To know in dissolution's void That mortals' baubles sunk decay; That everything, but Love, destroyed Must perish with its kindred clay,— Perish Ambition's crown, 20 Perish her sceptred sway: From Death's pale front fades Pride's fastidious frown. In Death's damp vault the lurid fires decay, That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's beam— That all the cares subside, 25 Which lurk beneath the tide Of life's unquiet stream;— Yes! this is victory! And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky, To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled; 30 To baffle the lean passions of their prey, To sleep within the palace of the dead! Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne His countless courtiers mock the words they say, Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, 35 As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe Which props the column of unnatural state! You the plainings, faint and low, From Misery's tortured soul that flow, _40 Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land! You Desolation's gory throng Shall bear from Victory along _45 To that mysterious strand.

NOTE: _10 murderer Esdaile manuscript; murders 1858.

***

LOVE'S ROSE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, "Life of Shelley", 1858; dated 1810. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, Live not through the waste of time! Love's rose a host of thorns invests; Cold, ungenial is the clime, Where its honours blow. _5 Youth says, 'The purple flowers are mine,' Which die the while they glow.

2. Dear the boon to Fancy given, Retracted whilst it's granted: Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven, _10 Although on earth 'tis planted, Where its honours blow, While by earth's slaves the leaves are riven Which die the while they glow.

3. Age cannot Love destroy, 15 But perfidy can blast the flower, Even when in most unwary hour It blooms in Fancy's bower. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can rend the shrine 20 In which its vermeil splendours shine.

NOTES: Love's Rose—The title is Rossetti's, 1870. _2 not through Esdaile manuscript; they this, 1858.

***

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; dated 1810. Included (four unpublished eight-line stanzas) in the Esdaile manuscript book.)]

How eloquent are eyes! Not the rapt poet's frenzied lay When the soul's wildest feelings stray Can speak so well as they. How eloquent are eyes! _5 Not music's most impassioned note On which Love's warmest fervours float Like them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,— That your look may light a waste of years, _10 Darting the beam that conquers cares Through the cold shower of tears. Love, look thus again!

***

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

[Published by Shelley, 1810. A Reprint, edited by Richard Garnett, C.B., LL.D., was issued by John Lane, in 1898. The punctuation of the original edition is here retained.]

A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the idea of the following lines:

1. Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink, First of this thing, and that thing, and t'other thing think; Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind, That the sense or the subject I never can find: This word is wrong placed,—no regard to the sense, The present and future, instead of past tense, Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore, I think I shall never attempt to write more, With patience I then my thoughts must arraign, Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, 10 Like them too must wait in due patience and thought, Or else my fine works will all come to nought. My wit too's so copious, it flows like a river, But disperses its waters on black and white never; Like smoke it appears independent and free, 15 But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee— Then at length all my patience entirely lost, My paper and pens in the fire are tossed; But come, try again—you must never despair, Our Murray's or Entick's are not all so rare, 20 Implore their assistance—they'll come to your aid, Perform all your business without being paid, They'll tell you the present tense, future and past, Which should come first, and which should come last, This Murray will do—then to Entick repair, 25 To find out the meaning of any word rare. This they friendly will tell, and ne'er make you blush, With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush! Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put, Not minding the if's, the be's, and the but, 30 Then read it all over, see how it will run, How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun, Your writings may then with old Socrates vie, May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie, May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. 35 The pattern or satire to all of the age; But stop—a mad author I mean not to turn, Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn, Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined, My letters may make some slight food for the mind; 40 That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart, In all the warm language that flows from the heart. Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains, It bids me step forward and just hold the reins, My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, 45 Such as I fear can be made but by few— Of writers this age has abundance and plenty, Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty, Three score of them wits who all sharply vie, To try what odd creature they best can belie, 50 A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write, And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,] One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire, And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire, T'other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, 55 And just like a cobbler the old writings mend, The twenty are those who for pulpits indite, And pore over sermons all Saturday night. And now my good friends—who come after I mean, As I ne'er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. 60 Or like cobblers at mending I never did try, Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie; As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest, So here I believe the matter must rest.— I've heard your complaint—my answer I've made, 65 And since to your calls all the tribute I've paid, Adieu my good friend; pray never despair, But grammar and sense and everything dare, Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free, Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, 70 Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense, But read it all over and make it out sense. What a tiresome girl!—pray soon make an end, Else my limited patience you'll quickly expend. Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try— 75 So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

JANUARY, 1810.

2.

TO MISS — — [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

For your letter, dear — [Hattie], accept my best thanks, Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks, Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better, The more news that's crammed in, more amusing the letter, All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, _5 Which only are fit for the tardy and late, As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk, How fair the sun shines—a fine day for a walk, Then to politics turn, of Burdett's reformation, One declares it would hurt, t'other better the nation, _10 Will ministers keep? sure they've acted quite wrong, The burden this is of each morning-call song. So — is going to — you say, I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—] That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright, _15 And declare he can't bear to be out of her sight. Write flaming epistles with love's pointed dart, Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart, Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways, He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, _20 That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake, And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take, A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame, But he fears, for he knows she is not common game, Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, _25 He's not one that's caught by a sly looking face, Yet that's TOO divine—such a black sparkling eye, At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die; Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten, More than is meant by most such kind of men, _30 For they're all alike, take them one with another, Begging pardon—with the exception of my brother. Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard, Most opinion's the same, with the difference of word, Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, _35 Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed, As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name, Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame.— So on Friday this City's gay vortex you quit, And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit— _40 Now your parcel's arrived — [Bysshe's] letter shall go, I hope all your joy mayn't be turned into woe, Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain, When it promises sunshine how often comes rain. So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, _45 How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh, When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed, How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest. When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand, Like a vessel just landing, we're wrecked near the strand, _50 And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel, 'Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel— May misfortunes dear Girl, ne'er thy happiness cloy, May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy, May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, _55 Woes, which thy tender heart never may know, For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear, Though sympathy's soul to a friend drops a tear. Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written, Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. _60 What sober reflections in the midst of this letter! Jocularity sure would have suited much better; But there are exceptions to all common rules, For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools. Now adieu my dear — [Hattie] I'm sure I must tire, _65 For if I do, you may throw it into the fire, So accept the best love of your cousin and friend, Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.

APRIL 30, 1810.

NOTE: _19 mischievous]mischevious 1810.

3. SONG.

Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow,— Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low; But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, _5 More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow—

And ah! poor — has felt all this horror, Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: _10 'Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, She sought her babe's food at her ruiner's gate— Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, _15 Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late. 'Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, That the form of the wasted — reclined; She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.— _20 I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, But thee, cruel — I call thee unkind!'—

Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, 25 She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain, And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 'Ah! go,' she exclaimed, 'when the tempest is yelling, 'Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, 30 My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—'

Not long lived —, but over her grave Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. _35 Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather, Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her, Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.—

JULY, 1810.

4. SONG.

Come [Harriet]! sweet is the hour, Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around, The anemone's night-boding flower, Has sunk its pale head on the ground.

'Tis thus the world's keenness hath torn, _5 Some mild heart that expands to its blast, 'Tis thus that the wretched forlorn, Sinks poor and neglected at last.—

The world with its keenness and woe, Has no charms or attraction for me, 10 Its unkindness with grief has laid low, The heart which is faithful to thee. The high trees that wave past the moon, As I walk in their umbrage with you, All declare I must part with you soon, 15 All bid you a tender adieu!—

Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell, You and I love, may ne'er meet again; These woods and these meadows can tell How soft and how sweet was the strain.— _20

APRIL, 1810.

