Shelley, a poem, with other writings relating to Shelley, to which is added an essay on the poems of William Blake

Front matter

SHELLEY:

BY

JAMES THOMSON.

..

PREFATORY NOTE.

OF all our poets none has inspired a deeper personal love, or has had more earnest students than Shelley; and, it may be added, none has more deserved the love, and none will better repay the study bestowed upon him. His was no double nature; he did not give utterance to fine sentiments and act meanly; but was no less to be admired as a man than as a poet.

Not one of Shelley's admirers, I am convinced, ever surpassed James Thomson in affectionate devotion to his memory, or ever studied his writings with more minute and loving care. His poetry inspired Thomson in his youth, at a time when Shelley's reputation had not yet risen above the fogs and clouds that so long obscured its radiance: it was a resource and a consolation to him under the misfortunes of his manhood: and to the last he never ceased to regard with gratitude and love "the poet of poets and purest of men." Let me here observe, parenthetically, that no stronger proof of the essentially original and individual character of Thomson's own genius can be given than the fact that loving so much and studying so closely the works of Shelley, he yet preserved himself entirely from becoming an imitator of his style or a plagiarist of his ideas.

That Thomson never found an opportunity of ex adequately and at length the results of his mature meditations upon his favourite poet is much to be regretted. A great and perfect picture might have been painted by his hand: what I have gathered together here are the few sketches—not perfect indeed, yet showing the touch of the master—which alone fate (unkind to him in this as in much else) allowed him to accomplish.

The Poem with which this volume begins, and which has not hitherto been printed, was written in 1861. It was thus a comparatively early work, and therefore the reader will hardly expect to find displayed in it the wonderful power and finished execution which characterise "The City of Dreadful Night," written ten or twelve years later, when the author's intellect was in its fullest vigour and maturity. Nevertheless it is a very interesting production, with many fine and eloquent passages. It is high praise to say of it that it is not unworthy of its subject, for the best poem that could be written on Shelley could be no more than worthy of its theme. Excluding Swinburne's "Cor Cordium" because of its brevity, I know of no other poem on Shelley which can compare with that here given.

The Essay which follows the Poem was also an early work. It was published in 1860, but it is likely enough that it was written a year or two earlier. It would perhaps be a mistake to assert that this Essay was the first in which the genius of Shelley was fully and unreservedly acknowledged; but it is certain that few critics before 1860 ever ventured to praise him, without making large abatements and qualifications. Of Shelley it may be said that he suffered in his person in his lifetime, and in his fame after his death, for the benefit of the Poets who have succeeded him. How much louder would the cry against the heterodox outpourings of Swinburne have been, if the vials of holy wrath had not been almost entirely emptied on Shelley's devoted head? Even "The City of Dreadful Night," that quintessence of all that respectability and conventionalism most abhor, only excited here and there a few low murmurs of disapproval, in place of the discordant and deafening shrieks which greeted "The Revolt of Islam" and "Prometheus Unbound."

Thus, as I have said, even those who were well-affected towards Shelley, were unable or unwilling, in face of the clamour against him, to praise him, without throwing in an allusion to those detestable opinions of his, which the critic would not, on any account, allow his readers to think that he himself approved of. Their praise was consequently deprived of almost all value, for Shelley's opinions were of the very essence of his writings, and it is impossible, except in a very few of his shorter pieces, to think of the poems apart from the sentiments which animate and inspire them. This then is, as I conceive, the peculiar merit of Thomson's Essay—that he recognises fully the nobility of Shelley's aims and ideas, and does not, as almost all writers had done before him, append a per contra of disparagement.

Let me add a few words more as to this Essay, although I have some hesitation in penning them. If the author had lived to republish it, he would, I think, have omitted or modified some few passages. I refer chiefly to the sentences in which Emerson and Carlyle are mentioned. Both of these authors retained to the last a portion of the great admiration with which in early life he regarded them: but I can hardly think that in 1880 he would have allowed the passages relating to them which he wrote in 1860 to remain altogether unaltered.

