyes,  the  Poet  sate 
Holding  the  steady  helm.     Evening  came  on, 
The  beams  of  sunset  hung  their  rainbow  hues 
High  'mid  the  shifting  domes  of  sheeted  spray 


ALASTOR  17 

That  canopied  his  path  o'er  the  waste  deep  ; 
Twilight,  ascending  slowly  from  the  east, 
Entwined  in  duskier  wreaths  her  braided  locks 
O'er  the  fair  front  and  radiant  eyes  of  day  ; 
Night  followed,  clad  with  stars.     On  every  side 
More  horribly  the  multitudinous  streams 
Of  ocean's  mountainous  waste  to  mutual  war 
Rushed  in  dark  tumult  thundering,  as  to  mock 
The  calm  and  spangled  sky.     The  little  boat 
Still  fled  before  the  storm  ;  still  fled,  like  foam 
Down  the  steep  cataract  of  a  wintry  river ; 
Now  pausing  on  the  edge  of  the  riven  wave  ; 
Now  leaving  far  behind  the  bursting  mass 
That  fell,  convulsing  ocean.     Safely  fled — 
As  if  that  frail  and  wasted  human  form, 
Had  been  an  elemental  god. 

At  midnight 
The  moon  arose  :  and  lo  !  the  aetherial  cliffs 
Of  Caucasus,  whose  icy  summits  shone 
Among  the  stars  like  sunlight,  and  around 
Whose  caverned  base  the  whirlpools  and  the  waves 
Bursting  and  eddying  irresistibly 
Rage  and  resound  for  ever. — Who  shall  save  ? — 
The  boat  fled  on, — the  boiling  torrent  drove, — 
The  crags  closed  round  with  black  and  jagged  arms, 
The  shattered  mountain  overhung  the  sea, 
And  faster  still,  beyond  all  human  speed, 
Suspended  on  the  sweep  of  the  smooth  wave, 
The  little  boat  was  driven.     A  cavern  there 
Yawned,  and  amid  its  slant  and  winding  depths 
Ingulphed  the  rushing  sea.     The  boat  fled  on 
With  unrelaxing  speed. — "  Vision  and  Love  ! " 
The  Poet  cried  aloud,  "  I  have  beheld 
The  path  of  thy  departure.     Sleep  and  death 
Shall  not  divide  us  long  ! " 

The  boat  pursued 
The  windings  of  the  cavern.     Day-light  shone 

c 


18  ALASTOR 

At  length  upon  that  gloomy  river's  flow ; 

Now,  where  the  fiercest  war  among  the  waves 

Is  calm,  on  the  unfathomable  stream 

The  boat  moved  slowly.     Where  the  mountain,  riven, 

Exposed  those  black  depths  to  the  azure  sky, 

Ere  yet  the  flood's  enormous  volume  fell 

Even  to  the  base  of  Caucasus,  with  sound 

That  shook  the  everlasting  rocks,  the  mass 

Filled  with  one  whirlpool  all  that  ample  chasm  ; 

Stair  above  stair  the  eddying  waters  rose 

Circling  immeasurably  fast,  and  laved 

With  alternating  dash  the  knarled  roots 

Of  mighty  trees,  that  stretched  their  giant  arms 

In  darkness  over  it.     I'  the  midst  was  left, 

Reflecting,  yet  distorting  every  cloud, 

A  pool  of  treacherous  and  tremendous  calm. 

Seized  by  the  sway  of  the  ascending  stream, 

With  dizzy  swiftness,  round,  and  round,  and  round, 

Ridge  after  ridge  the  straining  boat  arose, 

Till  on  the  verge  of  the  extremest  curve, 

Where  through  an  opening  of  the  rocky  bank, 

The  waters  overflow,  and  a  smooth  spot 

Of  glassy  quiet  'mid  those  battling  tides 

Is  left,  the  boat  paused  shuddering. — Shall  it  sink 

Down  the  abyss  ?    Shall  the  reverting  stress 

Of  that  resistless  gulph  embosom  it  ? 

Now  shall  it  fall  ? — A  wandering  stream  of  wind, 

Breathed  from  the  west,  has  caught  the  expanded  sail, 

And,  lo  !  with  gentle  motion,  between  banks 

Of  mossy  slope,  and  on  a  placid  stream, 

Beneath  a  woven  grove  it  sails,  and,  hark ! 

The  ghastly  torrent  mingles  its  far  roar, 

With  the  breeze  murmuring  in  the  musical  woods. 

Where  the  embowering  trees  recede,  and  leave 

A  little  space  of  green  expanse,  the  cove 

Is  closed  by  meeting  banks,  whose  yellow  flowers 

For  ever  gaze  on  their  own  drooping  eyes} 


ALASTOR  19 

Reflected  in  the  crystal  calm.     The  wave 

Of  the  boat's  motion  marred  their  pensive  task, 

Which  nought  but  vagrant  bird,  or  wanton  wind, 

Or  falling  spear-grass,  or  their  own  decay 

Had  e'er  disturbed  before.     The  Poet  longed 

To  deck  with  their  bright  hues  his  withered  hair, 

But  on  his  heart  its  solitude  returned, 

And  he  forbore.     Not  the  strong  impulse  hid 

In  those  flushed  cheeks,  bent  eyes,  and  shadowy  frame 

Had  yet  performed  its  ministry :  it  hung 

Upon  his  life,  as  lightning  in  a  cloud 

Gleams,  hovering  ere  it  vanish,  ere  the  floods 

Of  night  close  over  it. 

The  noonday  sun 
Now  shone  upon  the  forest,  one  vast  mass 
Of  mingling  shade,  whose  brown  magnificence 
A  narrow  vale  embosoms.     There,  huge  caves, 
Scooped  in  the  dark  base  of  their  aery  rocks 
Mocking  its  moans,  respond  and  roar  for  ever. 
The  meeting  boughs  and  implicated  leaves 
Wove  twilight  o'er  the  Poet's  path,  as  led 
By  love,  or  dream,  or  god,  or  mightier  Death, 
He  sought  in  Nature's  dearest  haunt,  some  bank, 
Her  cradle,  and  his  sepulchre.     More  dark 
And  dark  the  shades  accumulate.     The  oak, 
Expanding  its  immense  and  knotty  arms, 
Embraces  the  light  beech.     The  pyramids 
Of  the  tall  cedar  overarching,  frame 
Most  solemn  domes  within,  and  far  below, 
Like  clouds  suspended  in  an  emerald  sky, 
The  ash  and  the  acacia  floating  hang 
Tremulous  and  pale.     Like  restless  serpents,  clothed 
In  rainbow  and  in  fire,  the  parasites, 
Starred  with  ten  thousand  blossoms,  flow  around 
The  grey  trunks,  and,  as  gamesome  infants'  eyes, 
With  gentle  meanings,  and  most  innocent  wiles, 
Fold  their  beams  round  the  hearts  of  those  that  love, 


20  ALASTOR 

These  twine  their  tendrils  with  the  wedded  boughs 

Uniting  their  close  union  ;  the  woven  leaves 

Make  net-work  of  the  dark  blue  light  of  day, 

And  the  night's  noontide  clearness,  mutable 

As  shapes  in  the  weird  clouds.     Soft  mossy  lawns 

Beneath  these  canopies  extend  their  swells, 

Fragrant  with  perfumed  herbs,  and  eyed  with  blooms 

Minute  yet  beautiful.     One  darkest  glen 

Sends  from  its  woods  of  musk-rose,  twined  with  jasmine, 

A  soul-dissolving  odour,  to  invite 

To  some  more  lovely  mystery.     Through  the  dell, 

Silence  and  Twilight  here,  twin-sisters,  keep 

Their  noonday  watch,  and  sail  among  the  shades, 

Like  vaporous  shapes  half  seen  ;  beyond,  a  well, 

Dark,  gleaming,  and  of  most  translucent  wave, 

Images  all  the  woven  boughs  above, 

And  each  depending  leaf,  and  every  speck 

Of  azure  sky,  darting  between  their  chasms  ; 

Nor  aught  else  in  the  liquid  mirror  laves 

Its  portraiture,  but  some  inconstant  star 

Between  one  foliaged  lattice  twinkling  fair, 

Or,  painted  bird,  sleeping  beneath  the  moon, 

Or  gorgeous  insect  floating  motionless, 

Unconscious  of  the  day,  ere  yet  his  wings 

Have  spread  their  glories  to  the  gaze  of  noon. 

Hither  the  Poet  came.     His  eyes  beheld 
Their  own  wan  light  through  the  reflected  lines 
Of  his  thin  hair,  distinct  in  the  dark  depth 
Of  that  still  fountain  ;  as  the  human  heart, 
Gazing  in  dreams  over  the  gloomy  grave, 
Sees  its  own  treacherous  likeness  there.     He  heard 
The  motion  of  the  leaves,  the  grass  that  sprung 
Startled  and  glanced  and  trembled  even  to  feel 
An  unaccustomed  presence,  and  the  sound 
Of  the  sweet  brook  that  from  the  secret  springs 
Of  that  dark  fountain  rose.     A  Spirit  seemed 


ALASTOR  21 

To  stand  beside  him — clothed  in  no  bright  robes 

Of  shadowy  silver  or  enshrining  light, 

Borrowed  from  aught  the  visible  world  affords 

Of  grace,  or  majesty,  or  mystery ; — 

But,  undulating  woods,  and  silent  well, 

And  leaping  rivulet,  and  evening  gloom 

Now  deepening  the  dark  shades,  for  speech  assuming, 

Held  commune  with  him,  as  if  he  and  it 

Were  all  that  was, — only  .  .  .  when  his  regard 

Was  raised  by  intense  pensiveness,  .  .  .  two  eyes, 

Two  starry  eyes,  hung  in  the  gloom  of  thought, 

And  seemed  with  their  serene  and  azure  smiles 

To  beckon  him. 

Obedient  to  the  light 
That  shone  within  his  soul,  he  went,  pursuing 
The  windings  of  the  dell. — The  rivulet 
Wanton  and  wild,  through  many  a  green  ravine 
Beneath  the  forest  flowed.     Sometimes  it  fell 
Among  the  moss  with  hollow  harmony 
Dark  and  profound.     Now  on  the  polished  stones 
It  danced  ;  like  childhood  laughing  as  it  went : 
Then,  through  the  plain  in  tranquil  wanderings  crept, 
Reflecting  every  herb  and  drooping  bud 
That  overhung  its  quietness. — "  O  stream  ! 
Whose  source  is  inaccessibly  profound, 
Whither  do  thy  mysterious  waters  tend  ? 
Thou  imagest  my  life.     Thy  darksome  stillness, 
Thy  dazzling  waves,  thy  loud  and  hollow  gulphs, 
Thy  searchless  fountain,  and  invisible  course 
Have  each  their  type  in  me :  and  the  wide  sky, 
And  measureless  ocean  may  declare  as  soon 
What  oozy  cavern  or  what  wandering  cloud 
Contains  thy  waters,  as  the  universe 
Tell  where  these  living  thoughts  reside,  when  stretched 
Upon  thy  flowers  my  bloodless  limbs  shall  waste 
T  the  passing  wind  ! " 


22  ALASTOR 

Beside  the  grassy  shore 
Of  the  small  stream  he  went ;  he  did  impress 
On  the  green  moss  his  tremulous  step,  that  caught 
Strong  shuddering  from  his  burning  limbs.     As  one 
Roused  by  some  joyous  madness  from  the  couch 
Of  fever,  he  did  move  ;  yet,  not  like  him, 
Forgetful  of  the  grave,  where,  when  the  flame 
Of  his  frail  exultation  shall  be  spent, 
He  must  descend.     With  rapid  steps  he  went 
Beneath  the  shade  of  trees,  beside  the  flow 
Of  the  wild  babbling  rivulet ;  and  now 
The  forest's  solemn  canopies  were  changed 
For  the  uniform  and  lightsome  evening  sky. 
Grey  rocks  did  peep  from  the  spare  moss,  and  stemmed 
The  struggling  brook  :  tall  spires  of  windlestrae 
Threw  their  thin  shadows  down  the  rugged  slope, 
And  nought  but  knarled  roots  of  ancient  pines, 
Branchless  and  blasted,  clenched  with  grasping  roots 
The  unwilling  soil.     A  gradual  change  was  here, 
Yet  ghastly.     For,  as  fast  years  flow  away, 
The  smooth  brow  gathers,  and  the  hair  grows  thin 
And  white,  and  where  irradiate  dewy  eyes 
Had  shone,  gleam  stony  orbs  : — so  from  his  steps 
Bright  flowers  departed,  and  the  beautiful  shade 
Of  the  green  groves,  with  all  their  odorous  winds 
And  musical  motions.     Calm,  he  still  pursued 
The  stream,  that  with  a  larger  volume  now 
Rolled  through  the  labyrinthine  dell ;  and  there 
Fretted  a  path  through  its  descending  curves 
With  its  wintry  speed.     On  every  side  now  rose 
Rocks,  which,  in  unimaginable  forms, 
Lifted  their  black  and  barren  pinnacles 
In  the  light  of  evening,  and  its  precipice 
Obscuring  the  ravine,  disclosed  above, 
'Mid  toppling  stones,  black  gulphs  and  yawning  caves, 
Whose  windings  gave  ten  thousand  various  tongues 
To  the  loud  stream.     Lo  !  where  the  pass  expands 


ALASTOR  23 

Its  stony  jaws,  the  abrupt  mountain  breaks, 
And  seems,  with  its  accumulated  crags, 
To  overhang  the  world  :  for  wide  expand 
Beneath  the  wan  stars  and  descending  moon 
Islanded  seas,  blue  mountains,  mighty  streams, 
Dim  tracts  and  vast,  robed  in  the  lustrous  gloom 
Of  leaden-coloured  even,  and  fiery  hills 
Mingling  their  flames  with  twilight,  on  the  verge 
Of  the  remote  horizon.     The  near  scene, 
In  naked  and  severe  simplicity, 
Made  contrast  with  the  universe.     A  pine, 
Rock-rooted,  stretched  athwart  the  vacancy 
Its  swinging  boughs,  to  each  inconstant  blast 
Yielding  one  only  response,  at  each  pause 
In  most  familiar  cadence,  with  the  howl, 
The  thunder  and  the  hiss  of  homeless  streams 
Mingling  its  solemn  song,  whilst  the  broad  river, 
Foaming  and  hurrying  o'er  its  rugged  path, 
Fell  into  that  immeasurable  void 
Scattering  its  waters  to  the  passing  winds. 

Yet  the  grey  precipice  and  solemn  pine, 
And  torrent,  were  not  all ; — one  silent  nook 
Was  there.     Even  on  the  edge  of  that  vast  mountain, 
Upheld  by  knotty  roots  and  fallen  rocks, 
It  overlooked  in  its  serenity 
The  dark  earth,  and  the  bending  vault  of  stars. 
It  was  a  tranquil  spot,  that  seemed  to  smile 
Even  in  the  lap  of  horror.     Ivy  clasped 
The  fissured  stones  with  its  entwining  arms, 
And  did  embower  with  leaves  for  ever  green, 
And  berries  dark,  the  smooth  and  even  space 
Of  its  inviolated  floor,  and  here 
The  children  of  the  autumnal  whirlwind  bore, 
In  wanton  sport,  those  bright  leaves,  whose  decay, 
Red,  yellow,  or  aetherially  pale, 
Rivals  the  pride  of  summer.     Tis  the  haunt 


24  ALASTOR 

Of  every  gentle  wind,  whose  breath  can  teach 

The  wilds  to  love  tranquillity.     One  step, 

One  human  step  alone,  has  ever  broken 

The  stillness  of  its  solitude  : — one  voice 

Alone  inspired  its  echoes  ; — even  that  voice 

Which  hither  came,  floating  among  the  winds, 

And  led  the  loveliest  among  human  forms 

To  make  their  wild  haunts  the  depository 

Of  all  the  grace  and  beauty  that  endued 

Its  motions,  render  up  its  majesty, 

Scatter  its  music  on  the  unfeeling  storm, 

And  to  the  damp  leaves  and  blue  cavern  mould, 

Nurses  of  rainbow  flowers  and  branching  moss, 

Commit  the  colours  of  that  varying  cheek, 

That  snowy  breast,  those  dark  and  drooping  eyes. 

The  dim  and  horned  moon  hung  low,  and  poured 
A  sea  of  lustre  on  the  horizon's  verge 
That  overflowed  its  mountains.     Yellow  misti 
Filled  the  unbounded  atmosphere,  and  drank 
Wan  moonlight  even  to  fulness  :  not  a  star 
Shone,  not  a  sound  was  heard  ;  the  very  winds, 
Danger's  grim  playmates,  on  that  precipice 
Slept,  clasped  in  his  embrace. — O,  storm  of  death  ! 
Whose  sightless  speed  divides  this  sullen  night : 
And  thou,  colossal  Skeleton,  that,  still 
Guiding  its  irresistible  career 
In  thy  devastating  omnipotence, 
Art  king  of  this  frail  world,  from  the  red  field 
Of  slaughter,  from  the  reeking  hospital, 
The  patriot's  sacred  couch,  the  snowy  bed 
Of  innocence,  the  scaffold  and  the  throne, 
A  mighty  voice  invokes  thee.     Ruin  calls 
His  brother  Death.     A  rare  and  regal  prey 
He  hath  prepared,  prowling  around  the  world  ; 
Glutted  with  which  thou  mayst  repose,  and  men 
Go  to  their  graves  like  flowers  or  creeping  worms, 


ALASTOR  25 

Nor  ever  more  offer  at  thy  dark  shrine 
The  unheeded  tribute  of  a  broken  heart. 

When  on  the  threshold  of  the  green  recess 
The  wanderer's  footsteps  fell,  he  knew  that  death 
Was  on  him.     Yet  a  little,  ere  it  fled, 
Did  he  resign  his  high  and  holy  soul 
To  images  of  the  majestic  past, 
That  paused  within  his  passive  being  now, 
Like  winds  that  bear  sweet  music,  when  they  breathe 
Through  some  dim  latticed  chamber.     He  did  place 
His  pale  lean  hand  upon  the  rugged  trunk 
Of  the  old  pine.     Upon  an  ivied  stone 
Reclined  his  languid  head,  his  limbs  did  rest, 
Diffused  and  motionless,  on  the  smooth  brink 
Of  that  obscurest  chasm  ; — and  thus  he  lay, 
Surrendering  to  their  final  impulses 
The  hovering  powers  of  life.     Hope  and  despair, 
The  torturers,  slept ;  no  mortal  pain  or  fear 
Marred  his  repose,  the  influxes  of  sense, 
And  his  own  being  unalloyed  by  pain, 
Yet  feebler  and  more  feeble,  calmly  fed 
The  stream  of  thought,  till  he  lay  breathing  there 
At  peace,  and  faintly  smiling  : — his  last  sight 
Was  the  great  moon,  which  o'er  the  western  line 
Of  the  wide  world  her  mighty  horn  suspended, 
With  whose  dun  beams  inwoven  darkness  seemed 
To  mingle.     Now  upon  the  jagged  hills 
It  rests,  and  still  as  the  divided  frame 
Of  the  vast  meteor  sunk,  the  Poet's  blood, 
That  ever  beat  in  mystic  sympathy 
With  nature's  ebb  and  flow,  grew  feebler  still : 
And  when  two  lessening  points  of  light  alone 
Gleamed  through  the  darkness,  the  alternate  gasp 
Of  his  faint  respiration  scarce  did  stir 
The  stagnate  night : — till  the  minutest  ray 
Was  quenched,  the  pulse  yet  lingered  in  his  heart. 


26  ALASTOR 

It  paused — it  fluttered.     But  when  heaven  remained 

Utterly  black,  the  murky  shades  involved 

An  image,  silent,  cold,  and  motionless, 

As  their  own  voiceless  earth  and  vacant  air. 

Even  as  a  vapour  fed  with  golden  beams 

That  ministered  on  sunlight,  ere  the  west 

Eclipses  it,  was  now  that  wondrous  frame — 

No  sense,  no  motion,  no  divinity — 

A  fragile  lute,  on  whose  harmonious  strings 

The  breath  of  heaven  did  wander — a  bright  stream 

Once  fed  with  many-voiced  waves — a  dream 

Of  youth,  which  night  and  time  have  quenched  for  ever, 

Still,  dark,  and  dry,  and  unremembered  now. 

O,  for  Medea's  wondrous  alchemy, 
Which  wheresoe'er  it  fell  made  the  earth  gleam 
With  bright  flowers,  and  the  wintry  boughs  exhale 
From  vernal  blooms  fresh  fragrance !    O,  that  God, 
Profuse  of  poisons,  would  concede  the  chalice 
Which  but  one  living  man  has  drained,  who  now, 
Vessel  of  deathless  wrath,  a  slave  that  feels 
No  proud  exemption  in  the  blighting  curse 
He  bears,  over  the  world  wanders  for  ever, 
Lone  as  incarnate  death !    O,  that  the  dream 
Of  dark  magician  in  his  visioned  cave, 
Raking  the  cinders  of  a  crucible 
For  life  and  power,  even  when  his  feeble  hand 
Shakes  in  its  last  decay,  were  the  true  law 
Of  this  so  lovely  world  !    But  thou  art  fled 
Like  some  frail  exhalation  ;  which  the  dawn 
Robes  in  its  golden  beams, — ah  !  thou  hast  fled  ! 
The  brave,  the  gentle,  and  the  beautiful, 
The  child  of  grace  and  genius.     Heartless  things 
Are  done  and  said  i'  the  world,  and  many  worms 
And  beasts  and  men  live  on,  and  mighty  Earth 
From  sea  and  mountain,  city  and  wilderness, 
In  vesper  low  or  joyous  orison, 


ALASTOR  27 

Lifts  still  its  solemn  voice : — but  thou  art  fled — 

Thou  canst  no  longer  know  or  love  the  shapes 

Of  this  phantasmal  scene,  who  have  to  thee 

Been  purest  ministers,  who  are,  alas ! 

Now  thou  art  not.     Upon  those  pallid  lips 

So  sweet  even  in  their  silence,  on  those  eyes 

That  image  sleep  in  death,  upon  that  form 

Yet  safe  from  the  worm's  outrage,  let  no  tear 

Be  shed — not  even  in  thought.     Nor,  when  those  hues 

Are  gone,  and  those  divinest  lineaments, 

Worn  by  the  senseless  wind,  shall  live  alone 

In  the  frail  pauses  of  this  simple  strain, 

Let  not  high  verse,  mourning  the  memory 

Of  that  which  is  no  more,  or  painting's  woe 

Or  sculpture,  speak  in  feeble  imagery 

Their  own  cold  powers.     Art  and  eloquence, 

And  all  the  shows  o'  the  world  are  frail  and  vain 

To  weep  a  loss  that  turns  their  lights  to  shade. 

It  is  a  woe  too  '  deep  for  tears,'  when  all 

Is  reft  at  once,  when  some  surpassing  Spirit, 

Whose  light  adorned  the  world  around  it,  leaves 

Those  who  remain  behind,  not  sobs  or  groans, 

The  passionate  tumult  of  a  clinging  hope  ; 

But  pale  despair  and  cold  tranquillity, 

Nature's  vast  frame,  the  web  of  human  things, 

Birth  and  the  grave,  that  are  not  as  they  were. 


flflTHEBND     Sfi 


MISCELLANEOUS 


POEMS 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


A   SUMMER-EVENING   CHURCH-YARD 
Lechlade,  Gloucestershire 

The  wind  has  swept  from  the  wide  atmosphere 
Each  vapour  that  obscured  the  sunset's  ray ; 

And  pallid  evening  twines  its  beaming  hair 

In  duskier  braids  around  the  languid  eyes  of  day  : 

Silence  and  twilight,  unbeloved  of  men, 

Creep  hand  in  hand  from  yon  obscurest  glen. 

They  breathe  their  spells  towards  the  departing  day, 
Encompassing  the  earth,  air,  stars,  and  sea ; 

Light,  sound,  and  motion  own  the  potent  sway, 
Responding  to  the  charm  with  its  own  mystery. 

The  winds  are  still,  or  the  dry  church-tower  grass 

Knows  not  their  gentle  motions  as  they  pass. 

D 


34  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Thou  too,  aerial  Pile !  whose  pinnacles 

Point  from  one  shrine  like  pyramids  of  fire, 

Obeyest  in  silence  their  sweet  solemn  spells, 

Clothing  in  hues  of  heaven  thy  dim  and  distant  spire, 

Around  whose  lessening  and  invisible  height 

Gather  among  the  stars  the  clouds  of  night. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  in  their  sepulchres : 

And,  mouldering  as  they  sleep,  a  thrilling  sound 

Half  sense,  half  thought,  among  the  darkness  stirs, 
Breathed   from   their  wormy  beds   all   living   things 
around, 

And  mingling  with  the  still  night  and  mute  sky 

Its  awful  hush  is  felt  inaudibly. 

Thus  solemnized  and  softened,  death  is  mild 

And  terrorless  as  this  serenest  night : 
Here  could  I  hope,  like  some  enquiring  child 

Sporting  on  graves,  that  death  did  hide  from  human 
sight 
Sweet  secrets,  or  beside  its  breathless  sleep 
That  loveliest  dreams  perpetual  watch  did  keep. 


TO   COLERIDGE 
AAKPTSI   AlOISn    nOTMON   AIIOTMON 

O  !  THERE  are  spirits  of  the  air, 

And  genii  of  the  evening  breeze, 
And  gentle  ghosts,  with  eyes  as  fair 

As  star-beams  among  twilight  trees  : — 
Such  lovely  ministers  to  meet 
Oft  hast  thou  turned  from  men  thy  lonely  feet. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  35 

With  mountain  winds,  and  babbling  springs, 
And  moonlight  seas,  that  are  the  voice 

Of  these  inexplicable  things, 

Thou  didst  hold  commune,  and  rejoice 

When  they  did  answer  thee  ;  but  they 

Cast,  like  a  worthless  boon,  thy  love  away. 

And  thou  hast  sought  in  starry  eyes 
Beams  that  were  never  meant  for  thine, 

Another's  wealth  : — tame  sacrifice 
To  a  fond  faith !  still  dost  thou  pine  ? 

Still  dost  thou  hope  that  greeting  hands, 

Voice,  looks,  or  lips,  may  answer  thy  demands  ? 

Ah  !  wherefore  didst  thou  build  thine  hope 

On  the  false  earth's  inconstancy  ? 
Did  thine  own  mind  afford  no  scope 

Of  love,  or  moving  thoughts  to  thee  ? 
That  natural  scenes  or  human  smiles 
Could  steal  the  power  to  wind  thee  in  their  wiles. 

Yes,  all  the  faithless  smiles  are  fled 

Whose  falsehood  left  thee  broken-hearted  ; 

The  glory  of  the  moon  is  dead  ; 

Night's  ghosts  and  dreams  have  now  departed  ; 

Thine  own  soul  still  is  true  to  thee, 

But  changed  to  a  foul  fiend  through  misery. 

This  fiend,  whose  ghastly  presence  ever 

Beside  thee  like  thy  shadow  hangs, 
Dream  not  to  chase  ; — the  mad  endeavour 

Would  scourge  thee  to  severer  pangs. 
Be  as  thou  art.     Thy  settled  fate, 
Dark  as  it  is,  all  change  would  aggravate. 


36  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

TO   WORDSWORTH 

POET  of  Nature,  thou  hast  wept  to  know 

That  things  depart  which  never  may  return  : 
Childhood  and  youth,  friendship  and  love's  first  glow, 

Have  fled  like  sweet  dreams,  leaving  thee  to  mourn. 
These  common  woes  I  feel.     One  loss  is  mine 

Which  thou  too  feel'st,  yet  I  alone  deplore. 
Thou  wert  as  a  lone  star,  whose  light  did  shine 

On  some  frail  bark  in  winter's  midnight  roar : 
Thou  hast  like  to  a  rock-built  refuge  stood 
Above  the  blind  and  battling  multitude  : 
In  honoured  poverty  thy  voice  did  weave 

Songs  consecrate  to  truth  and  liberty, — 
Deserting  these,  thou  leavest  me  to  grieve, 

Thus  having  been,  that  thou  shouldst  cease  to  be. 


SONNET 

OZYMANDIAS 

I  MET  a  traveller  from  an  antique  land 
Who  said  :  Two  vast  and  trunkless  legs  of  stone 
Stand  in  the  desert.     Near  them,  on  the  sand, 
Half  sunk,  a  shattered  visage  lies,  whose  frown, 
And  wrinkled  lip,  and  sneer  of  cold  command, 
Tell  that  its  sculptor  well  those  passions  read 
Which  yet  survive,  stamped  on  these  lifeless  things, 
The  hand  that  mocked  them  and  the  heart  that  fed  : 
And  on  the  pedestal  these  words  appear : 
"  My  name  is  Ozymandias,  king  of  kings  : 
Look  on  my  works,  ye  Mighty,  and  despair ! " 
Nothing  beside  remains.     Round  the  decay 
Of  that  colossal  wreck,  boundless  and  bare 
The  lone  and  level  sands  stretch  far  away. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  37 


HYMN   TO   INTELLECTUAL   BEAUTY 

1 

The  awful  shadow  of  some  unseen  Power 
Floats  though  unseen  amongst  us, — visiting 
This  various  world  with  an  inconstant  wing 
As  summer  winds  that  creep  from  flower  to  flower, — 
Like    moonbeams    that    behind    some    piny    mountain 
shower, 
It  visits  with  inconstant  glance 
Each  human  heart  and  countenance ; 
Like  hues  and  harmonies  of  evening, — 

Like  clouds  in  starlight  widely  spread, — 
Like  memory  of  music  fled, — 
Like  aught  that  for  its  grace  may  be 
Dear,  and  yet  dearer  for  its  mystery. 

2 

Spirit  of  BEAUTY,  that  dost  consecrate 

With  thine  own  hues  all  thou  dost  shine  upon 

Of  human  thought  or  form, — where  art  thou  gone  ? 

Why  dost  thou  pass  away  and  leave  our  state, 

This  dim  vast  vale  of  tears,  vacant  and  desolate  ? 
Ask  why  the  sunlight  not  for  ever 
Weaves  rainbows  o'er  yon  mountain  river, 

Why  aught  should  fail  and  fade  that  once  is  shown. 
Why  fear  and  dream  and  death  and  birth 
Cast  on  the  daylight  of  this  earth 
Such  gloom, — why  man  has  such  a  scope 

For  love  and  hate,  despondency  and  hope  ? 

3 

No  voice  from  some  sublimer  world  hath  ever 
To  sage  or  poet  these  responses  given — 
Therefore  the  names  of  Demon,  Ghost,  and  Heaven, 

Remain  the  records  of  their  vain  endeavour, 


38  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Frail  spells — whose  uttered  charm   might  not  avail  to 
sever, 

From  all  we  hear  and  all  we  see, 

Doubt,  chance,  and  mutability. 
Thy  light  alone — like  mist  o'er  mountains  driven, 

Or  music  by  the  night  wind  sent, 

Through  strings  of  some  still  instrument, 

Or  moonlight  on  a  midnight  stream, 
Gives  grace  and  truth  to  life's  unquiet  dream. 

4 
Love,  Hope,  and  Self-esteem,  like  clouds  depart 
And  come,  for  some  uncertain  moments  lent. 
Man  were  immortal,  and  omnipotent, 
Didst  thou,  unknown  and  awful  as  thou  art, 
Keep  with  thy  glorious  train  firm  state  within  his  heart. 
Thou  messenger  of  sympathies, 
That  wax  and  wane  in  lovers'  eyes — 
Thou — that  to  human  thought  art  nourishment, 
Like  darkness  to  a  dying  flame  ! 
Depart  not  as  thy  shadow  came, 
Depart  not — lest  the  grave  should  be, 
Like  life  and  fear,  a  dark  reality. 

5 
While  yet  a  boy  I  sought  for  ghosts,  and  sped 

Through  many  a  listening  chamber,  cave  and  ruin, 
And  starlight  wood,  with  fearful  steps  pursuing 
Hopes  of  high  talk  with  the  departed  dead. 
I  called  on  poisonous  names  with  which  our  youth  is  fed, 
I  was  not  heard — I  saw  them  not — 
When  musing  deeply  on  the  lot 
Of  life,  at  the  sweet  time  when  winds  are  wooing 
All  vital  things  that  wake  to  bring 
News  of  birds  and  blossoming, — 
Sudden,  thy  shadow  fell  on  me ; 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy ! 


I  vowed  that  I  would  dedicate  my  powers 

To  thee  and  thine — have  I  not  kept  the  vow  ? 
With  beating  heart  and  streaming  eyes,  even  now 
I  call  the  phantoms  of  a  thousand  hours 
Each  from  his  voiceless  grave:  they  have  in  visioned 
bowers 
Of  studious  zeal  or  love's  delight 
Outwatched  with  me  the  envious  night — 
They  know  that  never  joy  illumed  my  brow 
Unlinked  with  hope  that  thou  wouldst  free 
This  world  from  its  dark  slavery, 
That  thou — O  awful  Loveliness, 
Wouldst  give  whate'er  these  words  cannot  express. 

7 
The  day  becomes  more  solemn  and  serene 
When  noon  is  past — there  is  a  harmony 
In  autumn,  and  a  lustre  in  its  sky, 
Which  through  the  summer  is  not  heard  or  seen, 
As  if  it  could  not  be,  as  if  it  had  not  been  ! 
Thus  let  thy  power,  which  like  the  truth 
Of  nature  on  my  passive  youth 
Descended,  to  my  onward  life  supply 
Its  calm — to  one  who  worships  thee, 
And  every  form  containing  thee, 
Whom,  SPIRIT  fair,  thy  spells  did  bind 
To  fear  himself,  and  love  all  human  kind. 


LINES   WRITTEN   AMONG   THE   EUGANEAN 
HILLS 

October,  1818 

Many  a  green  isle  needs  must  be 
In  the  deep  wide  sea  of  misery, 
Or  the  mariner,  worn  and  wan, 
Never  thus  could  voyage  on 
Day  and  night,  and  night  and  day, 
Drifting  on  his  dreary  way, 
With  the  solid  darkness  black 
Closing  round  his  vessel's  track  ; 
Whilst  above  the  sunless  sky, 
Big  with  clouds,  hangs  heavily, 
And  behind  the  tempest  fleet 
Hurries  on  with  lightning  feet, 
Riving  sail,  and  cord,  and  plank, 
Till  the  ship  has  almost  drank 
Death  from  the  o'er-brimming  deep  ; 
And  sinks  down,  down,  like  that  sleep 
When  the  dreamer  seems  to  be 
Weltering  through  eternity ; 
And  the  dim  low  line  before 
Of  a  dark  and  distant  shore 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  41 

Still  recedes,  as  ever  still 

Longing  with  divided  will, 

But  no  power  to  seek  or  shun, 

He  is  ever  drifted  on 

O'er  the  unreposing  wave 

To  the  haven  of  the  grave. 

What  if  there  no  friends  will  greet ; 

What  if  there  no  heart  will  meet 

His  with  love's  impatient  beat ; 

Wander  wheresoe'er  he  may, 

Can  he  dream  before  that  day 

To  find  refuge  from  distress 

In  friendship's  smile,  in  love's  caress  ? 

Then  'twill  wreak  him  little  woe 

Whether  such  there  be  or  no  : 

Senseless  is  the  breast,  and  cold, 

Which  relenting  love  would  fold  ; 

Bloodless  are  the  veins  and  chill 

Which  the  pulse  of  pain  did  fill ; 

Every  little  living  nerve 

That  from  bitter  words  did  swerve 

Round  the  tortured  lips  and  brow, 

Are  like  sapless  leaflets  now 

Frozen  upon  December's  bough. 

On  the  beach  of  a  northern  sea 

Which  tempests  shake  eternally, 

As  once  the  wretch  there  lay  to  sleep, 

Lies  a  solitary  heap, 

One  white  skull  and  seven  dry  bones, 

On  the  margin  of  the  stones, 

Where  a  few  grey  rushes  stand, 

Boundaries  of  the  sea  and  land  : 

Nor  is  heard  one  voice  of  wail 

But  the  sea-mews',  as  they  sail 

O'er  the  billows  of  the  gale  ; 

Or  the  whirlwind  up  and  down 

Howling  like  a  slaughtered  town, 


42  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

When  a  king  in  glory  rides 

Through  the  pomp  of  fratricides  : 

Those  unburied  bones  around 

There  is  many  a  mournful  sound  ; 

There  is  no  lament  for  him, 

Like  a  sunless  vapour,  dim, 

Who  once  clothed  with  life  and  thought 

What  now  moves  nor  murmurs  not. 

Aye,  many  flowering  islands  lie 

In  the  waters  of  wide  Agony  : 

To  such  a  one  this  morn  was  led, 

My  bark  by  soft  winds  piloted  : 

'Mid  the  mountains  Euganean 

I  stood  listening  to  the  paean, 

With  which  the  legioned  rooks  did  hail 

The  sun's  uprise  majestical ; 

Gathering  round  with  wings  all  hoar, 

Through  the  dewy  mist  they  soar 

Like  grey  shades,  till  the  eastern  heaven 

Bursts,  and  then,  as  clouds  of  even, 

Flecked  with  fire  and  azure,  lie 

In  the  unfathomable  sky, 

So  their  plumes  of  purple  grain, 

Starred  with  drops  of  golden  rain, 

Gleam  above  the  sunlit  woods, 

As  in  silent  multitudes 

On  the  morning's  fitful  gale 

Through  the  broken  mist  they  sail, 

And  the  vapours  cloven  and  gleaming 

Follow  down  the  dark  steep  streaming, 

Till  all  is  bright,  and  clear,  and  still, 

Round  the  solitary  hill. 

Beneath  is  spread  like  a  green  sea 
The  waveless  plain  of  Lombardy, 
Bounded  by  the  vaporous  air, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  43 

Islanded  by  cities  fair  ; 
Underneath  day's  azure  eyes, 
Ocean's  nursling,  Venice  lies, 
A  peopled  labyrinth  of  walls, 
Amphitrite's  destined  halls, 
Which  her  hoary  sire  now  paves 
With  his  blue  and  beaming  waves. 
Lo  !  the  sun  upsprings  behind, 
Broad,  red,  radiant,  half  reclined 
On  the  level  quivering  line 
Of  the  waters  crystalline  ; 
And  before  that  chasm  of  light, 
As  within  a  furnace  bright, 
Column,  tower,  and  dome,  and  spire, 
Shine  like  obelisks  of  fire, 
Pointing  with  inconstant  motion 
From  the  altar  of  dark  ocean 
To  the  sapphire-tinted  skies  ; 
As  the  flames  of  sacrifice 
From  the  marble  shrines  did  rise, 
As  to  pierce  the  dome  of  gold 
Where  Apollo  spoke  of  old. 

Sun-girt  City,  thou  hast  been 
Ocean's  child,  and  then  his  queen ; 
Now  is  come  a  darker  day, 
And  thou  soon  must  be  his  prey, 
If  the  power  that  raised  thee  here 
Hallow  so  thy  watery  bier. 
A  less  drear  ruin  then  than  now, 
With  thy  conquest-branded  brow 
Stooping  to  the  slave  of  slaves 
From  thy  throne,  among  the  waves 
Wilt  thou  be,  when  the  sea-mew 
Flies,  as  once  before  it  flew, 
O'er  thine  isles  depopulate, 
And  all  is  in  its  ancient  state, 


44  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Save  where  many  a  palace  gate 
With  green  sea-flowers  overgrown 
Like  a  rock  of  ocean's  own, 
Topples  o'er  the  abandoned  sea 
As  the  tides  change  sullenly. 
The  fisher  on  his  watery  way, 
Wandering  at  the  close  of  day, 
Will  spread  his  sail  and  seize  his  oar 
Till  he  pass  the  gloomy  shore, 
Lest  thy  dead  should,  from  their  sleep 
Bursting  o'er  the  starlight  deep, 
Lead  a  rapid  masque  of  death 
O'er  the  waters  of  his  path. 

Those  who  alone  thy  towers  behold 
Quivering  through  aerial  gold, 
As  I  now  behold  them  here, 
Would  imagine  not  they  were 
Sepulchres,  where  human  forms, 
Like  pollution-nourished  worms 
To  the  corpse  of  greatness  cling, 
Murdered,  and  now  mouldering  : 
But  if  Freedom  should  awake 
In  her  omnipotence,  and  shake 
From  the  Celtic  Anarch's  hold 
All  the  keys  of  dungeons  cold, 
Where  a  hundred  cities  lie 
Chained  like  thee,  ingloriously, 
Thou  and  all  thy  sister  band 
Might  adorn  this  sunny  land, 
Twining  memories  of  old  time 
With  new  virtues  more  sublime  ; 
If  not,  perish  thou  and  they, 
Clouds  which  stain  truth's  rising  day 
By  her  sun  consumed  away, 
Earth  can  spare  ye  :  while  like  flowers, 
In  the  waste  of  years  and  hours, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  45 

From  your  dust  new  nations  spring 
With  more  kindly  blossoming. 
Perish — let  there  only  be 
Floating  o'er  thy  hearthless  sea, 
As  the  garment  of  thy  sky 
Clothes  the  world  immortally, 
One  remembrance,  more  sublime 
Than  the  tattered  pall  of  time, 
Which  scarce  hides  thy  visage  wan  ; — 
That  a  tempest-cleaving  Swan 
Of  the  songs  of  Albion, 
Driven  from  his  ancestral  streams 
By  the  might  of  evil  dreams, 
Found  a  nest  in  thee ;  and  Ocean 
Welcomed  him  with  such  emotion 
That  its  joy  grew  his,  and  sprung 
From  his  lips  like  music  flung 
O'er  a  mighty  thunder-fit 
Chastening  terror : — what  though  yet 
Poesy's  unfailing  River, 
Which  through  Albion  winds  for  ever 
Lashing  with  melodious  wave 
Many  a  sacred  Poet's  grave, 
Mourn  its  latest  nursling  fled  ? 
What  though  thou  with  all  thy  dead 
Scarce  can  for  this  fame  repay 
Aught  thine  own  ?  oh,  rather  say 
Though  thy  sins  and  slaveries  foul 
Overcloud  a  sunlike  soul  ? 
As  the  ghost  of  Homer  clings 
Round  Scamander's  wasting  springs  ; 
As  divinest  Shakespeare's  might 
Fills  Avon  and  the  world  with  light 
Like  omniscient  power  which  he 
Imaged  'mid  mortality ; 
As  the  love  from  Petrarch's  urn, 
Yet  amid  yon  hills  doth  burn, 


46  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

A  quenchless  lamp  by  which  the  heart 
Sees  things  unearthly  ; — so  thou  art, 
Mighty  spirit — so  shall  be 
The  City  that  did  refuge  thee. 

Lo,  the  sun  floats  up  the  sky 
Like  thought-winged  Liberty, 
Till  the  universal  light 
Seems  to  level  plain  and  height ; 
From  the  sea  a  mist  has  spread, 
And  the  beams  of  morn  lie  dead 
On  the  towers  of  Venice  now, 
Like  its  glory  long  ago. 
By  the  skirts  of  that  grey  cloud 
Many-domed  Padua  proud 
Stands,  a  peopled  solitude, 
'Mid  the  harvest-shining  plain, 
Where  the  peasant  heaps  his  grain 
In  the  garner  of  his  foe, 
And  the  milk-white  oxen  slow 
With  the  purple  vintage  strain, 
Heaped  upon  the  creaking  wain, 
That  the  brutal  Celt  may  swill 
Drunken  sleep  with  savage  will ; 
And  the  sickle  to  the  sword 
Lies  unchanged,  though  many  a  lord, 
Like  a  weed  whose  shade  is  poison, 
Overgrows  this  region's  foison, 
Sheaves  of  whom  are  ripe  to  come 
To  destruction's  harvest  home  : 
Men  must  reap  the  things  they  sow, 
Force  from  force  must  ever  flow, 
Or  worse ;  but  'tis  a  bitter  woe 
That  love  or  reason  cannot  change 
The  despot's  rage,  the  slave's  revenge. 

Padua,  thou  within  whose  walls 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  47 

Those  mute  guests  at  festivals, 
Son  and  Mother,  Death  and  Sin, 
Played  at  dice  for  Ezzelin, 
Till  Death  cried,  "  I  win,  I  win  !  " 
And  Sin  cursed  to  lose  the  wager, 
But  Death  promised,  to  assuage  her, 
That  he  would  petition  for 
Her  to  be  made  Vice-Emperor, 
When  the  destined  years  were  o'er 
Over  all  between  the  Po 
And  the  eastern  Alpine  snow, 
Under  the  mighty  Austrian. 
Sin  smiled  so  as  Sin  only  can, 
And  since  that  time,  aye,  long  before, 
Both  have  ruled  from  shore  to  shore, 
That  incestuous  pair,  who  follow 
Tyrants  as  the  sun  the  swallow, 
As  Repentance  follows  Crime, 
And  as  changes  follow  Time. 

In  thine  halls  the  lamp  of  learning, 

Padua,  now  no  more  is  burning ; 

Like  a  meteor,  whose  wild  way 

Is  lost  over  the  grave  of  day, 

It  gleams  betrayed  and  to  betray : 

Once  remotest  nations  came 

To  adore  that  sacred  flame, 

When  it  lit  not  many  a  hearth 

On  this  cold  and  gloomy  earth : 

Now  new  fires  from  antique  light 

Spring  beneath  the  wide  world's  might ; 

But  their  spark  lies  dead  in  thee, 

Trampled  out  by  tyranny. 

As  the  Norway  woodman  quells, 

In  the  depth  of  piny  dells, 

One  light  flame  among  the  brakes 

While  the  boundless  forest  shakes 


48  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

And  its  mighty  trunks  are  torn 
By  the  fire  thus  lowly  born  : 
The  spark  beneath  his  feet  is  dead, 
He  starts  to  see  the  flames  it  fed 
Howling  through  the  darkened  sky 
With  a  myriad  tongues  victoriously, 
And  sinks  down  in  fear  :  so  thou, 
O  Tyranny,  beholdest  now 
Light  around  thee,  and  thou  hearest 
The  loud  flames  ascend,  and  fearest : 
Grovel  on  the  earth  :  aye,  hide 
In  the  dust  thy  purple  pride ! 

Noon  descends  around  me  now : 
'Tis  the  noon  of  autumn's  glow, 
When  a  soft  and  purple  mist 
Like  a  vaporous  amethyst, 
Or  an  air-dissolved  star 
Mingling  light  and  fragrance,  far 
From  the  curved  horizon's  bound 
To  the  point  of  heaven's  profound, 
Fills  the  overflowing  sky  ; 
And  the  plains  that  silent  lie 
Underneath,  the  leaves  unsodden 
Where  the  infant  frost  has  trodden 
With  his  morning-winged  feet, 
Whose  bright  print  is  gleaming  yet ; 
And  the  red  and  golden  vines, 
Piercing  with  their  trellised  lines 
The  rough,  dark-skirted  wilderness  ; 
The  dun  and  bladed  grass  no  less, 
Pointing  from  this  hoary  tower 
In  the  windless  air ;  the  flower 
Glimmering  at  my  feet ;  the  line 
Of  the  olive-sandalled  Apennine 
In  the  south  dimly  islanded  ; 
And  the  Alps,  whose  snows  are  spread 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  49 

High  between  the  clouds  and  sun  ; 

And  of  living  things  each  one ; 

And  my  spirit  which  so  long 

Darkened  this  swift  stream  of  song, 

Interpenetrated  lie 

By  the  glory  of  the  sky  : 

Be  it  love,  light,  harmony, 

Odour,  or  the  soul  of  all 

Which  from  heaven  like  dew  doth  fall, 

Or  the  mind  which  feeds  this  verse 

Peopling  the  lone  universe. 

Noon  descends,  and  after  noon 
Autumn's  evening  meets  me  soon, 
Leading  the  infantine  moon, 
And  that  one  star,  which  to  her 
Almost  seems  to  minister 
Half  the  crimson  light  she  brings 
From  the  sunset's  radiant  springs  : 
And  the  soft  dreams  of  the  morn, 
(Which  like  winged  winds  had  borne 
To  that  silent  isle,  which  lies 
'Mid  remembered  agonies, 
The  frail  bark  of  this  lone  being,) 
Pass,  to  other  sufferers  fleeing, 
And  its  ancient  pilot,  Pain, 
Sits  beside  the  helm  again. 

Other  flowering  isles  must  be 
In  the  sea  of  life  and  agony  : 
Other  spirits  float  and  flee 
O'er  that  gulph  :  even  now,  perhaps, 
On  some  rock  the  wild  wave  wraps, 
With  folding  wings  they  waiting  sit 
For  my  bark,  to  pilot  it 
To  some  calm  and  blooming  cove, 
Where  for  me,  and  those  I  love, 
E 


50  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

May  a  windless  bower  be  built, 

Far  from  passion,  pain,  and  guilt, 

In  a  dell  'mid  lawny  hills, 

Which  the  wild  sea-murmur  fills, 

And  soft  sunshine,  and  the  sound 

Of  old  forests  echoing  round, 

And  the  light  and  smell  divine 

Of  all  flowers  that  breathe  and  shine  : 

We  may  live  so  happy  there, 

That  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Envying  us,  may  even  entice 

To  our  healing  paradise 

The  polluting  multitude ; 

But  their  rage  would  be  subdued 

By  that  clime  divine  and  calm, 

And  the  winds  whose  wings  rain  balm 

On  the  uplifted  soul,  and  leaves 

Under  which  the  bright  sea  heaves  ; 

While  each  breathless  interval 

In  their  whisperings  musical 

The  inspired  soul  supplies 

With  its  own  deep  melodies, 

And  the  love  which  heals  all  strife 

Circling,  like  the  breath  of  life, 

All  things  in  that  sweet  abode 

With  its  own  mild  brotherhood  : 

They,  not  it,  would  change ;  and  soon 

Every  sprite  beneath  the  moon 

Would  repent  its  envy  vain, 

And  the  earth  grow  young  again. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  51 


STANZAS,  WRITTEN    IN    DEJECTION    NEAR 
NAPLES 

1 
The  sun  is  warm,  the  sky  is  clear, 

The  waves  are  dancing  fast  and  bright, 
Blue  isles  and  snowy  mountains  wear 

The  purple  noon's  transparent  might, 

The  breath  of  the  moist  earth  is  light, 
Around  its  unexpanded  buds  ; 

Like  many  a  voice  of  one  delight, 

The  winds,  the  birds,  the  ocean  floods, 

The  City's  voice  itself  is  soft  like  Solitude's. 

