No More Learning

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.

'How vain
Are words! I thought never to speak again,
Not even in secret,--not to mine own heart--
But from my lips the unwilling accents start, _475
And from my pen the words flow as I write,
Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears. . . my sight
Is dim to see that charactered in vain
On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain
And eats into it. . . blotting all things fair _480
And wise and good which time had written there.

'Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts, and this must be
Our chastisement or recompense--O child!
I would that thine were like to be more mild _485
For both our wretched sakes. . . for thine the most
Who feelest already all that thou hast lost
Without the power to wish it thine again;
And as slow years pass, a funereal train
Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend _490
Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend
No thought on my dead memory?
. . .
'Alas, love!
Fear me not. . . against thee I would not move
A finger in despite. Do I not live
That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? _495
I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate;
And that thy lot may be less desolate
Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain
From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.
Then, when thou speakest of me, never say _500
"He could forgive not. " Here I cast away
All human passions, all revenge, all pride;
I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide
Under these words, like embers, every spark
Of that which has consumed me--quick and dark _505
The grave is yawning. . . as its roof shall cover
My limbs with dust and worms under and over
So let Oblivion hide this grief. . . the air
Closes upon my accents, as despair
Upon my heart--let death upon despair! ' _510

He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,
Then rising, with a melancholy smile
Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept
A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept
And muttered some familiar name, and we _515
Wept without shame in his society.
I think I never was impressed so much;
The man who were not, must have lacked a touch
Of human nature. . . then we lingered not,
Although our argument was quite forgot, _520
But calling the attendants, went to dine
At Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wine
Could give us spirits, for we talked of him
And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;
And we agreed his was some dreadful ill _525
Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,
By a dear friend; some deadly change in love
Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;
For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot
Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not _530
But in the light of all-beholding truth;
And having stamped this canker on his youth
She had abandoned him--and how much more
Might be his woe, we guessed not--he had store
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess _535
From his nice habits and his gentleness;
These were now lost. . . it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; _540
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry;
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made.
He said: 'Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong, _545
They learn in suffering what they teach in song. '

If I had been an unconnected man,
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice,--for to me
It was delight to ride by the lone sea; _550
And then, the town is silent--one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair _555
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regrets for the green country. I might sit
In Maddalo's great palace, and his wit
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night _560
And make me know myself, and the firelight
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay:
But I had friends in London too: the chief
Attraction here, was that I sought relief _565
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me--'twas perhaps an idle thought--
But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away,
And studied all the beatings of his heart _570
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from this dark estate:
In friendships I had been most fortunate-- _575
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds or solitude
And leave no trace--but what I now designed _580
Made for long years impression on my mind.
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
After many years
And many changes I returned; the name
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same; _585
But Maddalo was travelling far away
Among the mountains of Armenia.
His dog was dead. His child had now become
A woman; such as it has been my doom
To meet with few,--a wonder of this earth, _590
Where there is little of transcendent worth,
Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she,
And, with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father's friend; and when I asked
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, _595
And told as she had heard the mournful tale:
'That the poor sufferer's health began to fail
Two years from my departure, but that then
The lady who had left him, came again.
Her mien had been imperious, but she now _600
Looked meek--perhaps remorse had brought her low.
Her coming made him better, and they stayed
Together at my father's--for I played,
As I remember, with the lady's shawl--
I might be six years old--but after all _605
She left him. '. . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough:
How did it end? ' 'And was not this enough?
They met--they parted. '--'Child, is there no more? '
'Something within that interval which bore
The stamp of WHY they parted, HOW they met: _610
Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears,
Ask me no more, but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie. ' _615
I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened--but the cold world shall not know.


CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO.

'What think you the dead are? ' 'Why, dust and clay,
What should they be? ' ''Tis the last hour of day.
Look on the west, how beautiful it is _620
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud . . . fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought, _625
Till it dies . . . and . . . between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not. . . '
. . .
'Perhaps the only comfort which remains _630
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody. '


NOTES:
_45 may Hunt manuscript; can 1824.
_99 a one Hunt manuscript; an one 1824.
_105 sunk Hunt manuscript; sank 1824.
_108 ever Hunt manuscript; even 1824.
_119 in Hunt manuscript; from 1824.
_124 a Hunt manuscript; an 1824.
_171 That Hunt manuscript; Which 1824.
_175 mind Hunt manuscript; minds 1824.
_179 know 1824; see Hunt manuscript.
_188 those Hunt manuscript; the 1824.
_191 their Hunt manuscript; this 1824.
_218 Moons, etc. , Hunt manuscript;
The line is wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_237 far Hunt manuscript; but 1824.
_270 nor Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_292 cold Hunt manuscript; and 1824.
_318 least Hunt manuscript; last 1824.
_323 sweet Hunt manuscript; fresh 1824.
_356 have Hunt manuscript; hath 1824.
_361 in this keen Hunt manuscript; under this 1824.
_362 cry Hunt manuscript; eye 1824.
_372 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_388 greet Hunt manuscript; meet 1824.
_390 your Hunt manuscript; thy 1824.
_417 his Hunt manuscript; its 1824.
_446 glance Hunt manuscript; glass 1824.
_447 with Hunt manuscript; near 1824.
_467 lip Hunt manuscript; life 1824.
_483 this Hunt manuscript; that 1824.
_493 I would Hunt manuscript; I'd 1824.
_510 despair Hunt manuscript; my care 1839.
_511 leant] See Editor's Note.
_518 were Hunt manuscript; was 1839.
_525 his Hunt manuscript; it 1824.
_530 on Hunt manuscript; in 1824.
_537 were now Hunt manuscript; now were 1824.
_588 regrets Hunt manuscript; regret 1824.
_569 but Hunt manuscript;
wanting in editions 1824 and 1839.
_574 his 1824; this [? ] Hunt manuscript.


NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.

From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and,
circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks
in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord
Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he
sent for his family from Lucca to join him.

I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent,
demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was
situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a
range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a
vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from
the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which
Shelley made his study, and in which he began the "Prometheus"; and
here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote "Julian and Maddalo".
A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the
hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose
dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices
owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind
the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the
wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines,
while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the
picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood,
at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to
the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.

Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even
more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose
small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her
father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate.
Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when
we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we
arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and
the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but
they could not resist Shelley's impetuosity at such a moment. We had
scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer,
and we returned to Este to weep her loss.

After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by
visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.

***


PROMETHEUS UNBOUND.

A LYRICAL DRAMA IN FOUR ACTS.

AUDISNE HAEC AMPHIARAE, SUB TERRAM ABDITE?

[Composed at Este, September, October, 1818 (Act 1); at Rome,
March-April 6, 1819 (Acts 2, 3); at Florence, close of 1819 (Act 4).
Published by C. and J. Ollier, London, summer of 1820. Sources of the
text are (1) edition of 1820; (2) text in "Poetical Works", 1839,
prepared with the aid of a list of errata in (1) written out by
Shelley; (3) a fair draft in Shelley's autograph, now in the Bodleian.
This has been carefully collated by Mr. C. D. Locock, who prints the
result in his "Examination of the Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian
Library", Oxford (Clarendon Press), 1903. Our text is that of 1820,
modified by edition 1839, and by the Bodleian fair copy. In the
following notes B = the Bodleian manuscript; 1820 = the editio
princeps, printed by Marchant for C. and J. Ollier, London; and 1839 =
the text as edited by Mrs. Shelley in the "Poetical Works", 1st and
2nd editions, 1839. The reader should consult the notes on the Play at
the end of the volume. ]


PREFACE.

The Greek tragic writers, in selecting as their subject any portion of
their national history or mythology, employed in their treatment of it
a certain arbitrary discretion. They by no means conceived themselves
bound to adhere to the common interpretation or to imitate in story as
in title their rivals and predecessors. Such a system would have
amounted to a resignation of those claims to preference over their
competitors which incited the composition. The Agamemnonian story was
exhibited on the Athenian theatre with as many variations as dramas.

I have presumed to employ a similar license. The "Prometheus Unbound"
of Aeschylus supposed the reconciliation of Jupiter with his victim as
the price of the disclosure of the danger threatened to his empire by
the consummation of his marriage with Thetis. Thetis, according to
this view of the subject, was given in marriage to Peleus, and
Prometheus, by the permission of Jupiter, delivered from his captivity
by Hercules. Had I framed my story on this model, I should have done
no more than have attempted to restore the lost drama of Aeschylus; an
ambition which, if my preference to this mode of treating the subject
had incited me to cherish, the recollection of the high comparison
such an attempt would challenge might well abate. But, in truth, I was
averse from a catastrophe so feeble as that of reconciling the
Champion with the Oppressor of mankind. The moral interest of the
fable, which is so powerfully sustained by the sufferings and
endurance of Prometheus, would be annihilated if we could conceive of
him as unsaying his high language and quailing before his successful
and perfidious adversary. The only imaginary being resembling in any
degree Prometheus, is Satan; and Prometheus is, in my judgement, a
more poetical character than Satan, because, in addition to courage,
and majesty, and firm and patient opposition to omnipotent force, he
is susceptible of being described as exempt from the taints of
ambition, envy, revenge, and a desire for personal aggrandisement,
which, in the Hero of "Paradise Lost", interfere with the interest.
The character of Satan engenders in the mind a pernicious casuistry
which leads us to weigh his faults with his wrongs, and to excuse the
former because the latter exceed all measure. In the minds of those
who consider that magnificent fiction with a religious feeling it
engenders something worse. But Prometheus is, as it were, the type of
the highest perfection of moral and intellectual nature, impelled by
the purest and the truest motives to the best and noblest ends.

This Poem was chiefly written upon the mountainous ruins of the Baths
of Caracalla, among the flowery glades, and thickets of odoriferous
blossoming trees, which are extended in ever winding labyrinths upon
its immense platforms and dizzy arches suspended in the air. The
bright blue sky of Rome, and the effect of the vigorous awakening
spring in that divinest climate, and the new life with which it
drenches the spirits even to intoxication, were the inspiration of
this drama.

