But, like a steward in honest dealings tried, _40 With those who toiled and wept, the poor and wise, His riches and his cares he did divide.

Fearless he was, and scorning all disguise, What he dared do or think, though men might start, He spoke with mild yet unaverted eyes; _45

Liberal he was of soul, and frank of heart, And to his many friends—all loved him well— Whate'er he knew or felt he would impart,

If words he found those inmost thoughts to tell; If not, he smiled or wept; and his weak foes _50 He neither spurned nor hated—though with fell

And mortal hate their thousand voices rose, They passed like aimless arrows from his ear— Nor did his heart or mind its portal close

To those, or them, or any, whom life's sphere _55 May comprehend within its wide array. What sadness made that vernal spirit sere?—

He knew not. Though his life, day after day, Was failing like an unreplenished stream, Though in his eyes a cloud and burthen lay, _60

Through which his soul, like Vesper's serene beam Piercing the chasms of ever rising clouds, Shone, softly burning; though his lips did seem

Like reeds which quiver in impetuous floods; And through his sleep, and o'er each waking hour, _65 Thoughts after thoughts, unresting multitudes,

Were driven within him by some secret power, Which bade them blaze, and live, and roll afar, Like lights and sounds, from haunted tower to tower

O'er castled mountains borne, when tempest's war _70 Is levied by the night-contending winds, And the pale dalesmen watch with eager ear;—

Though such were in his spirit, as the fiends Which wake and feed an everliving woe,— What was this grief, which ne'er in other minds _75

A mirror found,—he knew not—none could know; But on whoe'er might question him he turned The light of his frank eyes, as if to show

He knew not of the grief within that burned, But asked forbearance with a mournful look; _80 Or spoke in words from which none ever learned

The cause of his disquietude; or shook With spasms of silent passion; or turned pale: So that his friends soon rarely undertook

To stir his secret pain without avail;— _85 For all who knew and loved him then perceived That there was drawn an adamantine veil

Between his heart and mind,—both unrelieved Wrought in his brain and bosom separate strife. Some said that he was mad, others believed _90

That memories of an antenatal life Made this, where now he dwelt, a penal hell; And others said that such mysterious grief

From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell On souls like his, which owned no higher law _95 Than love; love calm, steadfast, invincible

By mortal fear or supernatural awe; And others,—''Tis the shadow of a dream Which the veiled eye of Memory never saw,

'But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream _100 Through shattered mines and caverns underground, Rolls, shaking its foundations; and no beam

'Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned In the dim whirlpools of this dream obscure; Soon its exhausted waters will have found _105

'A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, O Athanase!—in one so good and great, Evil or tumult cannot long endure.

So spake they: idly of another's state Babbling vain words and fond philosophy; _110 This was their consolation; such debate

Men held with one another; nor did he, Like one who labours with a human woe, Decline this talk: as if its theme might be

Another, not himself, he to and fro _115 Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit; And none but those who loved him best could know

That which he knew not, how it galled and bit His weary mind, this converse vain and cold; For like an eyeless nightmare grief did sit _120

Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold Pressed out the life of life, a clinging fiend Which clenched him if he stirred with deadlier hold;— And so his grief remained—let it remain—untold. [1]

PART 2.

FRAGMENT 1.

Prince Athanase had one beloved friend, _125 An old, old man, with hair of silver white, And lips where heavenly smiles would hang and blend

With his wise words; and eyes whose arrowy light Shone like the reflex of a thousand minds. He was the last whom superstition's blight _130

Had spared in Greece—the blight that cramps and blinds,— And in his olive bower at Oenoe Had sate from earliest youth. Like one who finds

A fertile island in the barren sea, One mariner who has survived his mates _135 Many a drear month in a great ship—so he

With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates Of ancient lore, there fed his lonely being:— 'The mind becomes that which it contemplates,'—

And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing _140 Their bright creations, grew like wisest men; And when he heard the crash of nations fleeing

A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, O sacred Hellas! many weary years He wandered, till the path of Laian's glen _145

Was grass-grown—and the unremembered tears Were dry in Laian for their honoured chief, Who fell in Byzant, pierced by Moslem spears:—

And as the lady looked with faithful grief From her high lattice o'er the rugged path, _150 Where she once saw that horseman toil, with brief

And blighting hope, who with the news of death Struck body and soul as with a mortal blight, She saw between the chestnuts, far beneath,

An old man toiling up, a weary wight; _155 And soon within her hospitable hall She saw his white hairs glittering in the light

Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall; And his wan visage and his withered mien, Yet calm and gentle and majestical. _160

And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed In patient silence.

FRAGMENT 2.

Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds One amaranth glittering on the path of frost, _165 When autumn nights have nipped all weaker kinds,

Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tossed, Shone truth upon Zonoras; and he filled From fountains pure, nigh overgrown and lost,

The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, _170 With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild.

And sweet and subtle talk they evermore, The pupil and the master, shared; until, Sharing that undiminishable store, _175

The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran His teacher, and did teach with native skill

Strange truths and new to that experienced man; Still they were friends, as few have ever been _180 Who mark the extremes of life's discordant span.

So in the caverns of the forest green, Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar, Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen

By summer woodmen; and when winter's roar _185 Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war, The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,

Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, Then saw their lamp from Laian's turret gleam, Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star _190

Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, Whilst all the constellations of the sky Seemed reeling through the storm...They did but seem—

For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by, And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing, _195 And far o'er southern waves, immovably

Belted Orion hangs—warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm.— 'O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing

'On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm _200 Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm

'Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness, Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale,— And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness,— _205

'And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind we feel not here.— I bear alone what nothing may avail

'To lighten—a strange load!'—No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan _210 Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere

Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran, Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake, Glassy and dark.—And that divine old man

Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, _215 Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest— And with a calm and measured voice he spake,

And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed That cold lean hand:—'Dost thou remember yet When the curved moon then lingering in the west _220

'Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea? 'Tis just one year—sure thou dost not forget—

'Then Plato's words of light in thee and me Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east, _225 For we had just then read—thy memory

'Is faithful now—the story of the feast; And Agathon and Diotima seemed From death and dark forgetfulness released...'

FRAGMENT 3.

And when the old man saw that on the green Leaves of his opening ... a blight had lighted _230 He said: 'My friend, one grief alone can wean

A gentle mind from all that once delighted:— Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden With feelings which should not be unrequited.' _235

And Athanase ... then smiled, as one o'erladen With iron chains might smile to talk (?) of bands Twined round her lover's neck by some blithe maiden, And said...

FRAGMENT 4.

'Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings _240 From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,

Stands up before its mother bright and mild, Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems— So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled _245

To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove Waxed green—and flowers burst forth like starry beams;—

The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:— _250 How many a one, though none be near to love,

Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror—or the spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green;—

How many a spirit then puts on the pinions _255 Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast, And his own steps—and over wide dominions

Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, More fleet than storms—the wide world shrinks below, When winter and despondency are past. _260

FRAGMENT 5.

'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Passed the white Alps—those eagle-baffling mountains Slept in their shrouds of snow;—beside the ways

The waterfalls were voiceless—for their fountains Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now, _265 Or by the curdling winds—like brazen wings

Which clanged along the mountain's marble brow— Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung And filled with frozen light the chasms below.

Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung 270 Under their load of [snow]— ... ... Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld] 275 [Prince] Athanase; and o'er his mien (?) was thrown

The shadow of that scene, field after field, Purple and dim and wide...

FRAGMENT 6.

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, _280 Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew;— Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls

Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue _285 Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair The shadow of thy moving wings imbue

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some light robe;—thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air _290

In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest

That which from thee they should implore:—the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts _295 The strong have broken—yet where shall any seek

A garment whom thou clothest not? the darts Of the keen winter storm, barbed with frost, Which, from the everlasting snow that parts

The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost _300 In the wide waved interminable snow Ungarmented,...

ANOTHER FRAGMENT (A)

Yes, often when the eyes are cold and dry, And the lips calm, the Spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the blood of agony _305

Trembling in drops on the discoloured skin Of those who love their kind and therefore perish In ghastly torture—a sweet medicine

Of peace and sleep are tears, and quietly Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall _310 But...

ANOTHER FRAGMENT (B)

Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were brown, And in their dark and liquid moisture swam, Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon;

Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came _315 The light from them, as when tears of delight Double the western planet's serene flame.

NOTES: 19 strange edition 1839; deep edition 1824. 74 feed an Bodleian manuscript; feed on editions 1824, 1839.

_124 [1. The Author was pursuing a fuller development of the ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him that in an attempt at extreme refinement and analysis, his conceptions might be betrayed into the assuming a morbid character. The reader will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by this diffidence. [Shelley's Note.] Footnote diffidence cj. Rossetti (1878); difference editions 1824, 1839.]