5. SONG.

DESPAIR.

Ask not the pallid stranger's woe, With beating heart and throbbing breast, Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow, As though the body needed rest.—

Whose 'wildered eye no object meets, _5 Nor cares to ken a friendly glance, With silent grief his bosom beats,— Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.

Who looks around with fearful eye, And shuns all converse with man kind, _10 As though some one his griefs might spy, And soothe them with a kindred mind.

A friend or foe to him the same, He looks on each with equal eye; The difference lies but in the name, _15 To none for comfort can he fly.—

'Twas deep despair, and sorrow's trace, To him too keenly given, Whose memory, time could not efface— His peace was lodged in Heaven.— _20

He looks on all this world bestows, The pride and pomp of power, As trifles best for pageant shows Which vanish in an hour.

When torn is dear affection's tie, _25 Sinks the soft heart full low; It leaves without a parting sigh, All that these realms bestow.

JUNE, 1810.

6. SONG.

SORROW.

To me this world's a dreary blank, All hopes in life are gone and fled, My high strung energies are sank, And all my blissful hopes lie dead.—

The world once smiling to my view, _5 Showed scenes of endless bliss and joy; The world I then but little knew, Ah! little knew how pleasures cloy;

All then was jocund, all was gay, No thought beyond the present hour, _10 I danced in pleasure's fading ray, Fading alas! as drooping flower.

Nor do the heedless in the throng, One thought beyond the morrow give[,] They court the feast, the dance, the song, _15 Nor think how short their time to live.

The heart that bears deep sorrow's trace, What earthly comfort can console, It drags a dull and lengthened pace, 'Till friendly death its woes enroll.— _20

The sunken cheek, the humid eyes, E'en better than the tongue can tell; In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies, Where memory's rankling traces dwell.—

The rising tear, the stifled sigh, _25 A mind but ill at ease display, Like blackening clouds in stormy sky, Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.

Thus when souls' energy is dead, When sorrow dims each earthly view, _30 When every fairy hope is fled, We bid ungrateful world adieu.

AUGUST, 1810.

7. SONG.

HOPE.

And said I that all hope was fled, That sorrow and despair were mine, That each enthusiast wish was dead, Had sank beneath pale Misery's shrine.—

Seest thou the sunbeam's yellow glow, _5 That robes with liquid streams of light; Yon distant Mountain's craggy brow. And shows the rocks so fair,—so bright—

Tis thus sweet expectation's ray, In softer view shows distant hours, _10 And portrays each succeeding day, As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,—

The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom; Are frozen but to bud anew, Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom, _15 Although thy visions be not true,—

Yet true they are,—and I'll believe, Thy whisperings soft of love and peace, God never made thee to deceive, 'Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. _20

Yet though despair my life should gloom, Though horror should around me close, With those I love, beyond the tomb, Hope shows a balm for all my woes.

AUGUST, 1810.

8. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

Oh! what is the gain of restless care, And what is ambitious treasure? And what are the joys that the modish share, In their sickly haunts of pleasure?

My husband's repast with delight I spread, _5 What though 'tis but rustic fare, May each guardian angel protect his shed, May contentment and quiet be there.

And may I support my husband's years, May I soothe his dying pain, _10 And then may I dry my fast falling tears, And meet him in Heaven again.

JULY, 1810.

9. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear, If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear, The dastard shall perish, death's torment shall prove, For fate and revenge are decreed from above.

Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5 Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth; With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell, To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell—

For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays, To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10 And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms, He shall find his reward in his loved maiden's charms.

In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip, The kisses that glow on his love's dewy lip, And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15 The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.

OCTOBER, 1809.

10. THE IRISHMAN'S SONG.

The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light May sink into ne'er ending chaos and night, Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away, But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.

See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5 Our ancestors' dwellings lie sunk on the ground, Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains, And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.

Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure, Ah! sunk is our sweet country's rapturous measure, _10 But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears, The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.

Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death, Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath, Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15 And 'my countrymen! vengeance!' incessantly cry.

OCTOBER, 1809.

11. SONG.

Fierce roars the midnight storm O'er the wild mountain, Dark clouds the night deform, Swift rolls the fountain—

See! o'er yon rocky height, _5 Dim mists are flying— See by the moon's pale light, Poor Laura's dying!

Shame and remorse shall howl, By her false pillow— _10 Fiercer than storms that roll, O'er the white billow;

No hand her eyes to close, When life is flying, But she will find repose, _15 For Laura's dying!

Then will I seek my love, Then will I cheer her, Then my esteem will prove, When no friend is near her. _20

On her grave I will lie, When life is parted, On her grave I will die, For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

12. SONG.

TO [HARRIET].

Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, _5 Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve, Though the time it is past!—yet the dear recollection, For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing, Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, _10 When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying, And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.—

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year, He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never _15 Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

AUGUST, 1810.

NOTE: _11 hope-winged]hoped-winged 1810.

13. SONG.

TO — [HARRIET].

Stern, stern is the voice of fate's fearful command, When accents of horror it breathes in our ear, Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land, Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

'Tis sterner than death o'er the shuddering wretch bending, _5 And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending, Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending, Which never again to his eyes may appear—

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry, Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, _10 He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory, He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing, When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing! As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, _15 The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!

Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never, Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory's ear, In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever, The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. _20

AUGUST, 1810.

14. SAINT EDMOND'S EVE.

Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass, And did you observe his frown? He goeth to say the midnight mass, In holy St. Edmond's town.

He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, _5 And to lay the wandering sprite, Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt, The Abbey's drear aisle this night.

It saith it will not its wailing cease, 'Till that holy man come near, _10 'Till he pour o'er its grave the prayer of peace, And sprinkle the hallowed tear.

The Canon's horse is stout and strong The road is plain and fair, But the Canon slowly wends along, _15 And his brow is gloomed with care.

Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate? Sullen echoes the portal bell, It sounds like the whispering voice of fate, It sounds like a funeral knell. _20

The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed, And his frame was convulsed with fear, When a voice was heard distinct and loud, 'Prepare! for thy hour is near.'

He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25 To Heaven he lifts his eye, He heeds not the Abbot's gazing stare, Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.

Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints That frown on the sacred walls, _30 His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints, At the Abbot's feet he falls.

And straight the father's robe he kissed, Who cried, 'Grace dwells with thee, The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35 At your benedicite.

'Now haste within! the board is spread, Keen blows the air, and cold, The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed, 'Till St. Edmond's bell hath tolled,— _40

'Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night, You've journeyed many a mile, To-morrow lay the wailing sprite, That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

'Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45 Yet to-night must the sprite be laid, Yet to-night when the hour of horror's told, Must I meet the wandering shade.

'Nor food, nor rest may now delay,— For hark! the echoing pile, _50 A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away, O lead to the haunted aisle.'

The torches slowly move before, The cross is raised on high, A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55 But horror dimmed his eye—

And now they climb the footworn stair, The chapel gates unclose, Now each breathed low a fervent prayer, And fear each bosom froze— _60

Now paused awhile the doubtful band And viewed the solemn scene,— Full dark the clustered columns stand, The moon gleams pale between—

'Say father, say, what cloisters' gloom _65 Conceals the unquiet shade, Within what dark unhallowed tomb, The corse unblessed was laid.'

'Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks, And murmurs a mournful plaint, _70 Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks, And call on thy patron saint—

The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes, As he prayed at St. Edmond's shrine, From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, _75 And under yon arch recline.'—

'Oh! say upon that black marble tomb, What memorial sad appears.'— 'Undistinguished it lies in the chancel's gloom, No memorial sad it bears'— _80

The Canon his paternoster reads, His rosary hung by his side, Now swift to the chancel doors he leads, And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85 To approach to the black marble tomb, 'Oh! enter, Black Canon,' a whisper fell, 'Oh! enter, thy hour is come.'

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed. Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90 A loud yell was borne on the rising blast, And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand, They burst through the chancel's gloom, From St. Edmond's shrine, lo! a skeleton's hand, _95 Points to the black marble tomb.

Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red, In characters fresh and clear— 'The guilty Black Canon of Elmham's dead, And his wife lies buried here!' _100

In Elmham's tower he wedded a Nun, To St. Edmond's his bride he bore, On this eve her noviciate here was begun, And a Monk's gray weeds she wore;—

O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, _105 Remorse she full oft revealed, Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt, And in death her lips he sealed;

Her spirit to penance this night was doomed, 'Till the Canon atoned the deed, _110 Here together they now shall rest entombed, 'Till their bodies from dust are freed—

Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof, Round the altar bright lightnings play, Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, _115 And the storm dies sudden away—

The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground, And a rosary shone through the gloom, But never again was the Canon there found, Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. _120

15. REVENGE.

'Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill, Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill, The thunder's wild voice rattles madly above, You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—'

I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone— _5 I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone, I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors' bones, And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.

'For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night, And we quit not the tomb 'till dawn of the light, _10 And Conrad's been dead just a month and a day! So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—

'He bid me bring with me what most I held dear, Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier, And I'd sooner resign this false fluttering breath, _15 Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,

'And I love you to madness my Agnes I love, My constant affection this night will I prove, This night will I go to the sepulchre's jaw Alone will I glut its all conquering maw'— _20

'No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share, In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there, I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave, My dearest Adolphus I'd perish to save'—

'Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, _25 But spare me those ages of horror and woe, For I swear to thee here that I'll perish ere day, If you go unattended by Agnes away'—

The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around, The lightning's blue fire-light flashed on the ground, _30 Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate, As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—

The youth struck the portal,—the echoing sound Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around, The blue lightning gleamed o'er the dark chapel spire, _35 And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.

Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined, Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind, When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene, And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien. _40

A mantle encircled his shadowy form, As light as a gossamer borne on the storm, Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze, Like the midnight pestiferous meteor's blaze.—

SPIRIT: Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, _45 And Conrad has cause to remember it well, He ruined my Mother, despised me his son, I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.

I was nearly expiring—'twas close of the day,— A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, _50 He gave me the power from whence I was hurled, To return to revenge, to return to the world,—

Now Adolphus I'll seize thy best loved in my arms, I'll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms, On the black whirlwind's thundering pinion I'll ride, _55 And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o'er thy bride—

He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide, Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride, He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high, And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky— _60

All was now silent,—and over the tomb, Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom, Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone, And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.

DECEMBER, 1809.

16. GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!

The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.

Hark! the owlet flaps her wing, In the pathless dell beneath, Hark! night ravens loudly sing, Tidings of despair and death.—

Horror covers all the sky, _5 Clouds of darkness blot the moon, Prepare! for mortal thou must die, Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—

Fierce the tempest raves around, Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, _10 Crashing thunder shakes the ground, Fire and tumult fill the sky.—

Hark! the tolling village bell, Tells the hour of midnight come, Now can blast the powers of Hell, _15 Fiend-like goblins now can roam—

See! his crest all stained with rain, A warrior hastening speeds his way, He starts, looks round him, starts again, And sighs for the approach of day. _20

See! his frantic steed he reins, See! he lifts his hands on high, Implores a respite to his pains, From the powers of the sky.—

He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil, _25 Fatigue had bent his lofty form, To rest his wearied limbs awhile, Fatigued with wandering and the storm.

... ...

Slow the door is opened wide— With trackless tread a stranger came, _30 His form Majestic, slow his stride, He sate, nor spake,—nor told his name—

Terror blanched the warrior's cheek, Cold sweat from his forehead ran, In vain his tongue essayed to speak,— _35 At last the stranger thus began:

'Mortal! thou that saw'st the sprite, Tell me what I wish to know, Or come with me before 'tis light, Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow. _40

'Fierce the avenging Demon's ire, Fiercer than the wintry blast, Fiercer than the lightning's fire, When the hour of twilight's past'—

The warrior raised his sunken eye. _45 It met the stranger's sullen scowl, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,' In burning letters chilled his soul.

WARRIOR: Stranger! whoso'er you are, I feel impelled my tale to tell— _50 Horrors stranger shalt thou hear, Horrors drear as those of Hell.

O'er my Castle silence reigned, Late the night and drear the hour, When on the terrace I observed, _55 A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.—

Light the cloud as summer fog, Which transient shuns the morning beam; Fleeting as the cloud on bog, That hangs or on the mountain stream.— _60

Horror seized my shuddering brain, Horror dimmed my starting eye. In vain I tried to speak,—In vain My limbs essayed the spot to fly—

At last the thin and shadowy form, _65 With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,— Its light robe floated on the storm, Its head was bound with lambent flame.

In chilling voice drear as the breeze Which sweeps along th' autumnal ground, _70 Which wanders through the leafless trees, Or the mandrake's groan which floats around.

'Thou art mine and I am thine, 'Till the sinking of the world, I am thine and thou art mine, _75 'Till in ruin death is hurled—

'Strong the power and dire the fate, Which drags me from the depths of Hell, Breaks the tomb's eternal gate, Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell, _80

'Haply I might ne'er have shrank From flames that rack the guilty dead, Haply I might ne'er have sank On pleasure's flowery, thorny bed—

—'But stay! no more I dare disclose, _85 Of the tale I wish to tell, On Earth relentless were my woes, But fiercer are my pangs in Hell—

'Now I claim thee as my love, Lay aside all chilling fear, _90 My affection will I prove, Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!

'For thou art mine, and I am thine, 'Till the dreaded judgement day, I am thine, and thou art mine— _95 Night is past—I must away.'

Still I gazed, and still the form Pressed upon my aching sight, Still I braved the howling storm, When the ghost dissolved in night.— _100

Restless, sleepless fled the night, Sleepless as a sick man's bed, When he sighs for morning light, When he turns his aching head,—

Slow and painful passed the day. _105 Melancholy seized my brain, Lingering fled the hours away, Lingering to a wretch in pain.—

At last came night, ah! horrid hour, Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead, _110 When demons ride the clouds that lower, —The phantom sat upon my bed.

In hollow voice, low as the sound Which in some charnel makes its moan, What floats along the burying ground, _115 The phantom claimed me as her own.

Her chilling finger on my head, With coldest touch congealed my soul— Cold as the finger of the dead, Or damps which round a tombstone roll— _120

Months are passed in lingering round, Every night the spectre comes, With thrilling step it shakes the ground, With thrilling step it round me roams—

Stranger! I have told to thee, _125 All the tale I have to tell— Stranger! canst thou tell to me, How to 'scape the powers of Hell?—

STRANGER: Warrior! I can ease thy woes, Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me— _130 Warrior! I can all disclose, Follow, follow, follow me.