II 
I  see  the  Deep's  untrampled  floor 

With  green  and  purple  seaweeds  strown  ; 
I  see  the  waves  upon  the  shore, 

Like  light  dissolved  in  star-showers,  thrown  : 

I  sit  upon  the  sands  alone, 
The  lightning  of  the  noon-tide  ocean 

Is  flashing  round  me,  and  a  tone 
Arises  from  its  measured  motion, 
How  sweet !  did  any  heart  now  share  in  my  emotion. 

Ill 
Alas  !  I  have  nor  hope  nor  health, 

Nor  peace  within  nor  calm  around, 
Nor  that  content  surpassing  wealth 

The  sage  in  meditation  found, 

And  walked  with  inward  glory  crowned — 
Nor  fame,  nor  power,  nor  love,  nor  leisure. 

Others  I  see  whom  these  surround — 
Smiling  they  live,  and  call  life  pleasure  ; — 
To  me  that  cup  has  been  dealt  in  another  measure. 


52 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


IV 

Yet  now  despair  itself  is  mild, 

Even  as  the  winds  and  waters  are  ; 

I  could  lie  down  like  a  tired  child, 
And  weep  away  the  life  of  care 
Which  I  have  borne  and  yet  must  bear, 

Till  death  like  sleep  might  steal  on  me, 
And  I  might  feel  in  the  warm  air 

My  cheek  grow  cold,  and  hear  the  sea 
Breathe  o'er  my  dying  brain  its  last  monotony. 


Some  might  lament  that  I  were  cold, 

As  I,  when  this  sweet  day  is  gone, 
Which  my  lost  heart,  too  soon  grown  old, 

Insults  with  this  untimely  moan  ; 

They  might  lament — for  I  am  one 
Whom  men  love  not, — and  yet  regret, 

Unlike  this  day,  which,  when  the  sun 
Shall  on  its  stainless  glory  set, 
Will  linger,  though  enjoyed,  like  joy  in  memory  yet. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  53 


SONNET 

Lift  not  the  painted  veil  which  those  who  live 
Call  Life :  though  unreal  shapes  be  pictured  there, 
And  it  but  mimic  all  we  would  believe 
With  colours  idly  spread, — behind,  lurk  Fear 
And  Hope,  twin  destinies  ;  who  ever  weave 
Their  shadows,  o'er  the  chasm,  sightless  and  drear. 
I  knew  one  who  had  lifted  it — he  sought, 
For  his  lost  heart  was  tender,  things  to  love, 
But  found  them  not,  alas  !  nor  was  there  aught 
The  world  contains,  the  which  he  could  approve. 
Through  the  unheeding  many  he  did  move, 
A  splendour  among  shadows,  a  bright  blot 
Upon  this  gloomy  scene,  a  Spirit  that  strove 
For  truth,  and  like  the  Preacher  found  it  not. 


ODE   TO   THE   WEST   WIND 

1 
O,  WILD  West  Wind,  thou  breath  of  Autumn's  being, 
Thou,  from  whose  unseen  presence  the  leaves  dead 
Are  driven,  like  ghosts  from  an  enchanter  fleeing, 

Yellow,  and  black,  and  pale,  and  hectic  red, 
Pestilence-stricken  multitudes  :  O,  thou, 
Who  chariotest  to  their  dark  wintry  bed 

The  winged  seeds,  where  they  lie  cold  and  low, 
Each  like  a  corpse  within  its  grave,  until 
Thine  azure  sister  of  the  spring  shall  blow 


54  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

Her  clarion  o'er  the  dreaming  earth,  and  fill 
(Driving  sweet  buds  like  flocks  to  feed  in  air) 
With  living  hues  and  odours  plain  and  hill : 

Wild  Spirit,  which  art  moving  every  where  ; 
Destroyer  and  preserver ;  hear,  O,  hear ! 


II 
Thou  on  whose  stream,  'mid  the  steep  sky's  commotion, 
Loose  clouds  like  earth's  decaying  leaves  are  shed, 
Shook  from  the  tangled  boughs  of  Heaven  and  Ocean, 

Angels  of  rain  and  lightning  :  there  are  spread 
On  the  blue  surface  of  thine  airy  surge, 
Like  the  bright  hair  uplifted  from  the  head 

Of  some  fierce  Maenad,  even  from  the  dim  verge 

Of  the  horizon  to  the  zenith's  height 

The  locks  of  the  approaching  storm.     Thou  dirge 

Of  the  dying  year,  to  which  this  closing  night 
Will  be  the  dome  of  a  vast  sepulchre, 
Vaulted  with  all  thy  congregated  might 

Of  vapours,  from  whose  solid  atmosphere 
Black  rain,  and  fire,  and  hail  will  burst :  O,  hear ! 

Ill 
Thou  who  didst  waken  from  his  summer  dreams 
The  blue  Mediterranean,  where  he  lay, 
Lulled  by  the  coil  of  his  crystalline  streams, 

Beside  a  pumice  isle  in  Baiae's  bay, 
And  saw  in  sleep  old  palaces  and  towers 
Quivering  within  the  wave's  intenser  day, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  55 


All  overgrown  with  azure  moss  and  flowers 

So  sweet,  the  sense  faints  picturing  them  !    Thou 

For  whose  path  the  Atlantic's  level  powers 

Cleave  themselves  into  chasms,  while  far  below 
The  sea-blooms  and  the  oozy  woods  which  wear 
The  sapless  foliage  of  the  ocean,  know 

Thy  voice,  and  suddenly  grow  grey  with  fear, 
And  tremble  and  despoil  themselves  :  O,  hear  ! 

IV 

If  I  were  a  dead  leaf  thou  mightest  bear  ; 

If  I  were  a  swift  cloud  to  fly  with  thee  ; 

A  wave  to  pant  beneath  thy  power,  and  share 

The  impulse  of  thy  strength,  only  less  free 
Than  thou,  O,  uncontrollable  !    If  even 
I  were  as  in  my  boyhood,  and  could  be 

The  comrade  of  thy  wanderings  over  heaven, 

As  then,  when  to  outstrip  thy  skiey  speed 

Scarce  seemed  a  vision  ;  I  would  ne'er  have  striven 

As  thus  with  thee  in  prayer  in  my  sore  need. 
Oh !  lift  me  as  a  wave,  a  leaf,  a  cloud  ! 
I  fall  upon  the  thorns  of  life  !    I  bleed  ! 

A  heavy  weight  of  hours  has  chained  and  bowed 
One  too  like  thee  :  tameless,  and  swift,  and  proud. 

v 

Make  me  thy  lyre,  even  as  the  forest  is : 
What  if  my  leaves  are  falling  like  its  own  ! 
The  tumult  of  thy  mighty  harmonies 


56  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

Will  take  from  both  a  deep,  autumnal  tone, 
Sweet  though  in  sadness.     Be  thou,  spirit  fierce, 
My  spirit !    Be  thou  me,  impetuous  one  ! 

Drive  my  dead  thoughts  over  the  universe 
Like  withered  leaves  to  quicken  a  new  birth ! 
And,  by  the  incantation  of  this  verse, 

Scatter,  as  from  an  unextinguished  hearth 
Ashes  and  sparks,  my  words  among  mankind  ! 
Be  through  my  lips  to  unawakened  earth 

The  trumpet  of  a  prophecy  !  O,  wind, 

If  Winter  comes,  can  Spring  be  far  behind  ? 


THE   SENSITIVE   PLANT 


PART   FIRST 


A  SENSITIVE  Plant  in  a  garden  grew, 
And  the  young  winds  fed  it  with  silver  dew, 
And  it  opened  its  fan-like  leaves  to  the  light, 
And  closed  them  beneath  the  kisses  of  night. 

And  the  Spring  arose  on  the  garden  fair, 
Like  the  Spirit  of  Love  felt  every  where  ; 
And  each  flower  and  herb  on  Earth's  dark  breast 
Rose  from  the  dreams  of  its  wintry  rest. 

But  none  ever  trembled  and  panted  with  bliss 
In  the  garden,  the  field,  or  the  wilderness, 
Like  a  doe  in  the  noon-tide  with  love's  sweet  want, 
As  the  companionless  Sensitive  Plant. 

The  snow-drop,  and  then  the  violet, 
Arose  from  the  ground  with  warm  rain  wet, 
And  their  breath  was  mixed  with  fresh  odour,  sent 
From  the  turf,  like  the  voice  and  the  instrument. 


58  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

Then  the  pied  wind-flowers  and  the  tulip  tall, 
And  narcissi,  the  fairest  among  them  all, 
Who  gaze  on  their  eyes  in  the  stream's  recess, 
Till  they  die  of  their  own  dear  loveliness  ; 

And  the  Naiad-like  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale, 
That  the  light  of  its  tremulous  bells  is  seen 
Through  their  pavilions  of  tender  green  ; 

And  the  hyacinth  purple,  and  white,  and  blue, 
Which  flung  from  its  bells  a  sweet  peal  anew 
Of  music  so  delicate,  soft,  and  intense, 
It  was  felt  like  an  odour  within  the  sense ; 

And  the  rose  like  a  nymph  to  the  bath  addressed, 
Which  unveiled  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 
Till,  fold  after  fold,  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare : 

And  the  wand-like  lily,  which  lifted  up, 
As  a  Maenad,  its  moonlight-coloured  cup, 
Till  the  fiery  star,  which  is  its  eye, 
Gazed  through  clear  dew  on  the  tender  sky  ; 

And  the  jessamine  faint,  and  the  sweet  tuberose, 
The  sweetest  flower  for  scent  that  blows ; 
And  all  rare  blossoms  from  every  clime 
Grew  in  that  garden  in  perfect  prime. 

And  on  the  stream  whose  inconstant  bosom 
Was  prankt  under  boughs  of  embowering  blossom, 
With  golden  and  green  light,  slanting  through 
Their  heaven  of  many  a  tangled  hue, 

Broad  water  lilies  lay  tremulously, 
And  starry  river-buds  glimmered  by, 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  59 

And  around  them  the  soft  stream  did  glide  and  dance 
With  a  motion  of  sweet  sound  and  radiance. 

And  the  sinuous  paths  of  lawn  and  of  moss, 
Which  led  through  the  garden  along  and  across, 
Some  open  at  once  to  the  sun  and  the  breeze, 
Some  lost  among  bowers  of  blossoming  trees, 

Were  all  paved  with  daisies  and  delicate  bells 
As  fair  as  the  fabulous  asphodels, 
And  flowrets  which  drooping  as  day  drooped  too 
Fell  into  pavilions,  white,  purple,  and  blue, 
To  roof  the  glow-worm  from  the  evening  dew 

And  from  this  undefiled  Paradise 
The  flowers  (as  an  infant's  awakening  eyes 
Smile  on  its  mother,  whose  singing  sweet 
Can  first  lull,  and  at  last  must  awaken  it), 

When  Heaven's  blithe  winds  had  unfolded  them, 
As  mine-lamps  enkindle  a  hidden  gem, 
Shone  smiling  to  Heaven,  and  every  one 
Shared  joy  in  the  light  of  the  gentle  sun  ; 

For  each  one  was  interpenetrated 
With  the  light  and  the  odour  its  neighbour  shed, 
Like  young  lovers  whom  youth  and  love  make  dear 
Wrapped  and  filled  by  their  mutual  atmosphere. 

But  the  Sensitive  Plant,  which  could  give  small  fruit 
Of  the  love  which  it  felt  from  the  leaf  to  the  root, 
Received  more  than  all, — it  loved  more  than  ever, 
Where  none  wanted  but  it,  could  belong  to  the  giver : 

For  the  Sensitive  Plant  has  no  bright  flower ; 
Radiance  and  odour  are  not  its  dower ; 
It  loves,  even  like  Love  ;  its  deep  heart  is  full ; 
It  desires  what  it  has  not,  the  beautiful ! 


60  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

The  light  winds  which  from  unsustaining  wings 
Shed  the  music  of  many  murmurings  ; 
The  beams  which  dart  from  many  a  star 
Of  the  flowers  whose  hues  they  bear  afar  ; 

The  plumed  insects  swift  and  free, 
Like  golden  boats  on  a  sunny  sea, 
Laden  with  light  and  odour,  which  pass 
Over  the  gleam  of  the  living  grass  ; 

The  unseen  clouds  of  the  dew,  which  lie 
Like  fire  in  the  flowers  till  the  sun  rides  high, 
Then  wander  like  spirits  among  the  spheres, 
Each  cloud  faint  with  the  fragrance  it  bears ; 

The  quivering  vapours  of  dim  noontide, 
Which  like  a  sea  o'er  the  warm  earth  glide, 
In  which  every  sound,  and  odour,  and  beam, 
Move,  as  reeds  in  a  single  stream  ; 

Each  and  all  like  ministering  angels  were 
For  the  Sensitive  Plant  sweet  joy  to  bear, 
Whilst  the  lagging  hours  of  the  day  went  by 
Like  windless  clouds  o'er  a  tender  sky. 

And  when  evening  descended  from  heaven  above, 
And  the  Earth  was  all  rest,  and  the  air  was  all  love, 
And  delight,  though  less  bright,  was  far  more  deep, 
And  the  day's  veil  fell  from  the  world  of  sleep, 

And   the   beasts,  and  the  birds,  and  the  insects  were 

drowned 
In  an  ocean  of  dreams  without  a  sound  ; 
Whose  waves  never  mark,  though  they  ever  impress 
The  light  sand  which  paves  it,  consciousness ; 

(Only  over  head  the  sweet  nightingale 
Ever  sang  more  sweet  as  the  day  might  fail, 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  61 

And  snatches  of  its  Elysian  chant 

Were  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  the  Sensitive  Plant.) 

The  Sensitive  Plant  was  the  earliest 
Up-gathered  into  the  bosom  of  rest  ; 
A  sweet  child  weary  of  its  delight, 
The  feeblest  and  yet  the  favourite, 
Cradled  within  the  embrace  of  night. 


PART  SECOND 

There  was  a  Power  in  this  sweet  place, 

An  Eve  in  this  Eden  ;  a  ruling  grace 

Which  to  the  flowers,  did  they  waken  or  dream, 

Was  as  God  is  to  the  starry  scheme. 

A  Lady,  the  wonder  of  her  kind, 
Whose  form  was  upborne  by  a  lovely  mind 
Which,  dilating,  had  moulded  her  mien  and  motion 
Like  a  sea-flower  unfolded  beneath  the  ocean, 

Tended  the  garden  from  morn  to  even  : 
And  the  meteors  of  that  sublunar  heaven, 
Like  the  lamps  of  the  air  when  night  walks  forth, 
Laughed  round  her  footsteps  up  from  the  Earth ! 

She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 
But  her  tremulous  breath  and  her  flushing  face 
Told,  whilst  the  morn  kissed  the  sleep  from  her  eyes, 
That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise : 

As  if  some  bright  Spirit  for  her  sweet  sake 

Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake, 

As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 

Though  the  veil  of  daylight  concealed  him  from  her. 

Her  step  seemed  to  pity  the  grass  it  pressed  ; 
You  might  hear  by  the  heaving  of  her  breast, 


62  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

That  the  coming  and  going  of  the  wind 
Brought  pleasure  there  and  left  passion  behind. 

And  wherever  her  airy  footsteps  trod, 
Her  trailing  hair  from  the  grassy  sod 
Erased  its  light  vestige,  with  shadowy  sweep, 
Like  a  sunny  storm  o'er  the  dark  green  deep. 

I  doubt  not  the  flowers  of  that  garden  sweet 
Rejoiced  in  the  sound  of  her  gentle  feet ; 
I  doubt  not  they  felt  the  spirit  that  came 
From  her  glowing  fingers  through  all  their  frame. 

She  sprinkled  bright  water  from  the  stream 
On  those  that  were  faint  with  the  sunny  beam  ; 
And  out  of  the  cups  of  the  heavy  flowers 
She  emptied  the  rain  of  the  thunder  showers. 

She  lifted  their  heads  with  her  tender  hands, 
And  sustained  them  with  rods  and  ozier  bands  ; 
If  the  flowers  had  been  her  own  infants  she 
Could  never  have  nursed  them  more  tenderly. 

And  all  killing  insects  and  gnawing  worms, 
And  things  of  obscene  and  unlovely  forms, 
She  bore  in  a  basket  of  Indian  woof, 
Into  the  rough  woods  far  aloof, 

In  a  basket,  of  grasses  and  wild  flowers  full, 
The  freshest  her  gentle  hands  could  pull 
For  the  poor  banished  insects,  whose  intent, 
Although  they  did  ill,  was  innocent. 

But  the  bee  and  the  beamlike  ephemeris 
Whose  path  is  the  lightning's,  and  soft  moths  that  kiss 
The  sweet  lips  of  the  flowers,  and  harm  not,  did  she 
Make  her  attendant  angels  be. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS  63 

And  many  an  antenatal  tomb, 
Where  butterflies  dream  of  the  life  to  come, 
She  left  clinging  round  the  smooth  and  dark 
Edge  of  the  odorous  cedar  bark. 

This  fairest  creature  from  earliest  spring 
Thus  moved  through  the  garden  ministering 
All  the  sweet  season  of  summer  tide, 
And  ere  the  first  leaf  looked  brown — she  died  ! 


PART  THIRD 

Three  days  the  flowers  of  the  garden  fair 
Like  stars  when  the  moon  is  awakened  were, 
Or  the  waves  of  Baiae,  ere  luminous 
She  floats  up  through  the  smoke  of  Vesuvius. 

And  on  the  fourth,  the  Sensitive  Plant 
Felt  the  sound  of  the  funeral  chaunt, 
And  the  steps  of  the  bearers,  heavy  and  slow, 
And  the  sobs  of  the  mourners  deep  and  low ; 

The  weary  sound  and  the  heavy  breath, 
And  the  silent  motions  of  passing  death, 
And  the  smell,  cold,  oppressive,  and  dank, 
Sent  through  the  pores  of  the  coffin  plank  ; 

The  dark  grass,  and  the  flowers  among  the  grass, 
Were  bright  with  tears  as  the  crowd  did  pass ; 
From  their  sighs  the  wind  caught  a  mournful  tone, 
And  sate  in  the  pines,  and  gave  groan  for  groan. 

The  garden,  once  fair,  became  cold  and  foul, 
Like  the  corpse  of  her  who  had  been  its  soul, 
Which  at  first  was  lovely  as  if  in  sleep, 
Then  slowly  changed,  till  it  grew  a  heap 
To  make  men  tremble  who  never  weep. 


64  MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS 

Swift  summer  into  the  autumn  flowed, 
And  frost  in  the  mist  of  morning  rode, 
Though  the  noonday  sun  looked  clear  and  bright, 
Mocking  the  spoil  of  the  secret  night. 

The  rose  leaves,  like  flakes  of  crimson  snow, 
Paved  the  turf  and  the  moss  below. 
The  lilies  were  drooping,  and  white,  and  wan, 
Like  the  head  and  the  skin  of  a  dying  man. 

And  Indian  plants,  of  scent  and  hue 
The  sweetest  that  ever  were  fed  on  dew, 
Leaf  by  leaf,  day  after  day, 
Were  massed  into  the  common  clay. 

And  the  leaves,  brown,  yellow,  and  grey,  and  red, 
And  white  with  the  whiteness  of  what  is  dead, 
Like  troops  of  ghosts  on  the  dry  wind  passed  ; 
Their  whistling  noise  made  the  birds  aghast. 

And  the  gusty  winds  waked  the  winged  seeds, 
Out  of  their  birthplace  of  ugly  weeds, 
Till  they  clung  round  many  a  sweet  flower's  stem, 
Which  rotted  into  the  earth  with  them. 

The  water-blooms  under  the  rivulet 
Fell  from  the  stalks  on  which  they  were  set ; 
And  the  eddies  drove  them  here  and  there, 
As  the  winds  did  those  of  the  upper  air. 

Then  the  rain  came  down,  and  the  broken  stalks 
Were  bent  and  tangled  across  the  walks  ; 
And  the  leafless  net-work  of  parasite  bowers 
Massed  into  ruin  ;  and  all  sweet  flowers. 

Between  the  time  of  the  wind  and  the  snow, 
All  loathliest  weeds  began  to  grow, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  6$ 

Whose  coarse  leaves  were  splashed  with  many  a  speck, 
Like  the  water-snake's  belly  and  the  toad's  back. 

And  thistles,  and  nettles,  and  darnels  rank, 
And  the  dock,  and  henbane,  and  hemlock  dank, 
Stretched  out  its  long  and  hollow  shank, 
And  stifled  the  air  till  the  dead  wind  stank. 

And  plants,  at  whose  names  the  verse  feels  loath, 
Filled  the  place  with  a  monstrous  undergrowth, 
Prickly,  and  pulpous,  and  blistering,  and  blue, 
Livid,  and  starred  with  a  lurid  dew. 

And  agarics,  and  fungi,  with  mildew  and  mould 
Started  like  mist  from  the  wet  ground  cold  ; 
Pale,  fleshy,  as  if  the  decaying  dead 
With  a  spirit  of  growth  had  been  animated ! 

Spawn,  weeds,  and  filth,  a  leprous  scum, 

Made  the  running  rivulet  thick  and  dumb 

And  at  its  outlet  flags  huge  as  stakes 

Dammed  it  up  with  roots  knotted  like  water-snakes. 

And  hour  by  hour,  when  the  air  was  still, 
The  vapours  arose  which  have  strength  to  kill : 
At  morn  they  were  seen,  at  noon  they  were  felt, 
At  night  they  were  darkness  no  star  could  melt. 

And  unctuous  meteors  from  spray  to  spray 
Crept  and  flitted  in  broad  noon-day 
Unseen  ;  every  branch  on  which  they  alit 
By  a  venomous  blight  was  burned  and  bit. 

The  Sensitive  Plant  like  one  forbid 
Wept,  and  the  tears  within  each  lid 
Of  its  folded  leaves  which  together  grew 
Were  changed  to  a  blight  of  frozen  glue. 

F 


66  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

For  the  leaves  soon  fell,  and  the  branches  soon 
By  the  heavy  axe  of  the  blast  were  hewn  ; 
The  sap  shrank  to  the  root  through  every  pore 
As  blood  to  a  heart  that  will  beat  no  more. 

For  Winter  came  :  the  wind  was  his  whip  : 
One  choppy  finger  was  on  his  lip  : 
He  had  torn  the  cataracts  from  the  hills 
And  they  clanked  at  his  girdle  like  manacles ; 

His  breath  was  a  chain  which  without  a  sound 
The  earth,  and  the  air,  and  the  water  bound  ; 
He  came,  fiercely  driven,  in  his  chariot-throne, 
By  the  tenfold  blasts  of  the  arctic  zone. 

Then  the  weeds  which  were  forms  of  living  death 
Fled  from  the  frost  to  the  earth  beneath. 
Their  decay  and  sudden  flight  from  frost 
Was  but  like  the  vanishing  of  a  ghost ! 

And  under  the  roots  of  the  Sensitive  Plant 
The  moles  and  the  dormice  died  for  want : 
The  birds  dropped  stiff  from  the  frozen  air 
And  were  caught  in  the  branches  naked  and  bare. 

First  there  came  down  a  thawing  rain 
And  its  dull  drops  froze  on  the  boughs  again ; 
Then  there  steamed  up  a  freezing  dew 
Which  to  the  drops  of  the  thaw-rain  grew ; 

And  a  northern  whirlwind,  wandering  about 
Like  a  wolf  that  had  smelt  a  dead  child  out, 
Shook  the  boughs  thus. laden,  and  heavy  and  stiff, 
And  snapped  them  off  with  his  rigid  griff. 

When  winter  had  gone  and  spring  came  back 
The  Sensitive  Plant  was  a  leafless  wreck  ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  67 

But  the   mandrakes,  and   toadstools,  and   docks,  and 

darnels, 
Rose  like  the  dead  from  their  ruined  charnels. 


Conclusion 

Whether  the  Sensitive  Plant,  or  that 
Which  within  its  boughs  like  a  spirit  sat 
Ere  its  outward  form  had  known  decay, 
Now  felt  this  change,  I  cannot  say. 

Whether  that  Lady's  gentle  mind, 
No  longer  with  the  form  combined 
Which  scattered  love,  as  stars  do  light, 
Found  sadness,  where  it  left  delight, 

I  dare  not  guess  ;  but  in  this  life 
Of  error,  ignorance,  and  strife, 
Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 
And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream, 

It  is  a  modest  creed,  and  yet 
Pleasant  if  one  considers  it, 
To  own  that  death  itself  must  be, 
Like  all  the  rest,  a  mockery. 

That  garden  sweet,  that  Lady  fair, 
And  all  sweet  shapes  and  odours  there, 
In  truth  have  never  passed  away: 
Tis  we,  'tis  ours,  are  changed  ;  not  they. 

For  love,  and  beauty,  and  delight, 
There  is  no  death  nor  change :  their  might 
Exceeds  our  organs,  which  endure 
No  light,  being  themselves  obscure. 


I  BRING  fresh  showers  for  the  thirsting  flowers, 

From  the  seas  and  the  streams  ; 
I  bear  light  shade  for  the  leaves  when  laid 

In  their  noon-day  dreams. 
From  my  wings  are  shaken  the  dews  that  waken 

The  sweet  buds  every  one, 
When  rocked  to  rest  on  their  mother's  breast, 

As  she  dances  about  the  sun. 
I  wield  the  flail  of  the  lashing  hail, 

And  whiten  the  green  plains  under, 
And  then  again  I  dissolve  it  in  rain, 

And  laugh  as  I  pass  in  thunder. 

I  sift  the  snow  on  the  mountains  below, 

And  their  great  pines  groan  aghast ; 
And  all  the  night  'tis  my  pillow  white, 

While  I  sleep  in  the  arms  of  the  blast. 
Sublime  on  the  towers  of  my  skiey  bowers, 

Lightning  my  pilot  sits  ; 
In  a  cavern  under  is  fettered  the  thunder, 

It  struggles  and  howls  at  fits ; 
Over  earth  and  ocean,  with  gentle  motion, 

This  pilot  is  guiding  me, 
Lured  by  the  love  of  the  genii  that  move 

In  the  depths  of  the  purple  sea ; 
Over  the  rills,  and  the  crags,  and  the  hills, 

Over  the  lakes  and  the  plains, 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  71 

Wherever  he  dream,  under  mountain  or  stream, 

The  Spirit  he  loves  remains  ; 
And  I  all  the  while  bask  in  heaven's  blue  smile, 

Whilst  he  is  dissolving  in  rains. 

The  sanguine  sunrise,  with  his  meteor  eyes, 

And  his  burning  plumes  outspread, 
Leaps  on  the  back  of  my  sailing  rack, 

When  the  morning  star  shines  dead, 
As  on  the  jag  of  a  mountain  crag, 

Which  an  earthquake  rocks  and  swings, 
An  eagle  alit  one  moment  may  sit 

In  the  light  of  its  golden  wings. 
And  when  sunset  may  breathe,  from  the  lit  sea  beneath, 

Its  ardours  of  rest  and  of  love, 
And  the  crimson  pall  of  eve  may  fall 

From  the  depth  of  heaven  above, 
With  wings  folded  I  rest,  on  mine  airy  nest, 

As  still  as  a  brooding  dove. 

That  orbed  maiden  with  white  fire  laden, 

Whom  mortals  call  the  moon, 
Glides  glimmering  o'er  my  fleece-like  floor, 

By  the  midnight  breezes  strewn  ; 
And  wherever  the  beat  of  her  unseen  feet, 

Which  only  the  angels  hear, 
May  have  broken  the  woof  of  my  tent's  thin  roof, 

The  stars  peep  behind  her  and  peer  ; 
And  I  laugh  to  see  them  whirl  and  flee, 

Like  a  swarm  of  golden  bees, 
When  I  widen  the  rent  in  my  wind-built  tent, 

Till  the  calm  rivers,  lakes,  and  seas, 
Like  strips  of  the  sky  fallen  through  me  on  high, 

Are  each  paved  with  the  moon  and  these. 

I  bind  the  sun's  throne  with  the  burning  zone, 
And  the  moon's  with  a  girdle  of  pearl ; 


72  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

The  volcanos  are  dim,  and  the  stars  reel  and  swim, 

When  the  whirlwinds  my  banner  unfurl. 
From  cape  to  cape,  with  a  bridge-like  shape, 

Over  a  torrent  sea, 
Sunbeam-proof,  I  hang  like  a  roof, 

The  mountains  its  columns  be. 
The  triumphal  arch  through  which  I  march 

With  hurricane,  fire,  and  snow, 
When  the  powers  of  the  air  are  chained  to  my  chair, 

Is  the  million-coloured  bow  ; 
The  sphere-fire  above  its  soft  colours  wove, 

While  the  moist  earth  was  laughing  below. 

I  am  the  daughter  of  earth  and  water, 

And  the  nursling  of  the  sky  ; 
I  pass  through  the  pores  of  the  ocean  and  shores  ; 

I  change,  but  I  cannot  die. 
For  after  the  rain  when,  with  never  a  stain, 

The  pavilion  of  heaven  is  bare, 
And  the  winds  and  sunbeams  with  their  convex  gleams 

Build  up  the  blue  dome  of  air, 
I  silently  laugh  at  my  own  cenotaph, 

And  out  of  the  caverns  of  rain, 
Like  a  child  from  the  womb,  like  a  ghost  from  the  tomb, 

I  arise  and  unbuild  it  again. 


Hail  to  thee,  blithe  spirit ! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it, 
Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire  ; 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun, 
O'er  which  the  clouds  are  brightning, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run  ; 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 


74  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight ; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 
In  the  broad  day-light 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight, 


Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere, 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there. 

All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 
The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,  and  heaven  is  overflowed. 

What  thou  art  we  know  not ; 

What  is  most  like  thee  ? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody. 

Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not : 

Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  75 

Like  a  glow-worm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 
Among  the  flowers  and  grass  which  screen  it  from  the 
view : 

Like  a  rose  embowered 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflowered, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 
Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy-winged 
thieves. 

Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awakened  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 
Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  surpass. 

Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine  ; 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine  : 

Chorus  Hymenaeal, 

Or  triumphal  chaunt, 
Matched  with  thine,  would  be  all 
But  an  empty  vaunt, 
A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 

What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain  ? 
What  fields,  or  waves,  or  mountains  ? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain  ? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind  ?  what  ignorance  of  pain  ? 


76  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

With  thy  clear  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be : 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee  : 
Thou  lovest ;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

Waking  or  asleep, 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 

Than  we  mortals  dream, 
Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal  stream  ? 

We  look  before  and  after 

And  pine  for  what  is  not : 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught ; 
Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest  thought. 

Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate,  and  pride,  and  fear ; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground  ! 

Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 
From  my  lips  would  flow, 
The  world  should  listen  then,  as  I  am  listening  now. 


Arethusa  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 

In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains, — 
From  cloud  and  from  crag, 
With  many  a  jag, 

Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 
She  leapt  down  the  rocks, 
With  her  rainbow  locks 

Streaming  among  the  streams  ; — 
Her  steps  paved  with  green 
The  downward  ravine 

Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams 
And  gliding  and  springing 
She  went,  ever  singing, 

In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep  ; 

The  Earth  seemed  to  love  her, 
And  Heaven  smiled  above  her, 

As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 


78  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 
With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook 

And  opened  a  chasm 

In  the  rocks  ; — with  the  spasm 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south  wind 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 
The  bars  of  the  springs  below  : 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  River-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me !    Oh,  guide  me ! 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 
For  he  grasps  me  now  by  the  hair ! " 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer  ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  Earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam  ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream  : — 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main 
Alpheus  rushed  behind, — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  81 

Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  Ocean  Powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones, 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones  ; 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams 
Weave  a  net-work  of  coloured  light ; 

And  under  the  caves, 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night : — 

Outspeeding  the  shark 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam, 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill  ; 

At  noon-tide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below 
And  the  meadows  of  Asphodel ; 

And  at  night  they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore  ; — 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 
G 


82  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


HYMN   OF   APOLLO 

I 
The  sleepless  Hours  who  watch  me  as  I  lie, 

Curtained  with  star-inwoven  tapestries, 
From  the  broad  moonlight  of  the  sky, 

Fanning  the  busy  dreams  from  my  dim  eyes, — 
Waken  me  when  their  Mother,  the  grey  Dawn, 
Tells  them  that  dreams  and  that  the  moon  is  gone. 

II 
Then  I  arise,  and  climbing  Heaven's  blue  dome, 

I  walk  over  the  mountains  and  the  waves, 
Leaving  my  robe  upon  the  ocean  foam  ; 

My  footsteps  pave  the  clouds  with  fire  ;  the  caves 
Are  filled  with  my  bright  presence,  and  the  air 
Leaves  the  green  earth  to  my  embraces  bare. 

Ill 

The  sunbeams  are  my  shafts,  with  which  I  kill 
Deceit,  that  loves  the  night  and  fears  the  day  ; 

All  men  who  do  or  even  imagine  ill 
Fly  me,  and  from  the  glory  of  my  ray 

Good  minds  and  open  actions  take  new  might, 

Until  diminished  by  the  reign  of  night. 

IV 
I  feed  the  clouds,  the  rainbows  and  the  flowers 

With  their  aetherial  colours  ;  the  Moon's  globe 
And  the  pure  stars  in  their  eternal  bowers 

Are  cinctured  with  my  power  as  with  a  robe ; 
Whatever  lamps  on  Earth  or  Heaven  may  shine, 
Are  portions  of  one  power,  which  is  mine. 


MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 


S3 


I  stand  at  noon  upon  the  peak  of  Heaven, 
Then  with  unwilling  steps  I  wander  down 

Into  the  clouds  of  the  Atlantic  even  ; 

For  grief  that  I  depart  they  weep  and  frown  : 

What  look  is  more  delightful  than  the  smile 

With  which  I  soothe  them  from  the  western  isle  ? 

VI 

I  am  the  eye  with  which  the  Universe 
Beholds  itself  and  knows  itself  divine  ; 

All  harmony  of  instrument  or  verse, 
All  prophecy,  all  medicine  are  mine, 

All  light  of  art  or  nature  ; — to  my  song, 

Victory  and  praise  in  their  own  right  belong. 


From  the  forests  and  highlands 

We  come,  we  come  ; 
From  the  river-girt  islands, 

Where  loud  waves  are  dumb 

Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  wind  in  the  reeds  and  the  rushes, 

The  bees  on  the  bells  of  thyme 
The  birds  on  the  myrtle  bushes, 
The  cicale  above  in  the  lime, 
And  the  lizards  below  in  the  grass, 
Were  as  silent  as  ever  old  Tmolus  was, 
Listening  to  my  sweet  pipings. 


ii 


Liquid  Peneus  was  flowing, 
And  all  dark  Tempe  lay 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  87 

In  Pelion's  shadow,  outgrowing 
The  light  of  the  dying  day, 

Speeded  by  my  sweet  pipings. 
The  Sileni,  and  Sylvans,  and  Fauns, 

And  the  Nymphs  of  the  woods  and  waves, 
To  the  edge  of  the  moist  river-lawns, 

And  the  brink  of  the  dewy  caves, 
And  all  that  did  then  attend  and  follow 
Were  silent  with  love,  as  you  now,  Apollo, 
With  envy  of  my  sweet  pipings. 

HI 
I  sang  of  the  dancing  stars, 

I  sang  of  the  daedal  Earth, 
And  of  Heaven — and  the  giant  wars, 
And  Love,  and  Death,  and  Birth, — 

And  then  I  changed  my  pipings, — 
Singing  how  down  the  vale  of  Menalus 

I  pursued  a  maiden  and  clasped  a  reed : 
Gods  and  men,  we  are  all  deluded  thus ! 

It  breaks  in  our  bosom  and  then  we  bleed  ; 
All  wept,  as  I  think  both  ye  now  would, 
If  envy  or  age  had  not  frozen  your  blood, 

At  the  sorrow  of  my  sweet  pipings. 


THE   QUESTION 

I 
I  DREAMED  that,  as  I  wandered  by  the  way, 

Bare  winter  suddenly  was  changed  to  spring, 
And  gentle  odours  led  my  steps  astray, 

Mixed  with  a  sound  of  waters  murmuring 
Along  a  shelving  bank  of  turf,  which  lay 

Under  a  copse,  and  hardly  dared  to  fling 
Its  green  arms  round  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 
But  kissed  it  and  then  fled,  as  thou  mightest  in  dream 


88  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

II 
There  grew  pied  wind-flowers  and  violets, 

Daisies,  those  pearled  Arcturi  of  the  earth, 
The  constellated  flower  that  never  sets  ; 

Faint  oxlips  ;  tender  bluebells,  at  whose  birth 
The  sod  scarce  heaved ;  and  that  tall  flower  that  wets 

(Like  a  child,  half  in  tenderness  and  mirth) 
Its  mother's  face  with  heaven-collected  tears, 
When  the  low  wind,  its  playmate's  voice,  it  hears. 

HI 
And  in  the  warm  hedge  grew  lush  eglantine, 

Green  cowbind  and  the  moonlight-coloured  May, 
And  cherry-blossoms,  and  white  cups,  whose  wine 

Was  the  bright  dew,  yet  drained  not  by  the  day  ; 
And  wild  roses,  and  ivy  serpentine, 

With  its  dark  buds  and  leaves,  wandering  astray ; 
And  flowers  azure,  black,  and  streaked  with  gold, 
Fairer  than  any  wakened  eyes  behold. 

IV 
And  nearer  to  the  river's  trembling  edge 

There  grew  broad  flag-flowers,  purple  prankt  with  white, 
And  starry  river-buds  among  the  sedge, 

And  floating  water-lilies,  broad  and  bright, 
Which  lit  the  oak  that  overhung  the  hedge 

With  moonlight  beams  of  their  own  watery  light ; 
And  bulrushes  and  reeds  of  such  deep  green 
As  soothed  the  dazzled  eye  with  sober  sheen. 

V 
Methought  that  of  these  visionary  flowers 

I  made  a  nosegay,  bound  in  such  a  way 
That  the  same  hues,  which  in  their  natural  bowers 

Were  mingled  or  opposed,  the  like  array 
Kept  these  imprisoned  children  of  the  Hours 

Within  my  hand, — and  then,  elate  and  gay, 
I  hastened  to  the  spot  whence  I  had  come, 
That  I  might  there  present  it ! — oh  !  to  whom  ? 


THE   TWO   SPIRITS:    AN   ALLEGORY 


First  Spirit 

O  THOU,  who  plumed  with  strong  desire 
Wouldst  float  above  the  earth,  beware ! 
A  Shadow  tracks  thy  flight  of  fire — 
Night  is  coming ! 
Bright  are  the  regions  of  the  air, 
And  among  the  winds  and  beams 
It  were  delight  to  wander  there — 
Night  is  coming ! 

Second  Spirit 

The  deathless  stars  are  bright  above ; 
If  I  would  cross  the  shade  of  night, 


90  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

Within  my  heart  is  the  lamp  of  love, 
And  that  is  day  ! 
And  the  moon  will  smile  with  gentle  light 
On  my  golden  plumes  where'er  they  move  ; 
The  meteors  will  linger  round  my  flight, 
And  make  night  day. 

First  Spirit 

But  if  the  whirlwinds  of  darkness  waken 
Hail,  and  lightning,  and  stormy  rain  ; 
See,  the  bounds  of  the  air  are  shaken — 
Night  is  coming ! 
The  red  swift  clouds  of  the  hurricane 
Yon  declining  sun  have  overtaken, 

The  clash  of  the  hail  sweeps  over  the  plain — 
Night  is  coming ! 

Second  Spirit 
I  see  the  light,  and  I  hear  the  sound  ; 

I'll  sail  on  the  flood  of  the  tempest  dark, 
With  the  calm  within  and  the  light  around 
Which  makes  night  day : 
And  thou,  when  the  gloom  is  deep  and  stark, 
Look  from  thy  dull  earth,  slumber-bound, 
My  moon-light  flight  thou  then  mayst  mark 
On  high,  far  away. 


Some  say  there  is  a  precipice 

Where  one  vast  pine  is  frozen  to  ruin 
O'er  piles  of  snow  and  chasms  of  ice 
'Mid  Alpine  mountains ; 
And  that  the  languid  storm  pursuing 
That  winged  shape,  for  ever  flies 

Round  those  hoar  branches,  aye  renewing 
Its  aery  fountains. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Some  say  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear, 

And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  morass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 
Which  make  night  day  : 
And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth  pass 
Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass, 
He  finds  night  day. 


91 


ODE   TO   NAPLES 


EPODE    I   a. 

I  STOOD  within  the  city  disinterred, 

And  heard  the  autumnal  leaves  like  light  footfalls 
Of  spirits  passing  through  the  streets,  and  heard 

The  Mountain's  slumberous  voice  at  intervals 
Thrill  through  those  roofless  halls  ; 
The  oracular  thunder  penetrating  shook 

The  listening  soul  in  my  suspended  blood  ; 
I  felt  that  Earth  out  of  her  deep  heart  spoke — 

I  felt,  but  heard  not : — through  white  columns  glowed 
The^  isle-sustaining  Ocean-flood, 
A  plane  of  light  between  two  Heavens  of  azure  : 

Around  me  gleamed  many  a  bright  sepulchre 
Of  whose  pure  beauty,  Time,  as  if  his  pleasure 
Were  to  spare  Death,  had  never  made  erasure ; 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  93 


But  every  living  lineament  was  clear 

As  in  the  sculptor's  thought ;  and  there 
The  wreaths  of  stony  myrtle,  ivy  and  pine, 

Like  winter  leaves  o'ergrown  by  moulded  snow, 

Seemed  only  not  to  move  and  grow 
Because  the  crystal  silence  of  the  air 
Weighed  on  their  life ;  even  as  the  Power  divine 
Which  then  lulled  all  things  brooded  upon  mine. 

EPODE  II  a 

Then  gentle  winds  arose 
With  many  a  mingled  close 
Of  wild  Aeolian  sound  and  mountain-odour  keen  ; 
And  where  the  Baian  ocean 
Welters  with  air-like  motion 
Within,  above,  around  its  bowers  of  starry  green, 
Moving  the  sea-flowers  in  those  purple  caves 
Even  as  the  ever  stormless  atmosphere 
Floats  o'er  the  Elysian  realm, 
It  bore  me  like  an  Angel,  o'er  the  waves 

Of  sunlight,  whose  swift  pinnace  of  dewy  air 
No  storm  can  overwhelm  ; 
I  sailed,  where  ever  flows 
Under  the  calm  Serene 
A  spirit  of  deep  emotion 
From  the  unknown  graves 
Of  the  dead  kings  of  Melody. 
Shadowy  Aornos  darkened  o'er  the  helm 
The  horizontal  aether !  heaven  stripped  bare 
Its  depths  over  Elysium,  where  the  prow 
Made  the  invisible  water  white  as  snow ; 
From  that  Typhaean  mount,  Inarime, 

There  streamed  a  sunlight  vapour,  like  the  standard 
Of  some  aetherial  host ; 
Whilst  from  all  the  coast, 
Louder  and  louder,  gathering  round,  there  wandered 
Over  the  oracular  woods  and  divine  sea 


94  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

Prophesyings  which  grew  articulate — 

They  seize  me — I  must  speak  them — be  they  fate ! 

Strophe  a  i 

Naples  !  thou  Heart  of  men  which  ever  pantest 

Naked,  beneath  the  lidless  eye  of  heaven  ! 
Elysian  City  which  to  calm  enchantest 

The  mutinous  air  and  sea :  they  round  thee,  even 

As  sleep  round  Love,  are  driven ! 
Metropolis  of  a  ruined  Paradise 

Long  lost,  late  won,  and  yet  but  half  regained ! 
Bright  Altar  of  the  bloodless  sacrifice, 

Which  armed  Victory  offers  up  unstained 

To  Love,  the  flower-enchained  ! 
Thou  which  wert  once,  and  then  didst  cease  to  be, 
Now  art,  and  henceforth  ever  shalt  be,  free, 

If  Hope,  and  Truth,  and  Justice  can  avail, 
Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

Strophe  0  2 

Thou  youngest  giant  birth 

Which  from  the  groaning  earth 
Leap'st,  clothed  in  armour  of  impenetrable  scale  ! 

Last  of  the  Intercessors  ! 

Who  'gainst  the  Crowned  Transgressors 
Pleadest  before  God's  love  !    Arrayed  in  Wisdom's  mail, 

Wave  thy  lightning  lance  in  mirth, 

Nor  let  thy  high  heart  fail, 
Though  from  their  hundred  gates  the  leagued  Oppressors, 

With  hurried  legends  move ! 

Hail,  hail,  all  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE   a 
What  though  Cimmerian  Anarchs  dare  blaspheme 

Freedom  and  thee  ?  thy  shield  is  as  a  mirror 
To  make  their  blind  slaves  see,  and  with  fierce  gleam 
To  turn  his  hungry  sword  upon  the  wearer 
A  new  Actaeon's  error 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  95 

Shall  theirs  have  been — devoured  by  their  own  hounds ! 

Be  thou  like  the  imperial  Basilisk 
Killing  thy  foe  with  unapparent  wounds ! 

Gaze  on  oppression,  till  at  that  dread  risk 

Aghast  she  pass  from  the  Earth's  disk : 
Fear  not,  but  gaze — for  freemen  mightier  grow, 
And  slaves  more  feeble,  gazing  on  their  foe ; 

If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  may  avail, 

Thou  shalt  be  great. — All  hail ! 

ANTISTROPHE  (S  2 

From  Freedom's  form  divine, 

From  Nature's  inmost  shrine, 
Strip  every  impious  gawd,  rend  Error  veil  by  veil : 

O'er  Ruin  desolate, 

O'er  Falsehood's  fallen  state, 
Sit  thou  sublime,  unawed  ;  be  the  Destroyer  pale  ! 

And  equal  laws  be  thine, 

And  winged  words  let  sail, 
Freighted  with  truth  even  from  the  throne  of  God : 

That  wealth,  surviving  fate, 

Be  thine.— All  hail. 

ANTISTROPHE  a  y 
Didst  thou  not  start  to  hear  Spain's  thrilling  paean 

From  land  to  land  re-echoed  solemnly, 
Till  silence  became  music  ?     From  the  Aeaean 
To  the  cold  Alps,  eternal  Italy 
Starts  to  hear  thine !     The  Sea 
Which  paves  the  desert  streets  of  Venice  laughs 

In  light  and  music ;  widowed  Genoa  wan 
By  moonlight  spells  ancestral  epitaphs, 
Murmuring,  where  is  Doria  ?  fair  Milan, 
Within  whose  veins  long  ran 
The  viper's  palsying  venom,  lifts  her  heel 
To  bruise  his  head.     The  signal  and  the  seal 
(If  Hope  and  Truth  and  Justice  can  avail) 
Art  Thou  of  all  these  hopes. — O  hail ! 


96  MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS 

ANTISTROPHE   (3  y 

Florence  !  beneath  the  sun, 

Of  cities  fairest  one, 
Blushes  within  her  bower  for  Freedom's  expectation  : 

From  eyes  of  quenchless  hope 

Rome  tears  the  priestly  cope, 
As  ruling  once  by  power,  so  now  by  admiration, 

As  athlete  stripped  to  run 

From  a  remoter  station 
For  the  high  prize  lost  on  Philippi's  shore  : — 
As  then  Hope,  Truth,  and  Justice  did  avail, 
So  now  may  Fraud  and  Wrong !     O  hail ! 

EPODE  I  & 

Hear  ye  the  march  as  of  the  Earth-born  Forms 

Arrayed  against  the  ever-living  Gods  ? 
The  crash  and  darkness  of  a  thousand  storms 
Bursting  their  inaccessible  abodes 

Of  crags  and  thunder-clouds  ? 
See  ye  the  banners  blazoned  to  the  day, 

Inwrought  with  emblems  of  barbaric  pride? 
Dissonant  threats  kill  Silence  far  away  ; 

The  serene  Heaven  which  wraps  our  Eden  wide 
With  iron  light  is  dyed  ; 
The  Anarchs  of  the  North  lead  forth  their  legions 

Like  Chaos  o'er  creation,  uncreating  ; 
An  hundred  tribes  nourished  on  strange  religions 
And  lawless  slaveries, — down  the  aerial  regions 
Of  the  white  Alps,  desolating, 
Famished  wolves  that  bide  no  waiting, 
Blotting  the  glowing  footsteps  of  old  glory, 
Trampling  our  columned  cities  into  dust, 
Their  dull  and  savage  lust 
On  Beauty's  corse  to  sickness  satiating — 
They  come  !     The  fields  they  tread  look  black  and  hoary 
With  fire — from  their  red  feet  the  streams  run  gory ! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  97 

Epode  II  j3 

Great  Spirit,  deepest  Love ! 
Which  rulest  and  dost  move 
All  things  which  live  and  are,  within  the  Italian  shore  ; 
Who  spreadest  heaven  around  it, 
Whose  woods,  rocks,  waves,  surround  it, 
Who  sittest  in  thy  star,  o'er  Ocean's  western  floor  ; 
Spirit  of  beauty  !  at  whose  soft  command 

The  sunbeams  and  the  showers  distil  its  foison 
From  the  Earth's  bosom  chill ; 
O  bid  those  beams  be  each  a  blinding  brand 

Of  lightning  !  bid  those  showers  be  dews  of  poison  ! 
Bid  the  Earth's  plenty  kill ! 
Bid  thy  bright  Heaven  above, 
Whilst  light  and  darkness  bound  it, 
Be  their  tomb  who  planned 
To  make  it  ours  and  thine ! 
Or,  with  thine  harmonizing  ardours  fill 
And  raise  thy  sons,  as  o'er  the  prone  horizon 
Thy  lamp  feeds  every  twilight  wave  with  fire — 
Be  man's  high  hope  and  unextinct  desire 
The  instrument  to  work  thy  will  divine ! 