154 beneath editions 1824, 1839; between Bodleian manuscript. 165 One Bodleian manuscript edition 1839; An edition 1824. 167 Thus thro' Bodleian manuscript (?) edition 1839; Thus had edition 1824. 173 talk they edition 1824, Bodleian manuscript; talk now edition 1839. 175 that edition 1839; the edition 1824. 182 So edition 1839; And edition 1824. 183 Or on Bodleian manuscript; Or by editions 1824, 1839. 199 eve Bodleian manuscript edition 1839; night edition 1824. 212 emotion, a swift editions 1824, 1839; emotion with swift Bodleian manuscript. 250 under edition 1824, Bodleian manuscript; beneath edition 1839. 256 outstrips editions 1824, 1839; outrides Bodleian manuscript. 259 Exulting, while the wide Bodleian manuscript. 262 mountains editions 1824, 1839; crags Bodleian manuscript. 264 fountains editions 1824, 1839; springs Bodleian manuscript. 269 chasms Bodleian manuscript; chasm editions 1824, 1839. 283 thine Bodleian manuscript; thy editions 1824, 1839. 285 Investeth Bodleian manuscript; Investest editions 1824, 1839. 289 light Bodleian manuscript; bright editions 1824, 1839.

***

ROSALIND AND HELEN.

A MODERN ECLOGUE.

[Begun at Marlow, 1817 (summer); already in the press, March, 1818; finished at the Baths of Lucca, August, 1818; published with other poems, as the title-piece of a slender volume, by C. & J. Ollier, London, 1819 (spring). See "Biographical List". Sources of the text are (1) editio princeps, 1819; (2) "Poetical Works", edition Mrs. Shelley, 1839, editions 1st and 2nd. A fragment of the text is amongst the Boscombe manuscripts. The poem is reprinted here from the editio princeps; verbal alterations are recorded in the footnotes, punctual in the Editor's Notes at the end of Volume 3.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

The story of "Rosalind and Helen" is, undoubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awakens a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulses of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story; and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure, which only pretends to be regular inasmuch as it corresponds with, and expresses, the irregularity of the imaginations which inspired it.

I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One ("Lines written among the Euganean Hills".—Editor.), which I sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse, that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend, with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain, that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness.

Naples, December 20, 1818.

ROSALIND, HELEN, AND HER CHILD.

SCENE. THE SHORE OF THE LAKE OF COMO.

HELEN: Come hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'Tis long since thou and I have met; And yet methinks it were unkind Those moments to forget. Come, sit by me. I see thee stand _5 By this lone lake, in this far land, Thy loose hair in the light wind flying, Thy sweet voice to each tone of even United, and thine eyes replying To the hues of yon fair heaven. _10 Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me? And be as thou wert wont to be Ere we were disunited? None doth behold us now; the power That led us forth at this lone hour _15 Will be but ill requited If thou depart in scorn: oh! come, And talk of our abandoned home. Remember, this is Italy, And we are exiles. Talk with me _20 Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Barren and dark although they be, Were dearer than these chestnut woods: Those heathy paths, that inland stream, And the blue mountains, shapes which seem _25 Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream: Which that we have abandoned now, Weighs on the heart like that remorse Which altered friendship leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse. _30 That cannot be! Rosalind, speak. Speak to me. Leave me not.—When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted,—do not frown: I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken: _35 But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token, Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me, And not my scorned self who prayed to thee.

ROSALIND: Is it a dream, or do I see _40 And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years Arise, and bring forbidden tears; And my o'erburthened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. _45 I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee: mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief: Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness _50 Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse To link me with the infamy Of one so lost as Helen. Now _55 Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush, and weep that thou Should'st love me still,—thou only!—There, Let us sit on that gray stone Till our mournful talk be done. _60

HELEN: Alas! not there; I cannot bear The murmur of this lake to hear. A sound from there, Rosalind dear, Which never yet I heard elsewhere But in our native land, recurs, 65 Even here where now we meet. It stirs Too much of suffocating sorrow! In the dell of yon dark chestnutwood Is a stone seat, a solitude Less like our own. The ghost of Peace 70 Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, If thy kind feelings should not cease, We may sit here.

ROSALIND: Thou lead, my sweet, And I will follow.

HENRY: 'Tis Fenici's seat Where you are going? This is not the way, _75 Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow Close to the little river.

HELEN: Yes: I know; I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay, Dear boy: why do you sob?

HENRY: I do not know: But it might break any one's heart to see _80 You and the lady cry so bitterly.

HELEN: It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, Henry, and play with Lilla till I come. We only cried with joy to see each other; We are quite merry now: Good-night.

The boy 85 Lifted a sudden look upon his mother, And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy Which lightened o'er her face, laughed with the glee Of light and unsuspecting infancy, And whispered in her ear, 'Bring home with you 90 That sweet strange lady-friend.' Then off he flew, But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile, Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while, Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.

In silence then they took the way _95 Beneath the forest's solitude. It was a vast and antique wood, Thro' which they took their way; And the gray shades of evening O'er that green wilderness did fling _100 Still deeper solitude. Pursuing still the path that wound The vast and knotted trees around Through which slow shades were wandering, To a deep lawny dell they came, _105 To a stone seat beside a spring, O'er which the columned wood did frame A roofless temple, like the fane Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, Man's early race once knelt beneath _110 The overhanging deity. O'er this fair fountain hung the sky, Now spangled with rare stars. The snake, The pale snake, that with eager breath Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake, _115 Is beaming with many a mingled hue, Shed from yon dome's eternal blue, When he floats on that dark and lucid flood In the light of his own loveliness; And the birds that in the fountain dip _120 Their plumes, with fearless fellowship Above and round him wheel and hover. The fitful wind is heard to stir One solitary leaf on high; The chirping of the grasshopper _125 Fills every pause. There is emotion In all that dwells at noontide here; Then, through the intricate wild wood, A maze of life and light and motion Is woven. But there is stillness now: _130 Gloom, and the trance of Nature now: The snake is in his cave asleep; The birds are on the branches dreaming: Only the shadows creep: Only the glow-worm is gleaming: _135 Only the owls and the nightingales Wake in this dell when daylight fails, And gray shades gather in the woods: And the owls have all fled far away In a merrier glen to hoot and play, _140 For the moon is veiled and sleeping now. The accustomed nightingale still broods On her accustomed bough, But she is mute; for her false mate Has fled and left her desolate. _145

This silent spot tradition old Had peopled with the spectral dead. For the roots of the speaker's hair felt cold And stiff, as with tremulous lips he told That a hellish shape at midnight led 150 The ghost of a youth with hoary hair, And sate on the seat beside him there, Till a naked child came wandering by, When the fiend would change to a lady fair! A fearful tale! The truth was worse: 155 For here a sister and a brother Had solemnized a monstrous curse, Meeting in this fair solitude: For beneath yon very sky, Had they resigned to one another 160 Body and soul. The multitude: Tracking them to the secret wood, Tore limb from limb their innocent child, And stabbed and trampled on its mother; But the youth, for God's most holy grace, 165 A priest saved to burn in the market-place.

Duly at evening Helen came To this lone silent spot, From the wrecks of a tale of wilder sorrow So much of sympathy to borrow 170 As soothed her own dark lot. Duly each evening from her home, With her fair child would Helen come To sit upon that antique seat, While the hues of day were pale; 175 And the bright boy beside her feet Now lay, lifting at intervals His broad blue eyes on her; Now, where some sudden impulse calls Following. He was a gentle boy 180 And in all gentle sorts took joy; Oft in a dry leaf for a boat, With a small feather for a sail, His fancy on that spring would float, If some invisible breeze might stir 185 Its marble calm: and Helen smiled Through tears of awe on the gay child, To think that a boy as fair as he, In years which never more may be, By that same fount, in that same wood, 190 The like sweet fancies had pursued; And that a mother, lost like her, Had mournfully sate watching him. Then all the scene was wont to swim Through the mist of a burning tear. 195

For many months had Helen known This scene; and now she thither turned Her footsteps, not alone. The friend whose falsehood she had mourned, Sate with her on that seat of stone. 200 Silent they sate; for evening, And the power its glimpses bring Had, with one awful shadow, quelled The passion of their grief. They sate With linked hands, for unrepelled 205 Had Helen taken Rosalind's. Like the autumn wind, when it unbinds The tangled locks of the nightshade's hair, Which is twined in the sultry summer air Round the walls of an outworn sepulchre, 210 Did the voice of Helen, sad and sweet, And the sound of her heart that ever beat, As with sighs and words she breathed on her, Unbind the knots of her friend's despair, Till her thoughts were free to float and flow; 215 And from her labouring bosom now, Like the bursting of a prisoned flame, The voice of a long pent sorrow came.

