No More Learning

21.
The boat was one curved shell of hollow pearl, _4630
Almost translucent with the light divine
Of her within; the prow and stern did curl
Horned on high, like the young moon supine,
When o'er dim twilight mountains dark with pine,
It floats upon the sunset's sea of beams, _4635
Whose golden waves in many a purple line
Fade fast, till borne on sunlight's ebbing streams,
Dilating, on earth's verge the sunken meteor gleams.

22.
Its keel has struck the sands beside our feet;--
Then Cythna turned to me, and from her eyes _4640
Which swam with unshed tears, a look more sweet
Than happy love, a wild and glad surprise,
Glanced as she spake: 'Ay, this is Paradise
And not a dream, and we are all united!
Lo, that is mine own child, who in the guise _4645
Of madness came, like day to one benighted
In lonesome woods: my heart is now too well requited! '

23.
And then she wept aloud, and in her arms
Clasped that bright Shape, less marvellously fair
Than her own human hues and living charms; _4650
Which, as she leaned in passion's silence there,
Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of the air,
Which seemed to blush and tremble with delight;
The glossy darkness of her streaming hair
Fell o'er that snowy child, and wrapped from sight _4655
The fond and long embrace which did their hearts unite.

24.
Then the bright child, the plumed Seraph came,
And fixed its blue and beaming eyes on mine,
And said, 'I was disturbed by tremulous shame
When once we met, yet knew that I was thine _4660
From the same hour in which thy lips divine
Kindled a clinging dream within my brain,
Which ever waked when I might sleep, to twine
Thine image with HER memory dear--again
We meet; exempted now from mortal fear or pain. _4665

25.
'When the consuming flames had wrapped ye round,
The hope which I had cherished went away;
I fell in agony on the senseless ground,
And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray
My mind was gone, when bright, like dawning day, _4670
The Spectre of the Plague before me flew,
And breathed upon my lips, and seemed to say,
"They wait for thee, beloved! "--then I knew
The death-mark on my breast, and became calm anew.

26.
'It was the calm of love--for I was dying. _4675
I saw the black and half-extinguished pyre
In its own gray and shrunken ashes lying;
The pitchy smoke of the departed fire
Still hung in many a hollow dome and spire
Above the towers, like night,--beneath whose shade _4680
Awed by the ending of their own desire
The armies stood; a vacancy was made
In expectation's depth, and so they stood dismayed.

27.
'The frightful silence of that altered mood,
The tortures of the dying clove alone, _4685
Till one uprose among the multitude,
And said--"The flood of time is rolling on;
We stand upon its brink, whilst THEY are gone
To glide in peace down death's mysterious stream.
Have ye done well? They moulder, flesh and bone, _4690
Who might have made this life's envenomed dream
A sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, I deem.

28.
'"These perish as the good and great of yore
Have perished, and their murderers will repent,--
Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow before _4695
Yon smoke has faded from the firmament
Even for this cause, that ye who must lament
The death of those that made this world so fair,
Cannot recall them now; but there is lent
To man the wisdom of a high despair, _4700
When such can die, and he live on and linger here.

29.
'"Ay, ye may fear not now the Pestilence,
From fabled hell as by a charm withdrawn;
All power and faith must pass, since calmly hence
In pain and fire have unbelievers gone; _4705
And ye must sadly turn away, and moan
In secret, to his home each one returning;
And to long ages shall this hour be known;
And slowly shall its memory, ever burning,
Fill this dark night of things with an eternal morning. _4710

30.
'"For me that world is grown too void and cold,
Since Hope pursues immortal Destiny
With steps thus slow--therefore shall ye behold
How those who love, yet fear not, dare to die;
Tell to your children this! " Then suddenly _4715
He sheathed a dagger in his heart and fell;
My brain grew dark in death, and yet to me
There came a murmur from the crowd, to tell
Of deep and mighty change which suddenly befell.

31.
'Then suddenly I stood, a winged Thought, _4720
Before the immortal Senate, and the seat
Of that star-shining spirit, whence is wrought
The strength of its dominion, good and great,
The better Genius of this world's estate.
His realm around one mighty Fane is spread, _4725
Elysian islands bright and fortunate,
Calm dwellings of the free and happy dead,
Where I am sent to lead! ' These winged words she said,

32.
And with the silence of her eloquent smile,
Bade us embark in her divine canoe; _4730
Then at the helm we took our seat, the while
Above her head those plumes of dazzling hue
Into the winds' invisible stream she threw,
Sitting beside the prow: like gossamer
On the swift breath of morn, the vessel flew _4735
O'er the bright whirlpools of that fountain fair,
Whose shores receded fast, while we seemed lingering there;

33.
Till down that mighty stream, dark, calm, and fleet,
Between a chasm of cedarn mountains riven,
Chased by the thronging winds whose viewless feet _4740
As swift as twinkling beams, had, under Heaven,
From woods and waves wild sounds and odours driven,
The boat fled visibly--three nights and days,
Borne like a cloud through morn, and noon, and even,
We sailed along the winding watery ways _4745
Of the vast stream, a long and labyrinthine maze.