The imagery which I have employed will be found, in many instances, to
have been drawn from the operations of the human mind, or from those
external actions by which they are expressed. This is unusual in
modern poetry, although Dante and Shakespeare are full of instances of
the same kind: Dante indeed more than any other poet, and with greater
success. But the Greek poets, as writers to whom no resource of
awakening the sympathy of their contemporaries was unknown, were in
the habitual use of this power; and it is the study of their works
(since a higher merit would probably be denied me) to which I am
willing that my readers should impute this singularity.

One word is due in candour to the degree in which the study of
contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has
been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and
indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any
one who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in
the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that
his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the
study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is
true, that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it
has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own
minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition
of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of
writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom,
it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of
the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated
lightning of their own mind.

The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which
distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a
general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer.
The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same;
the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If
England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population
and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under
institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce
philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare)
have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age
of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which
shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian
religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same
spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a
republican, and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great
writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions
and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or
the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its
collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and
opinions is now restoring, or is about to be restored.

As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates
by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful
and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no
previous existence in the mind of man or in nature, but because the
whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and
beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought, and with
the contemporary condition of them: one great poet is a masterpiece of
nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might
as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be
the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude
from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a
great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in
any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained,
unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such
internal powers as modify the nature of others; and of such external
influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but
both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the
objects of nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he
ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon
which all forms are reflected, and in which they compose one form.
Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and
musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the
creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not
escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between
Aeschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and
Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope;
each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions
are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am
willing to confess that I have imitated.

Let this opportunity be conceded to me of acknowledging that I have,
what a Scotch philosopher characteristically terms, 'a passion for
reforming the world:' what passion incited him to write and publish
his book, he omits to explain. For my part I had rather be damned with
Plato and Lord Bacon, than go to Heaven with Paley and Malthus. But it
is a mistake to suppose that I dedicate my poetical compositions
solely to the direct enforcement of reform, or that I consider them in
any degree as containing a reasoned system on the theory of human
life. Didactic poetry is my abhorrence; nothing can be equally well
expressed in prose that is not tedious and supererogatory in verse. My
purpose has hitherto been simply to familiarise the highly refined
imagination of the more select classes of poetical readers with
beautiful idealisms of moral excellence; aware that until the mind can
love, and admire, and trust, and hope, and endure, reasoned principles
of moral conduct are seeds cast upon the highway of life which the
unconscious passenger tramples into dust, although they would bear the
harvest of his happiness. Should I live to accomplish what I purpose,
that is, produce a systematical history of what appear to me to be the
genuine elements of human society, let not the advocates of injustice
and superstition flatter themselves that I should take Aeschylus
rather than Plato as my model.

The having spoken of myself with unaffected freedom will need little
apology with the candid; and let the uncandid consider that they
injure me less than their own hearts and minds by misrepresentation.
Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be
they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his
attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished
purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the
dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his
grave which might otherwise have been unknown.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

PROMETHEUS.
DEMOGORGON.
JUPITER.
THE EARTH.
OCEAN.
APOLLO.
MERCURY.
OCEANIDES: ASIA, PANTHEA, IONE.
HERCULES.
THE PHANTASM OF JUPITER.
THE SPIRIT OF THE EARTH.
THE SPIRIT OF THE MOON.
SPIRITS OF THE HOURS.
SPIRITS. ECHOES. FAUNS. FURIES.


ACT 1.

SCENE:
A RAVINE OF ICY ROCKS IN THE INDIAN CAUCASUS.
PROMETHEUS IS DISCOVERED BOUND TO THE PRECIPICE.
PANTEA AND IONE ARE SEATED AT HIS FEET.
TIME, NIGHT.
DURING, THE SCENE MORNING SLOWLY BREAKS.

PROMETHEUS:
Monarch of Gods and DAEmons, and all Spirits
But One, who throng those bright and rolling worlds
Which Thou and I alone of living things
Behold with sleepless eyes! regard this Earth
Made multitudinous with thy slaves, whom thou _5
Requitest for knee-worship, prayer, and praise,
And toil, and hecatombs of broken hearts,
With fear and self-contempt and barren hope.
Whilst me, who am thy foe, eyeless in hate,
Hast thou made reign and triumph, to thy scorn, _10
O'er mine own misery and thy vain revenge.
Three thousand years of sleep-unsheltered hours,
And moments aye divided by keen pangs
Till they seemed years, torture and solitude,
Scorn and despair,--these are mine empire:-- _15
More glorious far than that which thou surveyest
From thine unenvied throne, O Mighty God!
Almighty, had I deigned to share the shame
Of thine ill tyranny, and hung not here
Nailed to this wall of eagle-baffling mountain, _20
Black, wintry, dead, unmeasured; without herb,
Insect, or beast, or shape or sound of life.
Ah me! alas, pain, pain ever, for ever!

No change, no pause, no hope! Yet I endure.
I ask the Earth, have not the mountains felt? _25
I ask yon Heaven, the all-beholding Sun,
Has it not seen? The Sea, in storm or calm,
Heaven's ever-changing Shadow, spread below,
Have its deaf waves not heard my agony?
Ah me!