Then  clouds  from  sunbeams,  antelopes  from  leopards, 
And  frowns  and  fears  from  Thee, 
Would  not  more  swiftly  flee 
Than  Celtic  wolves  from  the  Ausonian  shepherds. — 
Whatever,  Spirit,  from  thy  starry  shrine 
Thou  yieldest  or  withholdest,  Oh  let  be 
This  city  of  thy  worship  ever  free  ! 


11 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


LINES   FROM   "  FIORDISPINA  " 

THE  season  was  the  childhood  of  sweet  June, 
Whose  sunny  hours  from  morning  until  noon 
Went  creeping  through  the  day  with  silent  feet, 
Each  with  its  load  of  pleasure,  slow  yet  sweet ; 
Like  the  long  years  of  blessed  Eternity 
Never  to  be  developed.     Joy  to  thee, 
Fiordispina  and  thy  Cosimo, 
For  thou  the  wonders  of  the  depth  canst  know 
Of  this  unfathomable  flood  of  hours, 
Sparkling  beneath  the  heaven  which  embowers — 

***** 
They  were  two  cousins,  almost  like  to  twins, 
Except  that  from  the  catalogue  of  sins 
Nature  had  rased  their  love — which  could  not  be 
But  by  dissevering  their  nativity. 
And  so  they  grew  together  like  two  flowers 
Upon  one  stem,  which  the  same  beams  and  showers 
Lull  or  awaken  in  their  purple  prime, 
Which  the  same  hand  will  gather — the  same  clime 
Shake  with  decay.     This  fair  day  smiles  to  see 
All  those  who  love — and  who  e'er  loved  like  thee, 
Fiordispina  ?     Scarcely  Cosimo, 
Within  whose  bosom  and  whose  brain  now  glow 
The  ardours  of  a  vision  which  obscure 
The  very  idol  of  its  portraiture. 
He  faints,  dissolved  into  a  sea  of  love  ; 
But  thou  art  as  a  planet  sphered  above ; 
But  thou  art  Love  itself — ruling  the  motion 
Of  his  subjected  spirit :  such  emotion 
Must  end  in  sin  and  sorrow,  if  sweet  May 
Had  not  brought  forth  this  morn — your  wedding-day. 


TO   JANE— THE   INVITATION 

Best  and  brightest,  come  away ! 
Fairer  far  than  this  fair  Day, 
Which,  like  thee  to  those  in  sorrow, 
Comes  to  bid  a  sweet  good-morrow 
To  the  rough  Year  just  awake 
In  its  cradle  on  the  brake. 
The  brightest  hour  of  unborn  Spring, 
Through  the  winter  wandering, 
Found,  it  seems,  the  halcyon  Morn 
To  hoar  February  born  ; 
Bending  from  Heaven,  in  azure  mirth, 
It  kissed  the  forehead  of  the  Earth, 
And  smiled  upon  the  silent  sea, 
And  bade  the  frozen  streams  be  free, 
And  waked  to  music  all  their  fountains, 
And  breathed  upon  the  frozen  mountains, 
And  like  a  prophetess  of  May 
Strewed  flowers  upon  the  barren  way, 
Making  the  wintry  world  appear 
Like  one  on  whom  thou  smilest,  dear. 


ioo  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Away,  away,  from  men  and  towns, 
To  the  wild  wood  and  the  downs — 
To  the  silent  wilderness 
Where  the  soul  need  not  repress 
Its  music  lest  it  should  not  find 
An  echo  in  another's  mind, 
While  the  touch  of  Nature's  art 
Harmonizes  heart  to  heart. 
I  leave  this  notice  on  my  door 
For  each  accustomed  visitor : — 
"  I  am  gone  into  the  fields 
To  take  what  this  sweet  hour  yields  ; — 
Reflexion,  you  may  come  to-morrow, 
Sit  by  the  fireside  with  Sorrow. — 
You  with  the  unpaid  bill,  Despair, — 
You  tiresome  verse-reciter,  Care, — 
I  will  pay  you  in  the  grave, — 
Death  will  listen  to  your  stave. 
Expectation  too,  be  off ! 
To-day  is  for  itself  enough  ; 
Hope,  in  pity  mock  not  Woe 
With  smiles,  nor  follow  where  I  go ; 
Long  having  lived  on  thy  sweet  food, 
At  length  I  find  one  moment's  good 
After  long  pain — with  all  your  love, 
This  you  never  told  me  of." 

Radiant  Sister  of  the  Day, 
Awake  !  arise  !  and  come  away  ! 
To  the  wild  woods  and  the  plains, 
And  the  pools  where  winter  rains 
Image  all  their  roof  of  leaves, 
Where  the  pine  its  garland  weaves 
Of  sapless  green  and  ivy  dun 
Round  stems  that  .never  kiss  the  sun  ; 
Where  the  lawns  and  pastures  be, 
And  the  sand-hills  of  the  sea  ; — 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  101 

Where  the  melting  hoar-frost  wets 
The  daisy-star  that  never  sets, 
And  wind-flowers,  and  violets, 
Which  yet  join  not  scent  to  hue, 
Crown  the  pale  year  weak  and  new ; 
When  the  night  is  left  behind 
In  the  deep  east,  dun  and  blind, 
And  the  blue  noon  is  over  us, 
And  the  multitudinous 
Billows  murmur  at  our  feet, 
Where  the  earth  and  ocean  meet, 
And  all  things  seem  only  one 
In  the  universal  sun. 


TO  JANE— THE   RECOLLECTION 

I 

Now  the  last  day  of  many  days, 
All  beautiful  and  bright  as  thou, 
The  loveliest  and  the  last,  is  dead, 
Rise,  Memory,  and  write  its  praise ! 
Up  to  thy  wonted  work  !  come,  trace 

The  epitaph  of  glory  fled, — 
For  now  the  Earth  has  changed  its  face, 
A  frown  is  on  the  Heaven's  brow. 

II 
We  wandered  to  the  pine  forest 

That  skirts  the  Ocean's  foam, 
The  lightest  wind  was  in  its  nest, 

The  tempest  in  its  home. 
The  whispering  waves  were  half  asleep 

The  clouds  were  gone  to  play, 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

The  smile  of  Heaven  lay  ; 
It  seemed  as  if  the  hour  were  one 

Sent  from  beyond  the  skies, 


102  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 

Which  scattered  from  above  the  sun 
A  light  of  Paradise. 

Ill 
We  paused  amid  the  pines  that  stood 

The  giants  of  the  waste, 
Tortured  by  storms  to  shapes  as  rude 

As  serpents  interlaced, 
And  soothed  by  every  azure  breath, 

That  under  heaven  is  blown, 
To  harmonies  and  hues  beneath, 

As  tender  as  its  own  ; 
Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep, 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 

The  ocean  woods  may  be. 

IV 

How  calm  it  was  ! — the  silence  there 

By  such  a  chain  was  bound 
That  even  the  busy  woodpecker 

Made  stiller  by  her  sound 
The  inviolable  quietness  ; 

The  breath  of  peace  we  drew 
With  its  soft  motion  made  not  less 

The  calm  that  round  us  grew. 
There  seemed  from  the  remotest  seat 

Of  the  white  mountain  waste, 
To  the  soft  flower  beneath  our  feet, 

A  magic  circle  traced, — 
A  spirit  interfused  around, 

A  thrilling  silent  life, 
To  momentary  peace  it  bound 

Our  mortal  nature's  strife  ; — 
And  still  I  felt  the  centre  of 

The  magic  circle  there 
Was  one  fair  form  that  filled  with  love 

The  lifeless  atmosphere. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS  103 

v 
We  paused  beside  the  pools  that  lie 

Under  the  forest  bough  ; 
Each  seemed  as  'twere  a  little  sky 

Gulphed  in  a  world  below ; 
A  firmament  of  purple  light, 

Which  in  the  dark  earth  lay, 
More  boundless  than  the  depth  of  night, 

And  purer  than  the  day — 
In  which  the  lovely  forests  grew 

As  in  the  upper  air, 
More  perfect  both  in  shape  and  hue 

Than  any  spreading  there. 
There  lay  the  glade  and  neighbouring  lawn, 

And  through  the  dark  green  wood 
The  white  sun  twinkling  like  the  dawn 

Out  of  a  speckled  cloud. 
Sweet  views  which  in  our  world  above 

Can  never  well  be  seen, 
Were  imaged  by  the  water's  love 

Of  that  fair  forest  green. 
And  all  was  interfused  beneath 

With  an  elysian  glow, 
An  atmosphere  without  a  breath, 

A  softer  day  below. 
Like  one  beloved  the  scene  had  lent 

To  the  dark  water's  breast 
Its  every  leaf  and  lineament 

With  more  than  truth  expressed  ; 
Until  an  envious  wind  crept  by, 

Like  an  unwelcome  thought, 
Which  from  the  mind's  too  faithful  eye 

Blots  one  dear  image  out. 
Though  thou  art  ever  fair  and  kind, 

The  forests  ever  green, 
Less  oft  is  peace  in  Shelley's  mind, 

Than  calm  in  waters  seen. 


CHORUSES   FROM   "HELLAS" 


Chorus  of  Greek  Captive  Women. 
We  strew  these  opiate  flowers 

On  thy  restless  pillow, — 
They  were  stripped  from  Orient  bowers, 
By  the  Indian  billow. 
Be  thy  sleep 
Calm  and  deep, 
Like  theirs  who  fell — not  ours  who  weep ! 

Indian. 
Away,  unlovely  dreams ! 

Away,  false  shapes  of  sleep  ! 
Be  his,  as  Heaven  seems, 
Clear,  and  bright,  and  deep  ! 
Soft  as  love,  and  calm  as  death, 
Sweet  as  a  summer  night  without  a  breath. 

Chorus. 
Sleep,  sleep  !  our  song  is  laden 
With  the  soul  of  slumber  ; 


no  CHORUSES    FROM   "HELLAS" 

It  was  sung  by  a  Samian  maiden, 
Whose  lover  was  of  the  number 
Who  now  keep 
That  calm  sleep 
Whence  none  may  wake,  where  none  shall  weep. 

Indian. 
I  touch  thy  temples  pale ! 

I  breathe  my  soul  on  thee ! 
And  could  my  prayers  avail, 
All  my  joy  should  be 
Dead,  and  I  would  live  to  weep, 
So  thou  might'st  win  one  hour  of  quiet  sleep. 


II 
Life  may  change,  but  it  may  fly  not ; 
Hope  may  vanish,  but  can  die  not ; 
Truth  be  veiled,  but  still  it  burneth ; 
Love  repulsed, — but  it  returneth ! 

Yet  were  life  a  charnel  where 
Hope  lay  coffined  with  Despair  ; 
Yet  were  truth  a  sacred  lie, 
Love  were  lust,  if  Liberty 

Lent  not  life  its  soul  of  light, 
Hope  its  iris  of  delight, 
Truth  its  prophet's  robe  to  wear, 
Love  its  power  to  give  and  bear. 


Ill 
In  the  great  morning  of  the  world, 
The  spirit  of  God  with  might  unfurled 
The  flag  of  Freedom  over  Chaos, 
And  all  its  banded  anarchs  fled, 


CHORUSES    FROM   "HELLAS"  in 

Like  vultures  frighted  from  Imaus, 

Before  an  earthquake's  tread. — 
So  from  Time's  tempestuous  dawn 
Freedom's  splendour  burst  and  shone  : — 
Thermopylae  and  Marathon 
Caught,  like  mountains  beacon-lighted, 

The  springing  Fire. — The  winged  glory 
On  Philippi  half-alighted, 

Like  an  eagle  on  a  promontory. 
Its  unwearied  wings  could  fan 
The  quenchless  ashes  of  Milan. 
From  age  to  age,  from  man  to  man, 

It  lived  ;  and  lit  from  land  to  land 

Florence,  Albion,  Switzerland. 

Then  night  fell ;  and,  as  from  night, 

Re-assuming  fiery  flight, 

From  the  West  swift  Freedom  came, 

Against  the  course  of  Heaven  and  doom, 
A  second  sun  arrayed  in  flame, 

To  burn,  to  kindle,  to  illume. 
From  far  Atlantis  its  young  beams 
Chased  the  shadows  and  the  dreams. 
France,  with  all  her  sanguine  steams, 

Hid,  but  quenched  it  not ;  again 

Through  clouds  its  shafts  of  glory  rain 

From  utmost  Germany  to  Spain. 

As  an  eagle  fed  with  morning 

Scorns  the  embattled  tempests'  warning, 

When  she  seeks  her  aerie  hanging 

In  the  mountain-cedar's  hair, 
And  her  brood  expect  the  clanging 

Of  her  wings  through  the  wild  air, 
Sick  with  famine  : — Freedom,  so 
To  what  of  Greece  remaineth  now 
Returns  ;  her  hoary  ruins  glow 


ii2  CHORUSES   FROM   "HELLAS" 

Like  orient  mountains  lost  in  day  ; 

Beneath  the  safety  of  her  wings 
Her  renovated  nurslings  prey, 

And  in  the  naked  lightnings 
Of  truth  they  purge  their  dazzled  eyes. 
Let  Freedom  leave— where'er  she  flies, 
A  Desert,  or  a  Paradise : 

Let  the  beautiful  and  the  brave 

Share  her  glory,  or  a  grave. 


IV 
Worlds  on  worlds  are  rolling  ever 

From  creation  to  decay, 
Like  the  bubbles  on  a  river 

Sparkling,  bursting,  borne  away. 

But  they  are  still  immortal 

Who,  through  birth's  orient  portal 
And  death's  dark  chasm  hurrying  to  and  fro, 

Clothe  their  unceasing  flight 

In  the  brief  dust  and  light 
Gathered  around  their  chariots  as  they  go ; 

New  shapes  they  still  may  weave, 

New  gods,  new  laws  receive, 
Bright  or  dim  are  they  as  the  robes  they  last 

On  Death's  bare  ribs  had  cast. 

A  power  from  the  unknown  God, 
A  Promethean  conqueror  came  ; 

Like  a  triumphal  path  he  trod 
The  thorns  of  death  and  shame. 
A  mortal  shape  to  him 
Was  like  the  vapour  dim 
Which  the  orient  planet  animates  with  light ; 
Hell,  Sin,  and  Slavery  came, 
Like  blood-hounds  mild  and  tame, 
Nor  preyed,  until  their  Lord  had  taken  flight ; 


CHORUSES   FROM   "HELLAS"  113 

The  moon  of  Mahomet 
Arose,  and  it  shall  set : 
While  blazoned  as  on  heaven's  immortal  noon 
The  cross  leads  generations  on. 


Swift  as  the  radiant  shapes  of  sleep 

From  one  whose  dreams  are  Paradise 
Fly,  when  the  fond  wretch  wakes  to  weep, 

And  day  peers  forth  with  her  blank  eyes ; 

So  fleet,  so  faint,  so  fair, 

The  Powers  of  earth  and  air 
Fled  from  the  folding  star  of  Bethlehem  : 

Apollo,  Pan,  and  Love, 

And  even  Olympian  Jove, 
Grew  weak,  for  killing  Truth  had  glared  on  them  ; 

Our  hills  and  seas  and  streams 

Dispeopled  of  their  dreams, 
Their  waters  turned  to  blood,  their  dew  to  tears, 

Wailed  for  the  golden  years. 


v 
The  world's  great  age  begins  anew, 

The  golden  years  return, 
The  earth  doth  like  a  snake  renew 

Her  winter  weeds  outworn  : 
Heaven  smiles,  and  faiths  and  empires  gleam, 
Like  wrecks  of  a  dissolving  dream. 

A  brighter  Hellas  rears  its  mountains 

From  waves  serener  far  ; 
A  new  Peneus  rolls  his  fountains 

Against  the  morning-star. 
Where  fairer  Tempes  bloom,  there  sleep 
Young  Cyclads  on  a  sunnier  deep. 
I 


ii4  CHORUSES  FROM   "HELLAS" 

A  loftier  Argo  cleaves  the  main, 
Fraught  with  a  later  prize  ; 

Another  Orpheus  sings  again, 
And  loves,  and  weeps,  and  dies. 

A  new  Ulysses  leaves  once  more 

Calypso  for  his  native  shore. 

O,  write  no  more  the  tale  of  Troy, 
If  earth  Death's  scroll  must  be  ! 

Nor  mix  with  Laian  rage  the  joy 
Which  dawns  upon  the  free : 

Although  a  subtler  Sphinx  renew 

Riddles  of  death  Thebes  never  knew. 

Another  Athens  shall  arise, 

And  to  remoter  time 
Bequeath,  like  sunset  to  the  skies, 

The  splendour  of  its  prime  ; 
And  leave,  if  naught  so  bright  may  live, 
All  earth  can  take  or  Heaven  can  give. 

Saturn  and  Love  their  long  repose 
Shall  burst,  more  bright  and  good 

Than  all  who  fell,  than  One  who  rose, 
Than  many  unsubdued  : 

Not  gold,  not  blood,  their  altar  dowers, 

But  votive  tears  and  symbol  flowers. 

O  cease !  must  hate  and  death  return  ? 

Cease !  must  men  kill  and  die  ? 
Cease  !  drain  not  to  its  dregs  the  urn 

Of  bitter  prophecy. 
The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
O  might  it  die  or  rest  at  last ! 


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ON   FANNY   GODWIN 

Her  voice  did  quiver  as  we  parted, 

Yet  knew  I  not  that  heart  was  broken 
From  which  it  came,  and  I  departed 
Heeding  not  the  words  then  spoken. 
Misery — O  Misery, 
This  world  is  all  too  wide  for  thee. 


LINES 


THAT  time  is  dead  for  ever,  child, 
Drowned,  frozen,  dead  for  ever ! 

We  look  on  the  past 

And  stare  aghast 
At  the  spectres  wailing,  pale  and  ghast, 
Of  hopes  which  thou  and  I  beguiled 

To  death  on  life's  dark  river. 


120 


SHORTER    LYRICS 


The  stream  we  gazed  on  then  rolled  by  ; 
Its  waves  are  unreturning  ; 

But  we  yet  stand 

In  a  lone  land, 
Like  tombs  to  mark  the  memory 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  which  fade  and  flee 
In  the  light  of  life's  dim  morning. 


FRAGMENT   ON    HOME 

Dear  home,  thou  scene  of  earliest  hopes  and  joys, 
The  least  of  which  wronged  Memory  ever  makes 
Bitterer  than  all  thine  unremembered  tears. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  121 


PASSAGE   OF  THE   APENNINES 

Listen,  listen,  Mary  mine, 
To  the  whisper  of  the  Apennine ; 
It  bursts  on  the  roof  like  the  thunder's  roar, 
Or  like  the  sea  on  a  northern  shore, 
Heard  in  its  raging  ebb  and  flow- 
By  the  captives  pent  in  the  cave  below. 
The  Apennine  in  the  light  of  day 
Is  a  mighty  mountain  dim  and  grey, 
Which  between  the  earth  and  sky  doth  lay  ; 
But  when  night  comes,  a  chaos  dread 
On  the  dim  starlight  then  is  spread, 
And  the  Apennine  walks  abroad  with  the  storm. 


THE   PAST 

I 
Wilt  thou  forget  the  happy  hours 
Which  we  buried  in  Love's  sweet  bowers, 
Heaping  over  their  corpses  cold 
Blossoms  and  leaves  instead  of  mould  ? 
Blossoms  which  were  the  joys  that  fell, 
And  leaves,  the  hopes  that  yet  remain. 

II 
Forget  the  dead,  the  past  ?    O  yet 
There  are  ghosts  that  may  take  revenge  for  it, 
Memories  that  make  the  heart  a  tomb, 
Regrets  which  glide  through  the  spirit's  gloom, 
And  with  ghastly  whispers  tell 
That  joy,  once  lost,  is  pain. 


122 


SHORTER   LYRICS 


TO    MARY 


0  MARY  dear,  that  you  were  here 
With  your  brown  eyes  bright  and  clear, 
And  your  sweet  voice,  like  a  bird 
Singing  love  to  its  lone  mate 

In  the  ivy  bower  disconsolate  ; 

Voice  the  sweetest  ever  heard  ! 

And  your  brow  more  .  .  . 

Than  the  sky 

Of  this  azure  Italy. 

Mary  dear,  come  to  me  soon, 

1  am  not  well  whilst  thou  art  far  ; 
As  sunset  to  the  sphered  moon, 
As  twilight  to  the  western  star, 
Thou,  beloved,  art  to  me. 

O  Mary  dear,  that  you  were  here  ; 
The  Castle  echo  whispers  "  Here  ! " 


THE    INDIAN   SERENADE 


I  ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 
In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 
When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 
And  the  stars  are  shining  bright : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 
And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Hath  led  me — who  knows  how  ? 
To  thy  chamber  window,  Sweet ! 


II 

The  wandering  airs  they  faint 
On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
And  the  Champak's  odours  fail 
Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream  ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 
It  dies  upon  her  heart ; — 
As  I  must  on  thine, 
O  !  beloved  as  thou  art ! 


124 


SHORTER   LYRICS 


III 

0  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

1  die  !  I  faint !  I  fail ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 
On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas ! 
My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; — 
Oh  !  press  it  to  thine  own  again, 
Where  it  will  break  at  last. 


My  dearest  Mary,  wherefore  hast  thou  gone, 
And  left  me  in  this  dreary  world  alone ! 
Thy  form  is  here  indeed — a  lovely  one — 
But  thou  art  fled,  gone  down  the  dreary  road, 
That  leads  to  Sorrow's  most  obscure  abode  ; 
Thou  sittest  on  the  hearth  of  pale  despair, 

Where 
For  thine  own  sake  I  cannot  follow  thee. 


II 

The  world  is  dreary, 

And  I  am  weary 
Of  wandering  on  without  thee,  Mary  ; 

A  joy  was  erewhile 

In  thy  voice  and  thy  smile, 
And  'tis  gone,  when  I  should  be  gone  too,  Mary. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  125 


FRAGMENT:    QUESTIONS 

Is  it  that  in  some  brighter  sphere 
We  part  from  friends  we  meet  with  here  ? 
Or  do  we  see  the  Future  pass 
Over  the  Present's  dusky  glass  ? 
Or  what  is  that  that  makes  us  seem 
To  patch  up  fragments  of  a  dream, 
Part  of  which  comes  true,  and  part 
Beats  and  trembles  in  the  heart  ? 


FRAGMENT:    LOVE   THE    UNIVERSE 

And  who  feels  discord  now  or  sorrow  ? 

Love  is  the  universe  to-day — 
These  are  the  slaves  of  dim  to-morrow, 

Darkening  Life's  labyrinthine  way. 


FRAGMENT:    CALM   THOUGHTS 

Ye  gentle  visitations  of  calm  thought — 
Moods  like  the  memories  of  happier  earth, 
Which  come  arrayed  in  thoughts  of  little  worth 

Like  stars  in  clouds  by  the  weak  winds  enwrought, 
But  that  the  clouds  depart  and  stars  remain, 

While  they  remain,  and  ye,  alas,  depart ! 


126  SHORTER   LYRICS 


LOVE'S   PHILOSOPHY 

I 

The  Fountains  mingle  with  the  River 

And  the  Rivers  with  the  Ocean, 
The  winds  of  Heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  spirit  meet  and  mingle ; — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? — 

II 

See  the  mountains  kiss  high  Heaven 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another ; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother  ; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea : 
What  is  all  this  sweet  work  worth 

If  thou  kiss  not  me? 


SHORTER   LYRICS  127 

TO  

1 
I  FEAR  thy  kisses,  gentle  maiden, 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine  ; 
My  spirit  is  too  deeply  laden 

Ever  to  burthen  thine. 

II 
I  fear  thy  mien,  thy  tones,  thy  motion, 

Thou  needest  not  fear  mine ; 
Innocent  is  the  heart's  devotion 

With  which  I  worship  thine. 

SONG 

I 
Rarely,  rarely,  comest  thou, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  me  now 

Many  a  day  and  night  ? 
Many  a  weary  night  and  day 
'Tis  since  thou  art  fled  away. 

II 
How  shall  ever  one  like  me 

Win  thee  back  again  ? 
With  the  joyous  and  the  free 

Thou  wilt  scoff  at  pain. 
Spirit  false  !  thou  hast  forgot 
All  but  those  who  need  thee  not. 

Ill 
As  a  lizard  with  the  shade 
Of  a  trembling  leaf, 


128  SHORTER   LYRICS 

Thou  with  sorrow  art  dismayed  ; 

Even  the  sighs  of  grief 
Reproach  thee,  that  thou  art  not  near, 
And  reproach  thou  wilt  not  hear. 

IV 

Let  me  set  my  mournful  ditty 

To  a  merry  measure, 
Thou  wilt  never  come  for  pity, 

Thou  wilt  come  for  pleasure. 
Pity  then  will  cut  away 
Those  cruel  wings,  and  thou  wilt  stay. 

V 
I  love  all  that  thou  lovest, 

Spirit  of  Delight ! 
The  fresh  Earth  in  new  leaves  dressed, 

And  the  starry  night ; 
Autumn  evening,  and  the  morn 
When  the  golden  mists  are  born. 


VI 

I  love  snow,  and  all  the  forms 

Of  the  radiant  frost ; 
I  love  waves,  and  winds,  and  storms, 

Every  thing  almost 
Which  is  Nature's,  and  may  be 
Untainted  by  man's  misery. 

VII 

I  love  tranquil  solitude, 

And  such  society 
As  is  quiet,  wise  and  good  ; 

Between  thee  and  me 
What  difference  ?  but  thou  dost  possess 
The  things  I  seek,  not  love  them  less. 


SHORTER   LYRICS 


129 


VIII 
I  love  Love— though  he  has  wings, 

And  like  light  can  flee, 
But  above  all  other  things, 

Spirit,  I  love  thee — 
Thou  art  love  and  life !    O  come, 
Make  once  more  my  heart  thy  home. 


WHILE  GATHERING  FLOWERS  ON  THE  PLAIN  OF  ENNA 


Sacred  Goddess,  Mother  Earth, 
Thou  from  whose  immortal  bosom 

Gods  and  men  and  beasts  have  birth, 
Leaf  and  blade  and  bud  and  blossom, 

Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 

On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


II 
If  with  mists  of  evening  dew 

Thou  dost  nourish  these  young  flowers 
Till  they  grow,  in  scent  and  hue, 

Fairest  children  of  the  hours, 
Breathe  thine  influence  most  divine 
On  thine  own  child,  Proserpine. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  131 


TO   THE    MOON 

Art  thou  pale  for  weariness 
Of  climbing  heaven  and  gazing  on  the  earth, 

Wandering  companionless 
Among  the  stars  that  have  a  different  birth,- 
And  ever  changing,  like  a  joyless  eye 
That  finds  no  object  worth  its  constancy  ? 


THE   WORLD'S   WANDERERS 

1 
Tell  me,  thou  star,  whose  wings  of  light 
Speed  thee  in  thy  fiery  flight, 
In  what  cavern  of  the  night 

Will  thy  pinions  close  now  ? 

II 
Tell  me,  moon,  thou  pale  and  grey 
Pilgrim  of  heaven's  homeless  way, 
In  what  depth  of  night  or  day 
Seekest  thou  repose  now  ? 

Ill 
Weary  wind,  who  wanderest 
Like  the  world's  rejected  guest, 
Hast  thou  still  some  secret  nest 
On  the  tree  or  billow  ? 


132  SHORTER   LYRICS 

TIME   LONG   PAST 

I 

Like  the  ghost  of  a  dear  friend  dead 

Is  Time  long  past. 
A  tone  which  is  now  forever  fled, 
A  hope  which  is  now  forever  past, 
A  love  so  sweet  it  could  not  last, 
Was  Time  long  past. 

II 
There  were  sweet  dreams  in  the  night 

Of  Time  long  past: 
And,  was  it  sadness  or  delight, 
Each  day  a  shadow  onward  cast 
Which  made  us  wish  it  yet  might  last- 
That  Time  long  past. 

Ill 
There  is  regret,  almost  remorse, 

For  Time  long  past. 
'Tis  like  a  child's  beloved  corse 
A  father  watches,  till  at  last 
Beauty  is  like  remembrance,  cast 

From  Time  long  past. 


TO   NIGHT 

I 
Swiftly  walk  over  the  western  wave, 

Spirit  of  Night ! 
Out  of  the  misty  eastern  cave, 
Where  all  the  long  and  lone  daylight, 
Thou  wovest  dreams  of  joy  and  fear, 
Which  make  thee  terrible  and  dear, — 

Swift  be  thy  flight ! 


SHORTER   LYRICS  133 

11 
Wrap  thy  form  in  a  mantle  grey, 

Star-inwrought ! 
Blind  with  thine  hair  the  eyes  of  Day; 
Kiss  her  until  she  be  wearied  out, 
Then  wander  o'er  city,  and  sea,  and  land, 
Touching  all  with  thine  opiate  wand — 

Come,  long  sought ! 

Ill 

When  I  arose  and  saw  the  dawn, 

I  sighed  for  thee  ; 
When  light  rode  high,  and  the  dew  was  gone 
And  noon  lay  heavy  on  flower  and  tree, 
And  the  weary  Day  turned  to  his  rest, 
Lingering  like  an  unloved  guest, 

I  sighed  for  thee. 

IV 
Thy  brother  Death  came,  and  cried, 

Wouldst  thou  me  ? 
Thy  sweet  child  Sleep,  the  filmy-eyed, 
Murmured  like  a  noon-tide  bee, 
Shall  I  nestle  near  thy  side  ? 
Wouldst  thou  me  ? — And  I  replied, 

No,  not  thee ! 

v 
Death  will  come  when  thou  art  dead, 

Soon,  too  soon — 
Sleep  will  come  when  thou  art  fled  ; 
Of  neither  would  I  ask  the  boon 
I  ask  of  thee,  beloved  Night — 
Swift  be  thine  approaching  flight, 

Come  soon,  soon  ! 


FROM   THE   ARABIC:    AN    IMITATION 


My  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 
Of  thy  looks,  my  love  ; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 
For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
Thy  barb  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tempest's  flight 
Bore  thee  far  from  me  ; 
My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon, 
Did  companion  thee. 


II 
Ah  !   fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 
Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which  tender  thought  clothes  like  a  dove 
With  the  wings  of  care  ; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 
Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 
Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 
It  may  bring  to  thee. 


TO   EMILIA   VIVIANI 


Madonna,  wherefore  hast  thou  sent  to  me 

Sweet  basil  and  mignonette, 
Embleming  love  and  health,  which  never  yet 
In  the  same  wreath  might  be? 

Alas,  and  they  are  wet ! 
Is  it  with  thy  kisses  or  thy  tears  ? 
For  never  rain  or  dew 
Such  fragrance  drew 
From  plant  or  flower — the  very  doubt  endears 

My  sadness  ever  new, 
The  sighs  I  breathe,  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee. 

Send  the  stars  light,  but  send  not  love  to  me, 

In  whom  love  ever  made 
Health  like  a  heap  of  embers  soon  to  fade. 


136  SHORTER   LYRICS 


TIME 


Unfathomable  Sea  !  whose  waves  are  years, 

Ocean  of  Time,  whose  waters  of  deep  woe 
Are  brackish  with  the  salt  of  human  tears ! 

Thou  shoreless  flood,  which  in  thy  ebb  and  flow 
Claspest  the  limits  of  mortality  ! 

And  sick  of  prey,  yet  howling  on  for  more, 
Vomitest  thy  wrecks  on  its  inhospitable  shore  ; 

Treacherous  in  calm,  and  terrible  in  storm, 
Who  shall  put  forth  on  thee, 
Unfathomable  Sea  ? 


TO 


MUSIC,  when  soft  voices  die 
Vibrates  in  the  memory ; 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken ; 
Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 


MUTABILITY 

I 
THE  flower  that  smiles  to-day 

To-morrow  dies  ; 
All  that  we  wish  to  stay 

Tempts  and  then  flies. 
What  is  this  world's  delight  ? 
Lightning  that  mocks  the  night, 
Brief  even  as  bright. 


SHORTER    LYRICS 


137 


II 

Virtue,  how  frail  it  is  ! 

Friendship  how  rare ! 
Love,  how  it  sells  poor  bliss 

For  proud  despair ! 
But  we,  though  soon  they  fall, 
Survive  their  joy,  and  all 
Which  ours  we  call. 

Ill 

Whilst  skies  are  blue  and  bright, 
Whilst  flowers  are  gay, 

Whilst  eyes  that  change  ere  night 
Make  glad  the  day ; 

Whilst  yet  the  calm  hours  creep, 

Dream  thou — and  from  thy  sleep 
Then  wake  to  weep. 


138  SHORTER   LYRICS 

THE   AZIOLA 

I 
"  Do  you  not  hear  the  Aziola  cry  ? 
Methinks  she  must  be  nigh," 
Said  Mary,  as  we  sate 
In  dusk,  ere  stars  were  lit,  or  candles  brought ; 
And  I,  who  thought 
This  Aziola  was  some  tedious  woman, 

Asked,  "  Who  is  Aziola  ?"    How  elate 

I  felt  to  know  that  it  was  nothing  human, 

No  mockery  of  myself  to  fear  or  hate  : 

And  Mary  saw  my  soul, 

And  laughed,  and  said,  "  Disquiet  yourself  not ; 

'Tis  nothing  but  a  little  downy  owl." 

II 
Sad  Aziola  !  many  an  eventide 

Thy  music  I  had  heard 
By  wood  and  stream,  meadow  and  mountain-side, 

And  fields  and  marshes  wide, 
Such  as  nor  voice,  nor  lute,  nor  wind,  nor  bird, 

The  soul  ever  stirred  ; 
Unlike  and  far  sweeter  than  them  all. 
Sad  Aziola  !  from  that  moment  I 

Loved  thee  and  thy  sad  cry. 


TO-MORROW 

I 
Where  art  thou,  beloved  To-morrow  ? 

When  young  and  old  and  strong  and  weak, 
Rich  and  poor,  through  joy  and  sorrow, 

Thy  sweet  smiles  we  ever  seek, — 
In  thy  place — ah  !  well-a-day  ! 
We  find  the  thing  we  fled — To-day. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  139 

11 

If  I  walk  in  Autumn's  even 

While  the  dead  leaves  pass, 
If  I  look  on  Spring's  soft  heaven, — 

Something  is  not  there  which  was. 
Winter's  wondrous  frost  and  snow, 
Summer's  clouds,  where  are  they  now  ? 


TO 


I 

One  word  is  too  often  profaned 

For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it. 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother, 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

II 
I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 

Of  the  night  for  the  morrow, 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 

From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow  ? 


140 


SHORTER   LYRICS 


TO 


WHEN  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 
If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last 
Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep ! 


II 


It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest — and  burn  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 


Ill 


After  the  slumber  of  the  year 
The  woodland  violets  re-appear, 
All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move 
And  form  all  others,  life  and  love. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  141 

A   BRIDAL   SONG 

1 
The  golden  gates  of  Sleep  unbar 

Where  Strength  and  Beality  met  together, 
Kindle  their  image  like  a  star 
In  a  sea  of  glassy  weather. 
Night,  with  all  thy  stars  look  down, — 

Darkness,  weep  thy  holiest  dew, — 
Never  smiled  the  inconstant  moon 

On  a  pair  so  true. 
Let  eyes  not  see  their  own  delight ; — 
Haste,  swift  Hour,  and  thy  flight 
Oft  renew. 

II 
Fairies,  sprites,  and  angels  keep  her ! 

Holy  stars,  permit  no  wrong  ! 
And  return  to  wake  the  sleeper, 
Dawn, — ere  it  be  long ! 
Oh  joy !  oh  fear  !  what  will  be  done 
In  the  absence  of  the  sun  ! 
Come  along ! 


LINES 

1 

When  the  lamp  is  shattered 
The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead — 

When  the  cloud  is  scattered 
The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 

When  the  lute  is  broken, 
Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not 

When  the  lips  have  spoken, 
Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


i42  SHORTER   LYRICS 

II 

As  music  and  splendour 
Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 

The  heart's  echoes  render 
No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute, — 

No  song  but  sad  dirges, 
Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 

Or  the  mournful  surges 
That  ring  the  dead  seaman's  knell. 

Ill 

When  hearts  have  once  mingled 
Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest, — 

The  weak  one  is  singled 
To  endure  what  it  once  possessed. 

O,  Love  !  who  bewailest 
The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 

Why  choose  you  the  frailest 
For  your  cradle,  your  home  and  your  bier  ? 

IV 

Its  passions  will  rock  thee 
As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high : 

Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 
Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 

From  thy  nest  every  rafter 
Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 

Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 
When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 


SHORTER   LYRICS  143 


TO  JANE 

1 
The  keen  stars  were  twinkling, 
And  the  fair  moon  was  rising  among  them, 
Dear  Jane ! 
The  guitar  was  tinkling, 
But  the  notes  were  not  sweet  till  you  sung  them 
Again. 

II 
As  the  moon's  soft  splendour 
O'er  the  faint  cold  starlight  of  heaven 
Is  thrown, 
So  your  voice  most  tender 
To  the  strings  without  soul  had  then  given 
Its  own. 

Ill 
The  stars  will  awaken, 
Though  the  moon  sleep  a  full  hour  later, 
To-night ; 
No  leaf  will  be  shaken 
Whilst  the  dews  of  your  melody  scatter 
Delight. 

IV 
Though  the  sound  overpowers, 
Sing  again,  with  your  dear  voice  revealing 
A  tone 
Of  some  world  far  from  ours, 
Where  music  and  moonlight  and  feeling 
Are  one. 


144 


SHORTER   LYRICS 


SONG 

A  WIDOW  bird  sate  mourning  for  her  love 

Upon  a  wintry  bough  ; 
The  frozen  wind  crept  on  above, 

The  freezing  stream  below. 

There  was  no  leaf  upon  the  forest  bare, 

No  flower  upon  the  ground, 
And  little  motion  in  the  air 

Except  the  mill-wheel's  sound. 


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DIRGES  AND 


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LAMENTS 


DIRGES  AND  LAMENTS 

THE   DIRGE   OF   BEATRICE 

FALSE  friend,  wilt  thou  smile  or  weep 
When  my  life  is  laid  asleep  ? 
Little  cares  for  a  smile  or  a  tear 
The  clay-cold  corpse  upon  the  bier ! 

Farewell !     Heigho ! 

What  is  this  whispers  low  ? 
There  is  a  snake  in  thy  smile,  my  dear ; 
And  bitter  poison  within  thy  tear. 

Sweet  sleep,  were  death  like  to  thee, 
Or  if  thou  couldst  mortal  be, 
I  would  close  these  eyes  of  pain  ; 
When  to  wake  ?     Never  again. 

O,  World  !  Farewell ! 

Listen  to  the  passing  bell ! 
It  says,  thou  and  I  must  part, 
With  a  light  and  a  heavy  heart. 


150  DIRGES   AND   LAMENTS 


AUTUMN 

A  DIRGE 

I 
THE  warm  sun  is  failing,  the  bleak  wind  is  wailing, 
The  bare  boughs  are  signing,  the  pale  flowers  are  dying, 

And  the  year 
On  the  earth  her  death-bed,  in  a  shroud  of  leaves  dead, 
Is  lying. 
Come,  months,  come  away, 
From  November  to  May, 
In  your  saddest  array  ; 
Follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  like  dim  shadows  watch  by  her  sepulchre. 

II 
The  chill  rain  is  falling,  the  nipped  worm  is  crawling, 
The  rivers  are  swelling,  the  thunder  is  knelling 

For  the  year ; 
The  blithe  swallows  are  flown,  and  the  lizards  each  gone 
To  his  dwelling ; 
Come,  months,  come  away  ; 
Put  on  white,  black,  and  grey  ; 
Let  your  light  sisters  play — 
Ye,  follow  the  bier 
Of  the  dead  cold  year, 
And  make  her  grave  green  with  tear  on  tear. 


DIRGES   AND   LAMENTS  151 


DIRGE   FOR   THE   YEAR 

1 
Orphan  hours,  the  year  is  dead, — 

Come  and  sigh,  come  and  weep ! 
Merry  hours,  smile  instead, 

For  the  year  is  but  asleep. 
See,  it  smiles  as  it  is  sleeping, 
Mocking  your  untimely  weeping. 

II 
As  an  earthquake  rocks  a  corse 

In  its  coffin  in  the  clay, 
So  White  Winter,  that  rough  nurse, 

Rocks  the  death-cold  year  to-day  ; 
Solemn  hours !  wail  aloud 
For  your  mother  in  her  shroud. 

Ill 
As  the  wild  air  stirs  and  sways 

The  tree-swung  cradle  of  a  child, 
So  the  breath  of  these  rude  days 

Rocks  the  year : — be  calm  and  mild, 
Trembling  hours, — she  will  arise 
With  new  love  within  her  eyes. 

IV 
January  grey  is  here, 

Like  a  sexton  by  her  grave  ; 
February  bears  the  bier, 

March  with  grief  doth  howl  and  rave 
And  April  weeps — but  O,  ye  hours, 
Follow  with  May's  fairest  flowers. 


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A   LAMENT 

i 
Oh,  world  !  oh,  life  !  oh,  time ! 
On  whose  last  steps  I  climb 

Trembling  at  that  where  I  had  stood  before ; 
When  will  return  the  glory  of  your  prime  ? 
No  more — 0,„ never  more  ! 

II 
Out  of  the  day  and  night 
A  joy  has  taken  flight ; 

Fresh  spring,  and  summer,  and  winter  hoar, 
Move  my  faint  heart  with  grief,  but  with  delight 
No  more — O,  never  more  ! 


DIRGES   AND   LAMENTS  153 


REMEMBRANCE 

1 
Swifter  far  than  summer's  flight — 
Swifter  far  than  youth's  delight — 
Swifter  far  than  happy  night, 

Art  thou  come  and  gone — 
As  the  wood  when  leaves  are  shed, 
As  the  night  when  sleep  is  fled, 
As  the  heart  when  joy  is  dead, 

I  am  left  lone,  alone. 

II 
The  swallow  summer  comes  again — 
The  owlet  night  resumes  his  reign — 
But  the  wild-swan  youth  is  fain 

To  fly  with  thee,  false  as  thou. 
My  heart  each  day  desires  the  morrow ; 
Sleep  itself  is  turned  to  sorrow  ; 
Vainly  would  my  winter  borrow 

Sunny  leaves  from  any  bough. 

Ill 
Lilies  for  a  bridal  bed — 
Roses  for  a  matron's  head — 
Violets  for  a  maiden  dead — 

Pansies  let  my  flowers  be  : 
On  the  living  grave  I  bear 
Scatter  them  without  a  tear — 
Let  no  friend,  however  dear, 

Waste  one  hope,  one  fear  for  me. 


154 


DIRGES   AND   LAMENTS 


A   DIRGE 

ROUGH  wind,  that  moanest  loud 

Grief  too  sad  for  song  ; 
Wild  wind,  when  sullen  cloud 

Knells  all  the  night  long ; 
Sad  storm,  whose  tears  are  vain, 
Bare  woods,  whose  branches  stain, 
Deep  caves  and  dreary  main, 

Wail,  for  the  world's  wrong ! 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


"L'anima  amante  si  slancia  fuori  del  creato,  e  si  crea  nel  infinite)  un 
Mondo  tutto  per  essa,  diverso  assai  da  questo  oscuro  e  pauroso  baratro." 

Her  own  words. 

My  Song,  I  fear  that  thou  wilt  find  but  few 
Who  fitly  shall  conceive  thy  reasoning, 
Of  such  hard  matter  dost  thou  entertain  ; 
Whence,  if  by  misadventure,  chance  should  bring 
Thee  to  base  company,  (as  chance  may  do, ) 
Quite  unaware  of  what  thou  dost  contain, 
I  prithee,  comfort  thy  sweet  self  again, 
My  last  delight!  tell  them  that  they  are  dull, 
And  bid  them  own  that  thou  art  beautiful. 


Verses  addressed   to  the   Noble   and  Unfor- 
tunate Lady,  Emilia  Viviani,  now  imprisoned 
in  the  Convent  of  St.  Anne's,  Pisa 


Sweet  Spirit !    Sister  of  that  orphan  one, 
Whose  empire  is  the  name  thou  weepest  on 
In  my  heart's  temple  I  suspend  to  thee 
These  votive  wreaths  of  withered  memory. 

Poor  captive  bird  !  who,  from  thy  narrow  cage, 
Pourest  such  music,  that  it  might  assuage 
The  rugged  hearts  of  those  who  prisoned  thee, 
Were  they  not  deaf  to  all  sweet  melody ; 
This  song  shall  be  thy  rose  :  its  petals  pale 
Are  dead,  indeed,  my  adored  Nightingale ! 
But  soft  and  fragrant  is  the  faded  blossom, 
And  it  has  no  thorn  left  to  wound  thy  bosom. 

High,  spirit-winged  Heart !  who  dost  for  ever 
Beat  thine  unfeeling  bars  with  vain  endeavour, 
Till  those  bright  plumes  of  thought,  in  which  arrayed 
It  over-soared  this  low  and  worldly  shade, 


160  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Lie  shattered  ;  and  thy  panting,  wounded  breast 
Stains  with  dear  blood  its  immaternal  nest ! 
I  weep  vain  tears  :  blood  would  less  bitter  be, 
Yet  poured  forth  gladlier,  could  it  profit  thee. 

Seraph  of  Heaven  !  too  gentle  to  be  human, 
Veiling  beneath  that  radiant  form  of  Woman 
All  that  is  insupportable  in  thee 
Of  light,  and  love,  and  immortality  ! 
Sweet  Benediction  in  the  eternal  Curse ! 
Veiled  Glory  of  this  lampless  Universe  ! 
Thou  Moon  beyond  the  clouds !    Thou  living  Form 
Among  the  Dead  !    Thou  Star  above  the  Storm  ! 
Thou  Wonder,  and  thou  Beauty,  and  thou  Terror ! 
Thou  Harmony  of  Nature's  art !    Thou  Mirror 
In  whom,  as  in  the  splendour  of  the  Sun, 
All  shapes  look  glorious  which  thou  gazest  on ! 
Aye,  even  the  dim  words  which  obscure  thee  now 
Flash,  lightning-like,  with  unaccustomed  glow ; 
I  pray  thee  that  thou  blot  from  this  sad  song 
All  of  its  much  mortality  and  wrong, 
With  those  clear  drops,  which  start  like  sacred  dew 
From  the  twin  lights  thy  sweet  soul  darkens  through, 
Weeping,  till  sorrow  becomes  ecstasy : 
Then  smile  on  it,  so  that  it  may  not  die. 

I  never  thought  before  my  death  to  see 
Youth's  vision  thus  made  perfect.     Emily, 
I  love  thee  ;  though  the  world  by  no  thin  name 
Will  hide  that  love  from  its  unvalued  shame. 
Would  we  two  had  been  twins  of  the  same  mother ! 
Or,  that  the  name  my  heart  lent  to  another 
Could  be  a  sister's  bond  for  her  and  thee, 
Blending  two  beams  of  one  eternity  ! 
Yet  were  one  lawful  and  the  other  true, 
These  names,  though  dear,  could  paint  not,  as  is  due, 
How  beyond  refuge  I  am  thine.     Ah  me ! 
I  am  not  thine  :  I  am  part  of  thee. 


EPIPSYCHIDION  161 


Sweet  Lamp!  my  moth-like  Muse  has  burnt  its  wings ; 
Or,  like  a  dying  swan  who  soars  and  sings, 
Young  Love  should  teach  Time,  in  his  own  grey  style, 
All  that  thou  art.     Art  thou  not  void  of  guile, 
A  lovely  soul  formed  to  be  bless'd  and  bless  ? 
A  well  of  sealed  and  secret  happiness, 
Whose  waters  like  blithe  light  and  music  are, 
Vanquishing  dissonance  and  gloom  ?    A  Star 
Which  moves  not  in  the  moving  Heavens,  alone  ? 
A  smile  amid  dark  frowns  ?  a  gentle  tone 
Amid  rude  voices  ?  a  beloved  light  ? 
A  Solitude,  a  Refuge,  a  Delight  ? 
A  Lute,  which  those  whom  love  has  taught  to  play 
Make  music  on,  to  soothe  the  roughest  day 
And  lull  fond  grief  asleep  ?  a  buried  treasure  ? 
A  cradle  of  young  thoughts  of  wingless  pleasure  ? 
A  violet-shrouded  grave  of  Woe  ? — I  measure 
The  world  of  fancies,  seeking  one  like  thee, 
And  find — alas  !  mine  own  infirmity. 

She  met  me,  Stranger,  upon  life's  rough  way, 
And  lured  me  towards  sweet  Death  ;  as  Night  by  Day, 
Winter  by  Spring,  or  Sorrow  by  swift  Hope, 
Led  into  light,  life,  peace.     An  antelope, 
In  the  suspended  impulse  of  its  lightness, 
Were  less  aetherially  light :  the  brightness 
Of  her  divinest  presence  trembles  through 
Her  limbs,  as  underneath  a  cloud  of  dew 
Embodied  in  the  windless  Heaven  of  June 
Amid  the  splendour-winged  stars,  the  Moon 
Burns,  inextinguishably  beautiful : 
And  from  her  lips,  as  from  a  hyacinth  full 
Of  honey-dew,  a  liquid  murmur  drops, 
Killing  the  sense  with  passion  ;  sweet  as  stops 
Of  planetary  music  heard  in  trance. 
In  her  mild  lights  the  starry  spirits  dance, 
The  sun-beams  of  those  wells  which  ever  leap 

M 


162  EPIPSYCHIDION 

« 

Under  the  lightnings  of  the  soul — too  deep 

For  the  brief  fathom-line  of  thought  or  sense. 