34.
A scene of joy and wonder to behold
That river's shapes and shadows changing ever,
Where the broad sunrise filled with deepening gold
Its whirlpools, where all hues did spread and quiver; _4750
And where melodious falls did burst and shiver
Among rocks clad with flowers, the foam and spray
Sparkled like stars upon the sunny river,
Or when the moonlight poured a holier day,
One vast and glittering lake around green islands lay. _4755

35.
Morn, noon, and even, that boat of pearl outran
The streams which bore it, like the arrowy cloud
Of tempest, or the speedier thought of man,
Which flieth forth and cannot make abode;
Sometimes through forests, deep like night, we glode, _4760
Between the walls of mighty mountains crowned
With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets proud,
The homes of the departed, dimly frowned
O'er the bright waves which girt their dark foundations round.

36.
Sometimes between the wide and flowering meadows, _4765
Mile after mile we sailed, and 'twas delight
To see far off the sunbeams chase the shadows
Over the grass; sometimes beneath the night
Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs were bright
With starry gems, we fled, whilst from their deep _4770
And dark-green chasms, shades beautiful and white,
Amid sweet sounds across our path would sweep,
Like swift and lovely dreams that walk the waves of sleep.

37.
And ever as we sailed, our minds were full
Of love and wisdom, which would overflow _4775
In converse wild, and sweet, and wonderful,
And in quick smiles whose light would come and go
Like music o'er wide waves, and in the flow
Of sudden tears, and in the mute caress--
For a deep shade was cleft, and we did know, _4780
That virtue, though obscured on Earth, not less
Survives all mortal change in lasting loveliness.

38.
Three days and nights we sailed, as thought and feeling
Number delightful hours--for through the sky
The sphered lamps of day and night, revealing _4785
New changes and new glories, rolled on high,
Sun, Moon and moonlike lamps, the progeny
Of a diviner Heaven, serene and fair:
On the fourth day, wild as a windwrought sea
The stream became, and fast and faster bare _4790
The spirit-winged boat, steadily speeding there.

39.
Steady and swift, where the waves rolled like mountains
Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did pour
Tumultuous floods from their ten thousand fountains,
The thunder of whose earth-uplifting roar _4795
Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from the shore,
Calm as a shade, the boat of that fair child
Securely fled, that rapid stress before,
Amid the topmost spray, and sunbows wild,
Wreathed in the silver mist: in joy and pride we smiled. _4800

40.
The torrent of that wide and raging river
Is passed, and our aereal speed suspended.
We look behind; a golden mist did quiver
When its wild surges with the lake were blended,--
Our bark hung there, as on a line suspended _4805
Between two heavens,--that windless waveless lake
Which four great cataracts from four vales, attended
By mists, aye feed; from rocks and clouds they break,
And of that azure sea a silent refuge make.

41.
Motionless resting on the lake awhile, _4810
I saw its marge of snow-bright mountains rear
Their peaks aloft, I saw each radiant isle,
And in the midst, afar, even like a sphere
Hung in one hollow sky, did there appear
The Temple of the Spirit; on the sound _4815
Which issued thence, drawn nearer and more near,
Like the swift moon this glorious earth around,
The charmed boat approached, and there its haven found.


NOTES:
_4577 there]then edition 1818.
_4699 there]then edition 1818.
_4749 When]Where edition 1818.
_4804 Where]When edition 1818.
_4805 on a line]one line edition 1818.


NOTE ON THE "REVOLT OF ISLAM", BY MRS. SHELLEY.

Shelley possessed two remarkable qualities of intellect--a brilliant
imagination, and a logical exactness of reason. His inclinations led
him (he fancied) almost alike to poetry and metaphysical discussions.
I say 'he fancied,' because I believe the former to have been
paramount, and that it would have gained the mastery even had he
struggled against it. However, he said that he deliberated at one time
whether he should dedicate himself to poetry or metaphysics; and,
resolving on the former, he educated himself for it, discarding in a
great measure his philosophical pursuits, and engaging himself in the
study of the poets of Greece, Italy, and England. To these may be
added a constant perusal of portions of the old Testament--the Psalms,
the Book of Job, the Prophet Isaiah, and others, the sublime poetry of
which filled him with delight.

