Posthumous poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley

Preface

. It had been my wish, on presenting the public with the Posthumous Poems of Mr. Shelley, to have accompanied them by a biographical notice ; as it ap peared to me, that at this moment, a narration of the events of my husband's life would come more grace fully from other hands than mine, I applied to Mr. Leigh Hunt. The distinguished friendship that Mr. Shelley felt for him, and the enthusiastic affection with which Mr. Leigh Hunt clings to his friend's memory, seemed to point him out as the per son best calculated for such an undertaking. His absence from this country, which prevented our mutual explanation, has unfortunately rendered my scheme, abortive. I do not doubt but that on some other occasion he will pay this tribute to his lost friend, and sincerely regret that the volume which I edit has not been honoured by its insertion. The comparative solitude in which Mr. Shelley lived, was the occasion that he was personally known to few ; and his fearless enthusiasm in the cause,

PREFACE.

. which he considered the most sacred upon earth, the improvement of the moral and physical state of mankind, was the chief reason why he, like other illustrious reformers, was pursued by hatred and calumny. No man was ever more devoted than he, to the endeavour of making those around him happy ; no man ever possessed friends more unfeignedly attached to him. The ungrateful world did not feel his loss, and the gap it made seemed to close as quickly over his memory as the murderous sea above his living frame. Hereafter men will lament that his transcendant powers of in tellect were extinguished before they had bestowed on them their choicest treasures. To his friends his loss is irremediable : the wise, the brave, the gentle, is gone for ever ! He is to them as a bright vision, whose radiant track, left behind in the memory, is worth all the realities that society can afford.

Be fore the critics contradict me, let them appeal to any one who had ever known him : to see him was to love him ; and his presence, like Ithuriel's spear, was alone sufficient to disclose the falsehood of the tale, which his enemies whispered in the ear of the ignorant world. His life was spent in the contemplation of nature, in arduous study, or in acts of kindness and affection. He was an elegant scholar and a profound metaphysi cian : without possessing much scientific knowledge, he was unrivalled in the justness and extent of his observations on natural objects ; he knew every plant

PREFACE.

. V by its name, and was familiar with the history and habits of every production of the earth ; he could interpret without a fault each appearance in the sky, and the varied phœnomena of heaven and earth filled him with deep emotion. He made his study and reading-room of the shadowed copse, the stream, the lake and the waterfall. Ill health and continual pain preyed upon his powers, and the solitude in which we lived, particularly on our first arrival in Italy, although congenial to his feelings, must frequently have weighed upon his spirits ; those beautiful and affecting " Lines, written in dejection at Naples," were composed at such an interval; but when in health, his spirits were buoyant and youthful to an extraordinary degree. Such was his love for nature, that every page of his poetry is associated in the minds of his friends with the loveliest scenes of the countries which he inhabited.

In early life he visited the most beautiful parts of this country and Ireland. Afterwards the Alps of Switzerland became his inspirers. " Pro metheus Unbound" was written among the deserted and flower-grown ruins of Rome, and when he made his home under the Pisan hills, their roof less recesses harboured him as he composed "The Witch of Atlas," " Adonais" and " Hellas." In the wild but beautiful Bay of Spezia, the winds and waves which he loved became his playmates. His days were chiefly spent on the water; the management of his boat, its alterations and improvements, were his VI

PREFACE.

. principal occupation. At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the calm sea, he often went alone in his little shallop to the rocky caves that bordered it, and sitting beneath their shelter wrote " The Triumph of Life," the last of his productions. The beauty but strangeness of this lonely place, the re fined pleasure which he felt in the companionship of a few selected friends, our entire sequestration from the rest of the world, all contributed to render this period of his life one of continued enjoyment. I am convinced that the two months we passed there were the happiest he had ever known: his health even rapidly improved, and he was never better than when I last saw him, full of spirits and joy, embark for Leg horn, that he might there welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy. I was to have accompanied him, but illness confined me to my room, and thus put the seal on my misfortune.