ROSALIND: I saw the dark earth fall upon The coffin; and I saw the stone 220 Laid over him whom this cold breast Had pillowed to his nightly rest! Thou knowest not, thou canst not know My agony. Oh! I could not weep: The sources whence such blessings flow 225 Were not to be approached by me! But I could smile, and I could sleep, Though with a self-accusing heart. In morning's light, in evening's gloom, I watched,—and would not thence depart— 230 My husband's unlamented tomb. My children knew their sire was gone, But when I told them,—'He is dead,'— They laughed aloud in frantic glee, They clapped their hands and leaped about, 235 Answering each other's ecstasy With many a prank and merry shout. But I sate silent and alone, Wrapped in the mock of mourning weed.

They laughed, for he was dead: but I 240 Sate with a hard and tearless eye, And with a heart which would deny The secret joy it could not quell, Low muttering o'er his loathed name; Till from that self-contention came 245 Remorse where sin was none; a hell Which in pure spirits should not dwell.

I'll tell thee truth. He was a man Hard, selfish, loving only gold, Yet full of guile; his pale eyes ran 250 With tears, which each some falsehood told, And oft his smooth and bridled tongue Would give the lie to his flushing cheek; He was a coward to the strong: He was a tyrant to the weak, 255 On whom his vengeance he would wreak: For scorn, whose arrows search the heart, From many a stranger's eye would dart, And on his memory cling, and follow His soul to its home so cold and hollow. 260 He was a tyrant to the weak, And we were such, alas the day! Oft, when my little ones at play, Were in youth's natural lightness gay, Or if they listened to some tale 265 Of travellers, or of fairy land,— When the light from the wood-fire's dying brand Flashed on their faces,—if they heard Or thought they heard upon the stair His footstep, the suspended word 270 Died on my lips: we all grew pale: The babe at my bosom was hushed with fear If it thought it heard its father near; And my two wild boys would near my knee Cling, cowed and cowering fearfully. 275

I'll tell thee truth: I loved another. His name in my ear was ever ringing, His form to my brain was ever clinging: Yet if some stranger breathed that name, My lips turned white, and my heart beat fast: 280 My nights were once haunted by dreams of flame, My days were dim in the shadow cast By the memory of the same! Day and night, day and night, He was my breath and life and light, 285 For three short years, which soon were passed. On the fourth, my gentle mother Led me to the shrine, to be His sworn bride eternally. And now we stood on the altar stair, 290 When my father came from a distant land, And with a loud and fearful cry Rushed between us suddenly. I saw the stream of his thin gray hair, I saw his lean and lifted hand, 295 And heard his words,—and live! Oh God! Wherefore do I live?—'Hold, hold!' He cried, 'I tell thee 'tis her brother! Thy mother, boy, beneath the sod Of yon churchyard rests in her shroud so cold: 300 I am now weak, and pale, and old: We were once dear to one another, I and that corpse! Thou art our child!' Then with a laugh both long and wild The youth upon the pavement fell: 305 They found him dead! All looked on me, The spasms of my despair to see: But I was calm. I went away: I was clammy-cold like clay! I did not weep: I did not speak: 310 But day by day, week after week, I walked about like a corpse alive! Alas! sweet friend, you must believe This heart is stone: it did not break. My father lived a little while, 315 But all might see that he was dying, He smiled with such a woeful smile! When he was in the churchyard lying Among the worms, we grew quite poor, So that no one would give us bread: 320 My mother looked at me, and said Faint words of cheer, which only meant That she could die and be content; So I went forth from the same church door To another husband's bed. 325 And this was he who died at last, When weeks and months and years had passed, Through which I firmly did fulfil My duties, a devoted wife, With the stern step of vanquished will, 330 Walking beneath the night of life, Whose hours extinguished, like slow rain Falling for ever, pain by pain, The very hope of death's dear rest; Which, since the heart within my breast 335 Of natural life was dispossessed, Its strange sustainer there had been.

When flowers were dead, and grass was green Upon my mother's grave,—that mother Whom to outlive, and cheer, and make _340 My wan eyes glitter for her sake, Was my vowed task, the single care Which once gave life to my despair,— When she was a thing that did not stir And the crawling worms were cradling her _345 To a sleep more deep and so more sweet Than a baby's rocked on its nurse's knee, I lived: a living pulse then beat Beneath my heart that awakened me. What was this pulse so warm and free? _350 Alas! I knew it could not be My own dull blood: 'twas like a thought Of liquid love, that spread and wrought Under my bosom and in my brain, And crept with the blood through every vein; _355 And hour by hour, day after day, The wonder could not charm away, But laid in sleep, my wakeful pain, Until I knew it was a child, And then I wept. For long, long years _360 These frozen eyes had shed no tears: But now—'twas the season fair and mild When April has wept itself to May: I sate through the sweet sunny day By my window bowered round with leaves, _365 And down my cheeks the quick tears fell Like twinkling rain-drops from the eaves, When warm spring showers are passing o'er. O Helen, none can ever tell The joy it was to weep once more! _370

I wept to think how hard it were To kill my babe, and take from it The sense of light, and the warm air, And my own fond and tender care, And love and smiles; ere I knew yet 375 That these for it might, as for me, Be the masks of a grinning mockery. And haply, I would dream, 'twere sweet To feed it from my faded breast, Or mark my own heart's restless beat 380 Rock it to its untroubled rest, And watch the growing soul beneath Dawn in faint smiles; and hear its breath, Half interrupted by calm sighs, And search the depth of its fair eyes 385 For long departed memories! And so I lived till that sweet load Was lightened. Darkly forward flowed The stream of years, and on it bore Two shapes of gladness to my sight; 390 Two other babes, delightful more In my lost soul's abandoned night, Than their own country ships may be Sailing towards wrecked mariners, Who cling to the rock of a wintry sea. 395 For each, as it came, brought soothing tears; And a loosening warmth, as each one lay Sucking the sullen milk away About my frozen heart, did play, And weaned it, oh how painfully— 400 As they themselves were weaned each one From that sweet food,—even from the thirst Of death, and nothingness, and rest, Strange inmate of a living breast! Which all that I had undergone 405 Of grief and shame, since she, who first The gates of that dark refuge closed, Came to my sight, and almost burst The seal of that Lethean spring; But these fair shadows interposed: 410 For all delights are shadows now! And from my brain to my dull brow The heavy tears gather and flow: I cannot speak: Oh, let me weep!

The tears which fell from her wan eyes _415 Glimmered among the moonlight dew: Her deep hard sobs and heavy sighs Their echoes in the darkness threw. When she grew calm, she thus did keep The tenor of her tale: He died: _420 I know not how: he was not old, If age be numbered by its years: But he was bowed and bent with fears, Pale with the quenchless thirst of gold, Which, like fierce fever, left him weak; _425 And his strait lip and bloated cheek Were warped in spasms by hollow sneers; And selfish cares with barren plough, Not age, had lined his narrow brow, And foul and cruel thoughts, which feed _430 Upon the withering life within, Like vipers on some poisonous weed. Whether his ill were death or sin None knew, until he died indeed, And then men owned they were the same. _435

Seven days within my chamber lay That corse, and my babes made holiday: At last, I told them what is death: The eldest, with a kind of shame, Came to my knees with silent breath, 440 And sate awe-stricken at my feet; And soon the others left their play, And sate there too. It is unmeet To shed on the brief flower of youth The withering knowledge of the grave; 445 From me remorse then wrung that truth. I could not bear the joy which gave Too just a response to mine own. In vain. I dared not feign a groan, And in their artless looks I saw, 450 Between the mists of fear and awe, That my own thought was theirs, and they Expressed it not in words, but said, Each in its heart, how every day Will pass in happy work and play, 455 Now he is dead and gone away.

After the funeral all our kin Assembled, and the will was read. My friend, I tell thee, even the dead Have strength, their putrid shrouds within, _460 To blast and torture. Those who live Still fear the living, but a corse Is merciless, and power doth give To such pale tyrants half the spoil He rends from those who groan and toil, _465 Because they blush not with remorse Among their crawling worms. Behold, I have no child! my tale grows old With grief, and staggers: let it reach The limits of my feeble speech, _470 And languidly at length recline On the brink of its own grave and mine.