Yet the tempest's duskiest wing, Its mantle stretches o'er the sky, Yet the midnight ravens sing, _135 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.'

At last they saw a river clear, That crossed the heathy path they trod, The Stranger's look was wild and drear, The firm Earth shook beneath his nod— _140

He raised a wand above his head, He traced a circle on the plain, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead with silent footsteps came.

A burning brilliance on his head, _145 Flaming filled the stormy air, In a wild verse he called the dead, The dead in motley crowd were there.—

'Ghasta! Ghasta! come along, Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee, _150 Quickly raise th' avenging Song, Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.'

Horrid shapes in mantles gray, Flit athwart the stormy night, 'Ghasta! Ghasta! come away, _155 Come away before 'tis light.'

See! the sheeted Ghost they bring, Yelling dreadful o'er the heath, Hark! the deadly verse they sing, Tidings of despair and death! _160

The yelling Ghost before him stands, See! she rolls her eyes around, Now she lifts her bony hands, Now her footsteps shake the ground.

STRANGER: Phantom of Theresa say, _165 Why to earth again you came, Quickly speak, I must away! Or you must bleach for aye in flame,—

PHANTOM: Mighty one I know thee now, Mightiest power of the sky, _170 Know thee by thy flaming brow, Know thee by thy sparkling eye.

That fire is scorching! Oh! I came, From the caverned depth of Hell, My fleeting false Rodolph to claim, _175 Mighty one! I know thee well.—

STRANGER: Ghasta! seize yon wandering sprite, Drag her to the depth beneath, Take her swift, before 'tis light, Take her to the cells of death! _180

Thou that heardst the trackless dead, In the mouldering tomb must lie, Mortal! look upon my head, Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.

Of glowing flame a cross was there, _185 Which threw a light around his form, Whilst his lank and raven hair, Floated wild upon the storm.—

The warrior upwards turned his eyes, Gazed upon the cross of fire, _190 There sat horror and surprise, There sat God's eternal ire.—

A shivering through the Warrior flew, Colder than the nightly blast, Colder than the evening dew, _195 When the hour of twilight's past.—

Thunder shakes th' expansive sky, Shakes the bosom of the heath, 'Mortal! Mortal! thou must die'— The warrior sank convulsed in death. _200

JANUARY, 1810.

NOTES: 114 its]it 1810. 115 What]query Which?

17. FRAGMENT, OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

'Twas dead of the night when I sate in my dwelling, One glimmering lamp was expiring and low,— Around the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling, They bodingly presaged destruction and woe! _5

'Twas then that I started, the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning that danced on the sky, Above me the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs the blast wafted by.—

My heart sank within me, unheeded the jar 10 Of the battling clouds on the mountain-tops broke, Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear, This heart hard as iron was stranger to fear, But conscience in low noiseless whispering spoke. 'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind uprearing, 15 The dark ghost of the murdered Victoria strode, Her right hand a blood reeking dagger was bearing, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.— I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me!

... ...

***

POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

["St. Irvyne; or The Rosicrucian", appeared early in 1811 (see "Bibliographical List"). Rossetti (1870) relying on a passage in Medwin's "Life of Shelley" (1 page 74), assigns 1, 4, 5, and 6 to 1808, and 2 and 4 to 1809. The titles of 1, 3, 4, and 5 are Rossetti's; those of 2 and 6 are Dowden's.]

***

1.—VICTORIA.

[Another version of "The Triumph of Conscience" immediately preceding.]

1. 'Twas dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,— They bodingly presaged destruction and woe. _5

2. 'Twas then that I started!—the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning, which danced in the sky; Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, And low, chilling murmurs, the blast wafted by.

3. My heart sank within me—unheeded the war _10 Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke;— Unheeded the thunder-peal crashed in mine ear— This heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke.

4. 'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, _15 The ghost of the murdered Victoria strode; In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding, She swiftly advanced to my lonesome abode.

5. I wildly then called on the tempest to bear me—'

...

NOTE: 1.—Victoria: without title, 1811.

2.—ON THE DARK HEIGHT OF JURA.

1. Ghosts of the dead! have I not heard your yelling Rise on the night-rolling breath of the blast, When o'er the dark aether the tempest is swelling, And on eddying whirlwind the thunder-peal passed?

2. For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, _5 Which frowns on the valley that opens beneath; Oft have I braved the chill night-tempest's fury, Whilst around me, I thought, echoed murmurs of death.

3. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, O father! thy voice seems to strike on mine ear; _10 In air whilst the tide of the night-storm is rolling, It breaks on the pause of the elements' jar.

4. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead: On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head.

NOTE: 2.—On the Dark, etc.: without title, 1811; The Father's Spectre, Rossetti, 1870.

3.—SISTER ROSA: A BALLAD.

1. The death-bell beats!— The mountain repeats The echoing sound of the knell; And the dark Monk now Wraps the cowl round his brow, _5 As he sits in his lonely cell.

2. And the cold hand of death Chills his shuddering breath, As he lists to the fearful lay Which the ghosts of the sky, 10 As they sweep wildly by, Sing to departed day. And they sing of the hour When the stern fates had power To resolve Rosa's form to its clay. 15

3. But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark Monk's brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gushed silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain. _20

4. Then his fair cross of gold he dashed on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear.— 'Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear.' _25

5. Then his eyes wildly rolled, When the death-bell tolled, And he raged in terrific woe. And he stamped on the ground,— But when ceased the sound, _30 Tears again began to flow.

6. And the ice of despair Chilled the wild throb of care, And he sate in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, _35 And the pale moonbeam slept on the hill.

7. Then he knelt in his cell:— And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agonized pain, And he prayed to God to dissolve the spell, _40 Which else must for ever remain.

8. And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: A voice hollow and horrible murmured around— _45 'The term of thy penance is done!'

9. Grew dark the night; The moonbeam bright Waxed faint on the mountain high; And, from the black hill, _50 Went a voice cold and still,— 'Monk! thou art free to die.'

10. Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with dread; _55 Whilst the grave's clammy dew O'er his pale forehead grew; And he shuddered to sleep with the dead.

11. And the wild midnight storm Raved around his tall form, _60 As he sought the chapel's gloom: And the sunk grass did sigh To the wind, bleak and high, As he searched for the new-made tomb.

12. And forms, dark and high, 65 Seemed around him to fly, And mingle their yells with the blast: And on the dark wall Half-seen shadows did fall, As enhorrored he onward passed. 70

13. And the storm-fiends wild rave O'er the new-made grave, And dread shadows linger around. The Monk called on God his soul to save, And, in horror, sank on the ground. _75

14. Then despair nerved his arm To dispel the charm, And he burst Rosa's coffin asunder. And the fierce storm did swell More terrific and fell, _80 And louder pealed the thunder.

15. And laughed, in joy, the fiendish throng, Mixed with ghosts of the mouldering dead: And their grisly wings, as they floated along, Whistled in murmurs dread. _85

16. And her skeleton form the dead Nun reared Which dripped with the chill dew of hell. In her half-eaten eyeballs two pale flames appeared, And triumphant their gleam on the dark Monk glared, As he stood within the cell. _90

17. And her lank hand lay on his shuddering brain; But each power was nerved by fear.— 'I never, henceforth, may breathe again; Death now ends mine anguished pain.— The grave yawns,—we meet there.' _95

18. And her skeleton lungs did utter the sound, So deadly, so lone, and so fell, That in long vibrations shuddered the ground; And as the stern notes floated around, A deep groan was answered from hell.

