Published
in Hogg's "Life of Shelley", 1858.
Shelley
FRAGMENTS SUPPOSED TO BE PARTS OF OTHO.
'O THAT A CHARIOT OF CLOUD WERE MINE'.
FRAGMENTS:
TO A FRIEND RELEASED FROM PRISON.
SATAN BROKEN LOOSE.
IGNICULUS DESIDERII.
AMOR AETERNUS.
THOUGHTS COME AND GO IN SOLITUDE.
A HATE-SONG.
LINES TO A CRITIC.
OZYMANDIAS.
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1817, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818.
TO THE NILE.
PASSAGE OF THE APENNINES.
THE PAST.
TO MARY --.
ON A FADED VIOLET.
LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS.
SCENE FROM "TASSO".
SONG FOR "TASSO".
INVOCATION TO MISERY.
STANZAS WRITTEN IN DEJECTION, NEAR NAPLES.
THE WOODMAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE.
MARENGHI.
SONNET: 'LIFT NOT THE PAINTED VEIL'.
FRAGMENTS:
TO BYRON.
APOSTROPHE TO SILENCE.
THE LAKE'S MARGIN.
'MY HEAD IS WILD WITH WEEPING'.
THE VINE-SHROUD.
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1818, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819:
LINES WRITTEN DURING THE CASTLEREAGH ADMINISTRATION.
SONG TO THE MEN OF ENGLAND.
SIMILES FOR TWO POLITICAL CHARACTERS OF 1819.
FRAGMENT: TO THE PEOPLE OF ENGLAND.
FRAGMENT: 'WHAT MEN GAIN FAIRLY'.
A NEW NATIONAL ANTHEM.
SONNET: ENGLAND IN 1819.
AN ODE WRITTEN OCTOBER, 1819.
CANCELLED STANZA.
ODE TO HEAVEN.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND.
AN EXHORTATION.
THE INDIAN SERENADE.
CANCELLED PASSAGE.
TO SOPHIA [MISS STACEY].
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY, 1.
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY, 2.
TO MARY SHELLEY, 1.
TO MARY SHELLEY, 2.
ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI.
LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY.
FRAGMENT: 'FOLLOW TO THE DEEP WOOD'S WEEDS'.
THE BIRTH OF PLEASURE.
FRAGMENTS:
LOVE THE UNIVERSE TO-DAY.
'A GENTLE STORY OF TWO LOVERS YOUNG'.
LOVE'S TENDER ATMOSPHERE.
WEDDED SOULS.
'IS IT THAT IN SOME BRIGHTER SPHERE'.
SUFFICIENT UNTO THE DAY.
'YE GENTLE VISITATIONS OF CALM THOUGHT'.
MUSIC AND SWEET POETRY.
THE SEPULCHRE OF MEMORY.
'WHEN A LOVER CLASPS HIS FAIREST'.
'WAKE THE SERPENT NOT'.
RAIN.
A TALE UNTOLD.
TO ITALY.
WINE OF THE FAIRIES.
A ROMAN'S CHAMBER.
ROME AND NATURE.
VARIATION OF THE SONG OF THE MOON.
CANCELLED STANZA OF THE MASK OF ANARCHY.
NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1820:
THE SENSITIVE PLANT.
CANCELLED PASSAGE.
A VISION OF THE SEA.
THE CLOUD.
TO A SKYLARK.
ODE TO LIBERTY.
CANCELLED PASSAGE.
TO --. 'I FEAR THY KISSES, GENTLE MAIDEN'.
ARETHUSA.
SONG OF PROSERPINE.
HYMN OF APOLLO.
HYMN OF PAN.
THE QUESTION.
THE TWO SPIRITS. AN ALLEGORY.
ODE TO NAPLES.
AUTUMN: A DIRGE.
THE WANING MOON.
TO THE MOON.
DEATH.
LIBERTY.
SUMMER AND WINTER.
THE TOWER OF FAMINE.
AN ALLEGORY.
THE WORLD'S WANDERERS.
SONNET: 'YE HASTEN TO THE GRAVE! '.
LINES TO A REVIEWER.
FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE ON SATIRE.
GOOD-NIGHT.
BUONA NOTTE.
ORPHEUS.
FIORDISPINA.
TIME LONG PAST.
FRAGMENTS:
THE DESERTS OF DIM SLEEP.
'THE VIEWLESS AND INVISIBLE CONSEQUENCE'.
A SERPENT-FACE.
DEATH IN LIFE.