His vessel bore out of sight with a fa vourable wind, and I remained awaitins: his return by the breakers of that sea which was about to engulph him. He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind offices towards his friend, and enjoying with keen delight the renewal of their intercourse. He then embarked with Mr. Williams, the chosen and beloved sharer of his pleasures and of his fate, to return to us. We waited for them in vain ; the sea by its restless moaning seemed to desire to inform us of what we would not learn : but a veil may well be drawn over such misery. The real anguish of these moments

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. VII transcended all the fictions that the most glowing imagination ever pourtrayed : our seclusion, the savage nature of the inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our immediate vicinity to the troubled sea, com bined to embue with strange horror our days of uncer tainty. The truth was at last known, — a truth that made our loved and lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every heart echoed the deep lament, and my only consolation was in the praise and earnest love that each voice bestowed and each countenance demon strated for him we had lost, — not, I fondly hope, for ever:, his unearthly and elevated nature is a pledge of the continuation of his being, although in an al tered form. Rome received his ashes ; they are deposited beneath its weed-grown wall, and " the world's sole monument" is enriched by his remains.

I must add a few words concerning the contents of this volume. " Julian and Maddalo," " The Witch of Atlas," and most of the Translations, were written some years ago, and, with the exception of " The Cyclops," and the Scenes from the " Magico Prodigioso," may be considered as having received the author's ultimate corrections. " The Triumph of Life " was his last work, and was left in so un finished a state, that I arranged it in its present form with great difficulty. All his poems which were scattered in periodical works are collected in this volume, and I have added a reprint of " Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude :" — the difficulty with which a copy can be obtained, is the cause of its republica-

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. tion. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the occasion, and never retouched, I found among his manuscript books, and have care fully copied: I have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the date of their composition. I do not know whether the critics will reprehend the insertion of some of the most imperfect among these ; but I frankly own, that 1 have been more actuated by the fear lest any monument of his genius should escape me, than the wish of presenting nothing but what was complete to the fastidious reader. I feel secure that the Lovers of Shelley's Poetry (who know how more than any other poet of the present day every line and word he wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will pardon and thank me : I consecrate this volume to them. The size of this collection has prevented the in sertion of any prose pieces.

They will hereafter appear in a separate publication. Mary W. Shelley. London, June 1st, CONTENTS. Page Julian and Maddalo ...... 1 The Witch of Atlas . . - . . .27 Letter to ...... 57 The Triumph of Life .... .71 Fragments from an Unfinished Drama . . .97 Prince Athanase ..... . 103 Ode to Naples . . . . . .111 Marianne's Dream . . . . . .121 Mont Blanc ....... 129 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci . . . 139 Song . . . . . . . .141 To Constantia, singing .... . 143 The Fugitives . . ... . . .145 A Lament ..... . 148 The Pine Forest . . . . . .149 To Night ...... .154 Evening ....... 156 Arethusa . . . . . . .157 The Question . . . . . .161 Lines to an Indian Air . . . . . 163 Stanzas . . . . . 164 Autumn, a Dirge ..... 166 Hymn of Apollo . . . . . .167 X CONTENTS. Page Hymn of Pan ..... .169 The Boat on the Serchio . . . . .171 The Zueca ..... .175 The Two Spirits . . . l . . .179 A Fragment ..... . 181 A Bridal Song ...... 182 The Sunset . . . . .183 On a Faded Violet ...... 185 Lines to a Critic ..... . 186 Good-Night . . . . . 187 To-morrow . . . . . .188 Death ........ 189 A Lament ..... . 190 Love's Philosophy ...... 191 ToE»**V*** ..... .192 To 193 Lines ...... . 194 To William Shelley ...... 196 An Allegory ..... . 197 Mutability . . . . .... 198 From the Arabic . . * . . . . 199 To . . . ... . .200 Music ...... . 201 Lines ........ 202 Death ...... . 204 To . . . . . . .205 Passage of the Apennines . . . . 206 To Mary ....... 207 The Past ..... . 208 Song of a Spirit ...... 209 Liberty ...... . 210 To • • • • • . .211 The Isle ...... 213 To 214 Time .215 Lines ........ 216 A Song ...... .217 CONTENTS.