NOTE: 3.—Sister Rosa: Ballad, 1811.

4.—ST. IRVYNE'S TOWER.

1. How swiftly through Heaven's wide expanse Bright day's resplendent colours fade! How sweetly does the moonbeam's glance With silver tint St. Irvyne's glade!

2. No cloud along the spangled air, _5 Is borne upon the evening breeze; How solemn is the scene! how fair The moonbeams rest upon the trees!

3. Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, Upon it sits the mournful owl; _10 Along the stillness of the night, Her melancholy shriekings roll.

4. But not alone on Irvyne's tower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; It gleams upon the ivied bower, _15 It dances in the cascade's spray.

5. 'Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour, when man must cease to be? Why may not human minds unveil The dim mists of futurity?— _20

6. 'The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last.'

NOTE: 4.—St. Irvyne's Tower: Song, 1810.

5.—BEREAVEMENT.

1. How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to Perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, _5 When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

2. Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? 10 Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit, that faded away with the breath. Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, 15 When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

NOTE: 5.—Bereavement: Song, 1811.

6.—THE DROWNED LOVER.

1. Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home. I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, _5 As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, 'Stay thy boat on the lake,—dearest Henry, I come.'

2. High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, 10 And arose in her mind every dear recollection; 'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.' How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, 15 Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!

3. Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive? Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? _20 Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.

6.—The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.

***

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET MCHOLSON.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The "Posthumous Fragments", published at Oxford by Shelley, appeared in November, 1810. See "Bibliographical List".]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice. The first I found with no title, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.

WAR.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world. See! on yon heath what countless victims lie, Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky; Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage _5 Has swept these myriads from life's crowded stage: Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies, He shudders in death's latest agonies; Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek, Yet does his parting breath essay to speak— _10 'Oh God! my wife, my children—Monarch thou For whose support this fainting frame lies low; For whose support in distant lands I bleed, Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's meed. He hears me not—ah! no—kings cannot hear, _15 For passion's voice has dulled their listless ear. To thee, then, mighty God, I lift my moan, Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's anguished groan. Oh! now I die—but still is death's fierce pain— God hears my prayer—we meet, we meet again.' _20 He spake, reclined him on death's bloody bed, And with a parting groan his spirit fled. Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow; For you how many a mother weeps her son, _25 Snatched from life's course ere half his race was run! For you how many a widow drops a tear, In silent anguish, on her husband's bier! 'Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,' she cries, 'Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? _30 Is this the system which Thy powerful sway, Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay, Formed and approved?—it cannot be—but oh! Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.' 'Tis not—He never bade the war-note swell, _35 He never triumphed in the work of hell— Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed, Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed. Ah! when will come the sacred fated time, When man unsullied by his leaders' crime, _40 Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride, Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men's side? Ah! when will come the time, when o'er the plain No more shall death and desolation reign? When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, _45 And the stern warrior's arm the sickle wield? Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's dreams, Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes; Not whilst for private pique the public fall, And one frail mortal's mandate governs all. _50 Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway; Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away. Careless who lives or dies—so that he gains Some trivial point for which he took the pains. What then are Kings?—I see the trembling crowd, _55 I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud; Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile, But April's sunshine is a Monarch's smile— Kings are but dust—the last eventful day Will level all and make them lose their sway; _60 Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's hand, And from the warrior's grasp wrest the ensanguined brand. Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone, Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown? And love and concord hast thou swept away, _65 As if incongruous with thy parted sway? Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear. Now o'er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear, With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;— List'ning he pauses on the embattled plain, _70 Then speeding swiftly o'er the ensanguined heath, Has left the frightful work to Hell and Death. See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car, He scents the battle's carnage from afar; Hell and Destruction mark his mad career, _75 He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear; Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell, That thy work, Monarch, is the work of Hell. 'It is thy work!' I hear a voice repeat, Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; _80 And at the orphan's sigh, the widow's moan, Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne— 'It is thy work, O Monarch;' now the sound Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around, Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell _85 That Heaven, indignant at the work of Hell, Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove, Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.

NOTE: War: the title is Woodberry's, 1893; no title, 1810.

***

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

'Tis midnight now—athwart the murky air, Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare, It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.

I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5 I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings; My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind The mazy volume of commingling things, When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.

I heard a yell—it was not the knell, _10 When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, That floats on the pause of the summer gale's swell, O'er the breast of the waveless deep.

I thought it had been death's accents cold That bade me recline on the shore; _15 I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, And thought to breathe no more.

But a heavenly sleep That did suddenly steep In balm my bosom's pain, _20 Pervaded my soul, And free from control, Did mine intellect range again.

Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud, Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; 25 My form upborne by viewless aether rode, And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night. What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears, What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye! Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, 30 More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by, And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.

But fairer than the spirits of the air, More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry, Than the enthusiast's fancied love more fair, 35 Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky. Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away; They welcome virtue to its native land, And songs of triumph greet the joyous day 40 When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.

Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul, E'en though the tide of time has rolled between; They mock weak matter's impotent control, And seek of endless life the eternal scene. 45 At death's vain summons THIS will never die, In Nature's chaos THIS will not decay— These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie Thy soul, O Charlotte, 'yond this chain of clay, To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. 50

Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore A tyrant's heart-strings from his guilty breast, Thine was the daring at a tyrant's gore, To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest; And thine, loved glory of thy sex! to tear _55 From its base shrine a despot's haughty soul, To laugh at sorrow in secure despair, To mock, with smiles, life's lingering control, And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.

Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep 60 With endless tortures goad their guilty shades. I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep Along the burning length of yon arcades; And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain; He hastes along the burning soil of Hell. 65 'Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain, With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.'

...

Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet They echo to the sound of angels' feet. _70

...

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread, For there is prepared thy nuptial bed. Oh haste—hark! hark!—they're gone.

...

CHORUS OF SPIRITS: Stay, ye days of contentment and joy, Whilst love every care is erasing, _75 Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy, And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft passion be near, Which mortals, frail mortals, can know, Let love shed on the bosom a tear, _80 And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS: 'Soft, my dearest angel, stay, Oh! you suck my soul away; Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow! Tides of maddening passion roll, 85 And streams of rapture drown my soul. Now give me one more billing kiss, Let your lips now repeat the bliss, Endless kisses steal my breath, No life can equal such a death.' 90

CHARLOTTE: 'Oh! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fair, And I will clasp thy form; Serene is the breath of the balmy air, But I think, love, thou feelest me warm And I will recline on thy marble neck 95 Till I mingle into thee; And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek, And thou shalt give kisses to me. For here is no morn to flout our delight, Oh! dost thou not joy at this? 100 And here we may lie an endless night, A long, long night of bliss.'

Spirits! when raptures move, Say what it is to love, When passion's tear stands on the cheek, 105 When bursts the unconscious sigh; And the tremulous lips dare not speak What is told by the soul-felt eye. But what is sweeter to revenge's ear Than the fell tyrant's last expiring yell? 110 Yes! than love's sweetest blisses 'tis more dear To drink the floatings of a despot's knell. I wake—'tis done—'tis over.