Thou knowest what a thing is Poverty Among the fallen on evil days: 'Tis Crime, and Fear, and Infamy, _475 And houseless Want in frozen ways Wandering ungarmented, and Pain, And, worse than all, that inward stain Foul Self-contempt, which drowns in sneers Youth's starlight smile, and makes its tears _480 First like hot gall, then dry for ever! And well thou knowest a mother never Could doom her children to this ill, And well he knew the same. The will Imported, that if e'er again _485 I sought my children to behold, Or in my birthplace did remain Beyond three days, whose hours were told, They should inherit nought: and he, To whom next came their patrimony, _490 A sallow lawyer, cruel and cold, Aye watched me, as the will was read, With eyes askance, which sought to see The secrets of my agony; And with close lips and anxious brow _495 Stood canvassing still to and fro The chance of my resolve, and all The dead man's caution just did call; For in that killing lie 'twas said— 'She is adulterous, and doth hold _500 In secret that the Christian creed Is false, and therefore is much need That I should have a care to save My children from eternal fire.' Friend, he was sheltered by the grave, _505 And therefore dared to be a liar! In truth, the Indian on the pyre Of her dead husband, half consumed, As well might there be false, as I To those abhorred embraces doomed, _510 Far worse than fire's brief agony As to the Christian creed, if true Or false, I never questioned it: I took it as the vulgar do: Nor my vexed soul had leisure yet _515 To doubt the things men say, or deem That they are other than they seem.

All present who those crimes did hear, In feigned or actual scorn and fear, Men, women, children, slunk away, 520 Whispering with self-contented pride, Which half suspects its own base lie. I spoke to none, nor did abide, But silently I went my way, Nor noticed I where joyously 525 Sate my two younger babes at play, In the court-yard through which I passed; But went with footsteps firm and fast Till I came to the brink of the ocean green, And there, a woman with gray hairs, 530 Who had my mother's servant been, Kneeling, with many tears and prayers, Made me accept a purse of gold, Half of the earnings she had kept To refuge her when weak and old. 535

With woe, which never sleeps or slept, I wander now. 'Tis a vain thought— But on yon alp, whose snowy head 'Mid the azure air is islanded, (We see it o'er the flood of cloud, 540 Which sunrise from its eastern caves Drives, wrinkling into golden waves, Hung with its precipices proud, From that gray stone where first we met) There now—who knows the dead feel nought?— 545 Should be my grave; for he who yet Is my soul's soul, once said: ''Twere sweet 'Mid stars and lightnings to abide, And winds and lulling snows, that beat With their soft flakes the mountain wide, 550 Where weary meteor lamps repose, And languid storms their pinions close: And all things strong and bright and pure, And ever during, aye endure: Who knows, if one were buried there, 555 But these things might our spirits make, Amid the all-surrounding air, Their own eternity partake?' Then 'twas a wild and playful saying At which I laughed, or seemed to laugh: 560 They were his words: now heed my praying, And let them be my epitaph. Thy memory for a term may be My monument. Wilt remember me? I know thou wilt, and canst forgive 565 Whilst in this erring world to live My soul disdained not, that I thought Its lying forms were worthy aught And much less thee.

HELEN: O speak not so, But come to me and pour thy woe _570 Into this heart, full though it be, Ay, overflowing with its own: I thought that grief had severed me From all beside who weep and groan; Its likeness upon earth to be, _575 Its express image; but thou art More wretched. Sweet! we will not part Henceforth, if death be not division; If so, the dead feel no contrition. But wilt thou hear since last we parted _580 All that has left me broken hearted?

ROSALIND: Yes, speak. The faintest stars are scarcely shorn Of their thin beams by that delusive morn Which sinks again in darkness, like the light Of early love, soon lost in total night. _585

HELEN: Alas! Italian winds are mild, But my bosom is cold—wintry cold— When the warm air weaves, among the fresh leaves, Soft music, my poor brain is wild, And I am weak like a nursling child, _590 Though my soul with grief is gray and old.

ROSALIND: Weep not at thine own words, though they must make Me weep. What is thy tale?

HELEN: I fear 'twill shake Thy gentle heart with tears. Thou well Rememberest when we met no more, _595 And, though I dwelt with Lionel, That friendless caution pierced me sore With grief; a wound my spirit bore Indignantly, but when he died, With him lay dead both hope and pride. _600 Alas! all hope is buried now. But then men dreamed the aged earth Was labouring in that mighty birth, Which many a poet and a sage Has aye foreseen—the happy age _605 When truth and love shall dwell below Among the works and ways of men; Which on this world not power but will Even now is wanting to fulfil.

Among mankind what thence befell _610 Of strife, how vain, is known too well; When Liberty's dear paean fell 'Mid murderous howls. To Lionel, Though of great wealth and lineage high, Yet through those dungeon walls there came _615 Thy thrilling light, O Liberty! And as the meteor's midnight flame Startles the dreamer, sun-like truth Flashed on his visionary youth, And filled him, not with love, but faith, _620 And hope, and courage mute in death; For love and life in him were twins, Born at one birth: in every other First life then love its course begins, Though they be children of one mother; _625 And so through this dark world they fleet Divided, till in death they meet; But he loved all things ever. Then He passed amid the strife of men, And stood at the throne of armed power _630 Pleading for a world of woe: Secure as one on a rock-built tower O'er the wrecks which the surge trails to and fro, 'Mid the passions wild of human kind He stood, like a spirit calming them; _635 For, it was said, his words could bind Like music the lulled crowd, and stem That torrent of unquiet dream Which mortals truth and reason deem, But is revenge and fear and pride. _640 Joyous he was; and hope and peace On all who heard him did abide, Raining like dew from his sweet talk, As where the evening star may walk Along the brink of the gloomy seas, _645 Liquid mists of splendour quiver. His very gestures touched to tears The unpersuaded tyrant, never So moved before: his presence stung The torturers with their victim's pain, _650 And none knew how; and through their ears The subtle witchcraft of his tongue Unlocked the hearts of those who keep Gold, the world's bond of slavery. Men wondered, and some sneered to see _655 One sow what he could never reap: For he is rich, they said, and young, And might drink from the depths of luxury. If he seeks Fame, Fame never crowned The champion of a trampled creed: _660 If he seeks Power, Power is enthroned 'Mid ancient rights and wrongs, to feed Which hungry wolves with praise and spoil, Those who would sit near Power must toil; And such, there sitting, all may see. _665 What seeks he? All that others seek He casts away, like a vile weed Which the sea casts unreturningly. That poor and hungry men should break The laws which wreak them toil and scorn, _670 We understand; but Lionel We know, is rich and nobly born. So wondered they: yet all men loved Young Lionel, though few approved; All but the priests, whose hatred fell _675 Like the unseen blight of a smiling day, The withering honey dew, which clings Under the bright green buds of May, Whilst they unfold their emerald wings: For he made verses wild and queer _680 On the strange creeds priests hold so dear, Because they bring them land and gold. Of devils and saints and all such gear, He made tales which whoso heard or read Would laugh till he were almost dead. _685 So this grew a proverb: 'Don't get old Till Lionel's "Banquet in Hell" you hear, And then you will laugh yourself young again.' So the priests hated him, and he Repaid their hate with cheerful glee. _690

Ah, smiles and joyance quickly died, For public hope grew pale and dim In an altered time and tide, And in its wasting withered him, As a summer flower that blows too soon 695 Droops in the smile of the waning moon, When it scatters through an April night The frozen dews of wrinkling blight. None now hoped more. Gray Power was seated Safely on her ancestral throne; 700 And Faith, the Python, undefeated, Even to its blood-stained steps dragged on Her foul and wounded train, and men Were trampled and deceived again, And words and shows again could bind 705 The wailing tribes of human kind In scorn and famine. Fire and blood Raged round the raging multitude, To fields remote by tyrants sent To be the scorned instrument 710 With which they drag from mines of gore The chains their slaves yet ever wore: And in the streets men met each other, And by old altars and in halls, And smiled again at festivals. 715 But each man found in his heart's brother Cold cheer; for all, though half deceived, The outworn creeds again believed, And the same round anew began, Which the weary world yet ever ran. 720

Many then wept, not tears, but gall Within their hearts, like drops which fall Wasting the fountain-stone away. And in that dark and evil day Did all desires and thoughts, that claim 725 Men's care—ambition, friendship, fame, Love, hope, though hope was now despair— Indue the colours of this change, As from the all-surrounding air The earth takes hues obscure and strange, 730 When storm and earthquake linger there.

And so, my friend, it then befell To many, most to Lionel, Whose hope was like the life of youth Within him, and when dead, became _735 A spirit of unresting flame, Which goaded him in his distress Over the world's vast wilderness. Three years he left his native land, And on the fourth, when he returned, _740 None knew him: he was stricken deep With some disease of mind, and turned Into aught unlike Lionel. On him, on whom, did he pause in sleep, Serenest smiles were wont to keep, _745 And, did he wake, a winged band Of bright persuasions, which had fed On his sweet lips and liquid eyes, Kept their swift pinions half outspread To do on men his least command; _750 On him, whom once 'twas paradise Even to behold, now misery lay: In his own heart 'twas merciless, To all things else none may express Its innocence and tenderness. _755

'Twas said that he had refuge sought In love from his unquiet thought In distant lands, and been deceived By some strange show; for there were found, Blotted with tears as those relieved _760 By their own words are wont to do, These mournful verses on the ground, By all who read them blotted too.