The  glory  of  her  being,  issuing  thence, 

Stains  the  dead,  blank,  cold  air  with  a  warm  shade 

Of  unentangled  intermixture,  made 

By  Love,  of  light  and  motion  :  one  intense 

Diffusion,  one  serene  Omnipresence, 

Whose  flowing  outlines  mingle  in  their  flowing 

Around  her  cheeks  and  utmost  fingers  glowing 

With  the  unintermitted  blood,  which  there 

Quivers,  (as  in  a  fleece  of  snow-like  air 

The  crimson  pulse  of  living  morning  quiver,) 

Continuously  prolonged,  and  ending  never, 

Till  they  are  lost,  and  in  that  Beauty  furled 

Which  penetrates  and  clasps  and  fills  the  world  ; 

Scarce  visible  from  extreme  loveliness. 

Warm  fragrance  seems  to  fall  from  her  light  dress 

And  her  loose  hair ;  and  where  some  heavy  tress 

The  air  of  her  own  speed  has  disentwined, 

The  sweetness  seems  to  satiate  the  faint  wind  ; 

And  in  the  soul  a  wild  odour  is  felt, 

Beyond  the  sense,  like  fiery  dews  that  melt 

Into  the  bosom  of  a  frozen  bud. 

See  where  she  stands  !  a  mortal  shape  indued 
With  love  and  life  and  light  and  deity, 
And  motion  which  may  change  but  cannot  die ; 
An  image  of  some  bright  Eternity  ; 
A  shadow  of  some  golden  dream  ;  a  Splendour 
Leaving  the  third  sphere  pilotless  ;  a  tender 
Reflexion  of  the  eternal  Moon  of  Love 
Under  whose  motions  life's  dull  billows  move  ; 
A  Metaphor  of  Spring  and  Youth  and  Morning  ; 
A  Vision  like  incarnate  April,  warning, 
With  smiles  and  tears,  Frost  the  Anatomy 
Into  his  summer  grave. 

Ah,  woe  is  me  ! 


EPIPSYCHIDION  163 

What  have  I  dared  ?  where  am  I  lifted  ?  how 
Shall  I  descend,  and  perish  not  ?    I  know 
That  Love  makes  all  things  equal :  I  have  heard 
By  mine  own  heart  this  joyous  truth  averred : 
The  spirit  of  the  worm  beneath  the  sod 
In  love  and  worship  blends  itself  with  God. 

Spouse  !  Sister  !  Angel !  Pilot  of  the  Fate 
Whose  course  has  been  so  starless !  O  too  late 
Beloved  !  O  too  soon  adored,  by  me ! 
For  in  the  fields  of  immortality 
My  spirit  should  at  first  have  worshipped  thine, 
A  divine  presence  in  a  place  divine  ; 
Or  should  have  moved  beside  it  on  this  earth, 
A  shadow  of  that  substance,  from  its  birth ; 
But  not  as  now  : — I  love  thee  ;  yes,  I  feel 
That  on  the  fountain  of  my  heart  a  seal 
Is  set,  to  keep  its  waters  pure  and  bright 
For  thee,  since  in  those  tears  thou  hast  delight. 
We — are  we  not  formed,  as  notes  of  music  are, 
For  one  another,  though  dissimilar  ; 
Such  difference  without  discord,  as  can  make 
Those  sweetest  sounds,  in  which  all  spirits  shake 
As  trembling  leaves  in  a  continuous  air  ? 

Thy  wisdom  speaks  in  me,  and  bids  me  dare 
Beacon  the  rocks  on  which  high  hearts  are  wrecked. 
I  never  was  attached  to  that  great  sect, 
Whose  doctrine  is,  that  each  one  should  select 
Out  of  the  crowd  a  mistress  or  a  friend, 
And  all  the  rest,  though  fair  and  wise,  commend 
To  cold  oblivion,  though  it  is  in  the  code 
Of  modern  morals,  and  the  beaten  road 
Which  those  poor  slaves  with  weary  footsteps  tread, 
Who  travel  to  their  home  among  the  dead 
By  the  broad  highway  of  the  world,  and  so 
With  one  chained  friend,  perhaps  a  jealous  foe, 
The  dreariest  and  the  longest  journey  go. 


164  EPIPSYCHIDION 

True  Love  in  this  differs  from  gold  and  clay, 
That  to  divide  is  not  to  take  away. 
Love  is  like  understanding,  that  grows  bright, 
Gazing  on  many  truths  ;  'tis  like  thy  light, 
Imagination  !  which  from  earth  and  sky, 
And  from  the  depths  of  human  phantasy, 
As  from  a  thousand  prisms  and  mirrors,  fills 
The  universe  with  glorious  beams,  and  kills 
Error,  the  worm,  with  many  a  sun-like  arrow 
Of  its  reverberated  lightning.     Narrow 
The  heart  that  loves,  the  brain  that  contemplates, 
The  life  that  wears,  the  spirit  that  creates 
One  object,  and  one  form,  and  builds  thereby 
A  sepulchre  for  its  eternity. 

Mind  from  its  object  differs  most  in  this : 
Evil  from  good  ;  misery  from  happiness  ; 
The  baser  from  the  nobler ;  the  impure 
And  frail,  from  what  is  clear  and  must  endure. 
If  you  divide  suffering  and  dross,  you  may 
Diminish  till  it  is  consumed  away  ; 
If  you  divide  pleasure  and  love  and  thought, 
Each  part  exceeds  the  whole  ;  and  we  know  not 
How  much,  while  any  yet  remains  unshared, 
Of  pleasure  may  be  gained,  of  sorrow  spared  : 
This  truth  is  that  deep  well,  whence  sages  draw 
The  unenvied  light  of  hope  ;  the  eternal  law 
By  which  those  live,  to  whom  this  world  of  life 
Is  as  a  garden  ravaged,  and  whose  strife 
Tills  for  the  promise  of  a  later  birth 
The  wilderness  of  this  Elysian  earth. 

There  was  a  Being  whom  my  spirit  oft 
Met  on  its  visioned  wanderings,  far  aloft, 
In  the  clear  golden  prime  of  my  youth's  dawn, 
Upon  the  fairy  isles  of  sunny  lawn, 
Amid  the  enchanted  mountains,  and  the  caves 


EPIPSYCHIDION  165 

Of  divine  sleep,  and  on  the  air-like  waves 

Of  wonder-level  dream,  whose  tremulous  floor 

Paved  her  light  steps ; — on  an  imagined  shore, 

Under  the  grey  beak  of  some  promontory 

She  met  me,  robed  in  such  exceeding  glory, 

That  I  beheld  her  not.     In  solitudes 

Her  voice  came  to  me  through  the  whispering  woods, 

And  from  the  fountains,  and  the  odours  deep 

Of  flowers,  which,  like  lips  murmuring  in  their  sleep 

Of  the  sweet  kisses  which  had  lulled  them  there, 

Breathed  but  of  her  to  the  enamoured  air ; 

And  from  the  breezes  whether  low  or  loud, 

And  from  the  rain  of  every  passing  cloud, 

And  from  the  singing  of  the  summer-birds, 

And  from  all  sounds,  all  silence.     In  the  words 

Of  antique  verse  and  high  romance, — in  form, 

Sound,  colour — in  whatever  checks  that  Storm 

Which  with  the  shattered  present  chokes  the  past ; 

And  in  that  best  philosophy,  whose  taste 

Makes  this  cold  common  hell,  our  life,  a  doom 

As  glorious  as  a  fiery  martyrdom  ; 

Her  Spirit  was  the  harmony  of  truth. — 

Then,  from  the  caverns  of  my  dreamy  youth 
I  sprang,  as  one  sandalled  with  plumes  of  fire, 
And  towards  the  loadstar  of  my  one  desire, 
I  flitted,  like  a  dizzy  moth,  whose  flight 
Is  as  a  dead  leaf's  in  the  owlet  light, 
When  it  would  seek  in  Hesper's  setting  sphere 
A  radiant  death,  a  fiery  sepulchre, 
As  if  it  were  a  lamp  of  earthly  flame. — 
But  She,  whom  prayers  or  tears  then  could  not  tame, 
Passed,  like  a  God  throned  on  a  winged  planet, 
Whose  burning  plumes  to  tenfold  swiftness  fan  it, 
Into  the  dreary  cone  of  our  life's  shade  ; 
And  as  a  man  with  mighty  loss  dismayed, 
I  would  have  followed,  though  the  grave  between 


166  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Yawned  like  a  gulph  whose  spectres  are  unseen  : 

When  a  voice  said  : — "  O  Thou  of  hearts  the  weakest, 

"  The  phantom  is  beside  thee  whom  thou  seekest." 

Then  I — "  where  ? "  the  world's  echo  answered  "  where ! 

And  in  that  silence,  and  in  my  despair, 

I  questioned  every  tongueless  wind  that  flew 

Over  my  tower  of  mourning,  if  it  knew 

Whither  'twas  fled,  this  soul  out  of  my  soul ; 

And  murmured  names  and  spells  which  have  control 

Over  the  sightless  tyrants  of  our  fate  ; 

But  neither  prayer  nor  verse  could  dissipate 

The  night  which  closed  on  her ;  nor  uncreate 

That  world  within  this  Chaos,  mine  and  me, 

Of  which  she  was  the  veiled  Divinity, 

The  world  I  say  of  thoughts  that  worshipped  her : 

And  therefore  I  went  forth,  with  hope  and  fear 

And  every  gentle  passion  sick  to  death, 

Feeding  my  course  with  expectation's  breath, 

Into  the  wintry  forest  of  our  life  ; 

And  struggling  through  its  error  with  vain  strife, 

And  stumbling  in  my  weakness  and  my  haste, 

And  half  bewildered  by  new  forms,  I  passed 

Seeking  among  those  untaught  foresters 

If  I  could  find  one  form  resembling  hers, 

In  which  she  might  have  masked  herself  from  me. 

There, — One,  whose  voice  was  venomed  melody, 

Sate  by  a  well,  under  blue  night-shade  bowers ; 

The  breath  of  her  false  mouth  was  like  faint  flowers, 

Her  touch  was  as  electric  poison, — flame 

Out  of  her  looks  into  my  vitals  came, 

And  from  her  living  cheeks  and  bosom  flew 

A  killing  air,  which  pierced  like  honey-dew 

Into  the  core  of  my  green  heart,  and  lay 

Upon  its  leaves  ;  until,  as  hair  grown  grey 

O'er  a  young  brow,  they  hid  its  unblown  prime 

With  ruins  of  unseasonable  time. 


EPIPSYCHIDION  167 

In  many  mortal  forms  I  rashly  sought 
The  shadow  of  that  idol  of  my  thought. 
And  some  were  fair — but  beauty  dies  away  : 
Others  were  wise — but  honeyed  words  betray  : 
And  One  was  true — oh !  why  not  true  to  me  ? 
Then,  as  a  hunted  deer  that  could  not  flee, 
I  turned  upon  my  thoughts,  and  stood  at  bay, 
Wounded  and  weak  and  panting ;  the  cold  day 
Trembled,  for  pity  of  my  strife  and  pain. 
When,  like  a  noon-day  dawn,  there  shone  again 
Deliverance.     One  stood  on  my  path  who  seemed 
As  like  the  glorious  shape  which  I  had  dreamed, 
As  is  the  Moon,  whose  changes  ever  run 
Into  themselves,  to  the  eternal  Sun  ; 
The  cold  chaste  Moon,  the  Queen  of  Heaven's  bright 

isles, 
Who  makes  all  beautiful  on  which  she  smiles, 
That  wandering  shrine  of  soft  yet  icy  flame 
Which  ever  is  transformed,  yet  still  the  same, 
And  warms  not  but  illumines.     Young  and  fair 
As  the  descended  Spirit  of  that  sphere, 
She  hid  me,  as  the  Moon  may  hide  the  night 
From  its  own  darkness,  until  all  was  bright 
Between  the  Heaven  and  Earth  of  my  calm  mind, 
And,  as  a  cloud  charioted  by  the  wind, 
She  led  me  to  a  cave  in  that  wild  place, 
And  sate  beside  me,  with  her  downward  face 
Illumining  my  slumbers,  like  the  Moon 
Waxing  and  waning  o'er  Endymion. 
And  I  was  laid  asleep,  spirit  and  limb, 
And  all  my  being  became  bright  or  dim 
As  the  Moon's  image  in  a  summer  sea, 
According  as  she  smiled  or  frowned  on  me ; 
And  there  I  lay,  within  a  chaste  cold  bed  : 
Alas,  I  then  was  nor  alive  nor  dead  : — 
For  at  her  silver  voice  came  Death  and  Life, 
Unmindful  each  of  their  accustomed  strife, 


1 68  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Masked  like  twin  babes,  a  sister  and  a  brother, 
The  wandering  hopes  of  one  abandoned  mother, 
And  through  the  cavern  without  wings  they  flew, 
And  cried  "  Away,  he  is  not  of  our  crew." 
I  wept,  and  though  it  be  a  dream,  I  weep. 

What  storms  then  shook  the  ocean  of  my  sleep, 
Blotting  that  Moon,  whose  pale  and  waning  lips 
Then  shrank  as  in  the  sickness  of  eclipse  ; — 
And  how  my  soul  was  as  a  lampless  sea, 
And  who  was  then  its  Tempest ;  and  when  She, 
The  Planet  of  that  hour,  was  quenched,  what  frost 
Crept  o'er  those  waters,  till  from  coast  to  coast 
The  moving  billows  of  my  being  fell 
Into  a  death  of  ice,  immovable  ; — 
And  then — what  earthquakes  made  it  gape  and  split, 
The  white  Moon  smiling  all  the  while  on  it, 
These  words  conceal : — If  not,  each  word  would  be 
The  key  of  staunchless  tears.     Weep  not  for  me  ! 

At  length,  into  the  obscure  Forest  came 
The  Vision  I  had  sought  through  grief  and  shame. 
Athwart  that  wintry  wilderness  of  thorns 
Flashed  from  her  motion  splendour  like  the  Morn's, 
And  from  her  presence  life  was  radiated 
Through  the  grey  earth  and  branches  bare  and  dead ; 
So  that  her  way  was  paved,  and  roofed  above 
With  flowers  as  soft  as  thoughts  of  budding  love  ; 
And  music  from  her  respiration  spread 
Like  light, — all  other  sounds  were  penetrated 
By  the  small,  still,  sweet  spirit  of  that  sound, 
So  that  the  savage  winds  hung  mute  around  ; 
And  odours  warm  and  fresh  fell  from  her  hair 
Dissolving  the  dull  cold  in  the  frore  air : 
Soft  as  an  Incarnation  of  the  Sun, 
When  light  is  changed  to  love,  this  glorious  One 
Floated  into  the  cavern  where  I  lay, 


EPIPSYCHIDION  169 

And  called  my  Spirit,  and  the  dreaming  clay 
Was  lifted  by  the  thing  that  dreamed  below 
As  smoke  by  fire,  and  in  her  beauty's  glow 
I  stood,  and  felt  the  dawn  of  my  long  night 
Was  penetrating  me  with  living  light : 
I  knew  it  was  the  Vision  veiled  from  me 
So  many  years — that  it  was  Emily. 

Twin  Spheres  of  light  who  rule  this  passive  Earth, 
This  world  of  love,  this  me ;  and  into  birth 
Awaken  all  its  fruits  and  flowers,  and  dart 
Magnetic  might  into  its  central  heart ; 
And  lift  its  billows  and  its  mists,  and  guide 
By  everlasting  laws  each  wind  and  tide 
To  its  fit  cloud,  and  its  appointed  cave ; 
And  lull  its  storms,  each  in  the  craggy  grave 
Which  was  its  cradle,  luring  to  faint  bowers 
The  armies  of  the  rainbow-winged  showers  ; 
And,  as  those  married  lights,  which  from  the  towers 
Of  Heaven  look  forth  and  fold  the  wandering  globe 
In  liquid  sleep  and  splendour,  as  a  robe  ; 
And  all  their  many-mingled  influence  blend, 
If  equal,  yet  unlike,  to  one  sweet  end  ; — 
So  ye,  bright  regents,  with  alternate  sway 
Govern  my  sphere  of  being,  night  and  day ! 
Thou,  not  disdaining  even  a  borrowed  might ; 
Thou,  not  eclipsing  a  remoter  light ; 
And,  through  the  shadow  of  the  seasons  three, 
From  Spring  to  Autumn's  sere  maturity, 
Light  it  into  the  Winter  of  the  tomb, 
Where  it  may  ripen  to  a  brighter  bloom. 
Thou  too,  O  Comet  beautiful  and  fierce, 
Who  drew  the  heart  of  this  frail  Universe 
Towards  thine  own  ;  till,  wrecked  in  that  convulsion 
Alternating  attraction  and  repulsion, 
Thine  went  astray  and  that  was  rent  in  twain ; 
Oh,  float  into  our  azure  heaven  again ! 


170 


EPIPSYCHIDION 


Be  there  love's  folding-star  at  thy  return  ; 
The  living  Sun  will  feed  thee  from  its  urn 
Of  golden  fire  ;  the  Moon  will  veil  her  horn 
In  thy  last  smiles  ;  adoring  Even  and  Morn 
Will  worship  thee  with  incense  of  calm  breath 
And  lights  and  shadows  ;  as  the  star  of  Death 
And  Birth  is  worshipped  by  those  sisters  wild 
Called  Hope  and  Fear — upon  the  heart  are  piled 
Their  offerings, — of  this  sacrifice  divine 
A  World  shall  be  the  altar. 

Lady  mine, 
Scorn  not  these  flowers  of  thought,  the  fading  birth 
Which  from  its  heart  of  hearts  that  plant  puts  forth 
Whose  fruit,  made  perfect  by  thy  sunny  eyes, 
Will  be  as  of  the  trees  of  Paradise. 


The  day  is  come,  and  thou  wilt  fly  with  me. 
To  whatsoe'er  of  dull  mortality 
Is  mine,  remain  a  vestal  sister  still ; 
To  the  intense,  the  deep,  the  imperishable, 
Not  mine  but  me,  henceforth  be  thou  united 
Even  as  a  bride,  delighting  and  delighted. 
The  hour  is  come  : — the  destined  Star  has  risen 
Which  shall  descend  upon  a  vacant  prison. 


EPIPSYCHIDION  171 


The  walls  are  high,  the  gates  are  strong,  thick  set 

The  sentinels — but  true  love  never  yet 

Was  thus  constrained  :  it  overleaps  all  fence : 

Like  lightning,  with  invisible  violence 

Piercing  its  continents  ;  like  Heaven's  free  breath, 

Which  he  who  grasps  can  hold  not ;  liker  Death, 

Who  rides  upon  a  thought,  and  makes  his  way 

Through  temple,  tower,  and  palace,  and  the  array 

Of  arms  :  more  strength  has  Love  than  he  or  they  ; 

For  it  can  burst  its  charnel,  and  make  free 

The  limbs  in  chains,  the  heart  in  agony, 

The  soul  in  dust  and  chaos. 

■  Emily, 

A  ship  is  floating  in  the  harbour  now, 
A  wind  is  hovering  o'er  the  mountain's  brow ; 
There  is  a  path  on  the  sea's  azure  floor, 
No  keel  has  ever  ploughed  that  path  before ; 
The  halcyons  brood  around  the  foamless  isles  ; 
The  treacherous  Ocean  has  forsworn  its  wiles  ; 
The  merry  mariners  are  bold  and  free  : 
Say,  my  heart's  sister,  wilt  thou  sail  with  me  ? 
Our  bark  is  as  an  albatross,  whose  nest 
Is  a  far  Eden  of  the  purple  East ; 
And  we  between  her  wings  will  sit,  while  Night 
And  Day,  and  Storm,  and  Calm,  pursue  their  flight, 
Our  ministers,  along  the  boundless  Sea, 
Treading  each  other's  heels,  unheededly. 
It  is  an  isle  under  Ionian  skies, 
Beautiful  as  a  wreck  of  Paradise  ; 
And,  for  the  harbours  are  not  safe  and  good, 
This  land  would  have  remained  a  solitude 
But  for  some  pastoral  people  native  there, 
Who  from  the  Elysian,  clear,  and  golden  air 
Draw  the  last  spirit  of  the  age  of  gold, — 
Simple  and  spirited,  innocent  and  bold. 
The  blue  Aegean  girds  this  chosen  home, 
With  ever-changing  sound  and  light  and  foam, 


172  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Kissing  the  sifted  sands  and  caverns  hoar ; 

And  all  the  winds  wandering  along  the  shore 

Undulate  with  the  undulating  tide : 

There  are  thick  woods  where  sylvan  forms  abide  ; 

And  many  a  fountain,  rivulet,  and  pond, 

As  clear  as  elemental  diamond, 

Or  serene  morning  air  ;  and  far  beyond, 

The  mossy  tracks  made  by  the  goats  and  deer 

(Which  the  rough  shepherd  treads  but  once  a  year,) 

Pierce  into  glades,  caverns,  and  bowers,  and  halls 

Built  round  with  ivy,  which  the  waterfalls 

Illumining,  with  sound  that  never  fails 

Accompany  the  noon-day  nightingales  ; 

And  all  the  place  is  peopled  with  sweet  airs ; 

The  light  clear  element  which  the  isle  wears 

Is  heavy  with  the  scent  of  lemon-flowers, 

Which  floats  like  mist  laden  with  unseen  showers 

And  falls  upon  the  eyelids  like  faint  sleep  ; 

And  from  the  moss  violets  and  jonquils  peep, 

And  dart  their  arrowy  odour  through  the  brain 

Till  you  might  faint  with  that  delicious  pain. 

And  every  motion,  odour,  beam,  and  tone, 

With  that  deep  music  is  in  unison : 

Which  is  a  soul  within  the  soul — they  seem 

Like  echoes  of  an  antenatal  dream. — 

It  is  an  isle  'twixt  Heaven,  Air,  Earth,  and  Sea, 

Cradled,  and  hung  in  clear  tranquillity  ; 

Bright  as  that  wandering  Eden  Lucifer, 

Washed  by  the  soft  blue  Oceans  of  young  air. 

It  is  a  favoured  place.     Famine  or  Blight, 

Pestilence,  War  and  Earthquake,  never  light 

Upon  its  mountain-peaks  ;  blind  vultures,  they 

Sail  onward  far  upon  their  fatal  way : 

The  winged  storms,  chaunting  their  thunder-psalm 

To  other  lands,  leave  azure  chasms  of  calm 

Over  this  isle,  or  weep  themselves  in  dew, 

From  which  its  fields  and  woods  ever  renew 


EPIPSYCHIDION  173 


Their  green  and  golden  immortality. 

And  from  the  sea  there  rise,  and  from  the  sky 

There  fall,  clear  exhalations,  soft  and  bright, 

Veil  after  veil,  each  hiding  some  delight, 

Which  Sun  or  Moon  or  zephyr  draw  aside, 

Till  the  isle's  beauty,  like  a  naked  bride 

Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 

Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess : 

Yet,  like  a  buried  lamp,  a  Soul  no  less 

Burns  in  the  heart  of  this  delicious  isle, 

An  atom  of  th'  Eternal,  whose  own  smile 

Unfolds  itself,  and  may  be  felt,  not  seen, 

O'er  the  grey  rocks,  blue  waves,  and  forests  green, 

Filling  their  bare  and  void  interstices. — 

But  the  chief  marvel  of  the  wilderness 

Is  a  lone  dwelling,  built  by  whom  or  how 

None  of  the  rustic  island-people  know  : 

'Tis  not  a  tower  of  strength,  though  with  its  height 

It  overtops  the  woods  ;  but,  for  delight, 

Some  wise  and  tender  Ocean-King,  ere  crime 

Had  been  invented,  in  the  world's  young  prime, 

Reared  it,  a  wonder  of  that  simple  time, 

An  envy  of  the  isles,  a  pleasure-house 

Made  sacred  to  his  sister  and  his  spouse. 

It  scarce  seems  now  a  wreck  of  human  art, 

But,  as  it  were  Titanic  ;  in  the  heart 

Of  Earth  having  assumed  its  form,  then  grown 

Out  of  the  mountains,  from  the  living  stone, 

Lifting  itself  in  caverns  light  and  high  : 

For  all  the  antique  and  learned  imagery 

Has  been  erased,  and  in  the  place  of  it 

The  ivy  and  the  wild-vine  interknit 

The  volumes  of  their  many-twining  stems  ; 

Parasite  flowers  illume  with  dewy  gems 

The  lampless  halls,  and  when  they  fade,  the  sky 

Peeps  through  their  winter-woof  of  tracery 

With  Moon-light  patches,  or  star  atoms  keen, 


174  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Or  fragments  of  the  day's  intense  serene  ; — 

Working  mosaic  on  their  Parian  floors. 

And,  day  and  night,  aloof,  from  the  high  towers 

And  terraces,  the  Earth  and  Ocean  seem 

To  sleep  in  one  another's  arms,  and  dream 

Of  waves,  flowers,  clouds,  woods,  rocks,  and  all  that  we 

Read  in  their  smiles,  and  call  reality. 

This  isle  and  house  are  mine,  and  I  have  vowed 
Thee  to  be  lady  of  the  solitude. — 
And  I  have  fitted  up  some  chambers  there 
Looking  towards  the  golden  Eastern  air, 
And  level  with  the  living  winds,  which  flow 
Like  waves  above  the  living  waves  below. — 
I  have  sent  books  and  music  there,  and  all 
Those  instruments  with  which  high  spirits  call 
The  future  from  its  cradle,  and  the  past 
Out  of  its  grave,  and  make  the  present  last 
In  thoughts  and  joys  which  sleep,  but  cannot  die, 
Folded  within  their  own  eternity. 
Our  simple  life  wants  little,  and  true  taste 
Hires  not  the  pale  drudge  Luxury,  to  waste 
The  scene  it  would  adorn,  and  therefore,  still, 
Nature,  with  all  her  children,  haunts  the  hill. 
The  ring-dove,  in  the  embowering  ivy,  yet 
Keeps  up  her  love-lament,  and  the  owls  flit 
Round  the  evening  tower,  and  the  young  stars  glance 
Between  the  quick  bats  in  their  twilight  dance  ; 
The  spotted  deer  bask  in  the  fresh  moon-light 
Before  our  gate,  and  the  slow,  silent  night 
Is  measured  by  the  pants  of  their  calm  sleep. 
Be  this  our  home  in  life,  and  when  years  heap 
Their  withered  hours,  like  leaves,  on  our  decay, 
Let  us  become  the  over-hanging  day, 
The  living  soul  of  this  Elysian  isle, 
Conscious,  inseparable,  one.     Meanwhile 
We  two  will  rise,  and  sit,  and  walk  together, 


EPIPSYCHIDION  175 

Under  the  roof  of  blue  Ionian  weather, 

And  wander  in  the  meadows,  or  ascend 

The  mossy  mountains,  where  the  blue  heavens  bend 

With  lightest  winds,  to  touch  their  paramour ; 

Or  linger,  where  the  pebble-paven  shore, 

Under  the  quick,  faint  kisses  of  the  sea 

Trembles  and  sparkles  as  with  ecstasy, — 

Possessing  and  possessed  by  all  that  is 

Within  that  calm  circumference  of  bliss, 

And  by  each  other,  till  to  love  and  live 

Be  one : — or,  at  the  noontide  hour,  arrive 

Where  some  old  cavern  hoar  seems  yet  to  keep 

The  moonlight  of  the  expired  night  asleep, 

Through  which  the  awakened  day  can  never  peep  ; 

A  veil  for  our  seclusion,  close  as  Night's, 

Where  secure  sleep  may  kill  thine  innocent  lights ; 

Sleep,  the  fresh  dew  of  languid  love,  the  rain 

Whose  drops  quench  kisses  till  they  burn  again. 

And  we  will  talk,  until  thought's  melody 

Become  too  sweet  for  utterance,  and  it  die 

In  words,  to  live  again  in  looks,  which  dart 

With  thrilling  tone  into  the  voiceless  heart, 

Harmonizing  silence  without  a  sound. 

Our  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound, 

And  our  veins  beat  together ;  and  our  lips, 

With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 

The  soul  that  burns  between  them  ;  and  the  wells 

Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 

The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 

Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity, 

As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  Sun. 

We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 

Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh  !  wherefore  two  ? 

One  passion  in  twin-hearts,  which  grows  and  grew, 

Till  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 

Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same, 

Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured  ;  ever  still 


176  EPIPSYCHIDION 

Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  : 

In  one  another's  substance  rinding  food, 

Like  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbued 

To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser  prey, 

Which  point  to  Heaven  and  cannot  pass  away  : 

One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 

Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one  death, 

One  Heaven,  one  Hell,  one  immortality, 

And  one  annihilation.     Woe  is  me ! 

The  winged  words  on  which  my  soul  would  pierce 

Into  the  height  of  love's  rare  Universe 

Are  chains  of  lead  around  its  flight  of  fire. — 

I  pant,  I  sink,  I  tremble,  I  expire ! 


Weak  Verses,  go,  kneel  at  your  Sovereign's  feet, 
And  say  : — "  We  are  the  masters  of  thy  slave  ; 
"  What  wouldest  thou  with  us  and  ours  and  thine  ?  " 
Then  call  your  sisters  from  Oblivion's  cave, 
All  singing  loud  :    "  Love's  very  pain  is  sweet. 
"  But  its  reward  is  in  the  world  divine 
"  Which,  if  not  here,  it  builds  beyond  the  grave." 
So  shall  ye  live  when  I  am  there.     Then  haste 
Over  the  hearts  of  men,  until  ye  meet 
Marina,  Vanna,  Primus,  and  the  rest, 
And  bid  them  love  each  other  and  be  bless'd : 
And  leave  the  troop  which  errs,  and  which  reproves, 
And  come  and  be  my  guest, — for  I  am  Love's. 


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ADONAIS 


I  WEEP  for  Adonais — he  is  dead ! 
O,  weep  for  Adonais  !  though  our  tears 
Thaw  not  the  frost  which  binds  so  dear  a  head  ! 
And  thou,  sad  Hour,  selected  from  all  years 
To  mourn  our  loss,  rouse  thy  obscure  compeers, 
And  teach  them  thine  own  sorrow,  say  :  with  me 
Died  Adonais  ;  till  the  Future  dares 
Forget  the  Past,  his  fate  and  fame  shall  be 
An  echo  and  a  light  unto  eternity. 


182  ADONAIS 

II 
Where  wert  thou,  mighty  Mother,  when  he  lay, 
When  thy  Son  lay,  pierced  by  the  shaft  which  flies 
In  darkness  ?  where  was  lorn  Urania 
When  Adonais  died  ?    With  veiled  eyes, 
'Mid  listening  Echoes,  in  her  Paradise 
She  sate,  while  one,  with  soft  enamoured  breath, 
Rekindled  all  the  fading  melodies, 
With  which,  like  flowers  that  mock  the  corse  beneath, 
He  had  adorned  and  hid  the  coming  bulk  of  death. 


Ill 
O,  weep  for  Adonais — he  is  dead  ! 
Wake,  melancholy  Mother,  wake  and  weep  ! 
Yet  wherefore  ?    Quench  within  their  burning  bed 
Thy  fiery  tears,  and  let  thy  loud  heart  keep, 
Like  his,  a  mute  and  uncomplaining  sleep ; 
For  he  is  gone,  where  all  things  wise  and  fair 
Descend ; — oh,  dream  not  that  the  amorous  Deep 
Will  yet  restore  him  to  the  vital  air ; 
Death  feeds  on  his  mute  voice,  and  laughs  at  our  despair. 


IV 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  again ! 
Lament  anew,  Urania ! — He  died, 
Who  was  the  Sire  of  an  immortal  strain, 
Blind,  old,  and  lonely,  when  his  country's  pride, 
The  priest,  the  slave,  and  the  liberticide, 
Trampled  and  mocked  with  many  a  loathed  rite 
Of  lust  and  blood  ;  he  went,  unterrified, 
Into  the  gulph  of  death  ;  but  his  clear  Sprite 
Yet  reigns  o'er  earth ;  the  third  among  the  sons  of  light. 


ADONAIS  183 

v 

Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Not  all  to  that  bright  station  dared  to  climb  ; 
And  happier  they  their  happiness  who  knew, 
Whose  tapers  yet  burn  through  that  night  of  time 
In  which  suns  perished  ;  others  more  sublime, 
Struck  by  the  envious  wrath  of  man  or  God, 
Have  sunk,  extinct  in  their  refulgent  prime  ; 
And  some  yet  live,  treading  the  thorny  road, 
Which  leads,  through  toil  and  hate,  to   Fame's  serene 
abode. 


VI 

But  now,  thy  youngest,  dearest  one  has  perished, 
The  nursling  of  thy  widowhood,  who  grew, 
Like  a  pale  flower  by  some  sad  maiden  cherished, 
And  fed  with  true  love  tears,  instead  of  dew  ; 
Most  musical  of  mourners,  weep  anew  ! 
Thy  extreme  hope,  the  loveliest  and  the  last, 
The  bloom,  whose  petals,  nipped  before  they  blew, 
Died  on  the  promise  of  the  fruit,  is  waste ; 
The  broken  lily  lies — the  storm  is  overpast. 


VII 
To  that  high  Capital,  where  kingly  Death 
Keeps  his  pale  court  in  beauty  and  decay, 
He  came ;  and  bought,  with  price  of  purest  breath, 
A  grave  among  the  eternal. — Come  away  ! 
Haste,  while  the  vault  of  blue  Italian  day 
Is  yet  his  fitting  charnel-roof !  while  still 
He  lies,  as  if  in  dewy  sleep  he  lay ; 
Awake  him  not !  surely  he  takes  his  fill 
Of  deep  and  liquid  rest,  forgetful  of  all  ill. 


1 84  ADONAIS 

VIII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more  ! — 
Within  the  twilight  chamber  spreads  apace 
The  shadow  of  white  Death,  and  at  the  door 
Invisible  Corruption  waits  to  trace 
His  extreme  way  to  her  dim  dwelling-place  ; 
The  eternal  Hunger  sits,  but  pity  and  awe 
Soothe  her  pale  rage,  nor  dares  she  to  deface 
So  fair  a  prey,  till  darkness,  and  the  law 
Of  change,  shall  o'er  his  sleep  the  mortal  curtain  draw. 


IX 
O,  weep  for  Adonais  ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion- winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more,  from  kindling  brain  to  brain, 
But  droop  there,  whence  they  sprung ;   and   mourn 

their  lot 
Round  the  cold  heart,  where,  after  their  sweet  pain, 
They  ne'er  will  gather  strength,  or  find  a  home  again. 


x 

And  one  with  trembling  hands  clasps  his  cold  head, 
And  fans  him  with  her  moonlight  wings,  and  cries  ; 
"  Our  love,  our  hope,  our  sorrow,  is  not  dead  ; 
"  See,  on  the  silken  fringe  of  his  faint  eyes, 
"  Like  dew  upon  a  sleeping  flower,  there  lies 
"  A  tear  some  Dream  has  loosened  from  his  brain." 
Lost  Angel  of  a  ruined  Paradise ! 
She  knew  not  'twas  her  own  ;  as  with  no  stain 
She  faded,  like  a  cloud  which  had  out  wept  its  rain. 


ADONAIS  185 

XI 

One  from  a  lucid  urn  of  starry  dew 
Washed  his  light  limbs  as  if  embalming  them  ; 
Another  clipped  her  profuse  locks,  and  threw 
The  wreath  upon  him,  like  an  anadem, 
Which  frozen  tears  instead  of  pearls  begem  ; 
Another  in  her  wilful  grief  would  break 
Her  bow  and  winged  reeds,  as  if  to  stem 
A  greater  loss  with  one  which  was  more  weak  ; 
And  dull  the  barbed  fire  against  his  frozen  cheek. 


XII 

Another  Splendour  on  his  mouth  alit, 
That  mouth,  whence  it  was  wont  to  draw  the  breath 
Which  gave  it  strength  to  pierce  the  guarded  wit, 
And  pass  into  the  panting  heart  beneath 
With  lightning  and  with  music  :  the  damp  death 
Quenched  its  caress  upon  his  icy  lips  ; 
And,  as  a  dying  meteor  stains  a  wreath 
Of  moonlight  vapour,  which  the  cold  night  clips, 
It  flushed  through  his  pale  limbs,  and    passed  to  its 
eclipse. 


XIII 
And  others  came  .  .  .  Desires  and  Adorations, 
Winged  Persuasions  and  veiled  Destinies, 
Splendours,  and  Glooms,  and  glimmering  Incarnations 
Of  hopes  and  fears,  and  twilight  Phantasies  ; 
And  Sorrow,  with  her  family  of  Sighs, 
And  Pleasure,  blind  with  tears,  led  by  the  gleam 
Of  her  own  dying  smile  instead  of  eyes, 
Came  in  slow  pomp  ; — the  moving  pomp  might  seem 
Like  pageantry  of  mist  on  an  autumnal  stream. 


1 86  ADONAIS 

XIV 

All  he  had  loved,  and  moulded  into  thought, 
From  shape,  and  hue,  and  odour,  and  sweet  sound, 
Lamented  Adonais.     Morning  sought 
Her  eastern  watch-tower,  and  her  hair  unbound, 
Wet  with  the  tears  which  should  adorn  the  ground, 
Dimmed  the  aerial  eyes  that  kindle  day ; 
Afar  the  melancholy  thunder  moaned, 
Pale  Ocean  in  unquiet  slumber  lay, 
And  the  wild  winds  flew  round,  sobbing  in  their  dismay. 


XV 
Lost  Echo  sits  amid  the  voiceless  mountains, 
And  feeds  her  grief  with  his  remembered  lay, 
And  will  no  more  reply  to  winds  or  fountains, 
Or  amorous  birds  perched  on  the  young  green  spray, 
Or  herdsman's  horn,  or  bell  at  closing  day  ; 
Since  she  can  mimic  not  his  lips,  more  dear 
Than  those  for  whose  disdain  she  pined  away 
Into  a  shadow  of  all  sounds  : — a  drear 
Murmur,  between  their  songs,  is  all  the  woodmen  hear. 


XVI 
Grief  made  the  young  Spring  wild,  and  she  threw  down 
Her  kindling  buds,  as  if  she  Autumn  were, 
Or  they  dead  leaves  ;  since  her  delight  is  flown 
For  whom  should  she  have  waked  the  sullen  year  ? 
To  Phoebus  was  not  Hyacinth  so  dear 
Nor  to  himself  Narcissus,  as  to  both 
Thou,  Adonais  :  wan  they  stand  and  sere 
Amid  the  faint  companions  of  their  youth, 
With  dew  all  turned  to  tears  ;  odour,  to  sighing  ruth. 


GRIEF     MADE    THE    YOUNG     SPRING    WILD 


ADONAIS  189 

XVII 
Thy  spirit's  sister,  the  lorn  nightingale, 
Mourns  not  her  mate  with  such  melodious  pain  ; 
Not  so  the  eagle,  who  like  thee  could  scale 
Heaven,  and  could  nourish  in  the  sun's  domain 
Her  mighty  youth  with  morning,  doth  complain, 
Soaring  and  screaming  round  her  empty  nest, 
As  Albion  wails  for  thee  :  the  curse  of  Cain 
Light  on  his  head  who  pierced  thy  innocent  breast, 
And  scared  the  angel  soul  that  was  its  earthly  guest ! 


XVIII 

Ah,  woe  is  me !   Winter  is  come  and  gone, 
But  grief  returns  with  the  revolving  year  ; 
The  airs  and  streams  renew  their  joyous  tone  ; 
The  ants,  the  bees,  the  swallows  reappear ; 
Fresh  leaves  and  flowers  deck  the  dead  Seasons'  bier ; 
The  amorous  birds  now  pair  in  every  brake, 
And  build  their  mossy  homes  in  field  and  brere  ; 
And  the  green  lizard,  and  the  golden  snake, 
Like  unimprisoned  flames,  out  of  their  trance  awake. 


XIX 
Through  wood  and  stream  and  field  and  hill  and  Ocean 
A  quickening  life  from  the  Earth's  heart  has  burst 
As  it  has  ever  done,  with  change  and  motion 
From  the  great  morning  of  the  world  when  first 
God  dawned  on  Chaos  ;  in  its  stream  immersed 
The  lamps  of  Heaven  flash  with  a  softer  light ; 
All  baser  things  pant  with  life's  sacred  thirst ; 
Diffuse  themselves  ;  and  spend  in  love's  delight 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  of  their  renewed  might. 


190  ADONAIS 

xx 

The  leprous  corpse  touched  by  this  spirit  tender 
Exhales  itself  in  flowers  of  gentle  breath  ; 
Like  incarnations  of  the  stars,  when  splendour 
Is  changed  to  fragrance,  they  illumine  death 
And  mock  the  merry  worm  that  wakes  beneath  ; 
Naught  we  know,  dies.     Shall  that  alone  which  knows 
Be  as  a  sword  consumed  before  the  sheath 
By  sightless  lightning  ? — th'  intense  atom  glows 
A  moment,  then  is  quenched  in  a  most  cold  repose. 


XXI 
Alas  ;  that  all  we  loved  of  him  should  be, 
But  for  our  grief,  as  if  it  had  not  been, 
And  grief  itself  be  mortal !    Woe  is  me  ! 
Whence  are  we,  and  why  are  we  ?  of  what  scene 
The  actors  or  spectators  ?    Great  and  mean 
Meet  massed  in  death,  who  lends  what  life  must  borrow. 
As  long  as  skies  are  blue,  and  fields  are  green, 
Evening  must  usher  night,  night  urge  the  morrow, 
Month  follow  month  with  woe,  and  year  wake  year  to 
sorrow. 


XXII 

He  will  awake  no  more,  oh,  never  more ! 
"  Wake  thou,"  cried  Misery,  "  childless  Mother,  rise 
"  Out  of  thy  sleep,  and  slake,  in  thy  heart's  core, 
"  A  wound  more  fierce  than  his  with  tears  and  sighs." 
And  all  the  Dreams  that  watched  Urania's  eyes, 
And  all  the  Echoes  whom  their  sister's  song 
Had  held  in  holy  silence,  cried  :  "  Arise  !  " 
Swift  as  a  Thought  by  the  snake  Memory  stung, 
From  her  ambrosial  rest  the  fading  Splendour  sprung. 


ADONAIS  191 

XXIII 
She  rose  like  an  autumnal  Night,  that  springs 
Out  of  the  East,  and  follows  wild  and  drear 
The  golden  Day,  which,  on  eternal  wings, 
Even  as  a  ghost  abandoning  a  bier, 
Had  left  the  Earth  a  corpse.     Sorrow  and  fear 
So  struck,  so  roused,  so  rapt  Urania  ; 
So  saddened  round  her  like  an  atmosphere 
Of  stormy  mist ;  so  swept  her  on  her  way 
Even  to  the  mournful  place  where  Adonais  lay. 


XXIV 
Out  of  her  secret  Paradise  she  sped, 
Through  camps  and  cities  rough  with  stone,  and  steel, 
And  human  hearts,  which  to  her  aery  tread 
Yielding  not,  wounded  the  invisible 
Palms  of  her  tender  feet  where'er  they  fell : 
And  barbed  tongues,  and  thoughts  more  sharp  than 

they, 
Rent  the  soft  Form  they  never  could  repel, 
Whose  sacred  blood,  like  the  young  tears  of  May, 
Paved  with  eternal  flowers  that  undeserving  way. 


xxv 
In  the  death  chamber  for  a  moment  Death, 
Shamed  by  the  presence  of  that  living  Might, 
Blushed  to  annihilation,  and  the  breath 
Revisited  those  lips,  and  life's  pale  light 
Flashed  through  those  limbs,  so  late  her  dear  delight, 
f!  Leave  me  not  wild  and  drear  and  comfortless, 
"  As  silent  lightning  leaves  the  starless  night ! 
"  Leave  me  not !  "  cried  Urania  :  her  distress 
Roused  Death  :     Death  rose  and  smiled,  and  met  her 
vain  caress. 


192  ADONAIS 

XXVI 
"  Stay  yet  awhile !  speak  to  me  once  again  ; 
"  Kiss  me,  so  long  but  as  a  kiss  may  live ; 
"  And  in  my  heartless  breast  and  burning  brain 
"  That  word,  that  kiss  shall  all  thoughts  else  survive, 
"  With  food  of  saddest  memory  kept  alive, 
"  Now  thou  art  dead,  as  if  it  were  a  part 
"  Of  thee,  my  Adonais  !    I  would  give 
"  All  that  I  am  to  be  as  thou  now  art ! 
"  But  I  am  chained  to  Time,  and  cannot  thence  depart ! 


XXVII 

"  Oh  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 
"  Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 
"  Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart 
"  Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den  ? 
"  Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  where  was  then 
"  Wisdom  the  mirrored  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 
"  Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle,  when 
"  Thy  spirit  should  have  filled  its  crescent  sphere, 
"  The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like 
deer. 


XXVIII 
"  The  herded  wolves,  bold  only  to  pursue  ; 
"  The  obscene  ravens,  clamorous  o'er  the  dead  ; 
"  The  vultures  to  the  conqueror's  banner  true, 
"  Who  feed  where  Desolation  first  has  fed, 
"  And  whose  wings  rain  contagion  ; — how  they  fled, 
"  When  like  Apollo,  from  his  golden  bow, 
"  The  Pythian  of  the  age  one  arrow  sped 
"  And  smiled  ! — The  spoilers  tempt  no  second  blow  ; 
They  fawn  on  the  proud  feet  that  spurn  them  lying  low. 


ADONAIS  193 

XXIX 

"  The  sun  comes  forth,  and  many  reptiles  spawn  ; 
"  He  sets,  and  each  ephemeral  insect  then 
"  Is  gathered  into  death  without  a  dawn, 
"  And  the  immortal  stars  awake  again  ; 
"  So  is  it  in  the  world  of  living  men  : 
"  A  godlike  mind  soars  forth,  in  its  delight 
"  Making  earth  bare  and  veiling  heaven,  and  when 
"  It  sinks,  the  swarms  that  dimmed  or  shared  its  light 
Leave  to  its  kindred  lamps  the  spirit's  awful  night." 


xxx 

Thus  ceased  she :  and  the  mountain-shepherds  came, 
Their  garlands  sere,  their  magic  mantles  rent ; 
The  Pilgrim  of  Eternity,  whose  fame 
Over  his  living  head  like  Heaven  is  bent, 
An  early  but  enduring  monument, 
Came,  veiling  all  the  lightnings  of  his  song 
In  sorrow  ;  from  her  wilds  I  erne  sent 
The  sweetest  lyrist  of  her  saddest  wrong, 
And  love  taught  grief  to  fall  like  music  from  his  tongue. 


XXXI 

Midst  others  of  less  note,  came  one  frail  Form, 
A  phantom  among  men,  companionless 
As  the  last  cloud  of  an  expiring  storm 
Whose  thunder  is  its  knell ;  he,  as  I  guess, 
Had  gazed  on  Nature's  naked  loveliness, 
Actaeon-like,  and  now  he  fled  astray 
With  feeble  steps  o'er  the  world's  wilderness, 
And  his  own  thoughts,  along  that  rugged  way, 
Pursued,  like  raging  hounds,  their  father  and  their  prey. 

O 


194  ADONAIS 

XXXII 

A  pardlike  Spirit  beautiful  and  swift — 
A  Love  in  desolation  masked  ; — a  Power 
Girt  round  with  weakness  ; — it  can  scarce  uplift 
The  weight  of  the  superincumbent  hour  ; 
It  is  a  dying  lamp,  a  falling  shower, 
A  breaking  billow ; — even  whilst  we  speak 
Is  it  not  broken  ?    On  the  withering  flower 
The  killing  sun  smiles  brightly  ;  on  a  cheek 
The  life  can  burn  in  blood,  even  while  the  heart  may 
break. 


XXXIII 

His  head  was  bound  with  pansies  overblown, 
And  faded  violets,  white,  and  pied,  and  blue ; 
And  a  light  spear  topped  with  a  cypress  cone, 
Round  whose  rude  shaft  dark  ivy  tresses  grew 
Yet  dripping  with  the  forest's  noonday  dew, 
Vibrated,  as  the  ever-beating  heart 
Shook  the  weak  hand  that  grasped  it ;  of  that  crew 
He  came  the  last,  neglected  and  apart  ; 
A  herd-abandoned  deer  struck  by  the  hunter's  dart. 


xxxiv 
All  stood  aloof,  and  at  his  partial  moan 
Smiled  through  their  tears  ;    well  knew  that  gentle 

band 
Who  in  another's  fate  now  wept  his  own  ; 
As,  in  the  accents  of  an  unknown  land, 
He  sung  new  sorrow  ;  sad  Urania  scanned 
The  Stranger's  mien,  and  murmured  :  "  who  art  thou?" 
He  answered  not,  but  with  a  sudden  hand 
Made  bare  his  branded  and  ensanguined  brow, 
Which  was  like  Cain's  or  Christ's — Oh !  that  it  should 

be  so ! 


ADONAIS  195 

XXXV 

What  softer  voice  is  hushed  over  the  dead  ? 
Athwart  what  brow  is  that  dark  mantle  thrown  ? 
What  form  leans  sadly  o'er  the  white  death-bed, 
In  mockery  of  monumental  stone, 
The  heavy  heart  heaving  without  a  moan  ? 
If  it  be  He,  who,  gentlest  of  the  wise, 
Taught,  soothed,  loved,  honoured  the  departed  one, 
Let  me  not  vex  with  inharmonious  sighs 
The  silence  of  that  heart's  accepted  sacrifice. 


xxxvi 
Our  Adonais  has  drunk  poison — oh  ! 
What  deaf  and  viperous  murderer  could  crown 
Life's  early  cup  with  such  a  draft  of  woe  ? 
The  nameless  worm  would  now  itself  disown  : 
It  felt,  yet  could  escape  the  magic  tone 
Whose  prelude  held  all  envy,  hate,  and  wrong, 
But  what  was  howling  in  one  breast  alone, 
Silent  with  expectation  of  the  song, 
Whose  master's  hand  is  cold,  whose  silver  lyre  unstrung. 