'SUCH HOPE, AS IS THE SICK DESPAIR OF GOOD'.
'ALAS THIS IS NOT WHAT I THOUGHT LIFE WAS'.
MILTON'S SPIRIT.
'UNRISEN SPLENDOUR OF THE BRIGHTEST SUN'.
PATER OMNIPOTENS.
TO THE MIND OF MAN.
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820, BY MRS SHELLEY.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1821:
DIRGE FOR THE YEAR.
TO NIGHT.
TIME.
LINES: 'FAR, FAR AWAY'.
FROM THE ARABIC: AN IMITATION.
TO EMILIA VIVIANI.
THE FUGITIVES.
TO --. 'MUSIC, WHEN SOFT VOICES DIE'.
SONG: 'RARELY, RARELY, COMEST THOU'.
MUTABILITY.
LINES WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON.
SONNET: POLITICAL GREATNESS.
THE AZIOLA.
A LAMENT.
REMEMBRANCE.
TO EDWARD WILLIAMS.
TO --. 'ONE WORD IS TOO OFTEN PROFANED'.
TO --. 'WHEN PASSION'S TRANCE IS OVERPAST'.
A BRIDAL SONG.
EPITHALAMIUM.
ANOTHER VERSION OF THE SAME.
LOVE, HOPE, DESIRE, AND FEAR.
FRAGMENTS WRITTEN FOR "HELLAS".
FRAGMENT: 'I WOULD NOT BE A KING'.
GINEVRA.
EVENING: PONTE AL MARE, PISA.
THE BOAT ON THE SERCHIO.
MUSIC.
SONNET TO BYRON.
FRAGMENT ON KEATS.
FRAGMENT: 'METHOUGHT I WAS A BILLOW IN THE CROWD'.
TO-MORROW.
STANZA: 'IF I WALK IN AUTUMN'S EVEN'.
FRAGMENTS:
A WANDERER.
LIFE ROUNDED WITH SLEEP.
'I FAINT, I PERISH WITH MY LOVE'.
THE LADY OF THE SOUTH.
ZEPHYRUS THE AWAKENER.
RAIN.
'WHEN SOFT WINDS AND SUNNY SKIES'.
'AND THAT I WALK THUS PROUDLY CROWNED'.
'THE RUDE WIND IS SINGING'.
'GREAT SPIRIT'.
'O THOU IMMORTAL DEITY'.
THE FALSE LAUREL AND THE TRUE.
MAY THE LIMNER.
BEAUTY'S HALO.
'THE DEATH KNELL IS RINGING'.
'I STOOD UPON A HEAVEN-CLEAVING TURRET'.
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1822:
THE ZUCCA.
THE MAGNETIC LADY TO HER PATIENT.
LINES: 'WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED'.
TO JANE: THE INVITATION.
TO JANE: THE RECOLLECTION.
THE PINE FOREST OF THE CASCINE NEAR PISA.
WITH A GUITAR, TO JANE.
TO JANE: 'THE KEEN STARS WERE TWINKLING'.
A DIRGE.
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI.
LINES: 'WE MEET NOT AS WE PARTED'.
THE ISLE.
FRAGMENT: TO THE MOON.
EPITAPH.
NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
***
EARLY POEMS [1814, 1815].
[The poems which follow appeared, with a few exceptions, either in the
volumes published from time to time by Shelley himself, or in the
"Posthumous Poems" of 1824, or in the "Poetical Works" of 1839, of
which a second and enlarged edition was published by Mrs. Shelley in
the same year. A few made their first appearance in some fugitive
publication--such as Leigh Hunt's "Literary Pocket-Book"--and were
subsequently incorporated in the collective editions. In every case the
editio princeps and (where this is possible) the exact date of
composition are indicated below the title. ]
***
STANZA, WRITTEN AT BRACKNELL.
[Composed March, 1814.
Published in Hogg's "Life of Shelley", 1858. ]
Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thy gentle words stir poison there;
Thou hast disturbed the only rest
That was the portion of despair!
Subdued to Duty's hard control, _5
I could have borne my wayward lot:
The chains that bind this ruined soul
Had cankered then--but crushed it not.
***
STANZAS. --APRIL, 1814.
[Composed at Bracknell, April, 1814. Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! The time is past! Every voice cries, Away! _5
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend's ungentle mood:
Thy lover's eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.
Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; _10
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head:
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, _15
Ere midnight's frown and morning's smile, ere thou and peace may meet.
The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep:
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. _20
Thou in the grave shalt rest--yet till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.