'How am I changed! my hopes were once like fire: I loved, and I believed that life was love. 765 How am I lost! on wings of swift desire Among Heaven's winds my spirit once did move. I slept, and silver dreams did aye inspire My liquid sleep: I woke, and did approve All nature to my heart, and thought to make 770 A paradise of earth for one sweet sake.

'I love, but I believe in love no more. I feel desire, but hope not. O, from sleep Most vainly must my weary brain implore Its long lost flattery now: I wake to weep, _775 And sit through the long day gnawing the core Of my bitter heart, and, like a miser, keep, Since none in what I feel take pain or pleasure, To my own soul its self-consuming treasure.'

He dwelt beside me near the sea; _780 And oft in evening did we meet, When the waves, beneath the starlight, flee O'er the yellow sands with silver feet, And talked: our talk was sad and sweet, Till slowly from his mien there passed _785 The desolation which it spoke; And smiles,—as when the lightning's blast Has parched some heaven-delighting oak, The next spring shows leaves pale and rare, But like flowers delicate and fair, _790 On its rent boughs,—again arrayed His countenance in tender light: His words grew subtile fire, which made The air his hearers breathed delight: His motions, like the winds, were free, _795 Which bend the bright grass gracefully, Then fade away in circlets faint: And winged Hope, on which upborne His soul seemed hovering in his eyes, Like some bright spirit newly born _800 Floating amid the sunny skies, Sprang forth from his rent heart anew. Yet o'er his talk, and looks, and mien, Tempering their loveliness too keen, Past woe its shadow backward threw, _805 Till like an exhalation, spread From flowers half drunk with evening dew, They did become infectious: sweet And subtle mists of sense and thought: Which wrapped us soon, when we might meet, _810 Almost from our own looks and aught The wild world holds. And so, his mind Was healed, while mine grew sick with fear: For ever now his health declined, Like some frail bark which cannot bear _815 The impulse of an altered wind, Though prosperous: and my heart grew full 'Mid its new joy of a new care: For his cheek became, not pale, but fair, As rose-o'ershadowed lilies are; _820 And soon his deep and sunny hair, In this alone less beautiful, Like grass in tombs grew wild and rare. The blood in his translucent veins Beat, not like animal life, but love _825 Seemed now its sullen springs to move, When life had failed, and all its pains: And sudden sleep would seize him oft Like death, so calm, but that a tear, His pointed eyelashes between, _830 Would gather in the light serene Of smiles, whose lustre bright and soft Beneath lay undulating there. His breath was like inconstant flame, As eagerly it went and came; _835 And I hung o'er him in his sleep, Till, like an image in the lake Which rains disturb, my tears would break The shadow of that slumber deep: Then he would bid me not to weep, _840 And say, with flattery false, yet sweet, That death and he could never meet, If I would never part with him. And so we loved, and did unite All that in us was yet divided: _845 For when he said, that many a rite, By men to bind but once provided, Could not be shared by him and me, Or they would kill him in their glee, I shuddered, and then laughing said— _850 'We will have rites our faith to bind, But our church shall be the starry night, Our altar the grassy earth outspread, And our priest the muttering wind.'

'Twas sunset as I spoke: one star 855 Had scarce burst forth, when from afar The ministers of misrule sent, Seized upon Lionel, and bore His chained limbs to a dreary tower, In the midst of a city vast and wide. 860 For he, they said, from his mind had bent Against their gods keen blasphemy, For which, though his soul must roasted be In hell's red lakes immortally, Yet even on earth must he abide 865 The vengeance of their slaves: a trial, I think, men call it. What avail Are prayers and tears, which chase denial From the fierce savage, nursed in hate? What the knit soul that pleading and pale 870 Makes wan the quivering cheek, which late It painted with its own delight? We were divided. As I could, I stilled the tingling of my blood, And followed him in their despite, 875 As a widow follows, pale and wild, The murderers and corse of her only child; And when we came to the prison door And I prayed to share his dungeon floor With prayers which rarely have been spurned, 880 And when men drove me forth and I Stared with blank frenzy on the sky, A farewell look of love he turned, Half calming me; then gazed awhile, As if thro' that black and massy pile, 885 And thro' the crowd around him there, And thro' the dense and murky air, And the thronged streets, he did espy What poets know and prophesy; And said, with voice that made them shiver 890 And clung like music in my brain, And which the mute walls spoke again Prolonging it with deepened strain: 'Fear not the tyrants shall rule for ever, Or the priests of the bloody faith; 895 They stand on the brink of that mighty river, Whose waves they have tainted with death: It is fed from the depths of a thousand dells, Around them it foams, and rages, and swells, And their swords and their sceptres I floating see, 900 Like wrecks in the surge of eternity.'

I dwelt beside the prison gate; And the strange crowd that out and in Passed, some, no doubt, with mine own fate, Might have fretted me with its ceaseless din, _905 But the fever of care was louder within. Soon, but too late, in penitence Or fear, his foes released him thence: I saw his thin and languid form, As leaning on the jailor's arm, _910 Whose hardened eyes grew moist the while, To meet his mute and faded smile, And hear his words of kind farewell, He tottered forth from his damp cell. Many had never wept before, _915 From whom fast tears then gushed and fell: Many will relent no more, Who sobbed like infants then; aye, all Who thronged the prison's stony hall, The rulers or the slaves of law, _920 Felt with a new surprise and awe That they were human, till strong shame Made them again become the same. The prison blood-hounds, huge and grim, From human looks the infection caught, _925 And fondly crouched and fawned on him; And men have heard the prisoners say, Who in their rotting dungeons lay, That from that hour, throughout one day, The fierce despair and hate which kept _930 Their trampled bosoms almost slept: Where, like twin vultures, they hung feeding On each heart's wound, wide torn and bleeding,— Because their jailors' rule, they thought, Grew merciful, like a parent's sway. _935

I know not how, but we were free: And Lionel sate alone with me, As the carriage drove thro' the streets apace; And we looked upon each other's face; And the blood in our fingers intertwined _940 Ran like the thoughts of a single mind, As the swift emotions went and came Thro' the veins of each united frame. So thro' the long long streets we passed Of the million-peopled City vast; _945 Which is that desert, where each one Seeks his mate yet is alone, Beloved and sought and mourned of none; Until the clear blue sky was seen, And the grassy meadows bright and green, _950 And then I sunk in his embrace, Enclosing there a mighty space Of love: and so we travelled on By woods, and fields of yellow flowers, And towns, and villages, and towers, _955 Day after day of happy hours. It was the azure time of June, When the skies are deep in the stainless noon, And the warm and fitful breezes shake The fresh green leaves of the hedgerow briar, _960 And there were odours then to make The very breath we did respire A liquid element, whereon Our spirits, like delighted things That walk the air on subtle wings, _965 Floated and mingled far away, 'Mid the warm winds of the sunny day. And when the evening star came forth Above the curve of the new bent moon, And light and sound ebbed from the earth, _970 Like the tide of the full and the weary sea To the depths of its own tranquillity, Our natures to its own repose Did the earth's breathless sleep attune: Like flowers, which on each other close _975 Their languid leaves when daylight's gone, We lay, till new emotions came, Which seemed to make each mortal frame One soul of interwoven flame, A life in life, a second birth _980 In worlds diviner far than earth, Which, like two strains of harmony That mingle in the silent sky Then slowly disunite, passed by And left the tenderness of tears, _985 A soft oblivion of all fears, A sweet sleep: so we travelled on Till we came to the home of Lionel, Among the mountains wild and lone, Beside the hoary western sea, _990 Which near the verge of the echoing shore The massy forest shadowed o'er.