XXXVII 
Live  thou,  whose  infamy  is  not  thy  fame ! 
Live !  fear  no  heavier  chastisement  from  me, 
Thou  noteless  blot  on  a  remembered  name ! 
But  be  thyself,  and  know  thyself  to  be ! 
And  ever  at  thy  season  be  thou  free 
To  spill  the  venom  when  thy  fangs  o'erflow : 
Remorse  and  Self-contempt  shall  cling  to  thee ; 
Hot  Shame  shall  burn  upon  thy  secret  brow, 
And  like  a  beaten  hound  tremble  thou  shalt — as  now. 


196  ADONAIS 

XXXVIII 
Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 
Far  from  these  carrion  kites  that  scream  below ; 
He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 
Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. — 
Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 
Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 
A  portion  of  the  Eternal,  which  must  glow 
Through  time  and  change,  unquenchably  the  same, 
Whilst   thy  cold   embers   choke   the   sordid   hearth  of 
shame. 


XXXIX 

Peace,  peace !  he  is  not  dead,  he  doth  not  sleep — 
He  hath  awakened  from  the  dream  of  life — 
'Tis  we  who,  lost  in  stormy  visions,  keep 
With  phantoms  an  unprofitable  strife, 
And  in  mad  trance  strike  with  our  spirit's  knife 
Invulnerable  nothings. —  We  decay 
Like  corpses  in  a  charnel ;  fear  and  grief 
Convulse  us  and  consume  us  day  by  day, 
And  cold  hopes  swarm  like  worms  within  our  living 
clay. 


XL 

He  has  outsoared  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 
Envy  and  calumny  and  hate  and  pain, 
And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight, 
Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 
From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 
He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 
A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  grey  in  vain  ; 
Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 
With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 


ADONAIS  197 

XLI 
He  lives,  he  wakes — 'tis  Death  is  dead,  not  he  ; 
Mourn  not  for  Adonais. — Thou  young  Dawn 
Turn  all  thy  dew  to  splendour,  for  from  thee 
The  spirit  thou  lamentest  is  not  gone ; 
Ye  caverns  and  ye  forests,  cease  to  moan ! 
Cease  ye  faint  flowers  and  fountains,  and  thou  Air 
Which  like  a  mourning  veil  thy  scarf  hadst  thrown 
O'er  the  abandoned  Earth,  now  leave  it  bare 
Even  to  the  joyous  stars  which  smile  on  its  despair ! 


I  XLII 

He  is  made  one  with  Nature :  there  is  heard 
His  voice  in  all  her  music,  from  the  moan 
Of  thunder,  to  the  song  of  night's  sweet  bird  ; 
He  is  a  presence  to  be  felt  and  known 
In  darkness  and  in  light,  from  herb  and  stone, 
Spreading  itself  where'er  that  Power  may  move 
Which  has  withdrawn  his  being  to  its  own  ; 
Which  wields  the  world  with  never  wearied  love, 
Sustains  it  from  beneath,  and  kindles  it  above. 


XLIII 
He  is  a  portion  of  the  loveliness 
Which  once  he  made  more  lovely :  he  doth  bear 
His  part,  while  the  one  Spirit's  plastic  stress 
Sweeps  through  the  dull  dense  world,  compelling  there 
All  new  successions  to  the  forms  they  wear ; 
Torturing  th'  unwilling  dross  that  checks  its  flight 
To  its  own  likeness,  as  each  mass  may  bear  ; 
And  bursting  in  its  beauty  and  its  might 
From  trees  and  beasts  and  men  into  the  Heaven's  light. 


198  ADONAIS 

XLIV 
The  splendours  of  the  firmament  of  time 
May  be  eclipsed,  but  are  extinguished  not ; 
Like  stars  to  their  appointed  height  they  climb 
And  death  is  a  low  mist  which  cannot  blot 
The  brightness  it  may  veil.     When  lofty  thought 
Lifts  a  young  heart  above  its  mortal  lair, 
And  love  and  life  contend  in  it,  for  what 
Shall  be  its  earthly  doom,  the  dead  live  there 
And  move  like  winds  of  light  on  dark  and  stormy  air. 


XLV 
The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown 
Rose  from  their  thrones,  built  beyond  mortal  thought, 
Far  in  the  Unapparent.     Chatterton 
Rose  pale,  his  solemn  agony  had  not 
Yet  faded  from  him  ;    Sidney,  as  he  fought 
And  as  he  fell  and  as  he  lived  and  loved 
Sublimely  mild,  a  Spirit  without  spot, 
Arose  ;  and  Lucan,  by  his  death  approved  : 
Oblivion  as  they  rose  shrank  like  a  thing  reproved. 


XLVI 
And  many  more,  whose  names  on  Earth  are  dark 
But  whose  transmitted  effluence  cannot  die 
So  long  as  fire  outlives  the  parent  spark, 
Rose,  robed  in  dazzling  immortality. 
"  Thou  art  become  as  one  of  us,"  they  cry, 
"  It  was  for  thee  yon  kingless  sphere  has  long 
"  Swung  blind  in  unascended  majesty, 
"  Silent  alone  amid  an  Heaven  of  Song. 
"  Assume  thy  winged  throne,  thou  Vesper  of  our  throng  ! 


ADONAIS  199 

XLVII 
Who  mourns  for  Adonais  ?  oh  come  forth 
Fond  wretch !  and  know  thyself  and  him  aright. 
Clasp  with  thy  panting  soul  the  pendulous  Earth  ; 
As  from  a  centre,  dart  thy  spirit's  light 
Beyond  all  worlds,  until  its  spacious  might 
Satiate  the  void  circumference  :  then  shrink 
Even  to  a  point  within  our  day  and  night ; 
And  keep  thy  heart  light  lest  it  make  thee  sink 
When  hope  has  kindled  hope,  and  lured  thee  to  the  brink. 


XLVIII 
Or  go  to  Rome,  which  is  the  sepulchre, 
O,  not  of  him,  but  of  our  joy  :  'tis  naught 
That  ages,  empires,  and  religions  there 
Lie  buried  in  the  ravage  they  have  wrought ; 
For  such  as  he  can  lend, — they  borrow  not 
Glory  from  those  who  made  the  world  their  prey ; 
And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 
Who  waged  contention  with  their  time's  decay, 
And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 


XLIX 
Go  thou  to  Rome, — at  once  the  Paradise, 
The  grave,  the  city,  and  the  wilderness  ; 
And  where  its  wrecks  like  shattered  mountains  rise, 
And  flowering  weeds  and  fragrant  copses  dress 
The  bones  of  Desolation's  nakedness 
Pass,  till  the  Spirit  of  the  spot  shall  lead 
Thy  footsteps  to  a  slope  of  green  access 
Where,  like  an  infant's  smile,  over  the  dead, 
A  light  of  laughing  flowers  along  the  grass  is  spread. 


200  ADONAIS 

L 
And  grey  walls  moulder  round,  on  which  dull  Time 
Feeds,  like  slow  fire  upon  a  hoary  brand  ; 
And  one  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  planned 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transformed  to  marble  ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death 
Welcoming  him  we  lose  with  scarce  extinguished  breath. 


LI 
Here  pause :  these  graves  are  all  too  young  as  yet 
To  have  outgrown  the  sorrow  which  consigned 
Its  charge  to  each ;  and  if  the  seal  is  set, 
Here,  on  one  fountain  of  a  mourning  mind, 
Break  it  not  thou  !  too  surely  shalt  thou  find 
Thine  own  well  full,  if  thou  returnest  home, 
Of  tears  and  gall.     From  the  world's  bitter  wind 
Seek  shelter  in  the  shadow  of  the  tomb. 
What  Adonais  is,  why  fear  we  to  become  ? 


LII 
The  One  remains,  the  many  change  and  pass ; 
Heaven's  light  forever  shines,  Earth's  shadows  fly ; 
Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 
Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. — Die, 
If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost  seek ! 
Follow  where  all  is  fled  ! — Rome's  azure  sky, 
Flowers,  ruins,  statues,  music,  words,  are  weak 
The  glory  they  transfuse  with  fitting  truth  to  speak. 


ADONAIS  201 

LIII 
Why  linger,  why  turn  back,  why  shrink,  my  Heart  ? 
Thy  hopes  are  gone  before :  from  all  things  here 
They  have  departed  ;  thou  shouldst  now  depart ! 
A  light  is  past  from  the  revolving  year, 
And  man,  and  woman  ;  and  what  still  is  dear 
Attracts  to  crush,  repels  to  make  thee  wither. 
The  soft  sky  smiles, — the  low  wind  whispers  near ; 
'Tis  Adonais  calls  !  oh,  hasten  thither, 
No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 


LIV 
That  Light  whose  smile  kindles  the  Universe, 
That  Beauty  in  which  all  things  work  and  move, 
That  Benediction  which  the  eclipsing  Curse 
Of  birth  can  quench  not,  that  sustaining  Love 
Which,  through  the  web  of  being  blindly  wove 
By  man  and  beast  and  earth  and  air  and  sea, 
Burns  bright  or  dim,  as  each  are  mirrors  of 
The  fire  for  which  all  thirst,  now  beams  on  me, 
Consuming  the  last  clouds  of  cold  mortality. 


LV 
The  breath  whose  might  I  have  invoked  in  song 
Descends  on  me ;  my  spirit's  bark  is  driven, 
Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 
Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given  ; 
The  massy  earth  and  sphered  skies  are  riven ! 
I  am  borne  darkly,  fearfully,  afar : 
Whilst  burning  through  the  inmost  veil  of  Heaven, 
The  soul  of  Adonais,  like  a  star, 
Beacons  from  the  abode  where  the  Eternal  are. 


THE  TRIUMPH 


OF  LIFE 


THE    TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 

SWIFT  as  a  spirit  hastening  to  his  task 
Of  glory  and  of  good,  the  Sun  sprang  forth 
Rejoicing  in  his  splendour,  and  the  mask 

Of  darkness  fell  from  the  awakened  Earth — 
The  smokeless  altars  of  the  mountain  snows 
Flamed  above  crimson  clouds,  and  at  the  birth 

Of  light,  the  Ocean's  orison  arose, 

To  which  the  birds  tempered  their  matin  lay. 

All  flowers  in  field  or  forest  which  unclose 

Their  trembling  eyelids  to  the  kiss  of  day, 
Swinging  their  censers  in  the  element, 
With  orient  incense  lit  by  the  new  ray 

Burned  slow  and  inconsumably,  and  sent 
Their  odorous  sighs  up  to  the  smiling  air ; 
And,  in  succession  due,  did  continent, 

Isle,  ocean,  and  all  things  that  in  them  wear 
The  form  and  character  of  mortal  mould, 
Rise  as  the  Sun  their  father  rose,  to  bear 

Their  portion  of  the  toil,  which  he  of  old 
Took  as  his  own,  and  then  imposed  on  them  : 
But  I,  whom  thoughts  which  must  remain  untold 

Had  kept  as  wakeful  as  the  stars  that  gem 
The  cone  of  night,  now  they  were  laid  asleep 
Stretched  my  faint  limbs  beneath  the  hoary  stem 


208  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 

Which  an  old  chesnut  flung  athwart  the  steep 

Of  a  green  Apennine  :  before  me  fled 

The  night ;  behind  me  rose  the  day  ;  the  deep 

Was  at  my  feet,  and  Heaven  above  my  head, 
When  a  strange  trance  over  my  fancy  grew 
Which  was  not  slumber,  for  the  shade  it  spread 

Was  so  transparent,  that  the  scene  came  through 
As  clear  as  when  a  veil  of  light  is  drawn 
O'er  evening  hills  they  glimmer  ;  and  I  knew 

That  1  had  felt  the  freshness  of  that  dawn, 
Bathed  in  the  same  cold  dew  my  brow  and  hair, 
And  sate  as  thus  upon  that  slope  of  lawn 

Under  the  self-same  bough,  and  heard  as  there 
The  birds,  the  fountains  and  the  ocean  hold 
Sweet  talk  in  music  through  the  enamoured  air, 
And  then  a  vision  on  my  brain  was  rolled. 


As  in  that  trance  of  wondrous  thought  I  lay, 
This  was  the  tenour  of  my  waking  dream  : — 
Methought  I  sate  beside  a  public  way 

Thick  strewn  with  summer  dust,  and  a  great  stream 
Of  people  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
Numerous  as  gnats  upon  the  evening  gleam, 

All  hastening  onward,  yet  none  seemed  to  know 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came,  or  why 
He  made  one  of  the  multitude,  and  so 

Was  borne  amid  the  crowd,  as  through  the  sky 
One  of  the  million  leaves  of  summer's  bier  ; 
Old  age  and  youth,  manhood  and  infancy 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  209 

Mixed  in  one  mighty  torrent  did  appear, 

Some  flying  from  the  thing  they  feared,  and  some 

Seeking  the  object  of  another's  fear  ; 

And  others,  as  with  steps  towards  the  tomb, 
Pored  on  the  trodden  worms  that  crawled  beneath, 
And  others  mournfully  within  the  gloom 

Of  their  own  shadow  walked  and  called  it  death ; 
And  some  fled  from  it  as  it  were  a  ghost, 
Half  fainting  in  the  affliction  of  vain  breath  : 

But  more,  with  motions  which  each  other  crossed, 
Pursued  or  shunned  the  shadows  the  clouds  threw, 
Or  birds  within  the  noon-day  aether  lost, 

Upon  that  path  where  flowers  never  grew, — 
And,  weary  with  vain  toil  and  faint  for  thirst, 
Heard  not  the  fountains,  whose  melodious  dew 

Out  of  their  mossy  cells  for  ever  burst ; 

Nor  felt  the  breeze  which  from  the  forest  told 

Of  grassy  paths  and  wood-lawns  interspersed 

With  overarching  elms  and  caverns  cold, 

And  violet  banks  where  sweet  dreams  brood  j  but  they 

Pursued  their  serious  folly  as  of  old. 

And,  as  I  gazed,  methought  that  in  the  way 
The  throng  grew  wilder,  as  the  woods  of  June 
When  the  south  wind  snakes  the  extinguished  day ; 

And  a  cold  glare,  intenser  than  the  noon, 
But  icy  cold,  obscured  with  blinding  light 
The  sun,  as  he  the  stars.     Like  the  young  moon 

P 


210  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE 

When  on  the  sunlit  limits  of  the  night 
Her  white  shell  trembles  amid  crimson  air, 
And  whilst  the  sleeping  tempest  gathers  might 

Doth,  as  the  herald  of  its  coming,  bear 

The  ghost  of  its  dead  mother,  whose  dim  form 

Bends  in  dark  aether  from  her  infant's  chair, — 

So  came  a  chariot  on  the  silent  storm 

Of  its  own  rushing  splendour,  and  a  Shape 

So  sate  within,  as  one  whom  years  deform, 

Beneath  a  dusky  hood  and  double  cape, 

Crouching  within  the  shadow  of  a  tomb  ; 

And  o'er  what  seemed  the  head  a  cloud-like  crape 

Was  bent,  a  dun  and  faint  aetherial  gloom 
Tempering  the  light.     Upon  the  chariot-beam 
A  Janus-visaged  Shadow  did  assume 

The  guidance  of  that  wonder-winged  team  ; 
The  shapes  which  drew  it  in  thick  lightnings 
Were  lost : — I  heard  alone  on  the  air's  soft  stream 


The  music  of  their  ever-moving  wings. 

All  the  four  faces  of  that  charioteer 

Had  their  eyes  banded  ;  little  profit  brings 

Speed  in  the  van  and  blindness  in  the  rear, 
Nor  then  avail  the  beams  that  quench  the  sun 
Or  that  with  banded  eyes  could  pierce  the  sphere 

Of  all  that  is,  has  been  or  will  be  done  ; 
So  ill  was  the  car  guided — but  it  passed 
With  solemn  speed  majestically  on. 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  211 

The  crowd  gave  way,  and  I  arose  aghast, 
Or  seemed  to  rise,  so  mighty  was  the  trance, 
And  saw,  like  clouds  upon  the  thunder-blast, 

The  million  with  fierce  song  and  maniac  dance 
Raging  around — such  seemed  the  jubilee 
As  when  to  greet  some  conqueror's  advance 

Imperial  Rome  poured  forth  her  living  sea 
From  senate-house,  and  forum,  and  theatre, 
When  upon  the  free 

Had  bound  a  yoke,  which  soon  they  stooped  to  bear. 
Nor  wanted  here  the  just  similitude 
Of  a  triumphal  pageant,  for  where'er 

The  chariot  rolled,  a  captive  multitude 

Was  driven ; — all  those  who  had  grown  old  in  power 

Or  misery, — all  who  had  their  age  subdued 

By  action  or  by  suffering,  and  whose  hour 

Was  drained  to  its  last  sand  in  weal  or  woe, 

So  that  the  trunk  survived  both  fruit  and  flower ; — 

All  those  whose  fame  or  infamy  must  grow 
Till  the  great  winter  lay  the  form  and  name 
Of  this  green  earth  with  them  for  ever  low  ; — 

All  but  the  sacred  few  who  could  not  tame 
Their  spirits  to  the  conquerors — but,  as  soon 
As  they  had  touched  the  world  with  living  flame, 

Fled  back  like  eagles  to  their  native  noon, 
Or  those  who  put  aside  the  diadem 
Of  earthly  thrones  or  gems  .  .  . 


212  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 

Were  there,  of  Athens  or  Jerusalem, 

Were  neither  'mid  the  mighty  captives  seen, 

Nor  'mid  the  ribald  crowd  that  followed  them, 

Nor  those  who  went  before  fierce  and  obscene. 
The  wild  dance  maddens  in  the  van,  and  those 
Who  lead  it — fleet  as  shadows  on  the  green, 

Outspeed  the  chariot,  and  without  repose 
Mix  with  each  other  in  tempestuous  measure 
To  savage  music  ;  wilder  as  it  grows, 

They,  tortured  by  their  agonizing  pleasure, 
Convulsed  and  on  the  rapid  whirlwinds  spun 
Of  that  fierce  spirit,  whose  unholy  leisure 

Was  soothed  by  mischief  since  the  world  begun, 
Throw  back  their  heads  and  loose  their  streaming  hair ; 
And,  in  their  dance  round  her  who  dims  the  sun, 

Maidens  and  youths  fling  their  wild  arms  in  air 
As  their  feet  twinkle ;  they  recede,  and  now 
Bending  within  each  other's  atmosphere, 

Kindle  invisibly — and  as  they  glow, 

Like  moths  by  light  attracted  and  repelled, 

Oft  to  their  bright  destruction  come  and  go, 

Till  like  two  clouds  into  one  vale  impelled 

That  shake  the  mountains  when  their  lightnings  mingle 

And  die  in  rain — the  fiery  band  which  held 

Their  natures,  snaps — while  the  shock  still  may  tingle ; 
One  falls  and  then  another  in  the  path 
Senseless — nor  is  the  desolation  single, 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  213 

Yet  ere  I  can  say  where — the  chariot  hath 
Passed  over  them — nor  other  trace  I  find 
But  as  of  foam  after  the  ocean's  wrath 

Is  spent  upon  the  desert  shore  ; — behind, 
Old  men  and  women,  foully  disarrayed, 
Shake  their  grey  hairs  in  the  insulting  wind, 

And  follow  in  the  dance,  with  limbs  decayed, 
Seeking  to  reach  the  light  which  leaves  them  still 
Farther  behind  and  deeper  in  the  shade. 

But  not  the  less  with  impotence  of  will 

They  wheel,  though  ghastly  shadows  interpose 

Round  them  and  round  each  other,  and  fulfil 

Their  work,  and  in  the  dust  from  whence  chey  rose 
Sink,  and  corruption  veils  them  as  they  lie, 
And  past  in  these  performs  what         in  those. 

Struck  to  the  heart  by  this  sad  pageantry, 
Half  to  myself  I  said — "  And  what  is  this  ? 
Whose  shape  is  that  within  the  car  ?    And  why — " 

I  would  have  added — "  is  all  here  amiss  ? — " 

But  a  voice  answered — "  Life !  " — I  turned,  and  knew 

(O  Heaven,  have  mercy  on  such  wretchedness !) 

That  what  I  thought  was  an  old  root  which  grew 
To  strange  distortion  out  of  the  hill-side, 
Was  indeed  one  of  those  deluded  crew, 

And  that  the  grass,  which  methought  hung  so  wide 
And  white,  was  but  his  thin  discoloured  hair, 
And  that  the  holes  he  vainly  sought  to  hide 


214  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE 

Were  or  had  been  eyes  : — "  If  thou  canst,  forbear 
To  join  the  dance,  which  I  had  well  forborne  !  " 
Said  the  grim  Feature  (of  my  thought  aware). 

"  I  will  unfold  that  which  to  this  deep  scorn 
Led  me  and  my  companions,  and  relate 
The  progress  of  the  pageant  since  the  morn  ; 

"If  thirst  of  knowledge  shall  not  then  abate, 

Follow  it  thou  even  to  the  night,  but  I 

Am  weary." — Then  like  one  who  with  the  weight 

Of  his  own  words  is  staggered,  wearily 

He  paused  ;  and  ere  he  could  resume,  I  cried  : 

"  First,  who  art  thou  ?  " — "  Before  thy  memory, 

"  I  feared,  loved,  hated,  suffered,  did  and  died, 
And  if  the  spark  with  which  Heaven  lit  my  spirit 
Had  been  with  purer  nutriment  supplied, 

;'  Corruption  would  not  now  thus  much  inherit 
Of  what  was  once  Rousseau, — nor  this  disguise 
Stain  that  which  ought  to  have  disdained  to  wear  it ; 

"  If  I  have  been  extinguished,  yet  there  rise 

A  thousand  beacons  from  the  spark  I  bore  " — 

"  And  who  are  those  chained  to  the  car  ?  " — "  The  wise, 

"  The  great,  the  unforgotten, — they  who  wore 
Mitres  and  helms  and  crowns,  or  wreaths  of  light, 
Signs  of  thought's  empire  over  thought — their  lore 

"  Taught  them  not  this,  to  know  themselves  ;  their  might 

Could  not  repress  the  mystery  within, 

And  for  the  morn  of  truth  they  feigned,  deep  night 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  215 

"  Caught  them  ere  evening." — "  Who  is  he  with  chin 
Upon  his  breast,  and  hands  crossed  on  his  chain  ?  " 
"  The  child  of  a  fierce  hour  ;  he  sought  to  win 

"  The  world,  and  lost  all  that  it  did  contain 
Of  greatness,  in  its  hope  destroyed  ;  and  more 
Of  fame  and  peace  than  virtue's  self  can  gain 

"  Without  the  opportunity  which  bore 

Him  on  its  eagle  pinions  to  the  peak 

From  which  a  thousand  climbers  have  before 

"  Fallen,  as  Napoleon  fell." — I  felt  my  cheek 

Alter,  to  see  the  shadow  pass  away, 

Whose  grasp  had  left  the  giant  world  so  weak, 

That  every  pigmy  kicked  it  as  it  lay  ; 

And  much  I  grieved  to  think  how  power  and  will 

In  opposition  rule  our  mortal  day, 

And  why  God  made  irreconcilable 

Good  and  the  means  of  good  ;  and  for  despair 

I  half  disdained  mine  eyes'  desire  to  fill 

With  the  spent  vision  of  the  times  that  were 

And  scarce  have  ceased  to  be. — "  Dost  thou  behold," 

Said  my  guide,  "  those  spoilers  spoiled,  Voltaire, 

"  Frederick,  and  Paul,  Catherine,  and  Leopold, 
And  hoary  anarchs,  demagogues,  and  sage — 

names  which  the  world  thinks  always  old, 

"  For  in  the  battle  Life  and  they  did  wage, 
She  remained  conqueror.  I  was  overcome 
By  my  own  heart  alone,  which  neither  age, 


216  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 

"  Nor  tears,  nor  infamy,  nor  now  the  tomb 
Could  temper  to  its  object." — *  Let  them  pass," 
I  cried,  "  the  world  and  its  mysterious  doom 

"  Is  not  so  much  more  glorious  than  it  was, 
That  I  desire  to  worship  those  who  drew 
New  figures  on  its  false  and  fragile  glass 

"  As  the  old  faded." — "  Figures  ever  new 
Rise  on  the  bubble,  paint  them  as  you  may  ; 
We  have  but  thrown,  as  those  before  us  threw, 

"  Our  shadows  on  it  as  it  passed  away. 

But  mark  how  chained  to  the  triumphal  chair 

The  mighty  phantoms  of  an  elder  day  ; 

"  All  that  is  mortal  of  great  Plato  there 
Expiates  the  joy  and  woe  his  master  knew  not ; 
The  star  that  ruled  his  doom  was  far  too  fair, 

1  And  life,  where  long  that  flower  of  Heaven  grew  not, 
Conquered  that  heart  by  love,  which  gold,  or  pain, 
Or  age,  or  sloth,  or  slavery  could  subdue  not. 

"  And  near  him  walk  the  twain, 

The  tutor  and  his  pupil,  whom  Dominion 
Followed  as  tame  as  vulture  in  a  chain. 

"  The  world  was  darkened  beneath  either  pinion 
Of  him  whom  from  the  flock  of  conquerors 
Fame  singled  out  for  her  thunder-bearing  minion ; 

"  The  other  long  outlived  both  woes  and  wars, 
Throned  in  the  thoughts  of  men,  and  still  had  kept 
The  jealous  key  of  truth's  eternal  doors, 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  217 

"  If  Bacon's  eagle  spirit  had  not  leapt 

Like  lightning  out  of  darkness — he  compelled 

The  Proteus  shape  of  Nature  as  it  slept 

"  To  wake,  and  lead  him  to  the  caves  that  held 

The  treasure  of  the  secrets  of  its  reign. 

See  the  great  bards  of  elder  time,  who  quelled 

"  The  passions  which  they  sung,  as  by  their  strain 
May  well  be  known  :  their  living  melody 
Tempers  its  own  contagion  to  the  vein 

"Of  those  who  are  infected  with  it — I 
Have  suffered  what  I  wrote,  or  viler  pain ! 
And  so  my  words  have  seeds  of  misery — 

"  Even  as  the  deeds  of  others,  not  as  theirs." 
And  then  he  pointed  to  a  company, 

'Midst  whom  I  quickly  recognized  the  heirs 

Of  Caesar's  crime,  from  him  to  Constantine ; 

The  anarch  chiefs,  whose  force  and  murderous  snares 

Had  founded  many  a  sceptre-bearing  line, 

And  spread  the  plague  of  gold  and  blood  abroad  : 

And  Gregory  and  John,  and  men  divine, 

Who  rose  like  shadows  between  man  and  God ';  . 

Till  that  eclipse,  still  hanging  over  heaven, 

Was  worshipped  by  the  world  o'er  which  they  strode, 

For  the  true  sun  it  quenched — "  Their  power  was  given 
But  to  destroy,"  replied  the  leader  : — "  I 
Am  one  of  those  who  have  created,  even 


218  THE   TRIUMPH   OF  LIFE 

"  If  it  be  but  a  world  of  agony." — 

"  Whence  earnest  thou  ?  and  whither  goest  thou  ? 

How  did  thy  course  begin  ?  "    I  said,  "  and  why  ? " 

"  Mine  eyes  are  sick  of  this  perpetual  flow 

Of  people,  and  my  heart  sick  of  one  sad  thought — 

Speak  !  " — "  Whence  I  am,  I  partly  seem  to  know, 

"  And  how  and  by  what  paths  I  have  been  brought 
To  this  dread  pass,  methinks  even  thou  mayst  guess  ; 
Why  this  should  be,  my  mind  can  compass  not ; 

"  Whither  the  conqueror  hurries  me,  still  less  ; — 
But  follow  thou,  and  from  spectator  turn 
Actor  or  victim  in  this  wretchedness, 

"  And  what  thou  wouldst  be  taught  I  then  may  learn 
From  thee.     Now  listen  : — In  the  April  prime, 
When  all  the  forest  tips  began  to  burn 

"  With  kindling  green,  touched  by  the  azure  clime 
Of  the  young  season,  I  was  laid  asleep 
Under  a  mountain,  which  from  unknown  time 

"  Had  yawned  into  a  cavern,  high  and  deep  ; 

And  from  it  came  a  gentle  rivulet, 

Whose  water,  like  clear  air,  in  its  calm  sweep 

11  Bent  the  soft  grass,  and  kept  for  ever  wet 

The  stems  of  the  sweet  flowers,  and  filled  the  grove 

With  sounds,  which  whoso  hears  must  needs  forget 

"  All  pleasure  and  all  pain,  all  hate  and  love, 
Which  they  had  known  before  that  hour  of  rest ; 
A  sleeping  mother  then  would  dream  not  of 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE  219 

"  Her  only  child  who  died  upon  the  breast 
At  eventide — a  king  would  mourn  no  more 
The  crown  of  which  his  brows  were  dispossessed 

"  When  the  sun  lingered  o'er  his  ocean  floor, 

To  gild  his  rival's  new  prosperity. 

Thou  wouldst  forget  thus  vainly  to  deplore 

"  Ills,  which  if  ills  can  find  no  cure  from  thee, 
The  thought  of  which  no  other  sleep  will  quell, 
Nor  other  music  blot  from  memory, 

"  So  sweet  and  deep  is  the  oblivious  spell  ; 
And  whether  life  had  been  before  that  sleep 
The  heaven  which  I  imagine,  or  a  hell 

"  Like  this  harsh  world  in  which  I  wake  to  weep, 

I  know  not.     I  arose,  and  for  a  space 

The  scene  of  woods  and  waters  seemed  to  keep, 

"  Though  it  was  now  broad  day,  a  gentle  trace 
Of  light  diviner  than  the  common  sun 
Sheds  on  the  common  earth,  and  all  the  place 

"  Was  filled  with  magic  sounds  woven  into  one 

Oblivious  melody,  confusing  sense 

Amid  the  gliding  waves  and  shadows  dun  ; 

"  And,  as  I  looked,  the  bright  omnipresence 
Of  morning  through  the  orient  cavern  flowed, 
And  the  sun's  image  radiantly  intense 

"  Burned  on  the  waters  of  the  well  that  glowed 
Like  gold,  and  threaded  all  the  forest's  maze 
With  winding  paths  of  emerald  fire  ;  there  stood 


220  THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE 

"  Amid  the  sun,  as  he  amid  the  blaze 

Of  his  own  glory,  on  the  vibrating 

Floor  of  the  fountain,  paved  with  flashing  rays, 

"  A  Shape  all  light,  which  with  one  hand  did  fling 
Dew  on  the  earth,  as  if  she  were  the  dawn, 
And  the  invisible  rain  did  ever  sing 

"  A  silver  music  on  the  mossy  lawn  ; 
And  still  before  me  on  the  dusky  grass 
Iris  her  many-coloured  scarf  had  drawn  : 

"  In  her  right  hand  she  bore  a  crystal  glass, 
Mantling  with  bright  Nepenthe  ;  the  fierce  splendour 
Fell  from  her  as  she  moved  under  the  mass 

"  Of  the  deep  cavern,  and  with  palms  so  tender, 
Their  tread  broke  not  the  mirror  of  its  billow, 
Glided  along  the  river,  and  did  bend  her 

"  Head  under  the  dark  boughs,  till  like  a  willow, 
Her  fair  hair  swept  the  bosom  of  the  stream 
That  whispered  with  delight  to  be  its  pillow. 

"  As  one  enamoured  is  upborne  in  dream 

O'er  lily-paven  lakes  'mid  silver  mist, 

To  wondrous  music,  so  this  shape  might  seem 

"  Partly  to  tread  the  waves  with  feet  which  kissed 
The  dancing  foam,  partly  to  glide  along 
The  air  which  roughened  the  moist  amethyst, 

"  Or  the  faint  morning  beams  that  fell  among 
The  trees,  or  the  soft  shadows  of  the  trees  ; 
And  her  feet,  ever  to  the  ceaseless  song 


THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  221 

"  Of  leaves,  and  winds,  and  waves,  and  birds,  and  bees, 
And  falling  drops,  moved  in  a  measure  new 
Yet  sweet,  as  on  the  summer  evening  breeze, 

"  Up  from  the  lake  a  shape  of  golden  dew 
Between  two  rocks,  athwart  the  rising  moon, 
Dances  i'  the  wind,  where  never  eagle  flew  ; 

"  And  still  her  feet,  no  less  than  the  sweet  tune 

To  which  they  moved,  seemed  as  they  moved  to  blot 

The  thoughts  of  him  who  gazed  on  them  ;  and  soon 

"  All  that  was,  seemed  as  if  it  had  been  not ; 
And  all  the  gazer's  mind  was  strewn  beneath 
Her  feet  like  embers  ;  and  she,  thought  by  thought, 

"  Trampled  its  sparks  into  the  dust  of  death ; 
As  day  upon  the  threshold  of  the  east 
Treads  out  the  lamps  of  night,  until  the  breath 

"  Of  darkness  re-illumine  even  the  least 
Of  heaven's  living  eyes—like  day  she  came, 
Making  the  night  a  dream  ;  and  ere  she  ceased 

"  To  move,  as  one  between  desire  and  shame 
Suspended,  I  said — ■  If,  as  it  doth  seem, 
Thou  comest  from  the  realm  without  a  name,- 

" '  Into  this  valley  of  perpetual  dream, 

Show  whence  I  came,  and  where  I  am,  and  why — 

Pass  not  away  upon  the  passing  stream.' 

"  *  Arise  and  quench  thy  thirst,'  was  her  reply. 
And  as  a  shut  lily  stricken  by  the  wand 
Of  dewy  morning's  vital  alchemy 


222  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE 

"  I  rose  ;  and,  bending  at  her  sweet  command, 
Touched  with  faint  lips  the  cup  she  raised, 
And  suddenly  my  brain  became  as  sand 

"  Where  the  first  wave  had  more  than  half  erased 
The  track  of  deer  on  desert  Labrador  ; 
Whilst  the  wolf,  from  which  they  fled  amazed, 

"  Leaves  his  stamp  visibly  upon  the  shore, 
Until  the  second  bursts  ; — so  on  my  sight 
Burst  a  new  vision,  never  seen  before, 

"  And  the  fair  shape  waned  in  the  coming  light, 
As  veil  by  veil  the  silent  splendour  drops 
From  Lucifer,  amid  the  chrysolite 

"Of  sun-rise  ere  it  tinge  the  mountain  tops  ; 
And  as  the  presence  of  that  fairest  planet, 
Although  unseen,  is  felt  by  one  who  hopes 

"  That  his  day's  path  may  end  as  he  began  it, 
In  that  star's  smile,  whose  light  is  like  the  scent 
Of  a  jonquil  when  evening  breezes  fan  it, 

"  Or  the  soft  note  in  which  his  dear  lament 
The  Brescian  shepherd  breathes,  or  the  caress 
That  turned  his  weary  slumber  to  content ; 

"  So  knew  I  in  that  light's  severe  excess 

The  presence  of  that  shape  which  on  the  stream 

Moved,  as  I  moved  along  the  wilderness, 

"  More  dimly  than  a  day-appearing  dream, 

The  ghost  of  a  forgotten  form  of  sleep  ; 

A  light  of  heaven,  whose  half-extinguished  beam 


THE  TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE  223 

"  Through  the  sick  day  in  which  we  wake  to  weep, 
Glimmers,  for  ever  sought,  for  ever  lost ; 
So  did  that  shape  its  obscure  tenour  keep 

"  Beside  my  path,  as  silent  as  a  ghost ; 

But  the  new  Vision,  and  the  cold  bright  car, 

With  solemn  speed  and  stunning  music,  crossed 

"  The  forest,  and  as  if  from  some  dread  war 
Triumphantly  returning,  the  loud  million 
Fiercely  extolled  the  fortune  of  her  star. 

"  A  moving  arch  of  victory,  the  vermilion 
And  green  and  azure  plumes  of  Iris  had 
Built  high  over  her  wind-winged  pavilion, 

"  And  underneath  aetherial  glory  clad 
The  wilderness,  and  far  before  her  flew 
The  tempest  of  the  splendour,  which  forbade 

"  Shadows  to  fall  from  leaf  and  stone  ;  the  crew 
Seemed,  in  that  light,  like  atomies  to  dance 
Within  a  sunbeam  ; — some  upon  the  new 

"  Embroidery  of  flowers,  that  did  enhance 
The  grassy  vesture  of  the  desert,  played, 
Forgetful  of  the  chariot's  swift  advance  ; 

"  Others  stood  gazing,  till  within  the  shade 
Of  the  great  mountain  its  light  left  them  dim 
Others  outspeeded  it ;  and  others  made 

"  Circles  around  it,  like  the  clouds  that  swim 
Round  the  high  moon  in  a  bright  sea  of  air  ; 
And  more  did  follow,  with  exulting  hymn, 


224  THE   TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE 

"  The  chariot  and  the  captives  fettered  there  : — 
But  all  like  bubbles  on  an  eddying  flood 
Fell  into  the  same  track  at  last,  and  were 

"  Borne  onward. — I  among  the  multitude 

Was  swept — me,  sweetest  flowers  delayed  not  long ; 

Me,  not  the  shadow  nor  the  solitude ; 

"  Me,  not  that  falling  stream's  Lethean  song  ; 
Me,  not  the  phantom  of  that  early  form, 
Which  moved  upon  its  motion — but  among 

"  The  thickest  billows  of  that  living  storm 
I  plunged,  and  bared  my  bosom  to  the  clime 
Of  that  cold  light,  whose  airs  too  soon  deform. 

"  Before  the  chariot  had  begun  to  climb 
The  opposing  steep  of  that  mysterious  dell, 
Behold  a  wonder  worthy  of  the  rhyme 

"  Of  him  who  from  the  lowest  depths  of  hell, 
Through  every  paradise  and  through  all  glory, 
Love  led  serene,  and  who  returned  to  tell 

"  The  words  of  hate  and  awe  ;  the  wondrous  story 
How  all  things  are  transfigured  except  Love ; 
For  deaf  as  is  a  sea,  which  wrath  makes  hoary, 

"  The  world  can  hear  not  the  sweet  notes  that  move 
The  sphere  whose  light  is  melody  to  lovers — 
A  wonder  worthy  of  his  rhyme. — The  grove 

"  Grew  dense  with  shadows  to  its  inmost  covers, 
The  earth  was  grey  with  phantoms,  and  the  air 
Was  peopled  with  dim  forms,  as  when  there  hovers 


THE  TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE  225 

"  A  flock  of  vampire  bats  before  the  glare 

Of  the  tropic  sun,  bringing,  ere  evening, 

Strange  night  upon  some  Indian  isle  ; — thus  were 

"  Phantoms  diffused  around  ;  and  some  did  fling 
Shadows  of  shadows,  yet  unlike  themselves, 
Behind  them  ;  some  like  eaglets  on  the  wing 

"  Were  lost  in  the  white  day ;  others  like  elves 
Danced  in  a  thousand  unimagined  shapes 
Upon  the  sunny  streams  and  grassy  shelves ; 

"  And  others  sate  chattering  like  restless  apes 

On  vulgar  hands, 

Some  made  a  cradle  of  the  ermined  capes 

"  Of  kingly  mantles  ;  some  across  the  tiar 
Of  pontiffs  sate  like  vultures  ;  others  played 
Under  the  crown  which  girt  with  empire 

"  A  baby's  or  an  idiot's  brow,  and  made 

Their  nests  in  it.     The  old  anatomies 

Sate  hatching  their  bare  broods  under  the  shade 

"  Of  daemon  wings,  and  laughed  from  their  dead  eyes 

To  re-assume  the  delegated  power, 

Arrayed  in  which  those  worms  did  monarchize, 

Who  made  this  earth  their  charnel.     Others  more 
Humble,  like  falcons,  sate  upon  the  fist 
Of  common  men,  and  round  their  heads  did  soar  ; 

"  Or  like  small  gnats  and  flies,  as  thick  as  mist 
On  evening  marshes,  thronged  about  the  brow 
Of  lawyers,  statesmen,  priest  and  theorist ; — 

Q 


226  THE  TRIUMPH   OF   LIFE 

"  And  others,  like  discoloured  flakes  of  snow 
On  fairest  bosoms  and  the  sunniest  hair, 
Fell,  and  were  melted  by  the  youthful  glow 

"  Which  they  extinguished  ;  and,  like  tears,  they  were 
A  veil  to  those  from  whose  faint  lids  they  rained 
In  drops  of  sorrow.     I  became  aware 

"  Of  whence  those  forms  proceeded  which  thus  stained 
The  track  in  which  we  moved.     After  brief  space, 
From  every  form  the  beauty  slowly  waned ; 

"  From  every  firmest  limb  and  fairest  face 

The  strength  and  freshness  fell  like  dust,  and  left 

The  action  and  the  shape  without  the  grace 

"  Of  life.     The  marble  brow  of  youth  was  cleft 

With  care ;  and  in  those  eyes  where  once  hope  shone, 

Desire,  like  a  lioness  bereft 

"  Of  her  last  cub,  glared  ere  it  died  ;  each  one 

Of  that  great  crowd  sent  forth  incessantly 

These  shadows,  numerous  as  the  dead  leaves  blown 

"In  autumn  evening  from  a  poplar  tree. 
Each  like  himself  and  like  each  other  were 
At  first ;  but  some  distorted  seemed  to  be 

"  Obscure  clouds,  moulded  by  the  casual  air  ; 
And  of  this  stuff  the  car's  creative  ray 
Wrought  all  the  busy  phantoms  that  were  there, 

"  As  the  sun  shapes  the  clouds ;  thus  on  the  way 
Mask  after  mask  fell  from  the  countenance 
And  form  of  all ;  and  long  before  the  day 


THE   TRIUMPH    OF   LIFE  227 

"  Was  old,  the  joy  which  waked  like  heaven's  glance 
The  sleepers  in  the  oblivious  valley,  died ; 
And  some  grew  weary  of  the  ghastly  dance, 

"  And  fell,  as  I  have  fallen,  by  the  way-side  ; — 

Those  soonest  from  whose  forms  most  shadows  passed, 

And  least  of  strength  and  beauty  did  abide. 

"  Then,  <  What  is  life  ? '  I  cried."— 


R-An-R 


DRAMATIS 
PERSONA 


Prometheus. 

Demogorgon. 

Jupiter. 

The  Earth. 

Ocean. 

Apollo. 

Mercury. 

Hercules. 


Asia 

Panthea 

Ione 


Oceanides. 


The  Phantasm  of  Jupiter. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth. 
The  Spirit  of  the  Moon. 
Spirits  of  the  Hours. 
Spirits.    Echoes.    Fauns.    Furies. 


ACT  I 


SCENE,  A  Ravine  of  Icy  Rocks  in  the  Indian  Caucasus. 
PROMETHEUS  is  discovered  bound  to  the  Precipice. 
PANTHEA  and  IONE  are  seated  at  his  feet.  TIME, 
Night.     During  the  Scene,  Morning  slowly  breaks. 

Prometheus.     Monarch  of  Gods  and  Daemons,  and  all 
Spirits 
But  One,  who  throng  those  bright  and  rolling  worlds 
Which  Thou  and  I  alone  of  living  things 
Behold  with  sleepless  eyes  !  regard  this  Earth 
Made  multitudinous  with  thy  slaves,  whom  thou 
Requitest  for  knee-worship,  prayer,  and  praise, 
And  toil,  and  hecatombs  of  broken  hearts, 
With  fear  and  self-contempt  and  barren  hope. 
Whilst  me,  who  am  thy  foe,  eyeless  in  hate, 
Hast  thou  made  reign  and  triumph,  to  thy  scorn, 
O'er  mine  own  misery  and  thy  vain  revenge. 
Three  thousand  years  of  sleep-unsheltered  hours, 
And  moments  aye  divided  by  keen  pangs 
Till  they  seemed  years,  torture  and  solitude, 
Scorn  and  despair, — these  are  mine  empire. 
More  glorious  far  than  that  which  thou  surveyest 
From  thine  unenvied  throne,  O,  Mighty  God ! 
Almighty,  had  I  deigned  to  share  the  shame 


236  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Of  thine  ill  tyranny,  and  hung  not  here 
Nailed  to  this  wall  of  eagle-baffling  mountain, 
Black,  wintry,  dead,  unmeasured  ;  without  herb, 
Insect,  or  beast,  or  shape  or  sound  of  life. 
Ah  me !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 

No  change,  no  pause,  no  hope !    Yet  I  endure. 
I  ask  the  Earth,  have  not  the  mountains  felt  ? 
I  ask  yon  Heaven,  the  all-beholding  Sun, 
Has  it  not  seen  ?    The  Sea,  in  storm  or  calm, 
Heaven's  ever-changing  Shadow,  spread  below, 
Have  its  deaf  waves  not  heard  my  agony? 
Ah  me !  alas,  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever  ! 

The  crawling  glaciers  pierce  me  with  the  spears 
Of  their  moon-freezing  crystals,  the  bright  chains 
Eat  with  their  burning  cold  into  my  bones. 
Heaven's  winged  hound,  polluting  from  thy  lips 
His  beak  in  poison  not  his  own,  tears  up 
My  heart ;  and  shapeless  sights  come  wandering  by, 
The  ghastly  people  of  the  realm  of  dream, 
Mocking  me  :  and  the  Earthquake-fiends  are  charged 
To  wrench  the  rivets  from  my  quivering  wounds 
When  the  rocks  split  and  close  again  behind : 
While  from  their  loud  abysses  howling  throng 
The  genii  of  the  storm,  urging  the  rage 
Of  whirlwind,  and  afflict  me  with  keen  hail. 
And  yet  to  me  welcome  is  day  and  night, 
Whether  one  breaks  the  hoar-frost  of  the  morn, 
Or  starry,  dim,  and  slow,  the  other  climbs 
The  leaden-coloured  east ;  for  then  they  lead 
The  wingless,  crawling  hours,  one  among  whom 
— As  some  dark  Priest  hales  the  reluctant  victim — 
Shall  drag  thee,  cruel  King,  to  kiss  the  blood 
From  these  pale  feet,  which  then  might  trample  thee 
If  they  disdained  not  such  a  prostrate  slave. 
Disdain  !     Ah  no  !    I  pity  thee.     What  ruin 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  237 

Will  hunt  thee  undefended  through  the  wide  Heaven ! 

How  will  thy  soul,  cloven  to  its  depth  with  terror, 

Gape  like  a  hell  within !  I  speak  in  grief, 

Not  exultation,  for  I  hate  no  more, 

As  then  ere  misery  made  me  wise.     The  curse 

Once  breathed  on  thee  I  would  recall.     Ye  Mountains, 

Whose  many-voiced  Echoes,  through  the  mist 

Of  cataracts,  flung  the  thunder  of  that  spell ! 

Ye  icy  springs,  stagnant  with  wrinkling  frost, 

Which  vibrated  to  hear  me,  and  then  crept 

Shuddering  through  India !    Thou  serenest  Air, 

Through  which  the  Sun  walks  burning  without  beams ! 

And  ye  swift  Whirlwinds,  who  on  poised  wings 

Hung  mute  and  moveless  o'er  yon  hushed  abyss, 

As  thunder,  louder  than  your  own,  made  rock 

The  orbed  world  !    If  then  my  words  had  power, 

Though  I  am  changed  so  that  aught  evil  wish 

Is  dead  within  ;  although  no  memory  be 

Of  what  is  hate,  let  them  not  lose  it  now ! 

What  was  that  curse  ?  for  ye  all  heard  me  speak. 

First  Voice :  from  the  Mountains. 
Thrice  three  hundred  thousand  years 

O'er  the  Earthquake's  couch  we  stood  : 
Oft,  as  men  convulsed  with  fears, 

We  trembled  in  our  multitude. 

Second  Voice :  from  the  Springs. 
Thunder-bolts  had  parched  our  water, 

We  had  been  stained  with  bitter  blood, 
And  had  run  mute,  'mid  shrieks  of  slaughter, 

Through  a  city  and  a  solitude 

Third  Voice :  from  the  Air. 
I  had  clothed,  since  Earth  uprose, 

Its  wastes  in  colours  not  their  own, 
And  oft  had  my  serene  repose 

Been  cloven  by  many  a  rending  groan. 


238  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Fourth  Voice :  from  the  Whirlwinds. 
We  had  soared  beneath  these  mountains 

Unresting  ages  ;  nor  had  thunder, 
Nor  yon  volcano's  flaming  fountains, 

Nor  any  power  above  or  under 

Ever  made  us  mute  with  wonder. 

First  Voice, 
But  never  bowed  our  snowy  crest 
As  at  the  voice  of  thine  unrest. 

Second  Voice. 
Never  such  a  sound  before 
To  the  Indian  waves  we  bore. 
A  pilot  asleep  on  the  howling  sea 
Leaped  up  from  the  deck  in  agony, 
And  heard,  and  cried,  "  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! " 
And  died  as  mad  as  the  wild  waves  be. 

Third  Voice. 
By  such  dread  words  from  Earth  to  Heaven 
My  still  realm  was  never  riven  : 
When  its  wound  was  closed,  there  stood 
Darkness  o'er  the  day  like  blood. 

Fourth  Voice. 
And  we  shrank  back  :  for  dreams  of  ruin 
To  frozen  caves  our  flight  pursuing 
Made  us  keep  silence — thus — and  thus — 
Though  silence  is  a  hell  to  us. 

The  Earth.     The  tongueless  Caverns  of  the  craggy 
hills 
Cried,  "  Misery !  "  then  ;  the  hollow  Heaven  replied 
"  Misery  ! "    And  the  Ocean's  purple  waves, 
Climbing  the  land,  howled  to  the  lashing  winds, 
And  the  pale  nations  heard  it,  "  Misery !  " 

Prometheus.     I  hear  a  sound  of  voices  :  not  the  voice 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  239 

Which  I  gave  forth.     Mother,  thy  sons  and  thou 

Scorn  him,  without  whose  all-enduring  will 

Beneath  the  fierce  omnipotence  of  Jove, 

Both  they  and  thou  had  vanished,  like  thin  mist 

Unrolled  on  the  morning  wind.     Know  ye  not  me, 

The  Titan  ?    He  who  made  his  agony 

The  barrier  to  your  else  all-conquering  foe  ? 