As a poet, his intellect and compositions were powerfully influenced
by exterior circumstances, and especially by his place of abode. He
was very fond of travelling, and ill-health increased this
restlessness. The sufferings occasioned by a cold English winter made
him pine, especially when our colder spring arrived, for a more genial
climate. In 1816 he again visited Switzerland, and rented a house on
the banks of the Lake of Geneva; and many a day, in cloud or sunshine,
was passed alone in his boat--sailing as the wind listed, or weltering
on the calm waters. The majestic aspect of Nature ministered such
thoughts as he afterwards enwove in verse. His lines on the Bridge of
the Arve, and his "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty", were written at this
time. Perhaps during this summer his genius was checked by association
with another poet whose nature was utterly dissimilar to his own, yet
who, in the poem he wrote at that time, gave tokens that he shared for
a period the more abstract and etherealised inspiration of Shelley.
The saddest events awaited his return to England; but such was his
fear to wound the feelings of others that he never expressed the
anguish he felt, and seldom gave vent to the indignation roused by the
persecutions he underwent; while the course of deep unexpressed
passion, and the sense of injury, engendered the desire to embody
themselves in forms defecated of all the weakness and evil which cling
to real life.

He chose therefore for his hero a youth nourished in dreams of
liberty, some of whose actions are in direct opposition to the
opinions of the world; but who is animated throughout by an ardent
love of virtue, and a resolution to confer the boons of political and
intellectual freedom on his fellow-creatures. He created for this
youth a woman such as he delighted to imagine--full of enthusiasm for
the same objects; and they both, with will unvanquished, and the
deepest sense of the justice of their cause, met adversity and death.
There exists in this poem a memorial of a friend of his youth. The
character of the old man who liberates Laon from his tower prison, and
tends on him in sickness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when
Shelley was at Eton, had often stood by to befriend and support him,
and whose name he never mentioned without love and veneration.

During the year 1817 we were established at Marlow in Buckinghamshire.
Shelley's choice of abode was fixed chiefly by this town being at no
great distance from London, and its neighbourhood to the Thames. The
poem was written in his boat, as it floated under the beech groves of
Bisham, or during wanderings in the neighbouring country, which is
distinguished for peculiar beauty. The chalk hills break into cliffs
that overhang the Thames, or form valleys clothed with beech; the
wilder portion of the country is rendered beautiful by exuberant
vegetation; and the cultivated part is peculiarly fertile. With all
this wealth of Nature which, either in the form of gentlemen's parks
or soil dedicated to agriculture, flourishes around, Marlow was
inhabited (I hope it is altered now) by a very poor population. The
women are lacemakers, and lose their health by sedentary labour, for
which they were very ill paid. The Poor-laws ground to the dust not
only the paupers, but those who had risen just above that state, and
were obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes produced by peace
following a long war, and a bad harvest, brought with them the most
heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelley afforded what alleviation he
could. In the winter, while bringing out his poem, he had a severe
attack of ophthalmia, caught while visiting the poor cottages. I
mention these things,--for this minute and active sympathy with his
fellow-creatures gives a thousandfold interest to his speculations,
and stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race.

The poem, bold in its opinions and uncompromising in their expression,
met with many censurers, not only among those who allow of no virtue
but such as supports the cause they espouse, but even among those
whose opinions were similar to his own. I extract a portion of a
letter written in answer to one of these friends. It best details the
impulses of Shelley's mind, and his motives: it was written with
entire unreserve; and is therefore a precious monument of his own
opinion of his powers, of the purity of his designs, and the ardour
with which he clung, in adversity and through the valley of the shadow
of death, to views from which he believed the permanent happiness of
mankind must eventually spring.

'Marlowe, December 11, 1817.