The ancient steward, with hair all hoar, As we alighted, wept to see His master changed so fearfully; _995 And the old man's sobs did waken me From my dream of unremaining gladness; The truth flashed o'er me like quick madness When I looked, and saw that there was death On Lionel: yet day by day _1000 He lived, till fear grew hope and faith, And in my soul I dared to say, Nothing so bright can pass away: Death is dark, and foul, and dull, But he is—O how beautiful! _1005 Yet day by day he grew more weak, And his sweet voice, when he might speak, Which ne'er was loud, became more low; And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow _1010 From sunset o'er the Alpine snow: And death seemed not like death in him, For the spirit of life o'er every limb Lingered, a mist of sense and thought. When the summer wind faint odours brought _1015 From mountain flowers, even as it passed His cheek would change, as the noonday sea Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully. If but a cloud the sky o'ercast, You might see his colour come and go, _1020 And the softest strain of music made Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade Amid the dew of his tender eyes; And the breath, with intermitting flow, Made his pale lips quiver and part. _1025 You might hear the beatings of his heart, Quick, but not strong; and with my tresses When oft he playfully would bind In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses His neck, and win me so to mingle _1030 In the sweet depth of woven caresses, And our faint limbs were intertwined, Alas! the unquiet life did tingle From mine own heart through every vein, Like a captive in dreams of liberty, _1035 Who beats the walls of his stony cell. But his, it seemed already free, Like the shadow of fire surrounding me! On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell That spirit as it passed, till soon, _1040 As a frail cloud wandering o'er the moon, Beneath its light invisible, Is seen when it folds its gray wings again To alight on midnight's dusky plain, I lived and saw, and the gathering soul _1045 Passed from beneath that strong control, And I fell on a life which was sick with fear Of all the woe that now I bear.

Amid a bloomless myrtle wood, On a green and sea-girt promontory, _1050 Not far from where we dwelt, there stood In record of a sweet sad story, An altar and a temple bright Circled by steps, and o'er the gate Was sculptured, 'To Fidelity;' _1055 And in the shrine an image sate, All veiled: but there was seen the light Of smiles which faintly could express A mingled pain and tenderness Through that ethereal drapery. _1060 The left hand held the head, the right— Beyond the veil, beneath the skin, You might see the nerves quivering within— Was forcing the point of a barbed dart Into its side-convulsing heart. _1065 An unskilled hand, yet one informed With genius, had the marble warmed With that pathetic life. This tale It told: A dog had from the sea, When the tide was raging fearfully, _1070 Dragged Lionel's mother, weak and pale, Then died beside her on the sand, And she that temple thence had planned; But it was Lionel's own hand Had wrought the image. Each new moon _1075 That lady did, in this lone fane, The rites of a religion sweet, Whose god was in her heart and brain: The seasons' loveliest flowers were strewn On the marble floor beneath her feet, _1080 And she brought crowns of sea-buds white Whose odour is so sweet and faint, And weeds, like branching chrysolite, Woven in devices fine and quaint. And tears from her brown eyes did stain _1085 The altar: need but look upon That dying statue fair and wan, If tears should cease, to weep again: And rare Arabian odours came, Through the myrtle copses steaming thence _1090 From the hissing frankincense, Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam, Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome— That ivory dome, whose azure night With golden stars, like heaven, was bright— _1095 O'er the split cedar's pointed flame; And the lady's harp would kindle there The melody of an old air, Softer than sleep; the villagers Mixed their religion up with hers, _1100 And, as they listened round, shed tears.

One eve he led me to this fane: Daylight on its last purple cloud Was lingering gray, and soon her strain The nightingale began; now loud, _1105 Climbing in circles the windless sky, Now dying music; suddenly 'Tis scattered in a thousand notes, And now to the hushed ear it floats Like field smells known in infancy, _1110 Then failing, soothes the air again. We sate within that temple lone, Pavilioned round with Parian stone: His mother's harp stood near, and oft I had awakened music soft _1115 Amid its wires: the nightingale Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale: 'Now drain the cup,' said Lionel, 'Which the poet-bird has crowned so well With the wine of her bright and liquid song! _1120 Heardst thou not sweet words among That heaven-resounding minstrelsy? Heard'st thou not that those who die Awake in a world of ecstasy? That love, when limbs are interwoven, _1125 And sleep, when the night of life is cloven, And thought, to the world's dim boundaries clinging, And music, when one beloved is singing, Is death? Let us drain right joyously The cup which the sweet bird fills for me.' _1130 He paused, and to my lips he bent His own: like spirit his words went Through all my limbs with the speed of fire; And his keen eyes, glittering through mine, Filled me with the flame divine, _1135 Which in their orbs was burning far, Like the light of an unmeasured star, In the sky of midnight dark and deep: Yes, 'twas his soul that did inspire Sounds, which my skill could ne'er awaken; _1140 And first, I felt my fingers sweep The harp, and a long quivering cry Burst from my lips in symphony: The dusk and solid air was shaken, As swift and swifter the notes came _1145 From my touch, that wandered like quick flame, And from my bosom, labouring With some unutterable thing: The awful sound of my own voice made My faint lips tremble; in some mood _1150 Of wordless thought Lionel stood So pale, that even beside his cheek The snowy column from its shade Caught whiteness: yet his countenance, Raised upward, burned with radiance _1155 Of spirit-piercing joy, whose light, Like the moon struggling through the night Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break With beams that might not be confined. I paused, but soon his gestures kindled _1160 New power, as by the moving wind The waves are lifted, and my song To low soft notes now changed and dwindled, And from the twinkling wires among, My languid fingers drew and flung _1165 Circles of life-dissolving sound, Yet faint; in aery rings they bound My Lionel, who, as every strain Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien Sunk with the sound relaxedly; _1170 And slowly now he turned to me, As slowly faded from his face That awful joy: with looks serene He was soon drawn to my embrace, And my wild song then died away _1175 In murmurs: words I dare not say We mixed, and on his lips mine fed Till they methought felt still and cold: 'What is it with thee, love?' I said: No word, no look, no motion! yes, _1180 There was a change, but spare to guess, Nor let that moment's hope be told. I looked, and knew that he was dead, And fell, as the eagle on the plain Falls when life deserts her brain, _1185 And the mortal lightning is veiled again.

O that I were now dead! but such (Did they not, love, demand too much, Those dying murmurs?) he forbade. O that I once again were mad! 1190 And yet, dear Rosalind, not so, For I would live to share thy woe. Sweet boy! did I forget thee too? Alas, we know not what we do When we speak words. No memory more 1195 Is in my mind of that sea shore. Madness came on me, and a troop Of misty shapes did seem to sit Beside me, on a vessel's poop, And the clear north wind was driving it. 1200 Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers, And the stars methought grew unlike ours, And the azure sky and the stormless sea Made me believe that I had died, And waked in a world, which was to me 1205 Drear hell, though heaven to all beside: Then a dead sleep fell on my mind, Whilst animal life many long years Had rescued from a chasm of tears; And when I woke, I wept to find 1210 That the same lady, bright and wise, With silver locks and quick brown eyes, The mother of my Lionel, Had tended me in my distress, And died some months before. Nor less 1215 Wonder, but far more peace and joy, Brought in that hour my lovely boy; For through that trance my soul had well The impress of thy being kept; And if I waked, or if I slept, 1220 No doubt, though memory faithless be, Thy image ever dwelt on me; And thus, O Lionel, like thee Is our sweet child. 'Tis sure most strange I knew not of so great a change, 1225 As that which gave him birth, who now Is all the solace of my woe.

That Lionel great wealth had left By will to me, and that of all The ready lies of law bereft 1230 My child and me, might well befall. But let me think not of the scorn, Which from the meanest I have borne, When, for my child's beloved sake, I mixed with slaves, to vindicate 1235 The very laws themselves do make: Let me not say scorn is my fate, Lest I be proud, suffering the same With those who live in deathless fame.

She ceased.—'Lo, where red morning thro' the woods _1240 Is burning o'er the dew;' said Rosalind. And with these words they rose, and towards the flood Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves now wind With equal steps and fingers intertwined: Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore _1245 Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies, And with their shadows the clear depths below, And where a little terrace from its bowers, Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon-flowers, _1250 Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o'er The liquid marble of the windless lake; And where the aged forest's limbs look hoar, Under the leaves which their green garments make, They come: 'Tis Helen's home, and clean and white, _1255 Like one which tyrants spare on our own land In some such solitude, its casements bright Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun, And even within 'twas scarce like Italy. And when she saw how all things there were planned, _1260 As in an English home, dim memory Disturbed poor Rosalind: she stood as one Whose mind is where his body cannot be, Till Helen led her where her child yet slept, And said, 'Observe, that brow was Lionel's, _1265 Those lips were his, and so he ever kept One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it. You cannot see his eyes—they are two wells Of liquid love: let us not wake him yet.' But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept _1270 A shower of burning tears, which fell upon His face, and so his opening lashes shone With tears unlike his own, as he did leap In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.