Oh,  rock-embosomed  lawns,  and  snow-fed  streams, 

Now  seen  athwart  frore  vapours,  deep  below, 

Through  whose  o'ershadowing  woods  I  wandered  once 

With  Asia,  drinking  life  from  her  loved  eyes ; 

Why  scorns  the  spirit  which  informs  ye,  now 

To  commune  with  me  ?  me  alone,  who  checked, 

As  one  who  checks  a  fiend-drawn  charioteer, 

The  falsehood  and  the  force  of  him  who  reigns 

Supreme,  and  with  the  groans  of  pining  slaves 

Fills  your  dim  glens  and  liquid  wildernesses : 

Why  answer  ye  not,  still  ?    Brethren  ! 

The  Earth.  They  dare  not 

Prometheus.    Who  dares  ?  for  I  would  hear  that  curse 
again. 
Ha,  what  an  awful  whisper  rises  up  ! 
'Tis  scarce  like  sound  :  it  tingles  through  the  frame 
As  lightning  tingles,  hovering  ere  it  strike. 
Speak,  Spirit !  from  thine  inorganic  voice 
I  only  know  that  thou  art  moving  near 
And  love.     How  cursed  I  him  ? 

The  Earth.  How  canst  thou  hear 

Who  knowest  not  the  language  of  the  dead  ? 

Prometheus.     Thou  art  a  living  spirit :  speak  as  they. 

The  Earth.     I  dare  not  speak  like  life,  lest  Heaven's 
fell  King 
Should  hear,  and  link  me  to  some  wheel  of  pain 
More  torturing  than  the  one  whereon  I  roll. 
Subtle  thou  art  and  good,  and  though  the  Gods 
Hear  not  this  voice,  yet  thou  art  more  than  God 
Being  wise  and  kind :  earnestly  hearken  now. 


240  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Prometheus.     Obscurely  through  my  brain,  like  shadows 
dim, 
Sweep  awful  thoughts,  rapid  and  thick.     I  feel 
Faint,  like  one  mingled  in  entwining  love ; 
Yet  'tis  not  pleasure. 

The  Earth.  No,  thou  canst  not  hear  : 

Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
Only  to  those  who  die. 

Prometheus.  And  what  art  thou, 

O,  melancholy  Voice  ? 

The  Earth.  I  am  the  Earth, 

Thy  mother  ;  she  within  whose  stony  veins, 
To  the  last  fibre  of  the  loftiest  tree 
Whose  thin  leaves  trembled  in  the  frozen  air, 
Joy  ran,  as  blood  within  a  living  frame, 
When  thou  didst  from  her  bosom,  like  a  cloud 
Of  glory,  arise,  a  spirit  of  keen  joy  ! 
And  at  thy  voice  her  pining  sons  uplifted 
Their  prostrate  brows  from  the  polluting  dust, 
And  our  almighty  Tyrant  with  fierce  dread 
Grew  pale,  until  his  thunder  chained  thee  here. 
Then,  see  those  million  worlds  which  burn  and  roll 
Around  us  :  their  inhabitants  beheld 
My  sphered  light  wane  in  wide  Heaven  ;  the  sea 
Was  lifted  by  strange  tempest,  and  new  fire 
From  earthquake-rifted  mountains  of  bright  snow 
Shook  its  portentous  hair  beneath  Heaven's  frown ; 
Lightning  and  Inundation  vexed  the  plains ; 
Blue  thistles  bloomed  in  cities  ;  foodless  toads 
Within  voluptuous  chambers  panting  crawled  : 
When  Plague  had  fallen  on  man,  and  beast,  and  worm, 
And  Famine ;  and  black  blight  on  herb  and  tree  ; 
And  in  the  corn,  and  vines,  and  meadow-grass, 
Teemed  ineradicable  poisonous  weeds 
Draining  their  growth,  for  my  wan  breast  was  dry 
With  grief ;  and  the  thin  air,  my  breath,  was  stained 
With  the  contagion  of  a  mother's  hate 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  241 

Breathed  on  her  child's  destroyer ;  aye,  I  heard 
Thy  curse,  the  which,  if  thou  rememberest  not, 
Yet  my  innumerable  seas  and  streams, 
Mountains,  and  caves,  and  winds,  and  yon  wide  air, 
And  the  inarticulate  people  of  the  dead, 
Preserve,  a  treasured  spell.     We  meditate 
In  secret  joy  and  hope  those  dreadful  words 
But  dare  not  speak  them. 

Prometheus.  Venerable  mother ! 

All  else  who  live  and  suffer  take  from  thee 
Some  comfort ;  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  happy  sounds, 
And  love,  though  fleeting ;  these  may  not  be  mine. 
But  mine  own  words,  I  pray,  deny  me  not. 

The  Earth.     They  shall   be  told.    Ere  Babylon  was 
dust, 
The  Magus  Zoroaster,  my  dead  child, 
Met  his  own  image  walking  in  the  garden. 
That  apparition,  sole  of  men,  he  saw. 
For  know  there  are  two  worlds  of  life  and  death  : 
One  that  which  thou  beholdest ;  ,'but  the  other 
Is  underneath  the  grave,  where  do  inhabit 
The  shadows  of  all  forms  that  think  and  live 
Till  death  unite  them  and  they  part  no  more ; 
Dreams  and  the  light  imaginings  of  men, 
And  all  that  faith  creates  or  love  desires, 
Terrible,  strange,  sublime  and  beauteous  shapes. 
There  thou  art,  and  dost  hang,  a  writhing  shade, 
'Mid  whirlwind-peopled  mountains  ;  all  the  gods 
Are  there,  and  all  the  powers  of  nameless  worlds, 
Vast,  sceptred  phantoms  ;  heroes,  men,  and  beasts  ; 
And  Demogorgon,  a  tremendous  gloom  ; 
And  he,  the  supreme  Tyrant,  on  his  throne 
Of  burning  gold.     Son,  one  of  these  shall  utter 
The  curse  which  all  remember.     Call  at  will 
Thine  own  ghost,  or  the  ghost  of  Jupiter, 
Hades  or  Typhon,  or  what  mightier  Gods 
From  all-prolific  Evil,  since  thy  ruin, 

R 


242  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Have  sprung,  and  trampled  on  my  prostrate  sons. 

Ask,  and  they  must  reply  :  so  the  revenge 

Of  the  Supreme  may  sweep  through  vacant  shades, 

As  rainy  wind  through  the  abandoned  gate 

Of  a  fallen  palace. 

Prometheus.  Mother,  let  not  aught 

Of  that  which  may  be  evil,  pass  again 
My  lips,  or  those  of  aught  resembling  me. 
Phantasm  of  Jupiter,  arise,  appear  ! 

lone. 
My  wings  are  folded  o'er  mine  ears : 

My  wings  are  crossed  o'er  mine  eyes  : 
Yet  through  their  silver  shade  appears, 

And  through  their  lulling  plumes  arise, 
A  Shape,  a  throng  of  sounds  ; 

May  it  be  no  ill  to  thee 
O  thou  of  many  wounds  ! 
Near  whom,  for  our  sweet  sister's  sake, 
Ever  thus  we  watch  and  wake. 

Panthea. 
The  sound  is  of  whirlwind  underground, 

Earthquake,  and  fire,  and  mountains  cloven ; 
The  shape  is  awful  like  the  sound, 

Clothed  in  dark  purple,  star-inwoven. 
A  sceptre  of  pale  gold 

To  stay  steps  proud,  o'er  the  slow  cloud 
His  veined  hand  doth  hold. 
Cruel  he  looks,  but  calm  and  strong, 
Like  one  who  does,  not  suffers  wrong. 

Phantasm  of  Jupiter.  Why  have  the  secret  powers  of 
this  strange  world 
Driven  me,  a  frail  and  empty  phantom,  hither 
On  direst  storms  ?    What  unaccustomed  sounds 
Are  hovering  on  my  lips,  unlike  the  voice 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  243 

With  which  our  pallid  race  hold  ghastly  talk 

In  darkness  ?    And,  proud  sufferer,  who  art  thou  ? 

Prometheus.  Tremendous  Image,  as  thou  art  must  be 
He  whom  thou  shadowest  forth.     I  am  his  foe, 
The  Titan.     Speak  the  words  which  I  would  hear, 
Although  no  thought  inform  thine  empty  voice. 

The  Earth.   Listen !     And  though  your  echoes  must 
be  mute, 
Grey  mountains,  and  old  woods,  and  haunted  springs, 
Prophetic  caves,  and  isle-surrounding  streams, 
Rejoice  to  hear  what  yet  ye  cannot  speak. 

Phantasm.  A  spirit  seizes  me  and  speaks  within : 
It  tears  me  as  fire  tears  a  thunder-cloud. 

Panthea.  See,  how  he  lifts  his  mighty  looks,  the  Heaven 
Darkens  above. 

lone.  He  speaks  !    O  shelter  me  ! 

Prometheus.  I  see  the  curse  on  gestures  proud  and  cold, 
i\nd  looks  of  firm  defiance,  and  calm  hate, 
And  such  despair  as  mocks  itself  with  smiles, 
Written  as  on  a  scroll :  yet  speak  :    Oh,  speak  ! 

Phantasm. 
Fiend,  I  defy  thee !  with  a  calm,  fixed  mind, 

All  that  thou  canst  inflict  I  bid  thee  do ; 
Foul  Tyrant  both  of  Gods  and  Human-kind, 

One  only  being  shalt  thou  not  subdue. 
Rain  then  thy  plagues  upon  me  here, 
Ghastly  disease,  and  frenzying  fear ; 
And  let  alternate  frost  and  fire 
Eat  into  me,  and  be  thine  ire 
Lightning,  and  cutting  hail,  and  legioned  forms 
Of  furies,  driving  by  upon  the  wounding  storms. 

Aye,  do  thy  worst.     Thou  art  omnipotent. 

O'er  all  things  but  thyself  I  gave  thee  power, 
And  my  own  will.     Be  thy  swift  mischiefs  sent 

To  blast  mankind,  from  yon  aetherial  tower. 


244  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Let  thy  malignant  spirit  move 

In  darkness  over  those  I  love : 

On  me  and  mine  I  imprecate 

The  utmost  torture  of  thy  hate  ; 
And  thus  devote  to  sleepless  agony, 
This  undeclining  head  while  thou  must  reign  on  high. 

But  thou,  who  art  the  God  and  Lord  :    O,  thou, 
Who  fillest  with  thy  soul  this  world  of  woe, 

To  whom  all  things  of  Earth  and  Heaven  do  bow 
In  fear  and  worship  :  all-prevailing  foe ! 

I  curse  thee !  let  a  sufferer's  curse 

Clasp  thee,  his  torturer,  like  remorse  ; 

Till  thy  Infinity  shall  be 

A  robe  of  envenomed  agony ; 
And  thine  Omnipotence  a  crown  of  pain, 
To  cling  like  burning  gold  round  thy  dissolving  brain. 

Heap  on  thy  soul,  by  virtue  of  this  Curse, 

111  deeds,  then  be  thou  damned,  beholding  good  ; 
Both  infinite  as  is  the  universe, 

And  thou,  and  thy  self-torturing  solitude. 
An  awful  image  of  calm  power 
Though  now  thou  sittest,  let  the  hour 
Come,  when  thou  must  appear  to  be 
That  which  thou  art  internally. 
And  after  many  a  false  and  fruitless  crime 
Scorn  track  thy  lagging  fall  through  boundless  space  and 
time. 

Prometheus.  Were  these  my  words,  O,  Parent  ? 

The  Earth.  They  were  thine. 

Prometheus.  It  doth  repent  me :  words  are  quick  and 
vain ; 
Grief  for  awhile  is  blind,  and  so  was  mine. 
I  wish  no  living  thing  to  suffer  pain. 

The  Earth. 
Misery,  Oh  misery  to  me, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  245 

That  Jove  at  length  should  vanquish  thee. 

Wail,  howl  aloud,  Land  and  Sea, 

The  Earth's  rent  heart  shall  answer  ye. 

Howl,  Spirits  of  the  living  and  the  dead, 

Your  refuge,  your  defence  lies  fallen  and  vanquished. 

First  Echo. 
Lies  fallen  and  vanquished  ! 

Second  Echo. 
Fallen  and  vanquished ! 

lone. 
Fear  not :  'tis  but  some  passing  spasm  ; 

The  Titan  is  unvanquished  still. 
But  see,  where  through  the  azure  chasm 

Of  yon  forked  and  snowy  hill 
Trampling  the  slant  winds  on  high 

With  golden-sandalled  feet,  that  glow 
Under  plumes  of  purple  dye, 
Like  rose-ensanguined  ivory, 

A  Shape  comes  now, 
Stretching  on  high  from  his  right  hand 
A  serpent-cinctured  wand. 

Panthea. 
'Tis  Jove's  world-wandering  herald,  Mercury. 

lone. 
And  who  are  those  with  hydra  tresses 

And  iron  wings  that  climb  the  wind, 
Whom  the  frowning  God  represses 

Like  vapours  steaming  up  behind, 
Clanging  loud,  an  endless  crowd — 

Panthea. 

These  are  Jove's  tempest-walking  hounds, 
Whom  he  gluts  with  groans  and  blood, 
When  charioted  on  sulphurous  cloud 

He  bursts  Heaven's  bounds. 


246  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

lone. 
Are  they  now  led,  from  the  thin  dead 
On  new  pangs  to  be  fed  ? 

Panthea.  The  Titan  looks  as  ever,  firm,  not  proud. 

First  Fury.  Ha !  I  scent  life  ! 

Second  Fury.  Let  me  but  look  into  his  eyes  ! 

Third  Fury.  The  hope  of  torturing  him  smells  like  a 
heap 
Of  corpses  to  a  death-bird  after  battle. 

First  Fury.  Darest  thou  delay,  O  Herald  !  take  cheer, 
Hounds 
Of  Hell :  what  if  the  Son  of  Maia  soon 
Should  make  us  food  and  sport — who  can  please  long 
The  Omnipotent? 

Mercury.  Back  to  your  towers  of  iron, 

And  gnash,  beside  the  streams  of  fire  and  wail, 
Your  foodless  teeth.     Geryon,  arise !  and  Gorgon, 
Chimaera,  and  thou  Sphinx,  subtlest  of  fiends 
Who  ministered  to  Thebes  Heaven's  poisoned  wine, 
Unnatural  love,  and  more  unnatural  hate : 
These  shall  perform  your  task. 

First  Fury.  Oh,  mercy !  mercy ! 

We  die  with  our  desire  :  drive  us  not  back  ! 

Mercury.  Crouch  then  in  silence. 

Awful  Sufferer 
To  thee  unwilling,  most  unwillingly 
I  come,  by  the  great  Father's  will  driven  down, 
To  execute  a  doom  of  new  revenge. 
Alas  !    I  pity  thee,  and  hate  myself 
That  I  can  do  no  more :  aye  from  thy  sight 
Returning,  for  a  season,  Heaven  seems  Hell, 
So  thy  worn  form  pursues  me  night  and  day, 
Smiling  reproach.     Wise  art  thou,  firm  and  good, 
But  vainly  wouldst  stand  forth  alone  in  strife 
Against  the  Omnipotent ;  as  yon  clear  lamps 
That  measure  and  divide  the  weary  years 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  247 


From  which  there  is  no  refuge,  long  have  taught 

And  long  must  teach.     Even  now  thy  Torturer  arms 

With  the  strange  might  of  unimagined  pains 

The  powers  who  scheme  slow  agonies  in  Hell, 

And  my  commission  is  to  lead  them  here, 

Or  what  more  subtle,  foul,  or  savage  fiends 

People  the  abyss,  and  leave  them  to  their  task. 

Be  it  not  so !  there  is  a  secret  known 

To  thee,  and  to  none  else  of  living  things, 

Which  may  transfer  the  sceptre  of  wide  Heaven, 

The  fear  of  which  perplexes  the  Supreme  : 

Clothe  it  in  words,  and  bid  it  clasp  his  throne 

In  intercession  ;  bend  thy  soul  in  prayer, 

And  like  a  suppliant  in  some  gorgeous  fane, 

Let  the  will  kneel  within  thy  haughty  heart : 

For  benefits  and  meek  submission  tame 

The  fiercest  and  the  mightiest. 

Prometheus.  Evil  minds 

Change  good  to  their  own  nature.     I  gave  all 
He  has ;  and  in  return  he  chains  me  here 
Years,  ages,  night  and  day  :  whether  the  Sun 
Split  my  parched  skin,  or  in  the  moony  night 
The  crystal-winged  snow  cling  round  my  hair : 
Whilst  my  beloved  race  is  trampled  down 
By  his  thought-executing  ministers. 
Such  is  the  tyrant's  recompense  :  'tis  just : 
He  who  is  evil  can  receive  no  good  ; 
And  for  a  world  bestowed,  or  a  friend  lost, 
He  can  feel  hate,  fear,  shame  ;  not  gratitude  : 
He  but  requites  me  for  his  own  misdeed. 
Kindness  to  such  is  keen  reproach,  which  breaks 
With  bitter  stings  the  light  sleep  of  Revenge. 
Submission,  thou  dost  know  I  cannot  try  : 
For  what  submission  but  that  fatal  word, 
The  death-seal  of  mankind's  captivity, 
Like  the  Sicilian's  hair-suspended  sword, 
Which  trembles  o'er  his  crown,  would  he  accept, 


248  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Or  could  I  yield  ?    Which  yet  I  will  not  yield. 

Let  others  flatter  Crime,  where  it  sits  throned 

In  brief  Omnipotence  :  secure  are  they  : 

For  Justice,  when  triumphant,  will  weep  down 

Pity,  not  punishment,  on  her  own  wrongs, 

Too  much  avenged  by  those  who  err.     I  wait, 

Enduring  thus,  the  retributive  hour 

Which  since  we  spake  is  even  nearer  now. 

But  hark,  the  hell-hounds  clamour  :  fear  delay  : 

Behold !    Heaven  lowers  under  thy  Father's  frown. 

Mercury.  Oh,  that  we  might  be  spared, — I  to  inflict 
And  thou  to  suffer !    Once  more  answer  me  : 
Thou  knowest  not  the  period  of  Jove's  power  ? 

Prometheus.  I  know  but  this,  that  it  must  come. 

Mercury.  Alas ! 

Thou  canst  not  count  thy  years  to  come  of  pain  ? 

Prometheus.  They  last  while   Jove  must  reign  :   nor 
more,  nor  less 
Do  I  desire  or  fear. 

Mercury.  Yet  pause,  and  plunge 

Into  Eternity,  where  recorded  time, 
Even  all  that  we  imagine,  age  on  age, 
Seems  but  a  point,  and  the  reluctant  mind 
Flags  wearily  in  its  unending  flight, 
Till  it  sink,  dizzy,  blind,  lost,  shelterless  ; 
Perchance  it  has  not  numbered  the  slow  years 
Which  thou  must  spend  in  torture,  unreprieved  ? 

Prometheus.  Perchance  no  thought  can  count  them  : 
yet  they  pass. 

Mercury.  If  thou  might'st  dwell  among  the  Gods  the 
while 
Lapped  in  voluptuous  joy  ? 

Prometheus.  I  would  not  quit 

This  bleak  ravine,  these  unrepentant  pains. 

Mercury.  Alas  !  I  wonder  at,  yet  pity  thee. 

Prometheus.  Pity  the  self-despising  slaves  of  Heaven, 
Not  me,  within  whose  mind  sits  peace  serene, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  249 

As  light  in  the  sun,  throned  :  how  vain  is  talk  ! 
Call  up  the  fiends. 

lone.  O,  sister,  look  !    White  fire 

Has  cloven  to  the  roots  yon  huge  snow-loaded  cedar ; 
How  fearfully  God's  thunder  howls  behind ! 

Mercury.  I  must  obey  his  words  and  thine  :  alas  ! 
Most  heavily  remorse  hangs  at  my  heart ! 

Panthea.  See  where  the  child  of  Heaven,  with  winged 
feet, 
Runs  down  the  slanted  sunlight  of  the  dawn. 

lone.  Dear  sister,  close  thy  plumes  over  thine  eyes 
Lest  thou  behold  and  die  :  they  come  :  they  come 
Blackening  the  birth  of  day  with  countless  wings, 
And  hollow  underneath,  like  death. 

First  Fury.  Prometheus ! 

Second  Fury.  Immortal  Titan  ! 

Third  Fury.  Champion  of  Heaven's  slaves  ! 

Prometheus.  He  whom  some  dreadful  voice  invokes  is 
here, 
Prometheus,  the  chained  Titan.     Horrible  forms, 
What  and  who  are  ye  ?    Never  yet  there  came 
Phantasms  so  foul  through  monster-teeming  Hell 
From  the  all-miscreative  brain  of  Jove  ; 
Whilst  I  behold  such  execrable  shapes, 
Methinks  I  grow  like  what  I  contemplate, 
And  laugh  and  stare  in  loathsome  sympathy. 

First  Fury.  We  are  the  ministers  of  pain,  and  fear, 
And  disappointment,  and  mistrust,  and  hate, 
And  clinging  crime  ;  and  as  lean  dogs  pursue 
Through  wood  and  lake  some  struck  and  sobbing  fawn, 
We  track  all  things  that  weep,  and  bleed,  and  live, 
When  the  great  King  betrays  them  to  our  will. 

Prometheus.  Oh !  many  fearful  natures  in  one  name, 
I  know  ye  ;  and  these  lakes  and  echoes  know 
The  darkness  and  the  clangour  of  your  wings. 
But  why  more  hideous  than  your  loathed  selves 
Gather  ye  up  in  legions  from  the  deep  ? 


2SO  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Second  Fury.  We    knew  not   that :    Sisters,    rejoice, 
rejoice ! 

Prometheus.  Can  aught  exult  in  its  deformity  ? 

Second  Fury.    The   beauty  of  delight   makes   lovers 
glad, 
Gazing  on  one  another  :  so  are  we. 
As  from  the  rose  which  the  pale  priestess  kneels 
To  gather  for  her  festal  crown  of  flowers 
The  aerial  crimson  falls,  flushing  her  cheek, 
So  from  our  victim's  destined  agony 
The  shade  which  is  our  form  invests  us  round ; 
Else  we  are  shapeless  as  our  mother  Night. 

Prometheus.  I  laugh  your  power,  and  his  who  sent  you 
here, 
To  lowest  scorn.     Pour  forth  the  cup  of  pain. 

First  Fury.  Thou  thinkest  we  will  rend  thee  bone  from 
bone, 
And  nerve  from  nerve,  working  like  fire  within  ? 

Prometheus.  Pain  is  my  element,  as  hate  is  thine ; 
Ye  rend  me  now :  I  care  not. 

Second  Fury.  Dost  imagine 

We  will  but  laugh  into  thy  lidless  eyes  ? 

Prometheus.  I  weigh  not  what  ye  do,  but  what  ye  suffer, 
Being  evil.     Cruel  was  the  power  which  called 
You,  or  aught  else  so  wretched,  into  light. 

Third  Fury.  Thou  think'st  we  will  live  through  thee, 
one  by  one, 
Like  animal  life,  and  though  we  can  obscure  not 
The  soul  which  burns  within,  that  we  will  dwell 
Beside  it,  like  a  vain  loud  multitude 
Vexing  the  self-content  of  wisest  men  : 
That  we  will  be  dread  thought  beneath  thy  brain, 
And  foul  desire  round  thine  astonished  heart, 
And  blood  within  thy  labyrinthine  veins 
Crawling  like  agony. 

Prometheus.  Why,  ye  are  thus  now  ; 

Yet  I  am  king  over  myself,  and  rule 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  251 


The  torturing  and  conflicting  throngs  within, 
As  Jove  rules  you  when  Hell  grows  mutinous. 


Chorus  of  Furies. 
From  the  ends  of  the  earth,  from  the  ends  of  the  earth, 
Where  the  night  has  its  grave  and  the  morning  its  birth, 

Come,  come,  come ! 
Oh,  ye  who  shake  hills  with  the  scream  of  your  mirth, 
When  cities  sink  howling  in  ruin  ;  and  ye 
Who  with  wingless  footsteps  trample  the  sea, 
And  close  upon  Shipwreck  and  Famine's  track, 
Sit  chattering  with  joy  on  the  foodless  wreck  ; 
Come,  come,  come ! 
Leave  the  bed,  low,  cold,  and  red, 
Strewed  beneath  a  nation  dead  ; 
Leave  the  hatred,  as  in  ashes 

Fire  is  left  for  future  burning  : 
It  will  burst  in  bloodier  flashes 

When  ye  stir  it,  soon  returning  : 
Leave  the  self-contempt  implanted 
In  young  spirits,  sense-enchanted, 

Misery's  yet  unkindled  fuel : 
Leave  Hell's  secrets  half  unchanted 

To  the  maniac  dreamer  ;  cruel 
More  than  ye  can  be  with  hate 
Is  he  with  fear. 

Come,  come,  come ! 
We  are  steaming  up  from  Hell's  wide  gate 
And  we  burthen  the  blast  of  the  atmosphere 
But  vainly  we  toil  till  ye  come  here. 


lone.  Sister,  I  hear  the  thunder  of  new  wings. 

Panthea.  These  solid  mountains  quiver  with  the  sound 
Even  as  the  tremulous  air  :  their  shadows  make 
The  space  within  my  plumes  more  black  than  night. 


252  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

First  Fury. 
Your  call  was  as  a  winged  car 
Driven  on  whirlwinds  fast  and  far  ; 
It  rapt  us  from  red  gulphs  of  war. 

Second  Fury. 
From  wide  cities,  famine-wasted  ; 

Third  Fury. 
Groans  half  heard,  and  blood  untasted  ; 

Fourth  Fury. 
Kingly  conclaves  stern  and  cold, 
Where  blood  with  gold  is  bought  and  sold ; 

Fifth  Fury. 
From  the  furnace,  white  and  hot, 
In  which — 

A  Fury. 
Speak  not :  whisper  not : 
I  know  all  that  ye  would  tell, 
But  to  speak  might  break  the  spell 
Which  must  bend  the  Invincible, 

The  stern  of  thought ; 
He  yet  defies  the  deepest  power  of  Hell. 

Fury. 
Tear  the  veil ! 

Another  Fury. 
It  is  torn. 

Chorus. 

The  pale  stars  of  the  morn 
Shine  on  a  misery,  dire  to  be  borne. 
Dost  thou  faint,  mighty  Titan  ?  We  laugh  thee  to  scorn. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  253 


Dost  thou  boast  the  clear  knowledge  thou  waken'dst  for 

man? 
Then  was  kindled  within  him  a  thirst  which  outran 
Those  perishing  waters  ;  a  thirst  of  fierce  fever, 
Hope,  love,  doubt,  desire,  which  consume  him  for  ever. 
One  came  forth  of  gentle  worth 
Smiling  on  the  sanguine  earth  ; 
His  words  outlived  him,  like  swift  poison 

Withering  up  truth,  peace,  and  pity. 
Look  !  where  round  the  wide  horizon 

Many  a  million-peopled  city 
Vomits  smoke  in  the  bright  air. 
Mark  that  outcry  of  despair ! 
'Tis  his  mild  and  gentle  ghost 

Wailing  for  the  faith  he  kindled  : 
Look  again,  the  flames  almost 

To  a  glow-worm's  lamp  have  dwindled  : 
The  survivors  round  the  embers 
Gather  in  dread. 
J°y>  joy,  joy ! 
Past  ages  crowd  on  thee,  but  each  one  remembers, 
And  the  future  is  dark,  and  the  present  is  spread 
Like  a  pillow  of  thorns  for  thy  slumberless  head. 

Semichorus  I. 
Drops  of  bloody  agony  flow 
From  his  white  and  quivering  brow. 
Grant  a  little  respite  now : 
See  a  disenchanted  nation 
Springs  like  day  from  desolation  ; 
To  Truth  its  state  is  dedicate, 
And  Freedom  leads  it  forth,  her  mate  ; 
A  legioned  band  of  linked  brothers 
Whom  Love  calls  children — 

Semichorus  II. 

'Tis  another's  : 
See  how  kindred  murder  kin  : 


254  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

'Tis  the  vintage-time  for  death  and  sin  : 
Blood,  like  new  wine,  bubbles  within  : 
Till  Despair  smothers 
The  struggling  world,  which  slaves  and  tyrants  win. 

[All  the  FURIES  vanish,  except  one. 

lone.  Hark,  sister  !  what  a  low  yet  dreadful  groan 
Quite  unsuppressed  is  tearing  up  the  heart 
Of  the  good  Titan,  as  storms  tear  the  deep, 
And  beasts  hear  the  sea  moan  in  inland  caves. 
Darest  thou  observe  how  the  fiends  torture  him  ? 

Panthea.  Alas  !  I  looked  forth  twice,  but  will  no  more. 

lone.  What  didst  thou  see  ? 

Panthea.  A  woful  sight :  a  youth 

With  patient  looks  nailed  to  a  crucifix. 

lone.  What  next? 

Panthea.  The  heaven  around,  the  earth  below 

Was  peopled  with  thick  shapes  of  human  death, 
All  horrible,  and  wrought  by  human  hands, 
And  some  appeared  the  work  of  human  hearts, 
For  men  were  slowly  killed  by  frowns  and  smiles : 
And  other  sights  too  foul  to  speak  and  live 
Were  wandering  by.     Let  us  not  tempt  worse  fear 
By  looking  forth  :  those  groans  are  grief  enough. 

Fury.  Behold  an  emblem  :  those  who  do  endure 
Deep  wrongs  for  man,  and  scorn,  and  chains,  but  heap 
Thousandfold  torment  on  themselves  and  him. 

Prometheus.  Remit  the  anguish  of  that  lighted  stare  ; 
Close  those  wan  lips  ;  let  that  thorn-wounded  brow 
Stream  not  with  blood  ;  it  mingles  with  thy  tears ! 
Fix,  fix  those  tortured  orbs  in  peace  and  death, 
So  thy  sick  throes  shake  not  that  crucifix, 
So  those  pale  fingers  play  not  with  thy  gore. 
O,  horrible  !    Thy  name  I  will  not  speak, 
It  hath  become  a  curse.     I  see,  I  see 
The  wise,  the  mild,  the  lofty,  and  the  just, 
Whom  thy  slaves  hate  for  being  like  to  thee, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  255 

Some  hunted  by  foul  lies  from  their  heart's  home, 
An  early-chosen,  late-lamented  home  ; 
As  hooded  ounces  cling  to  the  driven  hind  ; 
Some  linked  to  corpses  in  unwholesome  cells : 
Some — Hear  I  not  the  multitude  laugh  loud  ? — 
Impaled  in  lingering  fire  :  and  mighty  realms 
Float  by  my  feet,  like  sea-uprooted  isles, 
Whose  sons  are  kneaded  down  in  common  blood 
By  the  red  light  of  their  own  burning  homes. 

Fury.  Blood  thou  canst  see,  and  fire ;  and  canst  hear 
groans ; 
Worse  things,  unheard,  unseen,  remain  behind. 

Prometheus.  Worse? 

Fury.  In  each  human  heart  terror  survives 

The  ruin  it  has  gorged  :  the  loftiest  fear 
All  that  they  would  disdain  to  think  were  true  : 
Hypocrisy  and  custom  make  their  minds 
The  fanes  of  many  a  worship,  now  outworn. 
They  dare  not  devise  good  for  man's  estate, 
And  yet  they  know  not  that  they  do  not  dare. 
The  good  want  power,  but  to  weep  barren  tears. 
The  powerful  goodness  want :  worse  need  for  them. 
The  wise  want  love ;  and  those  who  love  want  wisdom  ; 
And  all  best  things  are  thus  confused  to  ill. 
Many  are  strong  and  rich,  and  would  be  just, 
But  live  among  their  suffering  fellow-men 
As  if  none  felt :  they  know  not  what  they  do. 

Prometheus.  Thy  words  are  like  a  cloud  of  winged 
snakes ; 
And  yet  I  pity  those  they  torture  not. 

Fury.  Thou  pitiest  them  ?    I  speak  no  more  ! 

[  Vanishes. 

Prometheus.  Ah  woe ! 

Ah  woe  !  Alas  !  pain,  pain  ever,  for  ever ! 
I  close  my  tearless  eyes,  but  see  more  clear 
Thy  works  within  my  woe-illumined  mind, 
Thou  subtle  tyrant !    Peace  is  in  the  grave. 


256  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

The  grave  hides  all  things  beautiful  and  good  : 

I  am  a  God  and  cannot  find  it  there, 

Nor  would  I  seek  it :  for,  though  dread  revenge, 

This  is  defeat,  fierce  king,  not  victory. 

The  sights  with  which  thou  torturest  gird  my  soul 

With  new  endurance,  till  the  hour  arrives 

When  they  shall  be  no  types  of  things  which  are. 

Panthea.  Alas !  what  sawest  thou  ? 

Prometheus.  There  are  two  woes  ; 

To  speak,  and  to  behold  ;  thou  spare  me  one. 
Names  are  there,  Nature's  sacred  watch-words,  they 
Were  borne  aloft  in  bright  emblazonry  ; 
The  nations  thronged  around,  and  cried  aloud, 
As  with  one  voice,  Truth,  liberty,  and  love ! 
Suddenly  fierce  confusion  fell  from  heaven 
Among  them  :  there  was  strife,  deceit,  and  fear : 
Tyrants  rushed  in,  and  did  divide  the  spoil. 
This  was  the  shadow  of  the  truth  I  saw. 

The  Earth.  I  felt  thy  torture,  son,  with  such  mixed 
joy 
As  pain  and  virtue  give.     To  cheer  thy  state 
I  bid  ascend  those  subtle  and  fair  spirits, 
Whose  homes  are  the  dim  caves  of  human  thought, 
And  who  inhabit,  as  birds  wing  the  wind, 
Its  world-surrounding  aether :  they  behold 
Beyond  that  twilight  realm,  as  in  a  glass, 
The  future  :  may  they  speak  comfort  to  thee ! 

Panthea.  Look,  sister,  where  a  troop  of  spirits  gather, 
Like  flocks  of  clouds  in  spring's  delightful  weather, 
Thronging  in  the  blue  air ! 

lone.  And  see !  more  come, 

Like  fountain-vapours  when  the  winds  are  dumb, 
That  climb  up  the  ravine  in  scattered  lines. 
And,  hark  !  is  it  the  music  of  the  pines  ? 
Is  it  the  lake  ?  Is  it  the  waterfall  ? 

Panthea.  'Tis    something    sadder,    sweeter    far    than 
all. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  257 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
From  unremembered  ages  we 
Gentle  guides  and  guardians  be 
Of  heaven-oppressed  mortality ; 
And  we  breathe,  and  sicken  not, 
The  atmosphere  of  human  thought : 
Be  it  dim,  and  dank,  and  grey, 
Like  a  storm-extinguished  day, 
Travelled  o'er  by  dying  gleams  ; 

Be  it  bright  as  all  between 
Cloudless  skies  and  windless  streams, 

Silent,  liquid,  and  serene  ; 
As  the  birds  within  the  wind, 

As  the  fish  within  the  wave, 
As  the  thoughts  of  man's  own  mind 

Float  through  all  above  the  grave ; 
We  make  there  our  liquid  lair, 
Voyaging  cloudlike  and  unpent 
Through  the  boundless  element : 
Thence  we  bear  the  prophecy 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee ! 


lone.  More  yet  come,  one  by  one  ;  the  air  around  them 
Looks  radiant  as  the  air  around  a  star. 


First  Spirit. 
On  a  battle-trumpet's  blast 
I  fled  hither,  fast,  fast,  fast, 
'Mid  the  darkness  upward  cast. 
From  the  dust  of  creeds  outworn, 
From  the  tyrant's  banner  torn, 
Gathering  'round  me,  onward  borne, 
There  was  mingled  many  a  cry — 
Freedom  !  Hope  !  Death  !  Victory  ! 
Till  they  faded  through  the  sky  ; 
And  one  sound,  above,  around, 
S 


253  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

One  sound  beneath,  around,  above, 
Was  moving  ;  'twas  the  soul  of  love  : 
'Twas  the  hope,  the  prophecy, 
Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

Second  Spirit. 
A  rainbow's  arch  stood  on  the  sea, 
Which  rocked  beneath,  immovably ; 
And  the  triumphant  storm  did  flee, 
Like  a  conqueror,  swift  and  proud, 
Between,  with  many  a  captive  cloud, 
A  shapeless,  dark  and  rapid  crowd, 
Each  by  lightning  riven  in  half: 
I  heard  the  thunder  hoarsely  laugh  : 
Mighty  fleets  were  strewn  like  chaff 
And  spread  beneath  a  hell  of  death 
O'er  the  white  waters.     I  alit 
On  a  great  ship  lightning-split, 
And  speeded  hither  on  the  sigh 
Of  one  who  gave  an  enemy 
His  plank,  then  plunged  aside  to  die. 

Third  Spirit. 
I  sate  beside  a  sage's  bed, 
And  the  lamp  was  burning  red 
Near  the  book  where  he  had  fed, 
When  a  Dream  with  plumes  of  flame, 
To  his  pillow  hovering  came, 
And  I  knew  it  was  the  same 
Which  had  kindled  long  ago 
Pity,  eloquence,  and  woe  ; 
And  the  world  awhile  below 
Wore  the  shade,  its  lustre  made. 
It  has  borne  me  here  as  fleet 
As  Desire's  lightning  feet : 
I  must  ride  it  back  ere  morrow, 
Or  the  sage  will  wake  in  sorrow. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  259 

Four tli  Spirit. 
On  a  poet's  lips  I  slept 
Dreaming  like  a  love-adept 
In  the  sound  his  breathing  kept ; 
Nor  seeks  nor  finds  he  mortal  blisses, 
But  feeds  on  the  aerial  kisses 
Of  shapes  that  haunt  thought's  wildernesses. 
He  will  watch  from  dawn  to  gloom 
The  lake-reflected  sun  illume 
The  yellow  bees  in  the  ivy-bloom, 
Nor  heed  nor  see,  what  things  they  be ; 
But  from  these  create  he  can 
Forms  more  real  than  living  man, 
Nurslings  of  immortality ! 
One  of  these  awakened  me, 
And  I  sped  to  succour  thee. 

lone.  Behold'st  thou  not  two  shapes  from  the  east  and 
west 
Come,  as  two  doves  to  one  beloved  nest, 
Twin  nurslings  of  the  all-sustaining  air 
On  swift  still  winds  glide  down  the  atmosphere  ? 
And,  hark  !  their  sweet,  sad  voices  !  'tis  despair 
Mingled  with  love  and  then  dissolved  in  sound. 

Panthea.  Canst  thou  speak,  sister  ?  all  my  words  are 
drowned. 

lone.  Their  beauty  gives  me  voice.     See  how  they  float 
On  their  sustaining  wings  of  skiey  grain, 
Orange  and  azure  deepening  into  gold  : 
Their  soft  smiles  light  the  air  like  a  star's  fire. 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 
Hast  thou  beheld  the  form  of  Love  ? 

Fifth  Spirit. 

As  over  wide  dominions 
1  sped,  like  some  swift  cloud  that  wings  the  wide  air's 
wildernesses, 


2<5o  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

That  planet-crested  shape  swept  by  on  lightning-braided 

pinions, 
Scattering  the   liquid   joy   of  life   from   his   ambrosial 

tresses  : 
His  footsteps  paved  the  world  with  light ;  but  as  I  passed 

'twas  fading, 
And  hollow  Ruin  yawned  behind  :  great  sages  bound  in 

madness, 
And  headless  patriots,  and  pale  youths  who  perished, 

unupbraiding, 
Gleamed  in  the  night.     I  wandered  o'er,  till  thou,  O  King 

of  sadness, 
Turned  by  thy  smile  the  worst  I  saw  to  recollected  glad- 
ness. 

Sixth  Spirit. 
Ah,  sister !  Desolation  is  a  delicate  thing : 
It  walks  not  on  the  earth,  it  floats  not  on  the  air, 
But  treads  with  killing  footstep,  and  fans  with  silent  wing 
The  tender  hopes  which  in  their  hearts  the  best  and 

gentlest  bear ; 
Who,  soothed  to  false  repose  by  the  fanning  plumes  above 
And  the  music-stirring  motion  of  its  soft  and  busy  feet, 
Dream  visions  of  aerial  joy,  and  call  the  monster,  Love, 
And  wake,  and  find  the  shadow  Pain,  as  he  whom  now 

we  greet. 

Chorus. 
Though  Ruin  now  Love's  shadow  be, 
Following  him,  destroyingly, 

On  Death's  white  and  winged  steed, 
Which  the  fleetest  cannot  flee, 

Trampling  down  both  flower  and  weed, 
Man  and  beast,  and  foul  and  fair, 
Like  a  tempest  through  the  air  ; 
Thou  shalt  quell  this  horseman  grim, 
Woundless  though  in  heart  or  limb. 


f 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  261 

Prometheus.  Spirits  !  how  know  ye  this  shall  be  ? 

Chorus. 

In  the  atmosphere  we  breathe, 
As  buds  grow  red  when  the  snow-storms  flee, 

From  spring  gathering  up  beneath, 
Whose  mild  winds  shake  the  elder  brake, 
And  the  wandering  herdsmen  know 
That  the  white-thorn  soon  will  blow : 
Wisdom,  Justice,  Love,  and  Peace, 
When  they  struggle  to  increase, 

Are  to  us  as  soft  winds  be 

To  shepherd  boys,  the  prophecy 

Which  begins  and  ends  in  thee. 

lone.  Where  are  the  Spirits  fled  ? 

Panthea.  Only  a  sense 

Remains  of  them,  like  the  omnipotence 
Of  music,  when  the  inspired  voice  and  lute 
Languish,  ere  yet  the  responses  are  mute, 
Which  through  the  deep  and  labyrinthine  soul, 
Like  echoes  through  long  caverns,  wind  and  roll. 

Prometheus.  How  fair  these  air-born  shapes !  and  yet 
I  feel 
Most  vain  all  hope  but  love ;  and  thou  art  far, 
Asia !  who,  when  my  being  overflowed, 
Wert  like  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust. 
All  things  are  still :  alas  !  how  heavily 
This  quiet  morning  weighs  upon  my  heart ; 
Though  I  should  dream  I  could  even  sleep  with  grief 
If  slumber  were  denied  not.     I  would  fain 
Be  what  it  is  my  destiny  to  be, 
The  saviour  and  the  strength  of  suffering  man, 
Or  sink  into  the  original  gulph  of  things  : 
There  is  no  agony,  and  no  solace  left ; 
Earth  can  console,  Heaven  can  torment  no  more. 


262 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


Panthea.  Hast  thou  forgotten  one  who  watches  thee 
The  cold  dark  night,  and  never  sleeps  but  when 
The  shadow  of  thy  spirit  falls  on  her  ? 

Prometheus.  I  said  all  hope  was  vain  but  love :  thou 
lovest. 

Panthea.  Deeply  in  truth ;  but  the  eastern  star  looks 
white, 
And  Asia  waits  in  that  far  Indian  vale 
The  scene  of  her  sad  exile  ;  rugged  once 
And  desolate  and  frozen,  like  this  ravine  ; 
But  now  invested  with  fair  flowers  and  herbs, 
And  haunted  by  sweet  airs  and  sounds,  which  flow 
Among  the  woods  and  waters,  from  the  aether 
Of  her  transforming  presence,  which  would  fade 
If  it  were  mingled  not  with  thine.     Farewell ! 

END  OF  THE   FIRST  ACT. 


- 


tmmmmmm   »  »  m»i 


^^■mr 


. 


SCENE  I.     Morning.     A  lovely  Vale  hi  the 
Indian  Caucasus.     ASIA  alone. 

Asia.  From  all  the  blasts  of  heaven  thou  hast  de- 
scended : 
Yes,  like  a  spirit,  like  a  thought,  which  makes 
Unwonted  tears  throng  to  the  horny  eyes} 
And  beatings  haunt  the  desolated  heart, 
Which  should  have  learnt  repose :  thou  hast  descended 
Cradled  in  tempests  ;  thou  dost  wake,  O  Spring ! 
O  child  of  many  winds  !    As  suddenly 
Thou  comest  as  the  memory  of  a  dream, 
Which  now  is  sad  because  it  hath  been  sweet ; 
Like  genius,  or  like  joy  which  riseth  up 
As  from  the  earth,  clothing  with  golden  clouds 
The  desert  of  our  life. 
This  is  the  season,  this  the  day,  the  hour ; 
At  sunrise  thou  shouldst  come,  sweet  sister  mine, 


266  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Too  long  desired,  too  long  delaying,  come  ! 

How  like  death-worms  the  wingless  moments  crawl ! 

The  point  of  one  white  star  is  quivering  still 

Deep  in  the  orange  light  of  widening  morn 

Beyond  the  purple  mountains :  through  a  chasm 

Of  wind-divided  mist  the  darker  lake 

Reflects  it :  now  it  wanes  :  it  gleams  again 

As  the  waves  fade,  and  as  the  burning  threads 

Of  woven  cloud  unravel  in  pale  air  : 

'Tis  lost !  and  through  yon  peaks  of  cloudlike  snow 

The  roseate  sun-light  quivers  :  hear  I  not 

The  JEoYmn  music  of  her  sea-green  plumes 

Winnowing  the  crimson  dawn  ? 

[PANTHEA  enters. 
I  feel,  I  see 
Those  eyes  which  burn  through  smiles  that  fade  in  tears, 
Like  stars  half  quenched  in  mists  of  silver  dew. 
Beloved  and  most  beautiful,  who  wearest 
The  shadow  of  that  soul  by  which  I  live, 
How  late  thou  art !  the  sphered  sun  had  climbed 
The  sea  ;  my  heart  was  sick  with  hope,  before 
The  printless  air  felt  thy  belated  plumes. 

Panthea.    Pardon,  great  Sister!    but  my  wings  were 
faint 
With  the  delight  of  a  remembered  dream, 
As  are  the  noon-tide  plumes  of  summer  winds 
Satiate  with  sweet  flowers.     I  was  wont  to  sleep 
Peacefully,  and  awake  refreshed  and  calm 
Before  the  sacred  Titan's  fall,  and  thy 
Unhappy  love,  had  made,  through  use  and  pity, 
Both  love  and  woe  familiar  to  my  heart 
As  they  had  grown  to  thine  :  erewhile  I  slept 
Under  the  glaucous  caverns  of  old  Ocean 
Within  dim  bowers  of  green  and  purple  moss, 
Our  young  Ione's  soft  and  milky  arms 
Locked  then,  as  now,  behind  my  dark,  moist  hair, 
While  my  shut  eyes  and  cheek  were  pressed  within 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  267 


The  folded  depth  of  her  life-breathing  bosom  : 
But  not  as  now,  since  I  am  made  the  wind 
Which  fails  beneath  the  music  that  I  bear 
Of  thy  most  worldless  converse  ;  since  dissolved 
Into  the  sense  with  which  love  talks,  my  rest 
Was  troubled  and  yet  sweet ;  my  waking  hours 
Too  full  of  care  and  pain. 

Asia.  Lift  up  thine  eyes, 

And  let  me  read  thy  dream. 

Panthea.  As  I  have  said 

With  our  sea-sister  at  his  feet  I  slept. 
The  mountain  mists,  condensing  at  our  voice 
Under  the  moon,  had  spread  their  snowy  flakes, 
From  the  keen  ice  shielding  our  linked  sleep. 
Then  two  dreams  came.     One,  I  remember  not. 
But  in  the  other  his  pale  wound-worn  limbs 
Fell  from  Prometheus,  and  the  azure  night 
Grew  radiant  with  the  glory  of  that  form 
Which  lives  unchanged  within,  and  his  voice  fell 
Like  music  which  makes  giddy  the  dim  brain, 
Faint  with  intoxication  of  keen  joy  : 
"  Sister  of  her  whose  footsteps  pave  the  world 
"  With  loveliness — more  fair  than  aught  but  her, 
"  Whose  shadow  thou  art — lift  thine  eyes  on  me." 
I  lifted  them  :  the  overpowering  light 
Of  that  immortal  shape  was  shadowed  o'er 
By  love  ;  which,  from  his  soft  and  flowing  limbs, 
And  passion-parted  lips,  and  keen,  faint  eyes, 
Steamed  forth  like  vaporous  fire  ;  an  atmosphere 
Which  wrapped  me  in  its  all-dissolving  power, 
As  the  warm  aether  of  the  morning  sun 
Wraps  ere  it  drinks  some  cloud  of  wandering  dew. 
I  saw  not,  heard  not,  moved  not,  only  felt 
His  presence  flow  and  mingle  through  my  blood 
Till  it  became  his  life,  and  his  grew  mine, 
And  I  was  thus  absorbed,  until  it  passed, 
And  like  the  vapours  when  the  sun  sinks  down, 


268  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Gathering  again  in  drops  upon  the  pines, 

And  tremulous  as  they,  in  the  deep  night 

My  being  was  condensed  ;  and  as  the  rays 

Of  thought  were  slowly  gathered,  I  could  hear 

His  voice,  whose  accents  lingered  ere  they  died 

Like  footsteps  of  weak  melody  :  thy  name 

Among  the  many  sounds  alone  I  heard 

Of  what  might  be  articulate  ;  though  still 

I  listened  through  the  night  when  sound  was  none. 

lone  wakened  then,  and  said  to  me  : 

"  Canst  thou  divine  what  troubles  me  to-night  ? 

"  I  always  knew  what  I  desired  before, 

"  Nor  ever  found  delight  to  wish  in  vain. 

"  But  now  I  cannot  tell  thee  what  I  seek  ; 

"  I  know  not ;  something  sweet,  since  it  is  sweet 

"  Even  to  desire  ;  it  is  thy  sport,  false  sister  ; 

"  Thou  hast  discovered  some  enchantment  old, 

"  Whose  spells  have  stolen  my  spirit  as  I  slept 

"  And  mingled  it  with  thine  :  for  when  just  now 

"  We  kissed,  I  felt  within  thy  parted  lips 

"  The  sweet  air  that  sustained  me,  and  the  warmth 

"  Of  the  life-blood,  for  loss  of  which  I  faint, 

"  Quivered  between  our  intertwining  arms." 

I  answered  not,  for  the  Eastern  star  grew  pale, 

But  fled  to  thee. 