NOTE: _66 ye]thou 1810.

***

DESPAIR.

And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night? Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm Mid pearly gems of dew that shine so bright? And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still _5 Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high? Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill, And, in the eternal mansions of the sky, Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyr's wing, 10 Louder it floats along the unruffled sky; Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string— Now faint in distant air the murmurs die. Awhile it stills the tide of agony. Now—now it loftier swells—again stern woe 15 Arises with the awakening melody. Again fierce torments, such as demons know, In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm, Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, 20 Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form, And roll the tempest's wildest swell along. Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash, Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder's roar; Arouse the whirlwind—and let ocean dash 25 In fiercest tumult on the rocking shore,— Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more.

Yes! every tie that links me here is dead; Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey, Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, 30 I come, terrific power, I come away. Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of Hell, In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain; And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell, I'll echo back their deadly yells again, 35 Cursing the power that ne'er made aught in vain.

***

FRAGMENT.

Yes! all is past—swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind. Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, _5 And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of Hell; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, 10 I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge, And on the blast a frightful yell arose. Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; 15 Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air, 'Twas like a spirit's song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac—like he was to me, I said—'Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? 20 And canst thou not contend with agony, That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?' 'Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form, And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, 25 Will sweep at midnight o'er the wildered wave; Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?'

'Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear, This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more— But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, _30 Can shriek in horror to the tempest's roar.'

***

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

What was the shriek that struck Fancy's ear As it sate on the ruins of time that is past? Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind, And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh. It is the Benshie's moan on the storm, 5 Or a shivering fiend that thirsting for sin, Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps, Winged with the power of some ruthless king, And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate plain. It was not a fiend from the regions of Hell 10 That poured its low moan on the stillness of night: It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore; But aye at the close of seven years' end, That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, 15 And aye at the close of seven years' end, A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath. It is not the shade of a murdered man, Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his God, 20 And howls in the pause of the eddying storm. This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill, 'Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul. 'Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon's scream, Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o'er the corpse 25 Of a man who has sold his soul to Hell. It tells the approach of a mystic form, A white courser bears the shadowy sprite; More thin they are than the mists of the mountain, When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. 30 More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona, When winter rides on the northern blast, And howls in the midst of the leafless wood. Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving, And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, 35 Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky, The phantom courser scours the waste, And his rider howls in the thunder's roar. O'er him the fierce bolts of avenging Heaven Pause, as in fear, to strike his head. 40 The meteors of midnight recoil from his figure, Yet the 'wildered peasant, that oft passes by, With wonder beholds the blue flash through his form: And his voice, though faint as the sighs of the dead, The startled passenger shudders to hear, 45 More distinct than the thunder's wildest roar. Then does the dragon, who, chained in the caverns To eternity, curses the champion of Erin, Moan and yell loud at the lone hour of midnight, And twine his vast wreaths round the forms of the daemons; 50 Then in agony roll his death-swimming eyeballs, Though 'wildered by death, yet never to die! Then he shakes from his skeleton folds the nightmares, Who, shrieking in agony, seek the couch Of some fevered wretch who courts sleep in vain; 55 Then the tombless ghosts of the guilty dead In horror pause on the fitful gale. They float on the swell of the eddying tempest, And scared seek the caves of gigantic... Where their thin forms pour unearthly sounds 60 On the blast that sweets the breast of the lake, And mingles its swell with the moonlight air.

***

MELODY TO A SCENE OF FORMER TIMES.

Art thou indeed forever gone, Forever, ever, lost to me? Must this poor bosom beat alone, Or beat at all, if not for thee? Ah! why was love to mortals given, _5 To lift them to the height of Heaven, Or dash them to the depths of Hell? Yet I do not reproach thee, dear! Ah, no! the agonies that swell This panting breast, this frenzied brain, _10 Might wake my —'s slumb'ring tear. Oh! Heaven is witness I did love, And Heaven does know I love thee still, Does know the fruitless sick'ning thrill, When reason's judgement vainly strove _15 To blot thee from my memory; But which might never, never be. Oh! I appeal to that blest day When passion's wildest ecstasy Was coldness to the joys I knew, _20 When every sorrow sunk away. Oh! I had never lived before, But now those blisses are no more. And now I cease to live again, I do not blame thee, love; ah, no! _25 The breast that feels this anguished woe. Throbs for thy happiness alone. Two years of speechless bliss are gone, I thank thee, dearest, for the dream. 'Tis night—what faint and distant scream _30 Comes on the wild and fitful blast? It moans for pleasures that are past, It moans for days that are gone by. Oh! lagging hours, how slow you fly! I see a dark and lengthened vale, _35 The black view closes with the tomb; But darker is the lowering gloom That shades the intervening dale. In visioned slumber for awhile I seem again to share thy smile, _40 I seem to hang upon thy tone. Again you say, 'Confide in me, For I am thine, and thine alone, And thine must ever, ever be.' But oh! awak'ning still anew, _45 Athwart my enanguished senses flew A fiercer, deadlier agony!

[End of "Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson".]

***

STANZA FROM A TRANSLATION OF THE MARSEILLAISE HYMN.

[Published by Forman, "Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1876; dated 1810.]

Tremble, Kings despised of man! Ye traitors to your Country, Tremble! Your parricidal plan At length shall meet its destiny... We all are soldiers fit to fight, _5 But if we sink in glory's night Our mother Earth will give ye new The brilliant pathway to pursue Which leads to Death or Victory...

***

BIGOTRY'S VICTIM.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, "Life of Shelley", 1858; dated 1809-10. The title is Rossetti's (1870).]

1. Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind, The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair? When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind Repose trust in his footsteps of air? No! Abandoned he sinks in a trance of despair, _5 The monster transfixes his prey, On the sand flows his life-blood away; Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply, Protracting the horrible harmony.

2. Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, 10 Dares fearless to perish defending her brood, Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches Thirsting—ay, thirsting for blood; And demands, like mankind, his brother for food; Yet more lenient, more gentle than they; 15 For hunger, not glory, the prey Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead. Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer's head.

3. Though weak as the lama that bounds on the mountains, And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air, 20 Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains, Though a fiercer than tiger is there. Though, more dreadful than death, it scatters despair, Though its shadow eclipses the day, And the darkness of deepest dismay 25 Spreads the influence of soul-chilling terror around, And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground.

4. They came to the fountain to draw from its stream Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see; They bathed for awhile in its silvery beam, 30 Then perished, and perished like me. For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee; The most tenderly loved of my soul Are slaves to his hated control. He pursues me, he blasts me! 'Tis in vain that I fly: 35 - What remains, but to curse him,—to curse him and die?

***

ON AN ICICLE THAT CLUNG TO THE GRASS OF A GRAVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, "Life of Shelley", 1858; dated 1809-10. The poem, with title as above, is included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Oh! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes, Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair, In which the warm current of love never freezes, As it rises unmingled with selfishness there, Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, _5 Might dissolve the dim icedrop, might bid it arise, Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies.

2. Or where the stern warrior, his country defending, Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour, Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending, _10 Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore Plants Liberty's flag on the slave-peopled shore, With victory's cry, with the shout of the free, Let it fly, taintless Spirit, to mingle with thee.

3. For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning, 15 Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain, When to others the wished-for arrival of morning Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain; But regret is an insult—to grieve is in vain: And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair 20 Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there?