XI Paijc The World's Wanderers .... 218 A Dirge .219 Lines ........ 220 Dirge for the Year .... 221 Sonnet I. ...... , 222 Sonnet II. . . . . 393 Sonnet III. . . . 224 Sonnet IV. .... 225 FRAGMENTS. ' Ginevra ..... 229 Charles the First ..... 237 Prince Athanase, Part II. . 249 Mazenghi ...... 257 The Woodman and the Nightingale .... 260 To the Moon .... 263 Song for Tasso .... 264 The Waning Moon .... 265 Epitaph 266 Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude . . 267 TRANSLATIONS. Hymn to Mercury, from Homer . . . 295 The Cyclops, from Eurypides . . . 329 Translation from Moschus .... 362 Scenes from the " Magico Prodigioso" of Calderon . 363 Scenes from the " Faust" of Goethe . . . ; A CONVERSATION. The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, The goats with the green leaves of budding spring, Are saturated not — nor Love with tears.

Virgil's Gallus. Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius; and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud : he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men, and instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exer tion.

I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentered and impatient feel ings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unas suming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication ; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries. Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible.

Without concealing the evil in the world, he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible, the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious. Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems by his own account to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind : the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a suffi cient comment for the text of every heart.

A CONVERSATION. I rode one evening with Count Maddalo Upon the bank of land which breaks the flow Of Adria towards Venice : a bare strand Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds, Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, Is this ; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon, Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places ; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be : And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows ; and yet more Than all, with a remembered friend I love To ride as then I rode ;— for the winds drove The living spray along the sunny air Into our faces ; the blue heavens were bare, Stripped to their depths by the awakening north ; And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth Harmonising with solitude, and sent Into our hearts aerial merriment.

So, as we rode, we talked ; and the swift thought, Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain, — such glee was ours, Charged with light memories of remembered hours, None slow enough for sadness : till we came Homeward, which always makes the spirit tame. This day had been cheerful but cold, and now The sun was sinking, and the wind also. Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may be Talk interrupted with such raillery As mocks itself, because it cannot scorn The thoughts it would extinguish : — 'twas forlorn, Yet pleasing ; such as once, so poets tell, The devils held within the dales of hell, Concerning God, freewill, and destiny. Of all that Earth has been, or yet may be ; All that vain men imagine or believe, Or hope can paint, or suffering can achieve, We descanted ; and I (for ever still Is it not wise to make the best of ill ?)

Argued against despondency ; but pride Made my companion take the darker side. The sense that he was greater than his kind Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blind By gazing on its own exceeding light. Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight Over the horizon of the mountains — Oh ! How beautiful is sunset, when the glow Of heaven descends upon a land like thee, Thou paradise of exiles, Italy ! Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towers Of cities they encircle ! — It was ours To stand on thee, beholding it : and then, Just where we had dismounted, the Count's men Were waiting for us with the gondola. As those who pause on some delightful way, Tho' bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stood, Looking upon the evening and the flood, Which lay between the city and the shore, Paved with the image of the sky : the hoar And aery Alps, towards the north, appeared, Thro' mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark, reared Between the east and west ; and half the sky Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonry, Dark purple at the zenith, which still grew Down the steep west into a wondrous hue Brighter than burning gold, even to the rent Where the swift sun yet paused in his descent Among the many folded hills — they were Those famous Euganean hills, which bear, As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles, The likeness of a clump of peaked isles — And then, as if the earth and sea had been Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering, as from waves of flame, Around the vaporous sun, from which there came The inmost purple spirit of light, and made still Their very peaks transparent.