So Rosalind and Helen lived together 1275 Thenceforth, changed in all else, yet friends again, Such as they were, when o'er the mountain heather They wandered in their youth, through sun and rain. And after many years, for human things Change even like the ocean and the wind, 1280 Her daughter was restored to Rosalind, And in their circle thence some visitings Of joy 'mid their new calm would intervene: A lovely child she was, of looks serene, And motions which o'er things indifferent shed 1285 The grace and gentleness from whence they came. And Helen's boy grew with her, and they fed From the same flowers of thought, until each mind Like springs which mingle in one flood became, And in their union soon their parents saw 1290 The shadow of the peace denied to them. And Rosalind, for when the living stem Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall, Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe The pale survivors followed her remains 1295 Beyond the region of dissolving rains, Up the cold mountain she was wont to call Her tomb; and on Chiavenna's precipice They raised a pyramid of lasting ice, Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun, 1300 Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun, The last, when it had sunk; and thro' the night The charioteers of Arctos wheeled round Its glittering point, as seen from Helen's home, Whose sad inhabitants each year would come, 1305 With willing steps climbing that rugged height, And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime's despite, Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light: Such flowers, as in the wintry memory bloom 1310 Of one friend left, adorned that frozen tomb.

Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould, Whose sufferings too were less, Death slowlier led Into the peace of his dominion cold: She died among her kindred, being old. _1315 And know, that if love die not in the dead As in the living, none of mortal kind Are blest, as now Helen and Rosalind.

NOTES: 63 from there]from thee edition 1819. 366 fell]ran edition 1819. 405-408 See Editor's Note on this passage. 551 Where]When edition 1819. 572 Ay, overflowing]Aye overflowing edition 1819. 612 dear]clear cj. Bradley. 711 gore editions 1819, 1839. See Editor's Note. 932 Where]When edition 1819. 1093-1096 See Editor's Note. 1168-1171] See Editor's Note. 1209 rescue]rescued edition 1819. See Editor's Note.

NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.

"Rosalind and Helen" was begun at Marlow, and thrown aside—till I found it; and, at my request, it was completed. Shelley had no care for any of his poems that did not emanate from the depths of his mind, and develop some high or abstruse truth. When he does touch on human life and the human heart, no pictures can be more faithful, more delicate, more subtle, or more pathetic. He never mentioned Love but he shed a grace borrowed from his own nature, that scarcely any other poet has bestowed on that passion. When he spoke of it as the law of life, which inasmuch as we rebel against we err and injure ourselves and others, he promulgated that which he considered an irrefragable truth. In his eyes it was the essence of our being, and all woe and pain arose from the war made against it by selfishness, or insensibility, or mistake. By reverting in his mind to this first principle, he discovered the source of many emotions, and could disclose the secrets of all hearts, and his delineations of passion and emotion touch the finest chords of our nature.

"Rosalind and Helen" was finished during the summer of 1818, while we were at the Baths of Lucca.

***

JULIAN AND MADDALO.

A CONVERSATION.

[Composed at Este after Shelley's first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the "Posthumous Poems", London, 1824 (edition Mrs. Shelley). Shelley's original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt's "Examiner"; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the manuscript to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This manuscript, found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described at length in Mr. Forman's Library Edition of the poems (volume 3 page 107). The date, 'May, 1819,' affixed to "Julian and Maddalo" in the "Posthumous Poems", 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Sources of the text are (1) "Posthumous Poems", 1824; (2) the Hunt manuscript; (3) a fair draft of the poem amongst the Boscombe manuscripts; (4) "Poetical Works", 1839, 1st and 2nd editions (Mrs. Shelley). Our text is that of the Hunt manuscript, as printed in Forman's Library Edition of the Poems, 1876, volume 3, pages 103-30; variants of 1824 are indicated in the footnotes; questions of punctuation are dealt with in the notes at the end of the volume.]

PREFACE.

The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring, Are saturated not—nor Love with tears.—VIRGIL'S "Gallus".

Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentred and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries.

Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious.

Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart.

I rode one evening with Count Maddalo Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, _5 Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes _10 Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste _15 The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows; and yet more Than all, with a remembered friend I love _20 To ride as then I rode;—for the winds drove The living spray along the sunny air Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare, Stripped to their depths by the awakening north; And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth _25 Harmonising with solitude, and sent Into our hearts aereal merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought, Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours, _30 Charged with light memories of remembered hours, None slow enough for sadness: till we came Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. This day had been cheerful but cold, and now The sun was sinking, and the wind also. _35 Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be Talk interrupted with such raillery As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish: —'twas forlorn, Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell, _40 The devils held within the dales of Hell Concerning God, freewill and destiny: Of all that earth has been or yet may be, All that vain men imagine or believe, Or hope can paint or suffering may achieve, _45 We descanted; and I (for ever still Is it not wise to make the best of ill?) Argued against despondency, but pride Made my companion take the darker side. The sense that he was greater than his kind _50 Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind By gazing on its own exceeding light. Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight, Over the horizon of the mountains;—Oh, How beautiful is sunset, when the glow _55 Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy! Thy mountains, seas and vineyards, and the towers Of cities they encircle!—it was ours To stand on thee, beholding it: and then, _60 Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men Were waiting for us with the gondola.— As those who pause on some delightful way Though bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood Looking upon the evening, and the flood _65 Which lay between the city and the shore, Paved with the image of the sky...the hoar And aery Alps towards the North appeared Through mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark reared Between the East and West; and half the sky _70 Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew Down the steep West into a wondrous hue Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent _75 Among the many-folded hills: they were Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles, The likeness of a clump of peaked isles— And then—as if the Earth and Sea had been _80 Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering as from waves of flame Around the vaporous sun, from which there came The inmost purple spirit of light, and made Their very peaks transparent. 'Ere it fade,' _85 Said my companion, 'I will show you soon A better station'—so, o'er the lagune We glided; and from that funereal bark I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, _90 Its temples and its palaces did seem Like fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven. I was about to speak, when—'We are even Now at the point I meant,' said Maddalo, And bade the gondolieri cease to row. _95 'Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well If you hear not a deep and heavy bell.' I looked, and saw between us and the sun A building on an island; such a one As age to age might add, for uses vile, _100 A windowless, deformed and dreary pile; And on the top an open tower, where hung A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung; We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue: The broad sun sunk behind it, and it tolled _105 In strong and black relief.—'What we behold Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,' Said Maddalo, 'and ever at this hour Those who may cross the water, hear that bell Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, _110 To vespers.'—'As much skill as need to pray In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they To their stern maker,' I replied. 'O ho! You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo. ''Tis strange men change not. You were ever still _115 Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel, A wolf for the meek lambs—if you can't swim Beware of Providence.' I looked on him, But the gay smile had faded in his eye. 'And such,'—he cried, 'is our mortality, _120 And this must be the emblem and the sign Of what should be eternal and divine!— And like that black and dreary bell, the soul, Hung in a heaven-illumined tower, must toll Our thoughts and our desires to meet below _125 Round the rent heart and pray—as madmen do For what? they know not,—till the night of death As sunset that strange vision, severeth Our memory from itself, and us from all We sought and yet were baffled.' I recall _130 The sense of what he said, although I mar The force of his expressions. The broad star Of day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill, And the black bell became invisible, And the red tower looked gray, and all between _135 The churches, ships and palaces were seen Huddled in gloom;—into the purple sea The orange hues of heaven sunk silently. We hardly spoke, and soon the gondola Conveyed me to my lodging by the way. _140 The following morn was rainy, cold, and dim: Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him, And whilst I waited with his child I played; A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made; A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, _145 Graceful without design and unforeseeing, With eyes—Oh speak not of her eyes!—which seem Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam With such deep meaning, as we never see But in the human countenance: with me _150 She was a special favourite: I had nursed Her fine and feeble limbs when she came first To this bleak world; and she yet seemed to know On second sight her ancient playfellow, Less changed than she was by six months or so; _155 For after her first shyness was worn out We sate there, rolling billiard balls about, When the Count entered. Salutations past— 'The word you spoke last night might well have cast A darkness on my spirit—if man be _160 The passive thing you say, I should not see Much harm in the religions and old saws (Tho' I may never own such leaden laws) Which break a teachless nature to the yoke: Mine is another faith.'—thus much I spoke _165 And noting he replied not, added: 'See This lovely child, blithe, innocent and free; She spends a happy time with little care, While we to such sick thoughts subjected are As came on you last night. It is our will _170 That thus enchains us to permitted ill— We might be otherwise—we might be all We dream of happy, high, majestical. Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seek, But in our mind? and if we were not weak _175 Should we be less in deed than in desire?' 'Ay, if we were not weak—and we aspire How vainly to be strong!' said Maddalo: 'You talk Utopia.' 'It remains to know,' I then rejoined, 'and those who try may find _180 How strong the chains are which our spirit bind; Brittle perchance as straw...We are assured Much may be conquered, much may be endured, Of what degrades and crushes us. We know That we have power over ourselves to do _185 And suffer—what, we know not till we try; But something nobler than to live and die— So taught those kings of old philosophy Who reigned, before Religion made men blind; And those who suffer with their suffering kind _190 Yet feel their faith, religion.' 'My dear friend,' Said Maddalo, 'my judgement will not bend To your opinion, though I think you might Make such a system refutation-tight As far as words go. I knew one like you _195 Who to this city came some months ago, With whom I argued in this sort, and he Is now gone mad,—and so he answered me,— Poor fellow! but if you would like to go, We'll visit him, and his wild talk will show _200 How vain are such aspiring theories.' 'I hope to prove the induction otherwise, And that a want of that true theory, still, Which seeks a "soul of goodness" in things ill Or in himself or others, has thus bowed _205 His being—there are some by nature proud, Who patient in all else demand but this— To love and be beloved with gentleness; And being scorned, what wonder if they die Some living death? this is not destiny _210 But man's own wilful ill.' As thus I spoke Servants announced the gondola, and we Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands. We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, _215 Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen, And laughter where complaint had merrier been, Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs Into an old courtyard. I heard on high, _220 Then, fragments of most touching melody, But looking up saw not the singer there— Through the black bars in the tempestuous air I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing, Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, _225 Of those who on a sudden were beguiled Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled Hearing sweet sounds. Then I: 'Methinks there were A cure of these with patience and kind care, If music can thus move...but what is he _230 Whom we seek here?' 'Of his sad history I know but this,' said Maddalo: 'he came To Venice a dejected man, and fame Said he was wealthy, or he had been so; Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; _235 But he was ever talking in such sort As you do—far more sadly—he seemed hurt, Even as a man with his peculiar wrong, To hear but of the oppression of the strong, Or those absurd deceits (I think with you _240 In some respects, you know) which carry through The excellent impostors of this earth When they outface detection—he had worth, Poor fellow! but a humorist in his way'— 'Alas, what drove him mad?' 'I cannot say: _245 A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wandered then About yon lonely isles of desert sand Till he grew wild—he had no cash or land Remaining,—the police had brought him here— _250 Some fancy took him and he would not bear Removal; so I fitted up for him Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim, And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers, Which had adorned his life in happier hours, _255 And instruments of music—you may guess A stranger could do little more or less For one so gentle and unfortunate: And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this Hell appear _260 A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.'— 'Nay, this was kind of you—he had no claim, As the world says'—'None—but the very same Which I on all mankind were I as he Fallen to such deep reverse;—his melody _265 Is interrupted—now we hear the din Of madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin; Let us now visit him; after this strain He ever communes with himself again, And sees nor hears not any.' Having said _270 These words, we called the keeper, and he led To an apartment opening on the sea— There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully Near a piano, his pale fingers twined One with the other, and the ooze and wind _275 Rushed through an open casement, and did sway His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray; His head was leaning on a music book, And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook; His lips were pressed against a folded leaf _280 In hue too beautiful for health, and grief Smiled in their motions as they lay apart— As one who wrought from his own fervid heart The eloquence of passion, soon he raised His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed _285 And spoke—sometimes as one who wrote, and thought His words might move some heart that heeded not, If sent to distant lands: and then as one Reproaching deeds never to be undone With wondering self-compassion; then his speech _290 Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated, cold, expressionless,— But that from one jarred accent you might guess It was despair made them so uniform: And all the while the loud and gusty storm _295 Hissed through the window, and we stood behind Stealing his accents from the envious wind Unseen. I yet remember what he said Distinctly: such impression his words made.