Asm.  Thou  speakest,  but  thy  words 

Are  as  the  air :  I  feel  them  not :  Oh,  lift 
Thine  eyes,  that  I  may  read  his  written  soul ! 

Panthea.  I  lift  them  though  they  droop  beneath  the 
load 
Of  that  they  would  express  :  what  canst  thou  see 
But  thine  own  fairest  shadow  imaged  there  ? 

Asia.  Thine  eyes  are  like  the  deep,  blue,  boundless 
heaven 
Contracted  to  two  circles  underneath 
Their  long,  fine  lashes  ;  dark,  far,  measureless, 
Orb  within  orb,  and  line  through  line  inwoven. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  269 


Panthea.  Why  lookest  thou  as  if  a  spirit  passed  ? 

Asia.  There  is  a  change  :  beyond  their  inmost  depth 
I  see  a  shade,  a  shape :  'tis  He,  arrayed 
In  the  soft  light  of  his  own  smiles,  which  spread 
Like  radiance  from  the  cloud-surrounded  moon. 
Prometheus,  it  is  thine  !  depart  not  yet ! 
Say  not  those  smiles  that  we  shall  meet  again 
Within  that  bright  pavilion  which  their  beams 
Shall  build  on  the  waste  world  ?  The  dream  is  told. 
What  shape  is  that  between  us  ?  Its  rude  hair 
Roughens  the  wind  that  lifts  it,  its  regard 
Is  wild  and  quick,  yet  'tis  a  thing  of  air 
For  through  its  grey  robe  gleams  the  golden  dew 
Whose  stars  the  noon  has  quenched  not. 

Dream.  Follow  !    Follow  ! 

Panthea.  It  is  mine  other  dream. 

Asia.  It  disappears. 

Panthea.  It  passes  now  into  my  mind.     Methought 
As  we  sate  here,  the  flower-infolding  buds 
Burst  on  yon  lightning-blasted  almond-tree, 
When  swift  from  the  white  Scythian  wilderness 
A  wind  swept  forth  wrinkling  the  Earth  with  frost : 
I  looked,  and  all  the  blossoms  were  blown  down  ; 
But  on  each  leaf  was  stamped,  as  the  blue  bells 
Of  Hyacinth  tell  Apollo's  written  grief, 
O, FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 

Asia.  As  you  speak,  your  words 

Fill,  pause  by  pause,  my  own  forgotten  sleep 
With  shapes.     Methought  among  the  lawns  together 
We  wandered,  underneath  the  young  grey  dawn, 
And  multitudes  of  dense  white  fleecy  clouds 
Were  wandering  in  thick  flocks  along  the  mountains 
Shepherded  by  the  slow,  unwilling  wind  ; 
And  the  white  dew  on  the  new  bladed  grass, 
Just  piercing  the  dark  earth,  hung  silently  : 
And  there  was  more  which  I  remember  not : 
But  on  the  shadows  of  the  morning  clouds, 


270  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Athwart  the  purple  mountain  slope,  was  written 

FOLLOW,  O,  FOLLOW  !  as  they  vanished  by, 

And  on  each  herb,  from  which  Heaven's  dew  had  fallen, 

The  like  was  stamped,  as  with  a  withering  fire, 

A  wind  arose  among  the  pines  ;  it  shook 

The  clinging  music  from  their  boughs,  and  then 

Low,  sweet,  faint  sounds,  like  the  farewell  of  ghosts, 

Were  heard  :  Oh,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ME ! 

And  then  I  said  :  "  Panthea,  look  on  me." 

But  in  the  depth  of  those  beloved  eyes 

Still  I  saw,  FOLLOW,  FOLLOW  ! 

Echo.  Follow,  follow ! 

Pantliea.  The  crags,  this  clear  spring  morning,  mock 
our  voices 
As  they  were  spirit-tongued. 

Asia.  It  is  some  being 

Around  the  crags.     What  fine  clear  sounds  !    O,  list ! 

Echoes  {imseeri). 
Echoes  we  :  listen  ! 

We  cannot  stay  : 
As  dew-stars  glisten 

Then  fade  away — 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

Asia.  Hark  !    Spirits  speak.     The  liquid  responses 
Of  their  aerial  tongues  yet  sound. 

Panthea.  I  hear. 

Echoes. 
O,  follow,  follow, 

As  our  voice  recedeth 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 

Where  the  forest  spreadeth ; 

(More  distant?) 
O,  follow,  follow ! 
Through  the  caverns  hollow, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  271 

As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew, 
Through  the  noon-tide  darkness  deep, 
By  the  odour-breathing  sleep 
Of  faint  night  flowers,  and  the  waves 
At  the  fountain-lighted  caves, 
While  our  music,  wild  and  sweet, 
Mocks  thy  gently  falling  feet, 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

Asia.  Shall  we   pursue  the  sound  ?     It   grows   more 
faint 
And  distant. 

PantJiea.        List !  the  strain  floats  nearer  now. 

Echoes. 
In  the  world  unknown 

Sleeps  a  voice  unspoken  ; 
By  thy  step  alone 

Can  its  rest  be  broken  ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

Asia.  How  the  notes  sink  upon  the  ebbing  wind ! 

Echoes. 

O,  follow,  follow ! 

Through  the  caverns  hollow, 
As  the  song  floats  thou  pursue, 
By  the  woodland  noon-tide  dew  ; 
By  the  forests,  lakes,  and  fountains 
Through  the  many-folded  mountains  ; 
To  the  rents,  and  gulphs,  and  chasms, 
Where  the  Earth  reposed  from  spasms, 
On  the  day  when  He  and  thou 
Parted,  to  commingle  now  ; 
Child  of  Ocean ! 

Asia.  Come,  sweet  Panthea,  link  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  follow,  ere  the  voices  fade  away. 


SCENE  II.  A  Forest,  intermingled  with  Rocks  and 
Caverns.  ASIA  and  PAN  THE  A  pass  into  it.  Two 
young  Fauns  are  sitting  on  a  Rock,  listening. 

Semichorus  I.  of  Spirits. 

The  path  through  which  that  lovely  twain 
Have  passed,  by  cedar,  pine,  and  yew, 
And  each  dark  tree  that  ever  grew, 
Is  curtained  out  from  Heaven's  wide  blue ; 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  wind,  nor  rain, 
Can  pierce  its  interwoven  bowers, 
Nor  aught,  save  where  some  cloud  of  dew, 

Drifted  along  the  earth-creeping  breeze, 

Between  the  trunks  of  the  hoar  trees, 

Hangs  each  a  pearl  in  the  pale  flowers 
Of  the  green  laurel,  blown  anew  ; 

And  bends,  and  then  fades  silently, 

One  frail  and  fair  anemone : 

Or  when  some  star  of  many  a  one 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  273 

That  climbs  and  wanders  through  steep  night, 

Has  found  the  cleft  through  which  alone 

Beams  fall  from  high  those  depths  upon 

Ere  it  is  borne  away,  away, 

By  the  swift  Heavens  that  cannot  stay, 

It  scatters  drops  of  golden  light, 

Like  lines  of  rain  that  ne'er  unite  : 

And  the  gloom  divine  is  all  around. 

And  underneath  is  the  mossy  ground  ; 

Semichorus  II. 
There  the  voluptuous  nightingales, 

Are  awake  through  all  the  broad  noon-day. 
When  one  with  bliss  or  sadness  fails, 

And  through  the  windless  ivy-boughs, 

Sick  with  sweet  love,  droops  dying  away 
On  its  mate's  music-panting  bosom  ; 
Another  from  the  swinging  blossom, 

Watching  to  catch  the  languid  close 

Of  the  last  strain,  then  lifts  on  high 

The  wings  of  the  weak  melody, 
'Till  some  new  strain  of  feeling  bear 

The  song,  and  all  the  woods  are  mute ; 
When  there  is  heard  through  the  dim  air 
The  rush  of  wings,  and  rising  there 

Like  many  a  lake-surrounded  flute, 
Sounds  overflow  the  listener's  brain 
So  sweet,  that  joy  is  almost  pain. 

Semichorus  I. 
There  those  enchanted  eddies  play 

Of  echoes,  music-tongued,  which  draw, 
By  Demogorgon's  mighty  law, 
With  melting  rapture,  or  sweet  awe, 
All  spirits  on  that  secret  way ; 
As  inland  boats  are  driven  to  Ocean 
T 


274  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Down  streams  made  strong  with  mountain-thaw  : 
And  first  there  comes  a  gentle  sound 
To  those  in  talk  or  slumber  bound, 

And  wakes  the  destined.     Soft  emotion 
Attracts,  impels  them  :  those  who  saw 

Say  from  the  breathing  earth  behind 

There  steams  a  plume-uplifting  wind 
Which  drives  them  on  their  path,  while  they 

Believe  their  own  swift  wings  and  feet 
The  sweet  desires  within  obey : 
And  so  they  float  upon  their  way, 
Until,  still  sweet,  but  loud  and  strong, 
The  storm  of  sound  is  driven  along, 

Sucked  up  and  hurrying  :  as  they  fleet 

Behind,  its  gathering  billows  meet 
And  to  the  fatal  mountain  bear 
Like  clouds  amid  the  yielding  air. 

First  Faun.  Canst  thou  imagine  where  those  spirits 
live 
Which  make  such  delicate  music  in  the  woods  ? 
We  haunt  within  the  least  frequented  caves 
And  closest  coverts,  and  we  know  these  wilds, 
Yet  never  meet  them,  though  we  hear  them  oft : 
Where  may  they  hide  themselves  ? 

Second  Faun.  'Tis  hard  to  tell : 

I  have  heard  those  more  skilled  in  spirits  say, 
The  bubbles,  which  the  enchantment  of  the  sun 
Sucks  from  the  pale  faint  water-flowers  that  pave 
The  oozy  bottom  of  clear  lakes  and  pools, 
Are  the  pavilions  where  such  dwell  and  float 
Under  the  green  and  golden  atmosphere 
Which  noon-tide  kindles  through  the  woven  leaves  ; 
And  when  these  burst,  and  the  thin  fiery  air,  „ 
The  which  they  breathed  within  those  lucent  domes, 
Ascends  to  flow  like  meteors  through  the  night, 
They  ride  on  them,  and  rein  their  headlong  speed, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 


275 


And  bow  their  burning  crests,  and  glide  in  fire 
Under  the  waters  of  the  earth  again. 

First  Faun.  If  such  live  thus,  have  others  other  lives, 
Under  pink  blossoms  or  within  the  bells 
Of  meadow  flowers,  or  folded  violets  deep, 
Or  on  their  dying  odours,  when  they  die, 
Or  in  the  sunlight  of  the  sphered  dew  ? 

Second  Faun.  Aye,  many  more  which  we  may  well 
divine. 
But,  should  we  stay  to  speak,  noontide  would  come, 
And  thwart  Silenus  find  his  goats  undrawn, 
And  grudge  to  sing  those  wise  and  lovely  songs 
Of  fate,  and  chance,  and  God,  and  Chaos  old, 
And  Love,  and  the  chained  Titan's  woful  doom, 
And  how  he  shall  be  loosed,  and  make  the  earth 
One  brotherhood  :  delightful  strains  which  cheer 
Our  solitary  twilights,  and  which  charm 
To  silence  the  unenvying  nightingales. 


SCENE    III.     A    Pinnacle   of  Rock   among  Mountains. 
Asia  and  Panthea. 

Panthea.  Hither  the  sound  has  borne  us — to  the  realm 
Of  Demogorgon,  and  the  mighty  portal, 
Like  a  volcano's  meteor-breathing  chasm, 
Whence  the  oracular  vapour  is  hurled  up 
Which  lonely  men  drink  wandering  in  their  youth, 
And  call  truth,  virtue,  love,  genius,  or  joy, 
That  maddening  wine  of  life,  whose  dregs  they  drain 
To  deep  intoxication  ;  and  uplift, 
Like  Maenads  who  cry  aloud,  Evoe !  Evoe  ! 
The  voice  which  is  contagion  to  the  world. 

Asia.  Fit  throne  for  such  a  Power !    Magnificent ! 
How  glorious  art  thou,  Earth  !    And  if  thou  be 
The  shadow  of  some  spirit  lovelier  still, 
Though  evil  stain  its  work,  and  it  should  be 
Like  its  creation,  weak  yet  beautiful, 
I  could  fall  down  and  worship  that  and  thee. 
Even  now  my  heart  adoreth  :    Wonderful ! 
Look,  sister,  ere  the  vapour  dim  thy  brain  : 
Beneath  is  a  wide  plain  of  billowy  mist, 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  277 

As  a  lake,  paving  in  the  morning  sky, 
With  azure  waves  which  burst  in  silver  light, 
Some  Indian  vale.     Behold  it,  rolling  on 
Under  the  curdling  winds,  and  islanding 
The  peak  whereon  we  stand,  midway,  around, 
Encinctured  by  the  dark  and  blooming  forests, 
Dim  twilight-lawns,  and  stream-illumined  caves, 
And  wind-enchanted  shapes  of  wandering  mist ; 
And  far  on  high  the  keen  sky-cleaving  mountains 
From  icy  spires  of  sun-like  radiance  fling 
The  dawn,  as  lifted  Ocean's  dazzling  spray, 
From  some  Atlantic  islet  scattered  up, 
Spangles  the  wind  with  lamp-like  water-drops. 
The  vale  is  girdled  with  their  walls,  a  howl 
Of  cataracts  from  their  thaw-cloven  ravines, 
Satiates  the  listening  wind,  continuous,  vast, 
Awful  as  silence.     Hark  !  the  rushing  snow  ! 
The  sun-awakened  avalanche !  whose  mass, 
Thrice  sifted  by  the  storm,  had  gathered  there 
Flake  after  flake,  in  heaven-defying  minds 
As  thought  by  thought  is  piled,  till  some  great  truth 
Is  loosened,  and  the  nations  echo  round, 
Shaken  to  their  roots,  as  do  the  mountains  now. 

Panthea.  Look  how  the  gusty  sea  of  mist  is  break- 
ing 
In  crimson  foam,  even  at  our  feet !  it  rises 
As  Ocean  at  the  enchantment  of  the  moon 
Round  foodless  men  wrecked  on  some  oozy  isle. 

Asia.  The    fragments    of    the    cloud    are    scattered 
up; 
The  wind  that  lifts  them  disentwines  my  hair  ; 
Its  billows  now  sweep  o'er  mine  eyes  ;  my  brain 
Grows  dizzy ;  I  see  thin  shapes  within  the  mist. 

Panthea.  A  countenance  with  beckoning  smiles  :  there 
burns 
An  azure  fire  within  its  golden  locks ! 
Another  and  another :  hark  !  they  speak  ! 


278  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Song  of  Spirits. 
To  the  deep,  to  the  deep, 

Down,  down  ! 
Through  the  shade  of  sleep, 
Through  the  cloudy  strife 
Of  Death  and  of  Life  ; 
Through  the  veil  and  the  bar 
Of  things  which  seem  and  are 
Even  to  the  steps  of  the  remotest  throne, 
Down,  down ! 

While  the  sound  whirls  around, 

Down,  down ! 
As  the  fawn  draws  the  hound, 
As  the  lightning  the  vapour, 
As  a  weak  moth  the  taper ; 
Death,  despair  ;  love,  sorrow  ; 
Time  both  ;  to-day,  to-morrow  ; 
As  steel  obeys  the  spirit  of  the  stone, 
Down,  down ! 

Through  the  grey,  void  abysm, 

Down,  down ! 
Where  the  air  is  no  prism, 
And  the  moon  and  stars  are  not, 
And  the  cavern-crags  wear  not 
The  radiance  of  Heaven, 
Nor  the  gloom  to  Earth  given, 
Where  there  is  one  pervading,  one  alone, 

Down,  down ! 

In  the  depth  of  the  deep 

Down,  down ! 
Like  veiled  lightning  asleep, 
Like  the  spark  nursed  in  embers, 
The  last  look  Love  remembers, 
Like  a  diamond,  which  shines 
On  the  dark  wealth  of  mines, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

A  spell  is  treasured  but  for  thee  alone. 
Down,  down ! 


279 


We  have  bound  thee,  we  guide  thee  ; 

Down,  down ! 
With  the  bright  form  beside  thee ; 
Resist  not  the  weakness, 
Such  strength  is  in  meekness 
That  the  Eternal,  the  Immortal, 
Must  unloose  through  life's  portal 
The  snake-like   Doom  coiled  underneath 
throne 

By  that  alone. 


his 


Scene  IV.    The  Cave  of  Demogorgon.    Asia  and 
Panthea. 


Panthea.  What  veiled  form  sits  on  that  ebon  throne  ? 

Asia.  The  veil  has  fallen. 

Panthea.  I  see  a  mighty  darkness 

Filling  the  seat  of  power,  and  rays  of  gloom 
Dart  round,  as  light  from  the  meridian  sun, 
Ungazed  upon  and  shapeless  ;  neither  limb, 
Nor  form,  nor  outline  ;  yet  we  feel  it  is 
A  living  Spirit. 

Demogorgon.     Ask  what  thou  wouldst  know. 

Asia.   What  canst  thou  tell  ? 

Demogorgon.  All  things  thou  dar'st  demand. 

Asia.  Who  made  the  living  world  ? 

Demogorgon.  God. 

Asia.  Who  made  all 

That  it  contains  ?  thought,  passion,  reason,  will, 
Imagination  ? 

Demogorgon.     God  :  Almighty  God. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  281 

Asia.  Who  made  that  sense  which,  when  the  winds  of 
spring 
In  rarest  visitation,  or  the  voice 
Of  one  beloved  heard  in  youth  alone, 
Fills  the  faint  eyes  with  falling  tears  which  dim 
The  radiant  looks  of  unbewailing  flowers, 
And  leaves  this  peopled  earth  a  solitude 
When  it  returns  no  more  ? 

Demogorgon.  Merciful  God. 

Asia.  And  who  made  terror,  madness,  crime,  remorse, 
Which  from  the  links  of  the  great  chain  of  things, 
To  every  thought  within  the  mind  of  man 
Sway  and  drag  heavily,  and  each  one  reels 
Under  the  load  towards  the  pit  of  death  ; 
Abandoned  hope,  and  love  that  turns  to  hate  ; 
And  self-contempt,  bitterer  to  drink  than  blood ; 
Pain,  whose  unheeded  and  familiar  speech 
Is  howling,  and  keen  shrieks,  day  after  day ; 
And  Hell,  or  the  sharp  fear  of  Hell  ? 

Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.  Utter  his  name  :  a  world  pining  in  pain 
Asks  but  his  name :  curses  shall  drag  him  down. 

Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.  I  feel,  I  know  it :  who  ? 

Demogorgon.  He  reigns. 

Asia.  Who  reigns  ?   There  was  the  Heaven  and  Earth 
at  first, 
And  Light  and  Love  ;  then  Saturn,  from  whose  throne 
Time  fell,  an  envious  shadow  :  such  the  state 
Of  the  earth's  primal  spirits  beneath  his  sway, 
As  the  calm  joy  of  flowers  and  living  leaves 
Before  the  wind  or  sun  has  withered  them, 
And  semivital  worms  ;  but  he  refused 
The  birthright  of  their  being,  knowledge,  power, 
The  skill  which  wields  the  elements,  the  thought 
Which  pierces  this  dim  universe  like  light, 
Self-empire,  and  the  majesty  of  love  ; 


282  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

For  thirst  of  which  they  fainted.     Then  Prometheus 

Gave  wisdom,  which  is  strength,  to  Jupiter, 

And  with  this  law  alone,  "  Let  man  be  free," 

Clothed  him  with  the  dominion  of  wide  Heaven. 

To  know  nor  faith,  nor  love,  nor  law  ;  to  be 

Omnipotent  but  friendless  is  to  reign  ; 

And  Jove  now  reigned  ;  for  on  the  race  of  man 

First  famine,  and  then  toil,  and  then  disease, 

Strife,  wounds,  and  ghastly  death  unseen  before, 

Fell ;  and  the  unseasonable  seasons  drove 

With  alternating  shafts  of  frost  and  fire, 

Their  shelterless,  pale  tribes  to  mountain  caves  : 

And  in  their  desert  hearts  fierce  wants  he  sent, 

And  mad  disquietudes,  and  shadows  idle 

Of  unreal  good,  which  levied  mutual  war, 

So  ruining  the  lair  wherein  they  raged. 

Prometheus  saw,  and  waked  the  legioned  hopes 

Which  sleep  within  folded  Elysian  flowers, 

Nepenthe,  Moly,  Amaranth,  fadeless  blooms, 

That  they  might  hide  with  thin  and  rainbow  wings 

The  shape  of  Death  ;  and  Love  he  sent  to  bind 

The  disunited  tendrils  of  that  vine 

Which  bears  the  wine  of  life,  the  human  heart ; 

And  he  tamed  fire  which,  like  some  beast  of  prey, 

Most  terrible,  but  lovely,  played  beneath 

The  frown  of  man  ;  and  tortured  to  his  will 

Iron  and  gold,  the  slaves  and  signs  of  power, 

And  gems  and  poisons,  and  all  subtlest  forms 

Hidden  beneath  the  mountains  and  the  waves. 

He  gave  man  speech,  and  speech  created  thought, 

Which  is  the  measure  of  the  universe ; 

And  Science  struck  the  thrones  of  earth  and  heaven, 

Which  shook,  but  fell  not ;  and  the  harmonious  mind 

Poured  itself  forth  in  all-prophetic  song ; 

And  music  lifted  up  the  listening  spirit 

Until  it  walked,  exempt  from  mortal  care, 

Godlike,  o'er  the  clear  billows  of  sweet  sound  ; 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  283 

And  human  hands  first  mimicked  and  then  mocked, 

With  moulded  limbs  more  lovely  than  its  own, 

The  human  form,  till  marble  grew  divine ; 

And  mothers,  gazing,  drank  the  love  men  see 

Reflected  in  their  race,  behold,  and  perish. 

He  told  the  hidden  power  of  herbs  and  springs, 

And  Disease  drank  and  slept.     Death  grew  like  sleep. 

He  taught  the  implicated  orbits  woven 

Of  the  wide-wandering  stars  ;  and  how  the  sun 

Changes  his  lair,  and  by  what  secret  spell 

The  pale  moon  is  transformed,  when  her  broad  eye 

Gazes  not  on  the  interlunar  sea : 

He  taught  to  rule,  as  life  directs  the  limbs, 

The  tempest-winged  chariots  of  the  Ocean, 

And  the  Celt  knew  the  Indian.     Cities  then 

Were  built,  and  through  their  snow-like  columns  flowed 

The  warm  winds,  and  the  azure  aether  shone, 

And  the  blue  sea  and  shadowy  hills  were  seen. 

Such,  the  alleviations  of  his  state, 

Prometheus  gave  to  man,  for  which  he  hangs 

Withering  in  destined  pain  :  but  who  reigns  down 

Evil,  the  immedicable  plague,  which,  while 

Man  looks  on  his  creation  like  a  God 

And  sees  that  it  is  glorious,  drives  him  on 

The  wreck  of  his  own  will,  the  scorn  of  earth, 

The  outcast,  the  abandoned,  the  alone  ? 

Not  Jove :  while  yet  his  frown  shook  heaven,  aye,  when 

His  adversary  from  adamantine  chains 

Cursed  him,  he  trembled  like  a  slave.     Declare 

Who  is  his  master  ?    Is  he  too  a  slave  ? 

Demogorgon.  All    spirits   are    enslaved    which   serve 
things  evil : 
Thou  knowest  if  Jupiter  be  such  or  no. 
,   Asia.  Whom  calledst  thou  God  ? 

Demogorgon.  I  spoke  but  as  ye  speak, 

For  Jove  is  the  supreme  of  living  things. 

Asia.  Who  is  the  master  of  the  slave? 


284  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Demogorgon.  If  the  abysm 

Could  vomit  forth  its  secrets.     But  a  voice 
Is  wanting,  the  deep  truth  is  imageless  ; 
For  what  would  it  avail  to  bid  thee  gaze 
On  the  revolving  world  ?    What  to  bid  speak 
Fate,  Time,  Occasion,  Chance  and  Change  ?    To  these 
All  things  are  subject  but  eternal  Love. 

Asia.  So  much  I  asked  before,  and  my  heart  gave 
The  response  thou  hast  given  ;  and  of  such  truths 
Each  to  itself  must  be  the  oracle. 
One  more  demand  ;  and  do  thou  answer  me 
As  mine  own  soul  would  answer,  did  it  know 
That  which  I  ask.     Prometheus  shall  arise 
Henceforth  the  sun  of  this  rejoicing  world  : 
When  shall  the  destined  hour  arrive  ? 

Demogorgon.  Behold ! 

Asia.  The  rocks  are  cloven,  and  through  the  purple 
night 
I  see  cars  drawn  by  rainbow-winged  steeds 
Which  trample  the  dim  winds  :  in  each  there  stands 
A  wild-eyed  charioteer  urging  their  flight. 
Some  look  behind,  as  fiends  pursued  them  there, 
And  yet  I  see  no  shapes  but  the  keen  stars  : 
Others,  with  burning  eyes,  lean  forth,  and  drink 
With  eager  lips  the  wind  of  their  own  speed, 
As  if  the  thing  they  loved  fled  on  before, 
And  now,  even  now,  they  clasped  it.    Their  bright  locks 
Stream  like  a  comet's  flashing  hair  :  they  all 
Sweep  onward. 

Demogorgon.      These  are  the  immortal  Hours, 
Of  whom  thou  didst  demand.     One  waits  for  thee. 

Asia.  A  spirit  with  a  dreadful  countenance 
Checks  its  dark  chariot  by  the  craggy  gulph. 
Unlike  thy  brethren,  ghastly  charioteer, 
Who  art  thou  ?  Whither  wouldst  thou  bear  me  ? 
Speak ! 

Spirit.  I  am  the  shadow  of  a  destiny 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  285 

More  dread  than  is  my  aspect :  ere  yon  planet 
Has  set,  the  darkness  which  ascends  with  me 
Shall  wrap  in  lasting  night  heaven's  kingless  throne. 

Asia.  What  meanest  thou  ? 

Panthea.  That  terrible  shadow  floats 

Up  from  its  throne,  as  may  the  lurid  smoke 
Of  earthquake-ruined  cities  o'er  the  sea. 
Lo !  it  ascends  the  car ;  the  coursers  fly 
Terrified  :  watch  its  path  among  the  stars 
Blackening  the  night ! 

Asia.  Thus  I  am  answered  :  strange  ! 

Panthea.  See,  near  the  verge,  another  chariot  stays  ; 
An  ivory  shell  inlaid  with  crimson  fire, 
Which  comes  and  goes  within  its  sculptured  rim 
Of  delicate  strange  tracery  ;  the  young  spirit 
That  guides  it  has  the  dove-like  eyes  of  hope  ; 
How  its  soft  smiles  attract  the  soul !  as  light 
Lures  winged  insects  through  the  lampless  air. 

Spirit. 
My  coursers  are  fed  with  the  lightning, 

They  drink  of  the  whirlwind's  stream, 
And  when  the  red  morning  is  brightning 

They  bathe  in  the  fresh  sunbeam  ; 

They  have  strength  for  their  swiftness  I  deem, 
Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 

I  desire :  and  their  speed  makes  night  kindle ; 
I  fear :  they  outstrip  the  Typhoon  ; 

Ere  the  cloud  piled  on  Atlas  can  dwindle 
We  encircle  the  earth  and  the  moon  : 
We  shall  rest  from  long  labours  at  noon  : 

Then  ascend  with  me,  daughter  of  Ocean. 


SCENE  V.  The  Car  pauses  within  a  Cloud  on  the  Top  of 
a  snowy  Mountain.  ASIA,  PANTHEA,  and  the  SPIRIT 
of  the  Hour. 

Spirit. 

On  the  brink  of  the  night  and  the  morning 
My  coursers  are  wont  to  respire  ; 

But  the  Earth  has  just  whispered  a  warning 
That  their  flight  must  be  swifter  than  fire : 
They  shall  drink  the  hot  speed  of  desire ! 

Asia.  Thou  breathest  on  their  nostrils,  but  my  breath 
Would  give  them  swifter  speed. 

Spirit.  Alas  !  it  could  not. 

Panthea.  Oh  Spirit !  pause,  and  tell  whence  is  the  light 
Which  fills  the  cloud  ?  the  sun  is  yet  unrisen. 

Spirit.  The  sun  will  rise  not  until  noon.     Apollo 
Is  held  in  heaven  by  wonder ;  and  the  light 
Which  fills  this  vapour,  as  the  aerial  hue 
Of  fountain-gazing  roses  fills  the  water, 
Flows  frem  thy  mighty  sister. 

Panthea.  Yes,  I  feel — 

Asia.  What  is  it  with  thee,  sister  ?    Thou  art  pale. 

Panthea.  How  thou  art  changed  !    I  dare  not  look  on 
thee ; 
I  feel  but  see  thee  not.     I  scarce  endure 
The  radiance  of  thy  beauty.     Some  good  change 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  287 

Is  working  in  the  elements,  which  suffer 

Thy  presence  thus  unveiled.     The  Nereids  tell 

That  on  the  day  when  the  clear  hyaline 

Was  cloven  at  thy  uprise,  and  thou  didst  stand 

Within  a  veined  shell,  which  floated  on 

Over  the  calm  floor  of  the  crystal  sea, 

Among  the  Aegean  isles,  and  by  the  shores 

Which  bear  thy  name  ;  love,  like  the  atmosphere 

Of  the  sun's  fire  filling  the  living  world, 

Burst  from  thee,  and  illumined  earth  and  heaven 

And  the  deep  ocean  and  the  sunless  caves 

And  all  that  dwells  within  them  ;  till  grief  cast 

Eclipse  upon  the  soul  from  which  it  came  : 

Such  art  thou  now ;  nor  is  it  I  alone, 

Thy  sister,  thy  companion,  thine  own  chosen  one, 

But  the  whole  world  which  seeks  thy  sympathy. 

Hear'st  thou  not  sounds  i'  the  air  which  speak  the  love 

Of  all  articulate  beings  ?    Feel'st  thou  not 

The  inanimate  winds  enamoured  of  thee?    List!  {Music?) 

Asia.  Thy  words  are   sweeter   than  aught   else   but 
his 
Whose  echoes  they  are :  yet  all  love  is  sweet, 
Given  or  returned.     Common  as  light  is  love, 
And  its  familar  voice  wearies  not  ever. 
Like  the  wide  heaven,  the  all-sustaining  air, 
It  makes  the  reptile  equal  to  the  God : 
They  who  inspire  it  most  are  fortunate, 
As  I  am  now ;  but  those  who  feel  it  most 
Are  happier  still,  after  long  sufferings, 
As  I  shall  soon  become. 

Panthea,  List !    Spirits  speak. 

VOICE  in  the  Air,  singing. 
Life  of  Life !  thy  lips  enkindle 

With  their  love  the  breath  between  them  ; 
And  thy  smiles  before  they  dwindle 

Make  the  cold  air  fire ;  then  screen  them 


288  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

In  those  looks,  where  whoso  gazes 
Faints,  entangled  in  their  mazes. 

Child  of  Light !  thy  limbs  are  burning 

Through  the  vest  which  seems  to  hide  them 

As  the  radiant  lines  of  morning 

Through  the  clouds  ere  they  divide  them  ; 

And  this  atmosphere  divinest 

Shrouds  thee  wheresoe'er  thou  shinest. 

Fair  are  others  ;  none  beholds  thee, 
But  thy  voice  sounds  low  and  tender 

Like  the  fairest,  for  it  folds  thee 

From  the  sight,  that  liquid  splendour, 

And  all  feel,  yet  see  thee  never, 

As  I  feel  now,  lost  for  ever ! 

Lamp  of  Earth  !  where'er  thou  movest 
Its  dim  shapes  are  clad  with  brightness, 

And  the  souls  of  whom  thou  lovest 
Walk  upon  the  winds  with  lightness, 

Till  they  fail,  as  I  am  failing, 

Dizzy,  lost,  yet  unbewailing ! 

Asia. 

My  soul  is  an  enchanted  boat, 

Which,  like  a  sleeping  swan,  doth  float 
Upon  the  silver  waves  of  thy  sweet  singing  ; 

And  thine  doth  like  an  angel  sit 

Beside  a  helm  conducting  it, 
Whilst  all  the  winds  with  melody  are  ringing. 

It  seems  to  float  ever,  for  ever, 

Upon  that  many-winding  river, 

Between  mountains,  woods,  abysses, 

A  paradise  of  wildernesses ! 
Till,  like  one  in  slumber  bound, 
Borne  to  the  ocean,  I  float  down,  around, 
Into  a  sea  profound,  of  ever-spreading  sound  : 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  289 

Meanwhile  thy  spirit  lifts  its  pinions 

In  music's  most  serene  dominions  ; 
Catching  the  winds  that  fan  that  happy  heaven. 

And  we  sail  on,  away,  afar, 

Without  a  course,  without  a  star, 
But  by  the  instinct  of  sweet  music  driven  ; 

Till  through  Elysian  garden  islets 

By  thee,  most  beautiful  of  pilots, 

Where  never  mortal  pinnace  glided, 

The  boat  of  thy  desire  is  guided  : 
Realms  where  the  air  we  breathe  is  love, 
Which  in  the  winds  and  on  the  waves  doth  move, 
Harmonizing  this  earth  with  what  we  feel  above. 

We  have  passed  Age's  icy  caves, 

And  manhood's  dark  and  tossing  waves, 
And  Youth's  smooth  ocean,  smiling  to  betray  : 

Beyond  the  glassy  gulphs  we  flee 

Of  shadow-peopled  Infancy, 
Through  Death  and  Birth,  to  a  diviner  day ; 

A  paradise  of  vaulted  bowers, 

Lit  by  downward-gazing  flowers, 

And  watery  paths  that  wind  between 

Wildernesses  calm  and  green, 
Peopled  by  shapes  too  bright  to  see, 
And  rest,  having  beheld  ;  somewhat  like  thee ; 
Which  walk  upon  the  sea,  and  chaunt  melodiously ! 


END  OF   THE   SECOND    ACT. 


APOLLO  TELLS     OCEAN 
OF  THE  FALL  OF  JOVE    ' 


SCENE  I.     Heaven.     JUPITER  on  his  Throne ; 
THETIS  and  the  other  Deities  assembled. 

Jupiter.  Ye  congregated  powers  of  heaven,  who  share 
The  glory  and  the  strength  of  him  ye  serve, 
Rejoice !  henceforth  I  am  omnipotent. 
All  else  had  been  subdued  to  me  ;  alone 
The  soul  of  man,  like  unextinguished  fire, 
Yet  burns  towards  heaven  with  fierce  reproach,  and  doubt, 
And  lamentation,  and  reluctant  prayer, 
Hurling  up  insurrection,  which  might  make 
Our  antique  empire  insecure,  though  built 
On  eldest  faith,  and  hell's  coeval,  fear  ; 
And  though  my  curses  through  the  pendulous  air, 
Like  snow  on  herbless  peaks,  fall  flake  by  flake, 
And  cling  to  it ;  though  under  my  wrath's  might 
It  climb  the  crags  of  life,  step  after  step, 
Which  wound  it,  as  ice  wounds  unsandalled  feet, 
It  yet  remains  supreme  o'er  misery, 
Aspiring,  unrepressed,  yet  soon  to  fall : 
Even  now  have  I  begotten  a  strange  wonder, 


294  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

That  fatal  child,  the  terror  of  the  earth, 
Who  waits  but  till  the  destined  hour  arrive, 
Bearing  from  Demogorgon's  vacant  throne 
The  dreadful  might  of  ever-living  limbs 
Which  clothed  that  awful  spirit  unbeheld, 
To  redescend,  and  trample  out  the  spark. 

Pour  forth  heaven's  wine,  Idaean  Ganymede, 

And  let  it  fill  the  Daedal  cups  like  fire, 

And  from  the  flower-inwoven  soil  divine 

Ye  all-triumphant  harmonies  arise, 

As  dew  from  earth  under  the  twilight  stars : 

Drink  !  be  the  nectar  circling  through  your  veins 

The  soul  of  joy,  ye  ever-living  Gods, 

Till  exultation  burst  in  one  wide  voice 

Like  music  from  Elysian  winds. 

And  thou 
Ascend  beside  me,  veiled  in  the  light 
Of  the  desire  which  makes  thee  one  with  me, 
Thetis,  bright  image  of  eternity  ! 
When  thou  didst  cry,  "  Insufferable  might ! 
"  God  !    Spare  me !  I  sustain  not  the  quick  flames, 
"  The  penetrating  presence  ;  all  my  being, 
"  Like  him  whom  the  Numidian  seps  did  thaw 
"  Into  a  dew  with  poison,  is  dissolved, 
"  Sinking  through  its  foundations  : "  even  then 
Two  mighty  spirits,  mingling,  made  a  third 
Mightier  than  either,  which,  unbodied  now, 
Between  us  floats,  felt,  although  unbeheld, 
Waiting  the  incarnation,  which  ascends, 
(Hear  ye  the  thunder  of  the  fiery  wheels 
Griding  the  winds  ?)  from  Demogorgon's  throne. 
Victory  !  victory !    Feel'st  thou  not,  O  world, 
The  earthquake  of  his  chariot  thundering  up 
Olympus  ? 

\T1u    Car    of   the    HOUR    arrives.      DEMOGORGON 
descends ;  and  moves  towards  the  Throne  of  J U PITER. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  295 

Awful  shape,  what  art  thou  ?    Speak  ! 

Demogorgon.  Eternity.     Demand  no  direr  name. 
Descend,  and  follow  me  down  the  abyss. 
I  am  thy  child,  as  thou  wert  Saturn's  child  ; 
Mightier  than  thee :  and  we  must  dwell  together 
Henceforth  in  darkness.     Lift  thy  lightnings  not. 
The  tyranny  of  heaven  none  may  retain, 
Or  reassume,  or  hold,  succeeding  thee  : 
Yet  if  thou  wilt,  as  'tis  the  destiny 
Of  trodden  worms  to  writhe  till  they  are  dead, 
Put  forth  thy  might. 

Jupiter.  Detested  prodigy! 

Even  thus  beneath  the  deep  Titanian  prisons 
I  trample  thee  !    thou  lingerest  ? 

Mercy !  mercy ! 
No  pity,  no  release,  no  respite !    Oh, 
That  thou  wouldst  make  mine  enemy  my  judge, 
Even  where  he  hangs,  seared  by  my  long  revenge, 
On  Caucasus !  he  would  not  doom  me  thus. 
Gentle,  and  just,  and  dreadless,  is  he  not 
The  monarch  of  the  world  ?    What  then  art  thou  ? 
No  refuge  !  no  appeal ! 

Sink  with  me  then, 
We  two  will  sink  on  the  wide  waves  of  ruin, 
Even  as  a  vulture  and  a  snake  outspent 
Drop,  twisted  in  inextricable  fight, 
Into  a  shoreless  sea.     Let  hell  unlock 
Its  mounded  oceans  of  tempestuous  fire, 
And  whelm  on  them  into  the  bottomless  void 
This  desolated  world,  and  thee,  and  me, 
The  conqueror  and  the  conquered,  and  the  wreck 
Of  that  for  which  they  combated. 

Ai!    Ai! 
The  elements  obey  me  not.     I  sink 
Dizzily  down,  ever,  for  ever,  down. 
And,  like  a  cloud,  mine  enemy  above 
Darkens  my  fall  with  victory !    Ai,  Ai ! 


SCENE  II.  The  Mouth  of  a  great  River  in  the  Island 
A  tlantis.  OCE  AN  is  discovered  reclining  near  the  Shore; 
APOLLO  stands  beside  him. 

Ocean.   He  fell,  thou  sayest,  beneath  his  conqueror's 
frown  ? 

Apollo.  Aye,  when  the  strife  was  ended  which  made 
dim 
The  orb  I  rule,  and  shook  the  solid  stars, 
The  terrors  of  his  eye  illumined  heaven 
With  sanguine  light,  through  the  thick  ragged  skirts 
Of  the  victorious  darkness,  as  he  fell : 
Like  the  last  glare  of  day's  red  agony, 
Which  from  a  rent  among  the  fiery  clouds, 
Burns  far  along  the  tempest-wrinkled  deep. 

Ocean.  He  sunk  to  the  abyss  ?    To  the  dark  void  ? 

Apollo.  An  eagle  so  caught  in  some  bursting  cloud 
On  Caucascus,  his  thunder-baffled  wings 
Entangled  in  the  whirlwind,  and  his  eyes 
Which  gazed  on  the  undazzling  sun,  now  blinded 
By  the  white  lightning,  while  the  ponderous  hail 
Beats  on  his  struggling  form,  which  sinks  at  length 
Prone,  and  the  aerial  ice  clings  over  it. 

Ocean.  Henceforth  the  fields  of  Heaven-reflecting  sea 
Which  are  my  realm  will  heave,  unstained  with  blood, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  297 

Beneath  the  uplifting  winds,  like  plains  of  corn 
Swayed  by  the  summer  air  ;  my  streams  will  flow 
Round  many-peopled  continents,  and  round 
Fortunate  isles ;  and  from  their  glassy  thrones 
Blue  Proteus  and  his  humid  nymphs  shall  mark 
The  shadow  of  fair  ships,  as  mortals  see 
The  floating  bark  of  the  light-laden  moon 
With  that  white  star,  its  sightless  pilot's  crest, 
Borne  down  the  rapid  sunset's  ebbing  sea  ; 
Tracking  their  path  no  more  by  blood  and  groans, 
And  desolation,  and  the  mingled  voice 
Of  slavery  and  command  ;  but  by  the  light 
Of  wave-reflected  flowers,  and  floating  odours, 
And  music  soft,  and  mild,  free,  gentle  voices, 
And  sweetest  music,  such  as  spirits  love. 

Apollo.  And  I  shall  gaze  not  on  the  deeds  which  make 
My  mind  obscure  with  sorrow,  as  eclipse 
Darkens  the  sphere  I  guide ;  but  list,  I  hear 
The  small,  clear,  silver  lute  of  the  young  Spirit 
That  sits  i'  the  morning  star. 

Ocean.  Thou  must  away  ; 

Thy  steeds  will  pause  at  even,  till  when  farewell : 
The  loud  deep  calls  me  home  even  now  to  feed  it 
With  azure  calm  out  of  the  emerald  urns 
Which  stand  for  ever  full  beside  my  throne. 
Behold  the  Nereids  under  the  green  sea, 
Their  wavering  limbs  borne  on  the  wind-like  stream, 
Their  white  arms  lifted  o'er  their  streaming  hair 
With  garlands  pied  and  starry  sea-flower  crowns, 
Hastening  to  grace  their  mighty  sister's  joy. 

[A  sound  of  waves  is  heard. 
It  is  the  unpastured  sea  hungering  for  calm. 
Peace,  monster  ;  I  come  now.     Farewell. 

Apollo.  Farewell. 


K — ^Cf 

V — p  I 

rtik       r 

SCENE  ID 

SCENE  III.  Caucasus.  PROMETHEUS,  HERCULES, 
Ione,  the  Earth,  Spirits,  Asia,  and  Panthea,  borne 
in  the  Car  with  the  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HOUR. 


Hercules  unbinds  Prometheus,  who  descends. 

Hercules.    Most    glorious   among    spirits,   thus    doth 
strength 
To  wisdom,  courage,  and  long-suffering  love, 
And  thee,  who  art  the  form  they  animate, 
Minister  like  a  slave. 

Prometheus.  Thy  gentle  words 

Are  sweeter  even  than  freedom  long  desired 
And  long  delayed. 

Asia,  thou  light  of  life, 
Shadow  of  beauty  unbeheld  :  and  ye, 
Fair  sister  nymphs,  who  made  long  years  of  pain 
Sweet  to  remember,  through  your  love  and  care : 
Henceforth  we  will  not  part.     There  is  a  cave, 
All  overgrown  with  trailing  odorous  plants, 
Which  curtain  out  the  day  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
And  paved  with  veined  emerald,  and  a  fountain 
Leaps  in  the  midst  with  an  awakening  sound. 
From  its  curved  roof  the  mountain's  frozen  tears 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  299 

Like  snow,  or  silver,  or  long  diamond  spires, 

Hang  downward,  raining  forth  a  doubtful  light : 

And  there  is  heard  the  ever-moving  air, 

Whispering  without  from  tree  to  tree,  and  birds, 

And  bees  ;  and  all  around  are  mossy  seats, 

And  the  rough  walls  are  clothed  with  long  soft  grass ; 

A  simple  dwelling,  which  shall  be  our  own  ; 

Where  we  will  sit  and  talk  of  time  and  change, 

As  the  world  ebbs  and  flows,  ourselves  unchanged. 

What  can  hide  man  from  mutability? 

And  if  ye  sigh,  then  I  will  smile ;  and  thou, 

lone,  shalt  chaunt  fragments  of  sea-music, 

Until  I  weep,  when  ye  shall  smile  away 

The  tears  she  brought,  which  yet  were  sweet  to  shed. 

We  will  entangle  buds  and  flowers  and  beams 

Which  twinkle  on  the  fountain's  brim,  and  make 

Strange  combinations  out  of  common  things, 

Like  human  babes  in  their  brief  innocence  ; 

And  we  will  search,  with  looks  and  words  of  love, 

For  hidden  thoughts,  each  lovelier  than  the  last, 

Our  unexhausted  spirits  ;  and  like  lutes 

Touched  by  the  skill  of  the  enamoured  wind, 

Weave  harmonies  divine,  yet  ever  new, 

From  difference  sweet  where  discord  cannot  be  ; 

And  hither  come,  sped  on  the  charmed  winds, 

Which  meet  from  all  the  points  of  heaven,  as  bees 

From  every  flower  aerial  Enna  feeds, 

At  their  known  island-homes  in  Himera, 

The  echoes  of  the  human  world,  which  tell 

Of  the  low  voice  of  love,  almost  unheard, 

And  dove-eyed  pity's  murmured  pain,  and  music, 

Itself  the  echo  of  the  heart,  and  all 

That  tempers  or  improves  man's  life,  now  free  ; 

And  lovely  apparitions,  dim  at  first, 

Then  radiant,  as  the  mind,  arising  bright 

From  the  embrace  of  beauty,  whence  the  forms 

Of  which  these  are  the  phantoms,  casts  on  them 


300  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

The  gathered  rays  which  are  reality, 

Shall  visit  us,  the  progeny  immortal 

Of  Painting,  Sculpture,  and  rapt  Poesy, 

And  arts,  though  unimagined,  yet  to  be. 

The  wandering  voices  and  the  shadows  these 

Of  all  that  man  becomes,  the  mediators 

Of  that  best  worship  love,  by  him  and  us 

Given  and  returned  ;  swift  shapes  and  sounds,  which  grow 

More  fair  and  soft  as  man  grows  wise  and  kind, 

And  veil  by  veil,  evil  and  error  fall : 

Such  virtue  has  the  cave  and  place  around. 

{Turning  to  the  SPIRIT  OF  THE  HOUR.) 
For  thee,  fair  Spirit,  one  toil  remains.     lone, 
Give  her  that  curved  shell,  which  Proteus  old 
Made  Asia's  nuptial  boon,  breathing  within  it 
A  voice  to  be  accomplished,  and  which  thou 
Didst  hide  in  grass  under  the  hollow  rock. 

lone.  Thou  most  desired  Hour,  more  loved  and  lovely 
Than  all  thy  sisters,  this  is  the  mystic  shell ; 
See  the  pale  azure  fading  into  silver 
Lining  it  with  a  soft  yet  glowing  light : 
Looks  it  not  like  lulled  music  sleeping  there  ? 

Spirit.  It  seems  in  truth  the  fairest  shell  of  Ocean  : 
Its  sound  must  be  at  once  both  sweet  and  strange. 

Prometheus.  Go,  borne  over  the  cities  of  mankind 
On  whirlwind-footed  coursers  :  once  again 
Outspeed  the  sun  around  the  orbed  world  ; 
And  as  thy  chariot  cleaves  the  kindling  air, 
Thou  breathe  into  the  many-folded  shell, 
Loosening  its  mighty  music  ;  it  shall  be 
As  thunder  mingled  with  clear  echoes  :  then 
Return  ;  and  thou  shalt  dwell  beside  our  cave. 
And  thou,  O,  Mother  Earth  !— 

The  Earth.  I  hear,  I  feel ; 

Thy  lips  are  on  me,  and  thy  touch  runs  down 
Even  to  the  adamantine  central  gloom 
Along  these  marble  nerves  ;  'tis  life,  'tis  joy, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  301 

And  through  my  withered,  old,  and  icy  frame 
The  warmth  of  an  immortal  youth  shoots  down 
Circling.     Henceforth  the  many  children  fair 
Folded  in  my  sustaining  arms  ;  all  plants, 
And  creeping  forms,  and  insects  rainbow-winged, 
And  birds,  and  beasts,  and  fish,  and  human  shapes, 
Which  drew  disease  and  pain  from  my  wan  bosom, 
Draining  the  poison  of  despair,  shall  take 
And  interchange  sweet  nutriment ;  to  me 
Shall  they  become  like  sister-antelopes 
By  one  fair  dam,  snow-white  and  swift  as  wind, 
Nursed  among  lilies  near  a  brimming  stream. 
The  dew-mists  of  my  sunless  sleep  shall  float 
Under  the  stars  like  balm :  night-folded  flowers 
Shall  suck  unwithering  hues  in  their  repose  : 
And  men  and  beasts  in  happy  dreams  shall  gather 
Strength  for  the  coming  day,  and  all  its  joy : 
And  death  shall  be  the  last  embrace  of  her 
Who  takes  the  life  she  gave,  even  as  a  mother 
Folding  her  child,  says,  "  Leave  me  not  again." 

Asia.  Oh,  mother !  wherefore  speak  the  name  of  death? 
Cease  they  to  love,  and  move,  and  breathe,  and  speak, 
Who  die? 