4. But still 'twas some Spirit of kindness descending To share in the load of mortality's woe, Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending Bade sympathy's tenderest teardrop to flow. _25 Not for THEE soft compassion celestials did know, But if ANGELS can weep, sure MAN may repine, May weep in mute grief o'er thy low-laid shrine.

5. And did I then say, for the altar of glory, That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers I'd entwine, 30 Though with millions of blood-reeking victims 'twas gory, Though the tears of the widow polluted its shrine, Though around it the orphans, the fatherless pine? Oh! Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for a tear To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. 35

***

LOVE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, "Life of Shelley", 1858; dated 1811. The title is Rossetti's (1870).]

Why is it said thou canst not live In a youthful breast and fair, Since thou eternal life canst give, Canst bloom for ever there? Since withering pain no power possessed, 5 Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue, Nor time's dread victor, death, confessed, Though bathed with his poison dew, Still thou retain'st unchanging bloom, Fixed tranquil, even in the tomb. 10 And oh! when on the blest, reviving, The day-star dawns of love, Each energy of soul surviving More vivid, soars above, Hast thou ne'er felt a rapturous thrill, 15 Like June's warm breath, athwart thee fly, O'er each idea then to steal, When other passions die? Felt it in some wild noonday dream, When sitting by the lonely stream, 20 Where Silence says, 'Mine is the dell'; And not a murmur from the plain, And not an echo from the fell, Disputes her silent reign.

***

ON A FETE AT CARLTON HOUSE: FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; dated 1811.]

By the mossy brink, With me the Prince shall sit and think; Shall muse in visioned Regency, Rapt in bright dreams of dawning Royalty.

***

TO A STAR.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, "Life of Shelley", 1858; dated 1811. The title is Rossetti's (1870).]

Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance fliest, Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil, Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake, Lighting the hour of sacred love; more sweet _5 Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires:— Sweet star! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep, And all is hushed,—all, save the voice of Love, Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast Of soft Favonius, which at intervals _10 Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but Lulling the slaves of interest to repose With that mild, pitying gaze? Oh, I would look In thy dear beam till every bond of sense Became enamoured— _15

***

TO MARY WHO DIED IN THIS OPINION.

[Published by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; dated 1810-11.]

1. Maiden, quench the glare of sorrow Struggling in thine haggard eye: Firmness dare to borrow From the wreck of destiny; For the ray morn's bloom revealing _5 Can never boast so bright an hue As that which mocks concealing, And sheds its loveliest light on you.

2. Yet is the tie departed Which bound thy lovely soul to bliss? 10 Has it left thee broken-hearted In a world so cold as this? Yet, though, fainting fair one, Sorrow's self thy cup has given, Dream thou'lt meet thy dear one, Never more to part, in Heaven. 15

3. Existence would I barter For a dream so dear as thine, And smile to die a martyr On affection's bloodless shrine. _20 Nor would I change for pleasure That withered hand and ashy cheek, If my heart enshrined a treasure Such as forces thine to break.

***

A TALE OF SOCIETY AS IT IS: FROM FACTS, 1811.

[Published (from Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870. Rossetti's title is "Mother and Son".]

1. She was an aged woman; and the years Which she had numbered on her toilsome way Had bowed her natural powers to decay. She was an aged woman; yet the ray Which faintly glimmered through her starting tears, 5 Pressed into light by silent misery, Hath soul's imperishable energy. She was a cripple, and incapable To add one mite to gold-fed luxury: And therefore did her spirit dimly feel 10 That poverty, the crime of tainting stain, Would merge her in its depths, never to rise again.

2. One only son's love had supported her. She long had struggled with infirmity, Lingering to human life-scenes; for to die, 15 When fate has spared to rend some mental tie, Would many wish, and surely fewer dare. But, when the tyrant's bloodhounds forced the child For his cursed power unhallowed arms to wield— Bend to another's will—become a thing 20 More senseless than the sword of battlefield— Then did she feel keen sorrow's keenest sting; And many years had passed ere comfort they would bring.

3. For seven years did this poor woman live In unparticipated solitude. _25 Thou mightst have seen her in the forest rude Picking the scattered remnants of its wood. If human, thou mightst then have learned to grieve. The gleanings of precarious charity Her scantiness of food did scarce supply. _30 The proofs of an unspeaking sorrow dwelt Within her ghastly hollowness of eye: Each arrow of the season's change she felt. Yet still she groans, ere yet her race were run, One only hope: it was—once more to see her son. _35

4. It was an eve of June, when every star Spoke peace from Heaven to those on earth that live. She rested on the moor. 'Twas such an eve When first her soul began indeed to grieve: Then he was here; now he is very far. 40 The sweetness of the balmy evening A sorrow o'er her aged soul did fling, Yet not devoid of rapture's mingled tear: A balm was in the poison of the sting. This aged sufferer for many a year 45 Had never felt such comfort. She suppressed A sigh—and turning round, clasped William to her breast!

5. And, though his form was wasted by the woe Which tyrants on their victims love to wreak, Though his sunk eyeballs and his faded cheek 50 Of slavery's violence and scorn did speak, Yet did the aged woman's bosom glow. The vital fire seemed re-illumed within By this sweet unexpected welcoming. Oh, consummation of the fondest hope 55 That ever soared on Fancy's wildest wing! Oh, tenderness that foundst so sweet a scope! Prince who dost pride thee on thy mighty sway, When THOU canst feel such love, thou shalt be great as they!

6. Her son, compelled, the country's foes had fought, _60 Had bled in battle; and the stern control Which ruled his sinews and coerced his soul Utterly poisoned life's unmingled bowl, And unsubduable evils on him brought. He was the shadow of the lusty child _65 Who, when the time of summer season smiled, Did earn for her a meal of honesty, And with affectionate discourse beguiled The keen attacks of pain and poverty; Till Power, as envying her this only joy, _70 From her maternal bosom tore the unhappy boy.

7. And now cold charity's unwelcome dole Was insufficient to support the pair; And they would perish rather than would bear The law's stern slavery, and the insolent stare _75 With which law loves to rend the poor man's soul— The bitter scorn, the spirit-sinking noise Of heartless mirth which women, men, and boys Wake in this scene of legal misery.

...

NOTES: 28 grieve Esdaile manuscript; feel, 1870. 37 to those on earth that live Esdaile manuscripts; omitted, 1870.

***

TO THE REPUBLICANS OF NORTH AMERICA.

[Published (from the Esdaile manuscript with title as above) by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; dated 1812. Rossetti's title is "The Mexican Revolution".]

1. Brothers! between you and me Whirlwinds sweep and billows roar: Yet in spirit oft I see On thy wild and winding shore Freedom's bloodless banners wave,— 5 Feel the pulses of the brave Unextinguished in the grave,— See them drenched in sacred gore,— Catch the warrior's gasping breath Murmuring 'Liberty or death!' 10

2. Shout aloud! Let every slave, Crouching at Corruption's throne, Start into a man, and brave Racks and chains without a groan: And the castle's heartless glow, 15 And the hovel's vice and woe, Fade like gaudy flowers that blow— Weeds that peep, and then are gone Whilst, from misery's ashes risen, Love shall burst the captive's prison. 20

3. Cotopaxi! bid the sound Through thy sister mountains ring, Till each valley smile around At the blissful welcoming! And, O thou stern Ocean deep, 25 Thou whose foamy billows sweep Shores where thousands wake to weep Whilst they curse a villain king, On the winds that fan thy breast Bear thou news of Freedom's rest! 30

4. Can the daystar dawn of love, Where the flag of war unfurled Floats with crimson stain above The fabric of a ruined world? Never but to vengeance driven 35 When the patriot's spirit shriven Seeks in death its native Heaven! There, to desolation hurled, Widowed love may watch thy bier, Balm thee with its dying tear. 40

***

TO IRELAND.