'Month after month,' he cried, 'to bear this load 300 And as a jade urged by the whip and goad To drag life on, which like a heavy chain Lengthens behind with many a link of pain!— And not to speak my grief—O, not to dare To give a human voice to my despair, 305 But live, and move, and, wretched thing! smile on As if I never went aside to groan, And wear this mask of falsehood even to those Who are most dear—not for my own repose— Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be 310 So heavy as that falsehood is to me— But that I cannot bear more altered faces Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces, More misery, disappointment, and mistrust To own me for their father...Would the dust 315 Were covered in upon my body now! That the life ceased to toil within my brow! And then these thoughts would at the least be fled; Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.

'What Power delights to torture us? I know _320 That to myself I do not wholly owe What now I suffer, though in part I may. Alas! none strewed sweet flowers upon the way Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain My shadow, which will leave me not again— _325 If I have erred, there was no joy in error, But pain and insult and unrest and terror; I have not as some do, bought penitence With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence, For then,—if love and tenderness and truth _330 Had overlived hope's momentary youth, My creed should have redeemed me from repenting; But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting Met love excited by far other seeming Until the end was gained...as one from dreaming _335 Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state Such as it is.— 'O Thou, my spirit's mate Who, for thou art compassionate and wise, Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see— _340 My secret groans must be unheard by thee, Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know Thy lost friend's incommunicable woe.

'Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed In friendship, let me not that name degrade 345 By placing on your hearts the secret load Which crushes mine to dust. There is one road To peace and that is truth, which follow ye! Love sometimes leads astray to misery. Yet think not though subdued—and I may well 350 Say that I am subdued—that the full Hell Within me would infect the untainted breast Of sacred nature with its own unrest; As some perverted beings think to find In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 355 Which scorn or hate have wounded—O how vain! The dagger heals not but may rend again... Believe that I am ever still the same In creed as in resolve, and what may tame My heart, must leave the understanding free, 360 Or all would sink in this keen agony— Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry; Or with my silence sanction tyranny; Or seek a moment's shelter from my pain In any madness which the world calls gain, 365 Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern As those which make me what I am; or turn To avarice or misanthropy or lust... Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust! Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, 370 And Poverty and Shame may meet and say— Halting beside me on the public way— "That love-devoted youth is ours—let's sit Beside him—he may live some six months yet." Or the red scaffold, as our country bends, 375 May ask some willing victim; or ye friends May fall under some sorrow which this heart Or hand may share or vanquish or avert; I am prepared—in truth, with no proud joy— To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 380 I did devote to justice and to love My nature, worthless now!... 'I must remove A veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn aside! O, pallid as Death's dedicated bride, Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, 385 Am I not wan like thee? at the grave's call I haste, invited to thy wedding-ball To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom Thou hast deserted me...and made the tomb Thy bridal bed...But I beside your feet 390 Will lie and watch ye from my winding-sheet— Thus...wide awake tho' dead...yet stay, O stay! Go not so soon—I know not what I say— Hear but my reasons...I am mad, I fear, My fancy is o'erwrought...thou art not here... 395 Pale art thou, 'tis most true...but thou art gone, Thy work is finished...I am left alone!— ... 'Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest As in repayment of the warmth it lent? 400 Didst thou not seek me for thine own content? Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought That thou wert she who said, "You kiss me not Ever, I fear you do not love me now"— In truth I loved even to my overthrow 405 Her, who would fain forget these words: but they Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away. ... 'You say that I am proud—that when I speak My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break The spirit it expresses...Never one 410 Humbled himself before, as I have done! Even the instinctive worm on which we tread Turns, though it wound not—then with prostrate head Sinks in the dusk and writhes like me—and dies? No: wears a living death of agonies! 415 As the slow shadows of the pointed grass Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass, Slow, ever-moving,—making moments be As mine seem—each an immortality! ... 'That you had never seen me—never heard 420 My voice, and more than all had ne'er endured The deep pollution of my loathed embrace— That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face— That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root 425 With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne'er Our hearts had for a moment mingled there To disunite in horror—these were not With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought Which flits athwart our musings, but can find 430 No rest within a pure and gentle mind... Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word, And searedst my memory o'er them,—for I heard And can forget not...they were ministered One after one, those curses. Mix them up 435 Like self-destroying poisons in one cup, And they will make one blessing which thou ne'er Didst imprecate for, on me,—death. ... 'It were A cruel punishment for one most cruel, If such can love, to make that love the fuel 440 Of the mind's hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair: But ME—whose heart a stranger's tear might wear As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone, Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan For woes which others hear not, and could see 445 The absent with the glance of phantasy, And with the poor and trampled sit and weep, Following the captive to his dungeon deep; ME—who am as a nerve o'er which do creep The else unfelt oppressions of this earth, 450 And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth, When all beside was cold—that thou on me Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony— Such curses are from lips once eloquent With love's too partial praise—let none relent 455 Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name Henceforth, if an example for the same They seek...for thou on me lookedst so, and so— And didst speak thus...and thus...I live to show How much men bear and die not! ... 'Thou wilt tell 460 With the grimace of hate, how horrible It was to meet my love when thine grew less; Thou wilt admire how I could e'er address Such features to love's work...this taunt, though true, (For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue 465 Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship) Shall not be thy defence...for since thy lip Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught 470 But as love changes what it loveth not After long years and many trials.