The  Earth.  It  would  avail  not  to  reply  : 
Thou  art  immortal,  and  this  tongue  is  known 
But  to  the  uncommunicating  dead. 
Death  is  the  veil  which  those  who  live  call  life : 
They  sleep,  and  it  is  lifted  :  and  meanwhile 
In  mild  variety  the  seasons  mild 
With  rainbow-skirted  showers,  and  odorous  winds, 
And  long  blue  meteors  cleansing  the  dull  night, 
And  the  life-kindling  shafts  of  the  keen  sun's 
All-piercing  bow,  and  the  dew-mingled  rain 
Of  the  calm  moonbeams,  a  soft  influence  mild, 
Shall  clothe  the  forests  and  the  fields,  aye,  even 
The  crag-built  deserts  of  the  barren  deep, 
With  ever-living  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 


302  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

And  thou  !  There  is  a  cavern  where  my  spirit 
Was  panted  forth  in  anguish  whilst  thy  pain 
Made  my  heart  mad,  and  those  who  did  inhale  it 
Became  mad  too,  and  built  a  temple  there, 
And  spoke,  and  were  oracular,  and  lured 
The  erring  nations  round  to  mutual  war, 
And  faithless  faith,  such  as  Jove  kept  with  thee ; 
Which  breath  now  rises,  as  amongst  tall  weeds 
A  violet's  exhalation,  and  it  fills 
With  a  serener  light  and  crimson  air 
Intense,  yet  soft,  the  rocks  and  woods  around  ; 
It  feeds  the  quick  growth  of  the  serpent  vine, 
And  the  dark  linked  ivy  tangling  wild, 
And  budding,  blown,  or  odour-faded  blooms 
Which  star  the  winds  with  points  of  coloured  light, 
As  they  rain  through  them,  and  bright  golden  globes 
Of  fruit,  suspended  in  their  own  green  heaven, 
And  through  their  veined  leaves  and  ember  stems 
The  flowers  whose  purple  and  translucid  bowls 
Stand  ever  mantling  with  aerial  dew, 
The  drink  of  spirits  :  and  it  circles  round, 
Like  the  soft  waving  wings  of  noonday  dreams, 
Inspiring  calm  and  happy  thoughts,  like  mine, 
Now  thou  art  thus  restored.     This  cave  is  thine. 
Arise !  Appear ! 

(A  Spirit  rises  in  the  likeness  of  a  winged  child.) 
This  is  my  torch-bearer  ; 
Who  let  his  lamp  out  in  old  time  with  gazing 
On  eyes  from  which  he  kindled  it  anew 
With  love,  which  is  as  fire,  sweet  daughter  mine, 
For  such  is  that  within  thine  own.     Run,  wayward, 
And  guide  this  company  beyond  the  peak 
Of  Bacchic  Nysa,  Maenad-haunted  mountain, 
And  beyond  Indus  and  its  tribute  rivers, 
Trampling  the  torrent  streams  and  grassy  lakes 
With  feet  unwet,  unwearied,  undelaying, 
And  up  the  green  ravine,  across  the  vale, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Beside  the  windless  and  crystalline  pool, 

Where  ever  lies,  on  unerasing  waves, 

The  image  of  a  temple,  built  above, 

Distinct  with  column,  arch,  and  architrave, 

And  palm-like  capital,  and  over-wrought, 

And  populous  most  with  living  imagery, 

Praxitelean  shapes,  whose  marble  smiles 

Fill  the  hushed  air  with  everlasting  love. 

It  is  deserted  now,  but  once  it  bore 

Thy  name,  Prometheus  ;  there  the  emulous  youths 

Bore  to  thy  honour  through  the  divine  gloom 

The  lamp  which  was  thine  emblem  ;  even  as  those 

Who  bear  the  untransmitted  torch  of  hope 

Into  the  grave,  across  the  night  of  life, 

As  thou  hast  borne  it  most  triumphantly 

To  this  far  goal  of  Time.     Depart,  farewell. 

Beside  that  temple  is  the  destined  cave. 


303 


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SCENE  IV.  ^4  Forest.  In  the  Background  a  Cave. 
Prometheus,  Asia,  Panthea,  Ione,  and  the  Spirit 
of  the  Earth. 


lone.  Sister,  it  is  not  earthly  :  how  it  glides 
Under  the  leaves !  how  on  its  head  there  burns 
A  light,  like  a  green  star,  whose  emerald  beams 
Are  twined  with  its  fair  hair !  how,  as  it  moves, 
The  splendour  drops  in  flakes  upon  the  grass ! 
Knowest  thou  it  ? 

Panthea.  It  is  the  delicate  spirit 

That  guides  the  earth  through  heaven.     From  afar 
The  populous  constellations  call  that  light 
The  loveliest  of  the  planets  ;  and  sometimes 
It  floats  along  the  spray  of  the  salt  sea, 
Or  makes  its  chariot  of  a  foggy  cloud, 
Or  walks  through  fields  or  cities  while  men  sleep, 
Or  o'er  the  mountain  tops,  or  down  the  rivers, 
Or  through  the  green  waste  wilderness,  as  now, 
Wondering  at  all  it  sees.     Before  Jove  reigned 
It  loved  our  sister  Asia,  and  it  came 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  305 

Each  leisure  hour  to  drink  the  liquid  light 
Out  of  her  eyes,  for  which  it  said  it  thirsted 
As  one  bit  by  a  dipsas,  and  with  her 
It  made  its  childish  confidence,  and  told  her 
All  it  had  known  or  seen,  for  it  saw  much, 
Yet  idly  reasoned  what  it  saw  ;  and  called  her, — 
For  whence  it  sprung  it  knew  not,  nor  do  I, — 
"  Mother,  dear  mother." 

The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  {running  to  Asia).     Mother, 

dearest  mother ; 
May  I  then  talk  with  thee  as  I  was  wont  ? 
May  I  then  hide  my  eyes  in  thy  soft  arms, 
After  thy  looks  have  made  them  tired  of  joy? 
May  I  then  play  beside  thee  the  long  noons, 
When  work  is  none  in  the  bright  silent  air  ? 

Asia.  I  love  thee,  gentlest  being,  and  henceforth 
Can  cherish  thee  unenvied  :  speak,  I  pray  : 
Thy  simple  talk  once  solaced,  now  delights. 

Spirit  of  the  Earth.  Mother,  I  am  grown  wiser,  though 

a  child 
Cannot  be  wise  like  thee,  within  this  day ; 
And  happier  too  ;  happier  and  wiser  both. 
Thou  knowest  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and  loathly  worms, 
And  venomous  and  malicious  beasts,  and  boughs 
That  bore  ill  berries  in  the  woods,  were  ever 
An  hindrance  to  my  walks  o'er  the  green  world  : 
And  that,  among  the  haunts  of  humankind, 
Hard-featured  men,  or  with  proud,  angry  looks, 
Or  cold,  staid  gait,  or  false  and  hollow  smiles, 
Or  the  dull  sneer  of  self-loved  ignorance, 
Or  other  such  foul  masks,  with  which  ill  thoughts 
Hide  that  fair  being  whom  we  spirits  call  man  ; 
And  women  too,  ugliest  of  all  things  evil, 
(Though  fair,  even  in  a  world  where  thou  art  fair, 
When  good  and  kind,  free  and  sincere  like  thee,) 
When  false  or  frowning  made  me  sick  at  heart 
To  pass  them,  though  they  slept,  and  I  unseen. 

x 


306  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Well,  my  path  lately  lay  through  a  great  city 

Into  the  woody  hills  surrounding  it : 

A  sentinel  was  sleeping  at  the  gate : 

When  there  was  heard  a  sound,  so  loud,  it  shook 

The  towers  amid  the  moonlight,  yet  more  sweet 

Than  any  voice  but  thine,  sweetest  of  all ; 

A  long,  long  sound,  as  it  would  never  end  : 

And  all  the  inhabitants  leapt  suddenly 

Out  of  their  rest,  and  gathered  in  the  streets, 

Looking  in  wonder  up  to  Heaven,  while  yet 

The  music  pealed  along.     I  hid  myself 

Within  a  fountain  in  the  public  square, 

Where  I  lay  like  the  reflex  of  the  moon 

Seen  in  a  wave  under  green  leaves  ;  and  soon 

Those  ugly  human  shapes  and  visages 

Of  which  I  spoke  as  having  wrought  me  pain, 

Passed  floating  through  the  air,  and  fading  still 

Into  the  winds  that  scattered  them  ;  and  those 

From  whom  they  passed  seemed  mild  and  lovely  forms 

After  some  foul  disguise  had  fallen,  and  all 

Were  somewhat  changed,  and  after  brief  surprise 

And  greetings  of  delightful  wonder,  all 

Went  to  their  sleep  again  :  and  when  the  dawn 

Came,  wouldst  thou  think  that  toads,  and  snakes,  and 

efts, 
Could  e'er  be  beautiful  ?  yet  so  they  were, 
And  that  with  little  change  of  shape  or  hue : 
All  things  had  put  their  evil  nature  off: 
I  cannot  tell  my  joy,  when  o'er  a  lake 
Upon  a  drooping  bough  with  night-shade  twined, 
I  saw  two  azure  halcyons  clinging  downward 
And  thinning  one  bright  bunch  of  amber  berries, 
With  quick  long  beaks,  and  in  the  deep  there  lay 
Those  lovely  forms  imaged  as  in  a  sky ; 
So  with  my  thoughts  full  of  these  happy  changes, 
We  meet  again,  the  happiest  change  of  all. 

Asia.  And  never  will  we  part,  till  thy  chaste  sister 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  307 

Who  guides  the  frozen  and  inconstant  moon 

Will  look  on  thy  more  warm  and  equal  light 

Till  her  heart  thaw  like  flakes  of  April  snow 

And  love  thee. 

,     Spirit  of  the  Earth.  What ;  as  Asia  loves  Prometheus  ? 

Asia.  Peace,  wanton,  thou  art  yet  not  old  enough. 
Think  ye  by  gazing  on  each  other's  eyes 
To  multiply  your  lovely  selves,  and  fill 
With  sphered  fires  the  interlunar  air  ? 

Spirit  of  the  Earth.   Nay,   mother,  while  my  sister 
trims  her  lamp 
'Tis  hard  I  should  go  darkling. 

Asia.  Listen  ;  look  ! 

The  Spirit  of  the  Hour  enters. 

Prometheus.     We  feel  what  thou  hast  heard  and  seen  : 
yet  speak. 

Spirit  of  the  Hour.     Soon  as  the  sound  had  ceased 
whose  thunder  filled 
The  abysses  of  the  sky  and  the  wide  earth, 
There  was  a  change  :  the  impalpable  thin  air 
And  the  all-circling  sunlight  were  transformed, 
As  if  the  sense  of  love  dissolved  in  them 
Had  folded  itself  round  the  sphered  world. 
My  vision  then  grew  clear,  and  I  could  see 
Into  the  mysteries  of  the  universe  : 
Dizzy  as  with  delight  I  floated  down, 
Winnowing  the  lightsome  air  with  languid  plumes, 
My  coursers  sought  their  birth-place  in  the  sun, 
Where  they  henceforth  will  live  exempt  from  toil 
Pasturing  flowers  of  vegetable  fire. 
And  where  my  moonlike  car  will  stand  within 
A  temple,  gazed  upon  by  Phidian  forms 
Of  thee,  and  Asia,  and  the  Earth,  and  me, 
And  you  fair  nymphs  looking  the  love  we  feel ; 
In  memory  of  the  tidings  it  has  borne  ; 


308  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Beneath  a  dome  fretted  with  graven  flowers, 

Poised  on  twelve  columns  of  resplendent  stone, 

And  open  to  the  bright  and  liquid  sky. 

Yoked  to  it  by  an  amphisbenic  snake 

The  likeness  of  those  winged  steeds  will  mock 

The  flight  from  which  they  find  repose.     Alas, 

Whither  has  wandered  now  my  partial  tongue 

When  all  remains  untold  which  ye  would  hear  ? 

As  I  have  said  I  floated  to  the  earth : 

It  was,  as  it  is  still,  the  pain  of  bliss 

To  move,  to  breathe,  to  be  ;  I  wandering  went 

Among  the  haunts  and  dwellings  of  mankind, 

And  first  was  disappointed  not  to  see 

Such  mighty  change  as  I  had  felt  within 

Expressed  in  outward  things ;  but  soon  I  looked, 

And  behold,  thrones  were  kingless,  and  men  walked 

One  with  the  other  even  as  spirits  do, 

None  fawned,  none  trampled  ;  hate,  disdain,  or  fear, 

Self-love  or  self-content,  on  human  brows, 

No  more  inscribed,  as  o'er  the  gate  of  hell, 

"  All  hope  abandon  ye  who  enter  here  ; " 

None  frowned,  none  trembled,  none  with  eager  fear 

Gazed  on  another's  eye  of  cold  command, 

Until  the  subject  of  the  tyrant's  will 

Became,  worse  fate,  the  abject  of  his  own, 

Which  spurred  him,  like  an  outspent  horse,  to  death. 

None  wrought  his  lips  in  truth-entangling  lines 

Which  smiled  the  lie  his  tongue  disdained  to  speak  ; 

None,  with  firm  sneer,  trod  out  in  his  own  heart 

The  sparks  of  love  and  hope  till  there  remained 

Those  bitter  ashes,  a  soul  self-consumed, 

And  the  wretch  crept  a  vampire  among  men, 

Infecting  all  with  his  own  hideous  ill ; 

None  talked  that  common,  false,  cold,  hollow  talk 

Which  makes  the  heart  deny  the  yes  it  breathes, 

Yet  question  that  unmeant  hypocrisy 

With  such  a  self-mistrust  as  has  no  name. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  309 

And  women,  too,  frank,  beautiful,  and  kind 

As  the  free  heaven  which  rains  fresh  light  and  dew 

On  the  wide  earth,  passed  ;  gentle  radiant  forms, 

From  custom's  evil  taint  exempt  and  pure ; 

Speaking  the  wisdom  once  they  could  not  think, 

Looking  emotions  once  they  feared  to  feel, 

And  changed  to  all  which  once  they  dared  not  be, 

Yet  being  now,  made  earth  like  heaven  ;  nor  pride, 

Nor  jealousy,  nor  envy,  nor  ill  shame, 

The  bitterest  of  those  drops  of  treasured  gall, 

Spoilt  the  sweet  taste  of  the  nepenthe,  love. 

Thrones,  altars,  judgment-seats,  and  prisons  ;  wherein, 

And  beside  which,  by  wretched  men  were  borne 

Sceptres,  tiaras,  swords,  and  chains,  and  tomes 

Of  reasoned  wrong,  glozed  on  by  ignorance, 

Were  like  those  monstrous  and  barbaric  shapes, 

The  ghosts  of  a  no  more  remembered  fame, 

Which,  from  their  unworn  obelisks,  look  forth 

In  triumph  o'er  the  palaces  and  tombs 

Of  those  who  were  their  conquerors  :  mouldering  round 

Those  imaged  to  the  pride  of  kings  and  priests, 

A  dark  yet  mighty  faith,  a  power  as  wide 

As  is  the  world  it  wasted,  and  are  now 

But  an  astonishment ;  even  so  the  tools 

And  emblems  of  its  last  captivity, 

Amid  the  dwellings  of  the  peopled  earth, 

Stand,  not  o'erthrown,  but  unregarded  now. 

And  those  foul  shapes,  abhorred  by  god  and  man, 

Which,  under  many  a  name  and  many  a  form 

Strange,  savage,  ghastly,  dark  and  execrable, 

Were  Jupiter,  the  tyrant  of  the  world  ; 

And  which  the  nations,  panic-stricken,  served 

With  blood,  and  hearts  broken  by  long  hope,  and  love 

Dragged  to  his  altars  soiled  and  garlandless, 

And  slain  among  men's  unreclaiming  tears, 

Flattering  the  thing  they  feared,  which  fear  was  hate, 


310  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Frown,  mouldering  fast,  o'er  their  abandoned  shrines 
The  painted  veil,  by  those  who  were,  called  life, 
Which  mimicked,  as  with  colours  idly  spread, 
All  men  believed  and  hoped,  is  torn  aside ; 
The  loathsome  mask  has  fallen,  the  man  remains 
Sceptreless,  free,  uncircumscribed,  but  man 
Equal,  unclassed,  tribeless,  and  nationless, 
Exempt  from  awe,  worship,  degree,  the  king 
Over  himself;  just,  gentle,  wise  :  but  man 
Passionless  ;  no,  yet  free  from  guilt  or  pain, 
Which  were,  for  his  will  made  or  suffered  them, 
Nor  yet  exempt,  though  ruling  them  like  slaves, 
From  chance,  and  death,  and  mutability, 
The  clogs  of  that  which  else  might  oversoar 
The  loftiest  star  of  unascended  heaven, 
Pinnacled  dim  in  the  intense  inane. 


END  OF   THE  THIRD  ACT. 


■""    PANTHEA  AND  IONE  ASLEEP 


ACT  IV 


SCENE,  a  Part  of  the  Forest  near  the  Cave  of  PROME- 
THEUS. PANTHEA  and  IONE  are  sleeping:  they  awaken 
gradually  during  the  first  Song. 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits. 
The  pale  stars  are  gone  ! 
For  the  sun,  their  swift  shepherd, 
To  their  folds  then  compelling, 
In  the  depths  of  the  dawn, 
Hastes,  in  meteor-eclipsing  array,  and  they  flee 
Beyond  his  blue  dwelling, 
As  fawns  flee  the  leopard. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

A  Train  of  dark  Forms  and  Shadows  passes  by  confusedly ', 
singing. 
Here,  oh,  here : 
We  bear  the  bier 
Of  the  Father  of  many  a  cancelled  year  ! 


314  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Spectres  we 
Of  the  dead  Hours  be, 
We  bear  Time  to  his  tomb  in  eternity. 

Strew,  oh,  strew 

Hair,  not  yew ! 
Wet  the  dusty  pall  with  tears,  not  dew ! 

Be  the  faded  flowers 

Of  Death's  bare  bowers 
Spread  on  the  corpse  of  the  King  of  Hours ! 

Haste,  oh,  haste ! 

As  shades  are  chased, 
Trembling,  by  day,  from  heaven's  blue  waste. 

We  melt  away, 

Like  dissolving  spray, 
From  the  children  of  a  diviner  day, 

With  the  lullaby 

Of  winds  that  die 
On  the  bosom  of  their  own  harmony  ! 

lone. 
What  dark  forms  were  they  ? 

Panthea. 
The  past  Hours  weak  and  grey, 
With  the  spoil  which  their  toil 
Raked  together 
From  the  conquest  but  One  could  foil. 

lone. 
Have  they  passed  ? 

Panthea. 

They  have  passed  ; 
They  outspeeded  the  blast, — 
While  'tis  said,  they  are  fled  : 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  315 

lone. 
Whither,  oh,  whither  ? 

Panthea. 
To  the  dark,  to  the  past,  to  the  dead. 

Voice  of  unseen  Spirits. 
Bright  clouds  float  in  heaven, 
Dew-stars  gleam  on  earth, 
Waves  assemble  on  ocean, 
They  are  gathered  and  driven 
By  the  storm  of  delight,  by  the  panic  of  glee  ! 
They  shake  with  emotion, 
They  dance  in  their  mirth. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

The  pine  boughs  are  singing 
Old  songs  with  new  gladness, 
The  billows  and  fountains 
Fresh  music  are  flinging, 
Like  the  notes  of  a  spirit  from  land  and  from  sea  ; 
The  storms  mock  the  mountains 
With  the  thunder  of  gladness. 
But  where  are  ye  ? 

lone.  What  charioteers  are  these  ? 

Panthea.  Where  are  their  chariots  ? 

Semichorus  of  Hours. 
The  voice  of  the  Spirits  of  Air  and  of  Earth 

Have  drawn  back  the  figured  curtain  of  sleep 
Which  covered  our  being  and  darkened  our  birth 

In  the  deep. 

A   Voice. 
In  the  deep  ? 

Semichorus  II. 

Oh,  below  the  deep. 


316  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Semichorus  I. 
An  hundred  ages  we  had  been  kept 

Cradled  in  visions  of  hate  and  care, 
And  each  one  who  waked  as  his  brother  slept, 

Found  the  truth — 

Semichorus  II. 

Worse  than  his  visions  were ! 

Semichorus  I. 
We  have  heard  the  lute  of  Hope  in  sleep  ; 

We  have  known  the  voice  of  Love  in  dreams, 
We  have  felt  the  wand  of  Power,  and  leap — 

Semichorus  II. 
As  the  billows  leap  in  the  morning  beams ! 

Chorus. 
Weave  the  dance  on  the  floor  of  the  breeze, 

Pierce  with  song  heaven's  silent  light, 
Enchant  the  day  that  too  swiftly  flees, 

To  check  its  flight  ere  the  cave  of  night. 

Once  the  hungry  Hours  were  hounds 

Which  chased  the  day  like  a  bleeding  deer, 

And  it  limped  and  stumbled  with  many  wounds 
Through  the  nightly  dells  of  the  desert  year. 

But  now,  oh  weave  the  mystic  measure 
Of  music,  and  dance,  and  shapes  of  light, 

Let  the  Hours,  and  the  spirits  of  might  and  pleasure, 
Like  the  clouds  and  sunbeams,  unite. 

A   Voice. 

Unite ! 

Panthea.  See,  where  the  Spirits  of  the  human  mind 
Wrapped  in  sweet  sounds,  as  in  bright  veils,  approach. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  317 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

We  join  the  throng 

Of  the  dance  and  the  song, 
By  the  whirlwind  of  gladness  borne  along  ; 

As  the  flying-fish  leap 

From  the  Indian  deep, 
And  mix  with  the  sea-birds,  half  asleep. 

Chorus  of  Hours. 
Whence  come  ye,  so  wild  and  so  fleet, 
For  sandals  of  lightning  are  on  your  feet, 
And  your  wings  are  soft  and  swift  as  thought, 
And  your  eyes  are  as  love  which  is  veiled  not  ? 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

We  come  from  the  mind 

Of  human  kind 
Which  was  late  so  dusk,  and  obscene,  and  blind ; 

Now  'tis  an  ocean 

Of  clear  emotion, 
A  heaven  of  serene  and  mighty  motion. 

From  that  deep  abyss 

Of  wonder  and  bliss, 
Whose  caverns  are  crystal  palaces  ; 

From  those  skiey  towers 

Where  Thought's  crowned  powers 
Sit  watching  your  dance,  ye  happy  Hours  ! 

From  the  dim  recesses 

Of  woven  caresses, 
Where  lovers  catch  ye  by  your  loose  tresses  ; 

From  the  azure  isles, 

Where  sweet  Wisdom  smiles, 
Delaying  your  ships  with  her  syren  wiles. 

From  the  temples  high 
Of  Man's  ear  and  eye, 
Roofed  over  Sculpture  and  Poesy  ; 


318  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

From  the  murmurings 
Of  the  unsealed  springs 
Where  Science  bedews  his  Daedal  wings. 

Years  after  years, 

Through  blood,  and  tears, 
And  a  thick  hell  of  hatreds,  and  hopes,  and  fears, 

We  waded  and  flew, 

And  the  islets  were  few 
Where  the  bud-blighted  flowers  of  happiness  grew. 

Our  feet  now,  every  palm, 

Are  sandalled  with  calm, 
And  the  dew  of  our  wings  is  a  rain  of  balm  ; 

And,  beyond  our  eyes, 

The  human  love  lies 
Which  makes  all  it  gazes  on  Paradise. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  and  Hours. 

Then  weave  the  web  of  the  mystic  measure  ; 
From  the  depths  of  the  sky  and  the  ends  of  the  earth, 

Come,  swift  Spirits  of  might  and  of  pleasure, 
Fill  the  dance  and  the  music  of  mirth, 

As  the  waves  of  a  thousand  streams  rush  by 

To  an  ocean  of  splendour  and  harmony ! 

Chorus  of  Spirits. 

Our  spoil  is  won, 

Our  task  is  done, 
We  are  free  to  dive,  or  soar,  or  run  ; 

Beyond  and  around, 

Or  within  the  bound 
Which  clips  the  world  with  darkness  round. 

We'll  pass  the  eyes 
Of  the  starry  skies 
Into  the  hoar  deep  to  colonize  : 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  319 

Death,  Chaos,  and  Night, 
From  the  sound  of  our  flight, 
Shall  flee,  like  mists  from  a  tempest's  might. 

And  Earth,  Air,  and  Light, 

And  the  Spirit  of  Might, 
Which  drives  round  the  stars  in  their  fiery  flight ; 

And  Love,  Thought,  and  Breath, 

The  powers  that  quell  Death, 
Wherever  we  soar  shall  assemble  beneath. 

And  our  singing  shall  build 

In  the  void's  loose  field 
A  world  for  the  Spirit  of  Wisdom  to  wield  ; 

We  will  take  our  plan 

From  the  new  world  of  man, 
And  our  work  shall  be  called  the  Promethean. 

Chorus  of  Hours. 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song  ; 
Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain. 

Semichorus  I. 
We,  beyond  heaven,  are  driven  along : 

Semichorus  II. 
Us  the  enchantments  of  earth  retain  : 

Semichorus  I. 
Ceaseless,  and  rapid,  and  fierce,  and  free, 
With  the  Spirits  which  build  a  new  earth  and  sea, 
And  a  heaven  where  yet  heaven  could  never  be. 

Semichorus  II. 
Solemn,  and  slow,  and  serene,  and  bright, 
Leading  the  Day  and  outspeeding  the  Night, 
With  the  powers  of  a  world  of  perfect  light. 


320  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

Semichorus  I. 
We  whirl,  singing  loud,  round  the  gathering  sphere, 
Till  the  trees  and  the  beasts,  and  the  clouds  appear 
From  its  chaos  made  calm  by  love,  not  fear. 

Semichorus  II 
We  encircle  the  ocean  and  mountains  of  earth, 
And  the  happy  forms  of  its  death  and  birth 
Change  to  the  music  of  our  sweet  mirth. 

Chorus  of  Hours  and  Spirits. 
Break  the  dance,  and  scatter  the  song, 

Let  some  depart,  and  some  remain, 
Wherever  we  fly  we  lead  along 
In  leashes,  like  starbeams,  soft  yet  strong, 

The  clouds  that  are  heavy  with  love's  sweet  rain. 

Panthea.  Ha  !  they  are  gone  ! 

lone.  Yet  feel  you  no  delight 

From  the  past  sweetness  ? 

Panthea.  As  the  bare  green  hill 

When  some  soft  cloud  vanishes  into  rain, 
Laughs  with  a  thousand  drops  of  sunny  water 
To  the  unpavilioned  sky ! 

lone.  Even  whilst  we  speak 

New  notes  arise.     What  is  that  awful  sound  ? 

Panthea.  'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air, 
Aeolian  modulations. 

lone.  Listen  too, 

How  every  pause  is  filled  with  under-notes, 
Clear,  silver,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones, 
Which  pierce  the  sense,  and  live  within  the  soul, 
As  the  sharp  stars  pierce  winter's  crystal  air 
And  gaze  upon  themselves  within  the  sea. 

Panthea.  But  see  where  through  two  openings  in  the 
forest 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  321 

Which  hanging  branches  overcanopy, 

And  where  two  runnels  of  a  rivulet, 

Between  the  close  moss  violet-inwoven, 

Have  made  their  path  of  melody,  like  sisters 

Who  part  with  sighs  that  they  may  meet  in  smiles, 

Turning  their  dear  disunion  to  an  isle 

Of  lovely  grief,  a  wood  of  sweet  sad  thoughts  ; 

Two  visions  of  strange  radiance  float  upon 

The  ocean-like  enchantment  of  strong  sound, 

Which  flows  intenser,  keener,  deeper  yet 

Under  the  ground  and  through  the  windless  air. 

lone.  I  see  a  chariot  like  that  thinnest  boat, 
In  which  the  mother  of  the  months  is  borne 
By  ebbing  night  into  her  western  cave, 
When  she  upsprings  from  interlunar  dreams, 
O'er  which  is  curved  an  orblike  canopy 
Of  gentle  darkness,  and  the  hills  and  woods 
Distinctly  seen  through  that  dusk  airy  veil, 
Regard  like  shapes  in  an  enchanter's  glass  ; 
Its  wheels  are  solid  clouds,  azure  and  gold, 
Such  as  the  genii  of  the  thunder-storm 
Pile  on  the  floor  of  the  illumined  sea 
When  the  sun  rushes  under  it ;  they  roll 
And  move  and  grow  as  with  an  inward  wind  ; 
Within  it  sits  a  winged  infant,  white 
Its  countenance,  like  the  whiteness  of  bright  snow, 
Its  plumes  are  as  feathers  of  sunny  frost, 
Its  limbs  gleam  white,  through  the  wind-flowing  folds 
Of  its  white  robe,  woof  of  aetherial  pearl. 
Its  hair  is  white,  the  brightness  of  white  light 
Scattered  in  strings  ;  yet  its  two  eyes  are  heavens 
Of  liquid  darkness,  which  the  Deity 
Within  seems  pouring,  as  a  storm  is  poured 
From  jagged  clouds,  out  of  their  arrowy  lashes, 
Tempering  the  cold  and  radiant  air  around, 
With  fire  that  is  not  brightness ;  in  its  hand 
It  sways  a  quivering  moon-beam,  from  whose  point 

Y 


322  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

A  guiding  power  directs  the  chariot's  prow 

Over  its  wheeled  clouds,  which  as  they  roll 

Over  the  grass,  and  flowers,  and  waves,  wake  sounds, 

Sweet  as  a  singing  rain  of  silver  dew. 

Panthea.  And  from  the  other  opening  in  the  wood 
Rushes,  with  loud  and  whirlwind  harmony, 
A  sphere,  which  is  as  many  thousand  spheres, 
Solid  as  crystal,  yet  through  all  its  mass 
Flow,  as  through  empty  space,  music  and  light : 
Ten  thousand  orbs  involving  and  involved, 
Purple  and  azure,  white,  and  green,  and  golden, 
Sphere  within  sphere  ;  and  every  space  between 
Peopled  with  unimaginable  shapes, 
Such  as  ghosts  dream  dwell  in  the  lampless  deep, 
Yet  each  inter-transpicuous,  and  they  whirl 
Over  each  other  with  a  thousand  motions, 
Upon  a  thousand  sightless  axles  spinning, 
And  with  the  force  of  self-destroying  swiftness, 
Intensely,  slowly,  solemnly  roll  on, 
Kindling  with  mingled  sounds,  and  many  tones, 
Intelligible  words  and  music  wild. 
With  mighty  whirl  the  multitudinous  orb 
Grinds  the  bright  brook  into  an  azure  mist 
Of  elemental  subtlety,  like  light ; 
And  the  wild  odour  of  the  forest  flowers, 
The  music  of  the  living  grass  and  air, 
The  emerald  light  of  leaf-entangled  beams 
Round  its  intense  yet  self-conflicting  speed, 
Seem  kneaded  into  one  aerial  mass 
Which  drowns  the  sense.     Within  the  orb  itself, 
Pillowed  upon  its  alabaster  arms, 
Like  to  a  child  o'erwearied  with  sweet  toil, 
On  its  own  folded  wings,  and  wavy  hair, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  is  laid  asleep, 
And  you  can  see  its  little  lips  are  moving, 
Amid  the  changing  light  of  their  own  smiles, 
Like  one  who  talks  of  what  he  loves  in  dream. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  323 

lone.  Tis  only  mocking  the  orb's  harmony. 

Panthea.  And  from  a  star  upon  its  forehead,  shoot, 
Like  swords  of  azure  fire,  or  golden  spears 
With  tyrant-quelling  myrtle  overtwined, 
Embleming  heaven  and  earth  united  now, 
Vast  beams  like  spokes  of  some  invisible  wheel 
Which  whirl  as  the  orb  whirls,  swifter  than  thought, 
Filling  the  abyss  with  sun-like  lightnings, 
And  perpendicular  now,  and  now  transverse, 
Pierce  the  dark  soil,  and  as  they  pierce  and  pass, 
Make  bare  the  secrets  of  the  earth's  deep  heart ; 
Infinite  mine  of  adamant  and  gold, 
Valueless  stones,  and  unimagined  gems, 
And  caverns  on  crystalline  columns  poised 
With  vegetable  silver  overspread  ; 
Wells  of  unfathomed  fire,  and  water  springs 
Whence  the  great  sea,  even  as  a  child  is  fed, 
Whose  vapours  clothe  earth's  monarch  mountain-tops 
With  kingly,  ermine  snow.     The  beams  flash  on 
And  make  appear  the  melancholy  ruins 
Of  cancelled  cycles  ;  anchors,  beaks  of  ships  ; 
Planks  turned  to  marble ;  quivers,  helms,  and  spears, 
And  gorgon-headed  targes,  and  the  wheels 
Of  scythed  chariots,  and  the  emblazonry 
Of  trophies,  standards,  and  armorial  beasts, 
Round  which  death  laughed,  sepulchred  emblems 
Of  dead  destruction,  ruin  within  ruin  ! 
The  wrecks  beside  of  many  a  city  vast, 
Whose  population  which  the  earth  grew  over 
Was  mortal,  but  not  human  ;  see,  they  lie, 
Their  monstrous  works,  and  uncouth  skeletons, 
Their  statues,  homes  and  fanes  ;  prodigious  shapes 
Huddled  in  grey  annihilation,  split, 
Jammed  in  the  hard,  black  deep  ;  and  over  these, 
The  anatomies  of  unknown  winged  things, 
And  fishes  which  were  isles  of  living  scale, 
And  serpents,  bony  chains,  twisted  around 


324  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

The  iron  crags,  or  within  heaps  of  dust 
To  which  the  tortuous  strength  of  their  last  pangs 
Had  crushed  the  iron  crags  ;  and  over  these 
The  jagged  alligator,  and  the  might 
Of  earth-convulsing  behemoth,  which  once 
Were  monarch  beasts,  and  on  the  slimy  shores, 
And  weed-overgrown  continents  of  earth, 
Increased  and  multiplied  like  summer  worms 
On  an  abandoned  corpse,  till  the  blue  globe 
Wrapped  deluge  round  it  like  a  cloke,  and  they 
Yelled,  gasped,  and  were  abolished  ;  or  some  God 
Whose  throne  was  in  a  comet,  passed,  and  cried, 
Be  not !    And  like  my  words  they  were  no  more. 

The  Earth. 

The  joy,  the  triumph,  the  delight,  the  madness  ! 

The  boundless,  overflowing,  bursting  gladness, 
The  vaporous  exultation  not  to  be  confined  ! 

Ha  !  ha  !  the  animation  of  delight 

Which  wraps  me,  like  an  atmosphere  of  light, 
And  bears  me  as  a  cloud  is  borne  by  its  own  wind. 

The  Moon. 

Brother  mine,  calm  wanderer, 

Happy  globe  of  land  and  air, 
Some  Spirit  is  darted  like  a  beam  from  thee, 

Which  penetrates  my  frozen  frame, 

And  passes  with  the  warmth  of  flame, 
WTith  love,  and  odour,  and  deep  melody 

Through  me,  through  me ! 

The  Earth. 
Ha !  ha  !  the  caverns  of  my  hollow  mountains, 
My  cloven  fire-crags,  sound-exulting  fountains 

Laugh  with  a  vast  and  inextinguishable  laughter. 
The  oceans,  and  the  deserts,  and  the  abysses, 
And  the  deep  air's  unmeasured  wildernesses, 

Answer  from  all  their  clouds  and  billows,  echoing  after. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  325 

They  cry  aloud  as  I  do.     Sceptred  curse, 
Who  all  our  green  and  azure  universe 
Threatenedst  to  muffle  round  with  black  destruction, 
sending 
A  solid  cloud  to  rain  hot  thunder-stones, 
And  splinter  and  knead  down  my  children's  bones, 
All  I  bring  forth,  to  one  void  mass  battering  and  blend- 
ing: 


Until  each  crag-like  tower,  and  storied  column, 
Palace,  and  obelisk,  and  temple  solemn, 

My  imperial  mountains  crowned  with  cloud,  and  snow, 
and  fire  ; 
My  sea-like  forests,  every  blade  and  blossom 
Which  finds  a  grave  or  cradle  in  my  bosom, 

Were  stamped  by  thy  strong  hate  into  a  lifeless  mire. 

How  art  thou  sunk,  withdrawn,  covered,  drunk  up 

By  thirsty  nothing,  as  the  brackish  cup 
Drained  by  a  desert-troop,  a  little  drop  for  all ; 

And  from  beneath,  around,  within,  above, 

Filling  thy  void  annihilation,  love 
Burst  in  like  light  on  caves  cloven  by  the  thunder-ball. 

The  Moon. 
The  snow  upon  my  lifeless  mountains 
Is  loosened  into  living  fountains, 
My  solid  oceans  flow,  and  sing,  and  shine : 
A  spirit  from  my  heart  bursts  forth, 
It  clothes  with  unexpected  birth 
My  cold  bare  bosom  :    Oh  !  it  must  be  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine  ! 

Gazing  on  thee  I  feel,  I  know 

Green  stalks  burst  forth,  and  bright  flowers  grow, 


326  PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND 

And  living  shapes  upon  my  bosom  move : 

Music  is  in  the  sea  and  air, 

Winged  clouds  soar  here  and  there, 
Dark  with  the  rain  new  buds  are  dreaming  of: 
'Tis  love,  all  love ! 

The  Earth. 

It  interpenetrates  my  granite  mass, 

Through  tangled  roots  and  trodden  clay  doth  pass, 
Into  the  utmost  leaves  and  delicatest  flowers  ; 

Upon  the  winds,  among  the  clouds  'tis  spread, 

It  wakes  a  life  in  the  forgotten  dead, 
They  breathe  a  spirit  up  from  their  obscurest  bowers. 

And  like  a  storm  bursting  its  cloudy  prison 
With  thunder,  and  with  whirlwind,  has  arisen 

Out  of  the  lampless  caves  of  unimagined  being  : 

With  earthquake  shock  and  swiftness  making  shiver 
Thought's  stagnant  chaos,  unremoved  for  ever, 

Till  hate,  and  fear,  and  pain,  light-vanquished  shadows, 
fleeing, 

Leave  Man,  who  was  a  many-sided  mirror, 
Which  could  distort  to  many  a  shape  of  error, 

This  true  fair  world  of  things,  a  sea  reflecting  love  ; 
Which  over  all  his  kind  as  the  sun's  heaven 
Gliding  o'er  ocean,  smooth,  serene,  and  even 

Darting  from  starry  depths  radiance  and  life,  doth  move, 

Leave  Man,  even  as  a  leprous  child  is  left, 
Who  follows  a  sick  beast  to  some  warm  cleft 

Of  rocks,  through  which  the  might  of  healing  springs  is 
poured  ; 
Then  when  it  wanders  home  with  rosy  smile, 
Unconscious,  and  its  mother  fears  awhile 

It  is  a  spirit,  then,  weeps  on  her  child  restored. 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  327 

Man,  oh,  not  men  !  a  chain  of  linked  thought, 

Of  love  and  might  to  be  divided  not, 
Compelling  the  elements  with  adamantine  stress ; 

As  the  sun  rules,  even  with  a  tyrant's  gaze, 

The  unquiet  republic  of  the  maze 
Of  planets,  struggling  fierce  towards  heaven's  free  wilder- 
ness. 

Man,  one  harmonious  soul  of  many  a  soul, 

Whose  nature  is  its  own  divine  control, 
Where  all  things  flow  to  all,  as  rivers  to  the  sea ; 

Familiar  acts  are  beautiful  through  love ; 

Labour,  and  pain,  and  grief,  in  life's  green  grove 
Sport  like  tame  beasts, — none  knew  how  gentle  they 
could  be ! 

His  will,  with  all  mean  passions,  bad  delights, 
And  selfish  cares,  its  trembling  satellites, 

A  spirit  ill  to  guide,  but  mighty  to  obey, 

Is  as  a  tempest-winged  ship,  whose  helm 
Love  rules,  through  waves  which  dare  not  over- 
whelm, 

Forcing  life's  wildest  shores  to  own  its  sovereign  sway. 

All  things  confess  his  strength.     Through  the  cold 

mass 
Of  marble  and  of  colour  his  dreams  pass  ; 
Bright  threads  whence  mothers  weave  the  robes  their 
children  wear ; 
Language  is  a  perpetual  Orphic  song, 
Which  rules  with  Daedal  harmony  a  throng 
Of  thoughts  and  forms,  which  else  senseless  and  shapeless 
were. 

The  lightning  is  his  slave ;  heaven's  utmost  deep 
Gives  up  her  stars,  and  like  a  flock  of  sheep 


328  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

They  pass  before  his  eye,  are  numbered,  and  roll  on  ! 

The  tempest  is  his  steed,  he  strides  the  air ; 

And  the  abyss  shouts  from  her  depth  laid  bare, 
Heaven,  hast  thou  secrets  ?    Man  unveils  me ;    I  have 
none. 


The  Moon. 
The  shadow  of  white  death  has  passed 
From  my  path  in  heaven  at  last, 
A  clinging  shroud  of  solid  frost  and  sleep ; 
And  through  my  newly-woven  bowers, 
Wander  happy  paramours, 
Less  mighty,  but  as  mild  as  those  who  keep 
Thy  vales  more  deep. 

The  Earth. 
As  the  dissolving  warmth  of  dawn  may  fold 
A  half  unfrozen  dew-globe,  green,  and  gold, 
And  crystalline,  till  it  becomes  a  winged  mist, 

And  wanders  up  the  vault  of  the  blue  day, 
Outlives  the  noon,  and  on  the  sun's  last  ray 
Hangs  o'er  the  sea,  a  fleece  of  fire  and  amethyst. 

The  Moon. 
Thou  are  folded,  thou  art  lying 
In  the  light  which  is  undying 
Of  thine  own  joy,  and  heaven's  smile  divine  ; 
All  suns  and  constellations  shower 
On  thee  a  light,  a  life,  a  power 
Which  doth  array  thy  sphere  ;  thou  pourest  thine 
On  mine,  on  mine ! 

The  Earth. 
I  spin  beneath  my  pyramid  of  night, 
Which  points  into  the  heavens  dreaming  delight, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  329 

Murmuring  victorious  joy  in  my  enchanted  sleep  ; 
As  a  youth  lulled  in  love-dreams  faintly  sighing, 
Under  the  shadow  of  his  beauty  lying, 

Which  round  his  rest  a  watch  of  light  and  warmth  doth 
keep. 

The  Moon. 
As  in  the  soft  and  sweet  eclipse, 
When  soul  meets  soul  on  lovers'  lips, 
High  hearts  are  calm,  and  brightest  eyes  are  dull ; 
So  when  thy  shadow  falls  on  me, 
Then  am  I  mute  and  still,  by  thee 
Covered  ;  of  thy  love,  Orb  most  beautiful, 
Full,  oh,  too  full ! 

Thou  art  speeding  round  the  sun 
Brightest  world  of  many  a  one  ; 
Green  and  azure  sphere  which  shinest 
With  a  light  which  is  divinest 
Among  all  the  lamps  of  Heaven 
To  whom  life  and  light  is  given  ; 
I,  thy  crystal  paramour 
Borne  beside  thee  by  a  power 
Like  the  polar  Paradise, 
Magnet-like  of  lovers'  eyes  ; 
I,  a  most  enamoured  maiden 
Whose  weak  brain  is  overladen 
With  the  pleasure  of  her  love, 
Maniac-like  around  thee  move 
Gazing,  an  insatiate  bride, 
On  thy  form  from  every  side 
Like  a  Maenad,  round  the  cup 
Which  Agave  lifted  up 
In  the  weird  Cadmaean  forest. 
Brother,  whereso'er  thou  soarest 
I  must  hurry,  whirl  and  follow 
Through  the  heavens  wide  and  hollow, 


330  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Sheltered  by  the  warm  embrace 

Of  thy  soul  from  hungry  space, 

Drinking  from  thy  sense  and  sight 

Beauty,  majesty,  and  might, 

As  a  lover  or  a  chameleon 

Grows  like  what  it  looks  upon, 

As  a  violet's  gentle  eye 

Gazes  on  the  azure  sky 
Until  its  hue  grows  like  what  it  beholds, 

As  a  grey  and  watery  mist 

Grows  like  solid  amethyst 
Athwart  the  western  mountain  it  enfolds, 

When  the  sunset  sleeps 
Upon  its  snow. 

The  Earth. 
And  the  weak  day  weeps 
That  it  should  be  so. 
Oh,  gentle  Moon,  the  voice  of  thy  delight 
Falls  on  me  like  thy  clear  and  tender  light 
Soothing  the  seaman,  borne  the  summer  night, 

Through  isles  for  ever  calm  ; 
Oh,  gentle  Moon,  thy  crystal  accents  pierce 
The  caverns  of  my  pride's  deep  universe, 
Charming  the  tiger  joy,  whose  tramplings  fierce 
Made  wounds  which  need  thy  balm. 

Panthea.  I  rise  as  from  a  bath  of  sparkling  water, 
A  bath  of  azure  light,  among  dark  rocks, 
Out  of  the  stream  of  sound. 

lone.  Ah  me  !  sweet  sister, 

The  stream  of  sound  has  ebbed  away  from  us, 
And  you  pretend  to  rise  out  of  its  wave, 
Because  your  words  fall  like  the  clear,  soft  dew 
Shaken  from  a  bathing  wood-nymph's  limbs  and  hair. 

Panthea.  Peace !  peace !    A  mighty  Power,  which  is 
as  darkness, 


PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND  331 

Is  rising  out  of  Earth,  and  from  the  sky- 
Is  showered  like  night,  and  from  within  the  air 
Bursts,  like  eclipse  which  had  been  gathered  up 
Into  the  pores  of  sunlight :  the  bright  visions, 
Wherein  the  singing  spirits  rode  and  shone, 
Gleam  like  pale  meteors  through  a  watery  night. 

lone.  There  is  a  sense  of  words  upon  mine  ear. 

Panthea.  An  universal  sound  like  words  :    Oh,  list ! 

Demogorgon. 
Thou,  Earth,  calm  empire  of  a  happy  soul. 

Sphere  of  divinest  shapes  and  harmonies, 
Beautiful  orb !  gathering  as  thou  dost  roll 

The  love  which  paves  thy  path  along  the  skies : 

The  Earth. 
I  hear  :  I  am  as  a  drop  of  dew  that  dies. 

Demogorgon. 
Thou,  Moon,  which  gazest  on  the  nightly  Earth 

With  wonder,  as  it  gazes  upon  thee ; 
Whilst  each  to  men,  and  beasts,  and  the  swift  birth 

Of  birds,  is  beauty,  love,  calm,  harmony  : 

The  Moon. 
I  hear :  I  am  a  leaf  shaken  by  thee  ! 

Demogorgon. 
Ye  kings  of  suns  and  stars,  Daemons  and  Gods, 

Aetherial  Dominations,  who  possess 
Elysian,  windless,  fortunate  abodes 

Beyond  Heaven's  constellated  wilderness  : 

A   Voice  from  above. 
Our  great  Republic  hears,  we  are  bless'd,  and  bless. 


332  PROMETHEUS   UNBOUND 

Demogorgon. 
Ye  happy  dead,  whom  beams  of  brightest  verse 

Are  clouds  to  hide,  not  colours  to  portray, 
Whether  your  nature  is  that  universe 

Which  once  ye  saw  and  suffered — 

A   Voice  from  beneath. 

Or  as  they 
Whom  we  have  left,  we  change  and  pass  away. 

Demogorgon. 
Ye  elemental  Genii,  who  have  homes 

From  man's  high  mind  even  to  the  central  stone 
Of  sullen  lead  ;  from  Heaven's  star- fretted  domes 

To  the  dull  weed  some  sea-worm  battens  on  : 

A  confused  Voice. 
We  hear  :  thy  words  waken  Oblivion. 

Demogorgon. 
Spirits,  whose  homes  are  flesh  :  ye  beasts  and  birds, 

Ye  worms,  and  fish ;  ye  living  leaves  and  buds  ; 
Lightning  and  wind  ;  and  ye  untameable  herds, 

Meteors  and  mists,  which  throng  air's  solitudes : 

A   Voice. 
Thy  voice  to  us  is  wind  among  still  woods. 

Demogorgon. 
Man,  who  wert  once  a  despot  and  a  slave ; 

A  dupe  and  a  deceiver  ;  a  decay  ; 
A  traveller  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave 

Through  the  dim  night  of  this  immortal  day : 

AIL 
Speak  :  thy  strong  words  may  never  pass  away. 


PROMETHEUS    UNBOUND  333 

Demogorgon. 
This  is  the  day,  which  down  the  void  abysm 
At  the  Earth-born's  spell  yawns  for  Heaven's  despotism, 

And  Conquest  is  dragged  captive  through  the  deep  : 
Love,  from  its  awful  throne  of  patient  power 
In  the  wise  heart,  from  the  last  giddy  hour 

Of  dead  endurance,  from  the  slippery,  steep, 
And  narrow  verge  of  crag-like  agony,  springs 
And  folds  over  the  world  its  healing  wings. 

Gentleness,  Virtue,  Wisdom,  and  Endurance, 
These  are  the  seals  of  that  most  firm  assurance 

Which  bars  the  pit  over  Destruction's  strength  ; 
And  if,  with  infirm  hand,  Eternity, 
Mother  of  many  acts  and  hours,  should  free 

The  serpent  that  would  clasp  her  with  his  length  ; 
These  are  the  spells  by  which  to  re-assume 
An  empire  o'er  the  disentangled  doom. 

To  suffer  woes  which  Hope  thinks  infinite  ; 
To  forgive  wrongs  darker  than  death  or  night ; 

To  defy  Power,  which  seems  omnipotent ; 
To  love,  and  bear  ;  to  hope  till  Hope  creates 
From  its  own  wreck  the  thing  it  contemplates  ; 

Neither  to  change,  nor  falter,  nor  repent  ; 
This,  like  thy  glory,  Titan,  is  to  be 
Good,  great  and  joyous,  beautiful  and  free ; 
This  is  alone  Life,  Joy,  Empire,  and  Victory. 


CHISWICK    PRESS  :    CHARLES    WHITTINGHAM    AND    CO. 
TOOKS   COURT,    CHANCERY    LANE,    LONDON. 


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