NOTE:
_6 tear 1816; glance 1839.
***
TO HARRIET.
[Composed May, 1814. Published (from the Esdaile manuscript) by Dowden,
"Life of Shelley", 1887. ]
Thy look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life's too bitter bowl;
No grief is mine, but that alone _5
These choicest blessings I have known.
Harriet! if all who long to live
In the warm sunshine of thine eye,
That price beyond all pain must give,--
Beneath thy scorn to die; _10
Then hear thy chosen own too late
His heart most worthy of thy hate.
Be thou, then, one among mankind
Whose heart is harder not for state,
Thou only virtuous, gentle, kind, _15
Amid a world of hate;
And by a slight endurance seal
A fellow-being's lasting weal.
For pale with anguish is his cheek,
His breath comes fast, his eyes are dim, _20
Thy name is struggling ere he speak,
Weak is each trembling limb;
In mercy let him not endure
The misery of a fatal cure.
Oh, trust for once no erring guide! _25
Bid the remorseless feeling flee;
'Tis malice, 'tis revenge, 'tis pride,
'Tis anything but thee;
Oh, deign a nobler pride to prove,
And pity if thou canst not love. _30
***
TO MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT GODWIN.
[Composed June, 1814. Published in "Posthumous Poems", 1824. ]
1.
Mine eyes were dim with tears unshed;
Yes, I was firm--thus wert not thou;--
My baffled looks did fear yet dread
To meet thy looks--I could not know
How anxiously they sought to shine _5
With soothing pity upon mine.
2.
To sit and curb the soul's mute rage
Which preys upon itself alone;
To curse the life which is the cage
Of fettered grief that dares not groan, _10
Hiding from many a careless eye
The scorned load of agony.
3.
Whilst thou alone, then not regarded,
The . . . thou alone should be,
To spend years thus, and be rewarded, _15
As thou, sweet love, requited me
When none were near--Oh! I did wake
From torture for that moment's sake.
4.
Upon my heart thy accents sweet
Of peace and pity fell like dew _20
On flowers half dead;--thy lips did meet
Mine tremblingly; thy dark eyes threw
Their soft persuasion on my brain,
Charming away its dream of pain.
5.
We are not happy, sweet! our state _25
Is strange and full of doubt and fear;
More need of words that ills abate;--
Reserve or censure come not near
Our sacred friendship, lest there be
No solace left for thee and me. _30
6.
Gentle and good and mild thou art,
Nor can I live if thou appear
Aught but thyself, or turn thine heart
Away from me, or stoop to wear
The mask of scorn, although it be _35
To hide the love thou feel'st for me.
NOTES:
_2 wert 1839; did 1824.
_3 fear 1824, 1839; yearn cj. Rossetti.
_23 Their 1839; thy 1824.
_30 thee]thou 1824, 1839.
_32 can I 1839; I can 1824.
_36 feel'st 1839; feel 1824.
***
TO --.
[Published in "Poetical Works", 1839, 2nd edition. See Editor's Note. ]
Yet look on me--take not thine eyes away,
Which feed upon the love within mine own,
Which is indeed but the reflected ray
Of thine own beauty from my spirit thrown.
Yet speak to me--thy voice is as the tone _5
Of my heart's echo, and I think I hear
That thou yet lovest me; yet thou alone
Like one before a mirror, without care
Of aught but thine own features, imaged there;
And yet I wear out life in watching thee; _10
A toil so sweet at times, and thou indeed
Art kind when I am sick, and pity me. . .
***
MUTABILITY.
[Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! --yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:
Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings _5
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.
We rest. --A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. --One wandering thought pollutes the day; _10
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:
It is the same! --For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; _15
Nought may endure but Mutability.
NOTES:
_15 may 1816; can Lodore, chapter 49, 1835 (Mrs. Shelley).
_16 Nought may endure but 1816;
Nor aught endure save Lodore, chapter 49, 1835 (Mrs. Shelley).
***
ON DEATH.
[For the date of composition see Editor's Note.
Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
THERE IS NO WORK, NOR DEVICE, NOR KNOWLEDGE, NOR WISDOM,
IN THE GRAVE, WHITHER THOU GOEST. --Ecclesiastes.
The pale, the cold, and the moony smile
Which the meteor beam of a starless night
Sheds on a lonely and sea-girt isle,
Ere the dawning of morn's undoubted light,
Is the flame of life so fickle and wan
That flits round our steps till their strength is gone. _5
O man! hold thee on in courage of soul
Through the stormy shades of thy worldly way,
And the billows of cloud that around thee roll
Shall sleep in the light of a wondrous day, _10
Where Hell and Heaven shall leave thee free
To the universe of destiny.