'I have read and considered all that you say about my general powers,
and the particular instance of the poem in which I have attempted to
develop them. Nothing can be more satisfactory to me than the interest
which your admonitions express. But I think you are mistaken in some
points with regard to the peculiar nature of my powers, whatever be
their amount. I listened with deference and self-suspicion to your
censures of "The Revolt of Islam"; but the productions of mine which
you commend hold a very low place in my own esteem; and this reassures
me, in some degree at least. The poem was produced by a series of
thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded and sustained enthusiasm.
I felt the precariousness of my life, and I engaged in this task,
resolved to leave some record of myself. Much of what the volume
contains was written with the same feeling--as real, though not so
prophetic--as the communications of a dying man. I never presumed
indeed to consider it anything approaching to faultless; but, when I
consider contemporary productions of the same apparent pretensions, I
own I was filled with confidence. I felt that it was in many respects
a genuine picture of my own mind. I felt that the sentiments were
true, not assumed. And in this have I long believed that my power
consists; in sympathy, and that part of the imagination which relates
to sentiment and contemplation. I am formed, if for anything not in
common with the herd of mankind, to apprehend minute and remote
distinctions of feeling, whether relative to external nature or the
living beings which surround us, and to communicate the conceptions
which result from considering either the moral or the material
universe as a whole. Of course, I believe these faculties, which
perhaps comprehend all that is sublime in man, to exist very
imperfectly in my own mind. But, when you advert to my Chancery-paper,
a cold, forced, unimpassioned, insignificant piece of cramped and
cautious argument, and to the little scrap about "Mandeville", which
expressed my feelings indeed, but cost scarcely two minutes' thought
to express, as specimens of my powers more favourable than that which
grew as it were from "the agony and bloody sweat" of intellectual
travail; surely I must feel that, in some manner, either I am mistaken
in believing that I have any talent at all, or you in the selection of
the specimens of it. Yet, after all, I cannot but be conscious, in
much of what I write, of an absence of that tranquillity which is the
attribute and accompaniment of power. This feeling alone would make
your most kind and wise admonitions, on the subject of the economy of
intellectual force, valuable to me. And, if I live, or if I see any
trust in coming years, doubt not but that I shall do something,
whatever it may be, which a serious and earnest estimate of my powers
will suggest to me, and which will be in every respect accommodated to
their utmost limits.

[Shelley to Godwin. ]

***


PRINCE ATHANASE.

A FRAGMENT.

(The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase was a good deal
modelled on "Alastor". In the first sketch of the poem, he named it
"Pandemos and Urania". Athanase seeks through the world the One whom
he may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is embarked, a lady who
appears to him to embody his ideal of love and beauty. But she proves
to be Pandemos, or the earthly and unworthy Venus; who, after
disappointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Athanase,
crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. 'On his deathbed, the lady who can
really reply to his soul comes and kisses his lips' ("The Deathbed of
Athanase"). The poet describes her [in the words of the final
fragment, page 164]. This slender note is all we have to aid our
imagination in shaping out the form of the poem, such as its author
imagined. [Mrs. Shelley's Note. ])

[Written at Marlow in 1817, towards the close of the year; first
published in "Posthumous Poems", 1824. Part 1 is dated by Mrs.
Shelley, 'December, 1817,' the remainder, 'Marlow, 1817. ' The verses
were probably rehandled in Italy during the following year. Sources of
the text are (1) "Posthumous Poems", 1824; (2) "Poetical Works" 1839,
editions 1st and 2nd; (3) a much-tortured draft amongst the Bodleian
manuscripts, collated by Mr. C. D. Locock. For (1) and (2) Mrs. Shelley
is responsible. Our text (enlarged by about thirty lines fro the
Bodleian manuscript) follows for the most part the "Poetical Works",
1839; verbal exceptions are pointed out in the footnotes. See also the
Editor's Notes at the end of this volume, and Mr. Locock's
"Examination of Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library", Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1903. ]

PART 1.

There was a youth, who, as with toil and travel,
Had grown quite weak and gray before his time;
Nor any could the restless griefs unravel

Which burned within him, withering up his prime
And goading him, like fiends, from land to land. _5
Not his the load of any secret crime,

For nought of ill his heart could understand,
But pity and wild sorrow for the same;--
Not his the thirst for glory or command,

Baffled with blast of hope-consuming shame; _10
Nor evil joys which fire the vulgar breast,
And quench in speedy smoke its feeble flame,

Had left within his soul their dark unrest:
Nor what religion fables of the grave
Feared he,--Philosophy's accepted guest. _15

For none than he a purer heart could have,
Or that loved good more for itself alone;
Of nought in heaven or earth was he the slave.

What sorrow, strange, and shadowy, and unknown,
Sent him, a hopeless wanderer, through mankind? -- _20
If with a human sadness he did groan,

He had a gentle yet aspiring mind;
Just, innocent, with varied learning fed;
And such a glorious consolation find

In others' joy, when all their own is dead: _25
He loved, and laboured for his kind in grief,
And yet, unlike all others, it is said

That from such toil he never found relief.
Although a child of fortune and of power,
Of an ancestral name the orphan chief, _30

His soul had wedded Wisdom, and her dower
Is love and justice, clothed in which he sate
Apart from men, as in a lonely tower,

Pitying the tumult of their dark estate. --
Yet even in youth did he not e'er abuse _35
The strength of wealth or thought, to consecrate

Those false opinions which the harsh rich use
To blind the world they famish for their pride;
Nor did he hold from any man his dues,

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!