" Ere it fade," Said my companion, " I will show you soon A better station." So, o'er the lagune We glided ; and from that funereal bark I leaned, and saw the city, and could mark How from their many isles, in evening's gleam, Its temples and its palaces did seem Like fabrics of enchantment piled to heav'n. I was about to speak, when — " We are even Now at the point I meant," said Maddalo, And bade the gondolieri cease to row. " Look, Julian, on the west, and listen well If you hear not a deep and heavy bell." I looked, and saw between us and the sun A building on an island, such an one As age to age might add, for uses vile, — A windowless, deformed and dreary pile ; And on the top an open tower, where hung A bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung, We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue: The broad sun sank behind it, and it tolled In strong and black relief. — " What we behold Shall be the madhouse and its belfry tower ;" — Said Maddalo, " and even at this hour, Those who may cross the water hear that bell, Which calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, To vespers." — " As much skill as need to pray, In thanks or hope for their dark lot have they, To their stern maker," I replied. — " O, ho !

You talk as in years past," said Maddalo. " 'Tis strange men change not. You were ever 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 from his eye. " And such," he cried, " is our mortality ; 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 an heav'n-illumined tower, must toll Our thoughts and our desires to meet below 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 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 grey ; and all between, 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. 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; Graceful without design, and unforeseeing ; With eyes — Oh ! speak not of her eyes ! which seem cast Twin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleam With such deep meaning as we never see But in the human countenance. With me 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.

For, after her first shyness was worn out, We sate there, rolling billiard balls about, When the Count entered. Salutations past : " The words you spoke last night might well have A darkness on my spirit : — if man be The passive thing you say, I should not see Much harm in the religions and old saws, (Though I may never own such leaden laws) Which break a teachless nature to the yoke : Mine is another faith." — Thus much I spoke, 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 Which 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 minds ?

And, if we were not weak, Should we be less in deed than in desire ?" — — " Aye, 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 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 And suffer — what, we know not till we try ; But something nobler than to live and die : So taught the kings of old philosophy, Who reigned before religion made men blind; And those who suffer with their suffering kind, Yet feel this faith, religion." " My dear friend," Said Maddalo, " my judgment 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, 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 shew 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 bow'd His being -.—there are some by nature proud, Who, patient in all else, demand but this — were To love and be beloved with gentleness : — And being scorned, what wonder if they die Some living death ? This is not destiny, But man's own wilful ill." — As thus I spoke, Servants announced the gondola, and we Through the fast-falling rain and highwrought sea Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.

We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, Fierce yells, and howlings, and lamentings keen, And laughter where complaint had merrier been, Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs Into an old court-yard. I heard on high, Then, fragments of most touching melody, But looking up saw not the singer there. — Thro' the black bars in the tempestuous air I saw, like weeds on a wreck'd palace growing, Long tangled locks flung wildly forth and flowing, Of those who on a sudden were beguiled Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled, Hearing sweet sounds. Then I : — " Methinks there A cure of these with patience and kind care, If music can thus move. But what is he, 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 But he was ever talking in such sort As you do, — but more sadly ; — he seem'd 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 In some respects, you know) which carry thro' The excellent impostors of this earth When they outface detection. He had worth, Poor fellow ! but a humourist in his way." — ■" Alas, what drove him mad!" " I cannot say : A lady came with him from France, and when She left him and returned, he wander'd then About yon lonely isles of desart sand, Till he grew wild. He had no cash or land Remaining : — the police had brought him here — 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, And instruments of music.

You may guess A stranger could do little more or less For oneso gentle and unfortunate — And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight From madmen's chains, and make this hell appear 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, Fall'n to such deep reverse. His melody 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 and hears not any."

Having said 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 Rushed thro' 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 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, 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 Was lost in grief, and then his words came each Unmodulated and 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 Hissed thro' 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, 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 ; 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 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 Were covered in upon my body now !