This world is the nurse of all we know,
This world is the mother of all we feel,
And the coming of death is a fearful blow _15
To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel;
When all that we know, or feel, or see,
Shall pass like an unreal mystery.
The secret things of the grave are there,
Where all but this frame must surely be, _20
Though the fine-wrought eye and the wondrous ear
No longer will live to hear or to see
All that is great and all that is strange
In the boundless realm of unending change.
Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? _25
Who lifteth the veil of what is to come?
Who painteth the shadows that are beneath
The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb?
Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be
With the fears and the love for that which we see? _30
***
A SUMMER EVENING CHURCHYARD.
LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE.
[Composed September, 1815. Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
The wind has swept from the wide atmosphere
Each vapour that obscured the sunset's ray;
And pallid Evening twines its beaming hair
In duskier braids around the languid eyes of Day:
Silence and Twilight, unbeloved of men, _5
Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen.
They breathe their spells towards the departing day,
Encompassing the earth, air, stars, and sea;
Light, sound, and motion own the potent sway,
Responding to the charm with its own mystery. _10
The winds are still, or the dry church-tower grass
Knows not their gentle motions as they pass.
Thou too, aereal Pile! whose pinnacles
Point from one shrine like pyramids of fire,
Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells, _15
Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire,
Around whose lessening and invisible height
Gather among the stars the clouds of night.
The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres:
And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound, _20
Half sense, half thought, among the darkness stirs,
Breathed from their wormy beds all living things around,
And mingling with the still night and mute sky
Its awful hush is felt inaudibly.
Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild _25
And terrorless as this serenest night:
Here could I hope, like some inquiring child
Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight
Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep
That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep. _30
***
TO --.
[Published with "Alastor", 1816. See Editor's Note. ]
DAKRTSI DIOISO POTMON 'APOTMON.
Oh! there are spirits of the air,
And genii of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:--
Such lovely ministers to meet _5
Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet.
With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And moonlight seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
Thou didst hold commune, and rejoice _10
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams that were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth:--tame sacrifice
To a fond faith! still dost thou pine? _15
Still dost thou hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands?
Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy? _20
Did thine own mind afford no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles?
Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled _25
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
The glory of the moon is dead;
Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is true to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery. _30
This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee like thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase;--the mad endeavour
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as thou art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all change would aggravate. _35
NOTES:
_1 of 1816; in 1839.
_8 moonlight 1816; mountain 1839.
***
TO WORDSWORTH.
[Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine _5
Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude: _10
In honoured poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,--
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.
***
FEELINGS OF A REPUBLICAN ON THE FALL OF BONAPARTE.
[Published with "Alastor", 1816. ]
I hated thee, fallen tyrant! I did groan
To think that a most unambitious slave,
Like thou, shouldst dance and revel on the grave
Of Liberty. Thou mightst have built thy throne
Where it had stood even now: thou didst prefer _5
A frail and bloody pomp which Time has swept
In fragments towards Oblivion. Massacre,
For this I prayed, would on thy sleep have crept,
Treason and Slavery, Rapine, Fear, and Lust,
And stifled thee, their minister. I know _10
Too late, since thou and France are in the dust,
That Virtue owns a more eternal foe
Than Force or Fraud: old Custom, legal Crime,
And bloody Faith the foulest birth of Time.
***
LINES.
[Published in Hunt's "Literary Pocket-Book", 1823, where it is headed
"November, 1815". Reprinted in the "Posthumous Poems", 1824. See
Editor's Note. ]
1.
The cold earth slept below,
Above the cold sky shone;
And all around, with a chilling sound,
From caves of ice and fields of snow,
The breath of night like death did flow _5
Beneath the sinking moon.
2.
The wintry hedge was black,
The green grass was not seen,
The birds did rest on the bare thorn's breast,
Whose roots, beside the pathway track, _10
Had bound their folds o'er many a crack
Which the frost had made between.
3.
Thine eyes glowed in the glare
Of the moon's dying light;
As a fen-fire's beam on a sluggish stream _15
Gleams dimly, so the moon shone there,
And it yellowed the strings of thy raven hair,
That shook in the wind of night.
4.
The moon made thy lips pale, beloved--
The wind made thy bosom chill-- _20
The night did shed on thy dear head
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky
Might visit thee at will.
NOTE:
_17 raven 1823; tangled 1824.