[Published, 1-10, by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; 11-17, 25-28, by Dowden, "Life of Shelley", 1887; 18-24 by Kingsland, "Poet-Lore", July, 1892. Dated 1812.]

1. Bear witness, Erin! when thine injured isle Sees summer on its verdant pastures smile, Its cornfields waving in the winds that sweep The billowy surface of thy circling deep! Thou tree whose shadow o'er the Atlantic gave 5 Peace, wealth and beauty, to its friendly wave, its blossoms fade, And blighted are the leaves that cast its shade; Whilst the cold hand gathers its scanty fruit, Whose chillness struck a canker to its root. 10

2. I could stand Upon thy shores, O Erin, and could count The billows that, in their unceasing swell, Dash on thy beach, and every wave might seem An instrument in Time the giant's grasp, _15 To burst the barriers of Eternity. Proceed, thou giant, conquering and to conquer; March on thy lonely way! The nations fall Beneath thy noiseless footstep; pyramids That for millenniums have defied the blast, _20 And laughed at lightnings, thou dost crush to nought. Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp, Is but the fungus of a winter day That thy light footstep presses into dust. Thou art a conqueror, Time; all things give way _25 Before thee but the 'fixed and virtuous will'; The sacred sympathy of soul which was When thou wert not, which shall be when thou perishest.

...

***

ON ROBERT EMMET'S GRAVE.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, "Life of Shelley", 1887; dated 1812.]

...

6. No trump tells thy virtues—the grave where they rest With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by fame, Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune caressed, Shall pass like a mist from the light of thy name.

7. When the storm-cloud that lowers o'er the day-beam is gone, _5 Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine; When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan, She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.

***

THE RETROSPECT: CWM ELAN, 1812.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, "Life of Shelley", 1887.]

A scene, which 'wildered fancy viewed In the soul's coldest solitude, With that same scene when peaceful love Flings rapture's colour o'er the grove, When mountain, meadow, wood and stream 5 With unalloying glory gleam, And to the spirit's ear and eye Are unison and harmony. The moonlight was my dearer day; Then would I wander far away, 10 And, lingering on the wild brook's shore To hear its unremitting roar, Would lose in the ideal flow All sense of overwhelming woe; Or at the noiseless noon of night 15 Would climb some heathy mountain's height, And listen to the mystic sound That stole in fitful gasps around. I joyed to see the streaks of day Above the purple peaks decay, 20 And watch the latest line of light Just mingling with the shades of night; For day with me was time of woe When even tears refused to flow; Then would I stretch my languid frame 25 Beneath the wild woods' gloomiest shade, And try to quench the ceaseless flame That on my withered vitals preyed; Would close mine eyes and dream I were On some remote and friendless plain, 30 And long to leave existence there, If with it I might leave the pain That with a finger cold and lean Wrote madness on my withering mien.

It was not unrequited love 35 That bade my 'wildered spirit rove; 'Twas not the pride disdaining life, That with this mortal world at strife Would yield to the soul's inward sense, Then groan in human impotence, 40 And weep because it is not given To taste on Earth the peace of Heaven. 'Twas not that in the narrow sphere Where Nature fixed my wayward fate There was no friend or kindred dear 45 Formed to become that spirit's mate, Which, searching on tired pinion, found Barren and cold repulse around; Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gave New graces to the narrow grave. 50 For broken vows had early quelled The stainless spirit's vestal flame; Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled, Then the envenomed arrow came, And Apathy's unaltering eye 55 Beamed coldness on the misery; And early I had learned to scorn The chains of clay that bound a soul Panting to seize the wings of morn, And where its vital fires were born 60 To soar, and spur the cold control Which the vile slaves of earthly night Would twine around its struggling flight.

Oh, many were the friends whom fame Had linked with the unmeaning name, _65 Whose magic marked among mankind The casket of my unknown mind, Which hidden from the vulgar glare Imbibed no fleeting radiance there. My darksome spirit sought—it found _70 A friendless solitude around. For who that might undaunted stand, The saviour of a sinking land, Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant's slave, And fatten upon Freedom's grave, _75 Though doomed with her to perish, where The captive clasps abhorred despair.

They could not share the bosom's feeling, Which, passion's every throb revealing, Dared force on the world's notice cold 80 Thoughts of unprofitable mould, Who bask in Custom's fickle ray, Fit sunshine of such wintry day! They could not in a twilight walk Weave an impassioned web of talk, 85 Till mysteries the spirits press In wild yet tender awfulness, Then feel within our narrow sphere How little yet how great we are! But they might shine in courtly glare, 90 Attract the rabble's cheapest stare, And might command where'er they move A thing that bears the name of love; They might be learned, witty, gay, Foremost in fashion's gilt array, 95 On Fame's emblazoned pages shine, Be princes' friends, but never mine!

Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime, Mocking the blunted scythe of Time, Whence I would watch its lustre pale 100 Steal from the moon o'er yonder vale Thou rock, whose bosom black and vast, Bared to the stream's unceasing flow, Ever its giant shade doth cast On the tumultuous surge below: 105

Woods, to whose depths retires to die The wounded Echo's melody, And whither this lone spirit bent The footstep of a wild intent:

Meadows! whose green and spangled breast _110 These fevered limbs have often pressed, Until the watchful fiend Despair Slept in the soothing coolness there! Have not your varied beauties seen The sunken eye, the withering mien, _115 Sad traces of the unuttered pain That froze my heart and burned my brain. How changed since Nature's summer form Had last the power my grief to charm, Since last ye soothed my spirit's sadness, _120 Strange chaos of a mingled madness! Changed!—not the loathsome worm that fed In the dark mansions of the dead, Now soaring through the fields of air, And gathering purest nectar there, _125 A butterfly, whose million hues The dazzled eye of wonder views, Long lingering on a work so strange, Has undergone so bright a change. How do I feel my happiness? _130 I cannot tell, but they may guess Whose every gloomy feeling gone, Friendship and passion feel alone; Who see mortality's dull clouds Before affection's murmur fly, _135 Whilst the mild glances of her eye Pierce the thin veil of flesh that shrouds The spirit's inmost sanctuary. O thou! whose virtues latest known, First in this heart yet claim'st a throne; _140 Whose downy sceptre still shall share The gentle sway with virtue there; Thou fair in form, and pure in mind, Whose ardent friendship rivets fast The flowery band our fates that bind, _145 Which incorruptible shall last When duty's hard and cold control Has thawed around the burning soul,— The gloomiest retrospects that bind With crowns of thorn the bleeding mind, _150 The prospects of most doubtful hue That rise on Fancy's shuddering view,— Are gilt by the reviving ray Which thou hast flung upon my day.

***

FRAGMENT OF A SONNET.

TO HARRIET.

[Published from the Esdaile manuscript book by Dowden, "Life of Shelley", 1887; dated August 1, 1812.]