***
NOTE ON THE EARLY POEMS, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
The remainder of Shelley's Poems will be arranged in the order in which
they were written. Of course, mistakes will occur in placing some of
the shorter ones; for, as I have said, many of these were thrown aside,
and I never saw them till I had the misery of looking over his writings
after the hand that traced them was dust; and some were in the hands of
others, and I never saw them till now. The subjects of the poems are
often to me an unerring guide; but on other occasions I can only guess,
by finding them in the pages of the same manuscript book that contains
poems with the date of whose composition I am fully conversant. In the
present arrangement all his poetical translations will be placed
together at the end.
The loss of his early papers prevents my being able to give any of the
poetry of his boyhood. Of the few I give as "Early Poems", the greater
part were published with "Alastor"; some of them were written
previously, some at the same period. The poem beginning 'Oh, there are
spirits in the air' was addressed in idea to Coleridge, whom he never
knew; and at whose character he could only guess imperfectly, through
his writings, and accounts he heard of him from some who knew him well.
He regarded his change of opinions as rather an act of will than
conviction, and believed that in his inner heart he would be haunted by
what Shelley considered the better and holier aspirations of his youth.
The summer evening that suggested to him the poem written in the
churchyard of Lechlade occurred during his voyage up the Thames in
1815. He had been advised by a physician to live as much as possible in
the open air; and a fortnight of a bright warm July was spent in
tracing the Thames to its source. He never spent a season more
tranquilly than the summer of 1815. He had just recovered from a severe
pulmonary attack; the weather was warm and pleasant. He lived near
Windsor Forest; and his life was spent under its shades or on the
water, meditating subjects for verse. Hitherto, he had chiefly aimed at
extending his political doctrines, and attempted so to do by appeals in
prose essays to the people, exhorting them to claim their rights; but
he had now begun to feel that the time for action was not ripe in
England, and that the pen was the only instrument wherewith to prepare
the way for better things.
In the scanty journals kept during those years I find a record of the
books that Shelley read during several years. During the years of 1814
and 1815 the list is extensive. It includes, in Greek, Homer, Hesiod,
Theocritus, the histories of Thucydides and Herodotus, and Diogenes
Laertius. In Latin, Petronius, Suetonius, some of the works of Cicero,
a large proportion of those of Seneca and Livy. In English, Milton's
poems, Wordsworth's "Excursion", Southey's "Madoc" and "Thalaba", Locke
"On the Human Understanding", Bacon's "Novum Organum". In Italian,
Ariosto, Tasso, and Alfieri. In French, the "Reveries d'un Solitaire"
of Rousseau. To these may be added several modern books of travel. He
read few novels.
***
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1816.
THE SUNSET.
[Written at Bishopsgate, 1816 (spring). Published in full in the
"Posthumous Poems", 1824. Lines 9-20, and 28-42, appeared in Hunt's
"Literary Pocket-Book", 1823, under the titles, respectively, of
"Sunset. From an Unpublished Poem", And "Grief. A Fragment". ]
There late was One within whose subtle being,
As light and wind within some delicate cloud
That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky,
Genius and death contended. None may know
The sweetness of the joy which made his breath _5
Fail, like the trances of the summer air,
When, with the Lady of his love, who then
First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
He walked along the pathway of a field
Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o'er, _10
But to the west was open to the sky.
There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold
Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
Of the far level grass and nodding flowers
And the old dandelion's hoary beard, _15
And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
On the brown massy woods--and in the east
The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
While the faint stars were gathering overhead. -- _20
'Is it not strange, Isabel,' said the youth,
'I never saw the sun? We will walk here
To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me. '
That night the youth and lady mingled lay
In love and sleep--but when the morning came _25
The lady found her lover dead and cold.
Let none believe that God in mercy gave
That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
But year by year lived on--in truth I think
Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles, _30
And that she did not die, but lived to tend
Her aged father, were a kind of madness,
If madness 'tis to be unlike the world.
For but to see her were to read the tale
Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts _35
Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;--
Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan:
Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
Her lips and cheeks were like things dead--so pale;
Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins _40
And weak articulations might be seen
Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!
'Inheritor of more than earth can give, _45
Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
Whether the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,
And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
Or live, or drop in the deep sea of Love;
Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were--Peace! ' _50
This was the only moan she ever made.
NOTES:
_4 death 1839; youth 1824.
_22 sun? We will walk 1824; sunrise? We will wake cj. Forman.
_37 Her eyes. . . wan Hunt, 1823; omitted 1824, 1839.