The Essay on the "Prometheus Unbound" is perhaps open to the charge (as the author himself seems to have felt) of dwelling too much on points almost too minute to be worth subjecting to such a rigorous examination. But perhaps this only seems so because Shelley has not yet taken his rightful place in our literature. The same minute study of Shakespeare's text is common, and Shakespearean editors and students would be much surprised if they were reproached with too searching an analysis of their master's text.

It is perhaps rather cruel to reprint the article called "An Inspired Critic on Shelley," but really Mr. Wyke Bayliss (notice the reiteration of this gentleman's name in the article, and how it grows more comical at each repetition!) affords so much amusement whilst he is being dissected that he must suffer in order to promote "the greatest good of the greatest number." With regard to the portion of this volume which the kindness of Mr. W. M. Rossetti has enabled me to print, I can hardly doubt that it will be highly valued. When I originally planned this volume I did not know of the existence of these letters. A fortunate inspiration led me to apply to Mr. Rossetti, and that gentleman, with a generosity for which I cannot be too grateful, at once entrusted me with Thomson's correspondence with him, and gave me permission to use such portions of it as might suit my purpose. As most of the letters related more or less to Shelley, my only difficulty has lain in selecting those which seemed of most interest. One letter here printed may indeed seem rather out of place in this volume: yet I do not think any reader will find fault with me for inserting it. The one I allude to is that written from Central City, Colorado. To me this seems to be a masterpiece of epistolary writing. Reading it, the whole aspect of the district from which it was written, its scenery and its inhabitants, are, with the lightest and easiest touches, pictured before us. The style, whether the author relates some homely or humourous incident, or paints with bold and graphic pencil the scenery around him, is perfect; it is in complete harmony with the ideas it expresses; in its eloquence there is not a trace of turgidity, and in its humour there is nothing forced. A study of it may be confidently recommended to those who have taken their opinion of Thomson's abilities solely from "The City of Dreadful Night"; for it can hardly fail to leave on the mind of any reader worthy to judge an enlarged idea both of his actual achievements, and of the powers which he held in reserve. I look indeed upon the whole correspondence as an important addition to our knowledge of one who in the course of time will come to be looked upon as a typical writer and thinker of the present century.

It gives me much pleasure to include the Essay on William Blake in the present volume. I intended at first only to extract the passages from it relating to Shelley, but I was not long in coming to the conclusion that I ought not to neglect the present opportunity of reproducing it in its integrity. It is quite unnecessary for me to praise it; and I will merely note that it was written and published before Mr. Swinburne's Essay on Blake appeared in print.

Let me add in conclusion that it would, I am sure, have been gratifying to Thomson could he have thought that his name in the future would be linked in any way with that of Shelley: and I feel equally sure that Shelley, could he have known Thomson, would not have disapproved of the association of their names. Let it not be thought that I am placing Thomson on an equality with Shelley: neither am I asserting that their characters did not differ in many essential points. But I do not hesitate to affirm that the unworldliness, the deep affections, the generous self-sacrificing spirit, the fervent poetical temperament, which characterised Shelley, were in a not much smaller degree characteristic of James Thomson, however those qualities were obscured in him by his more reserved disposition, his poverty, and the unfortunate events of his life. Apply what measure we may to him, it is hardly possible to deny that the author of "The City of Dreadful Night," "Weddah and Om-el-Bonain," and "Vane's Story," was a man of genius; and future times are perhaps no more likely to produce another Thomson than another Shelley.

Bertram Dobell.

2em

Shelley (Poem)

SHELLEY.

UPON a grassy slope of shore I lay Hour after hour, from sunset into night, Outgazing tranquil o'er the tranquil bay, And dreaming in a mood of rare delight. Yes, for some hours, sky-pure sea-calm star-bright My spirit was in tune with heaven and earth, Nor felt the discords of its mortal birth.

The round moon floated half-way up the sky, Beneath an arch of clouds serenely fair As if upfurled where never breeze could fly: So that it seemed a lamp suspended there To light the sea-floored theatre of air; Whose curtain raised, whose hush of expectation Foretold a solemn drama's celebration.

My dream grew deeper, deeper evermore; A sleepless dream, a seeing trance, no swoon. I floated with the throb of sea and shore, And felt the earth swift-wheeling with the moon, And saw the worlds as they indeed are,—strewn Above, below, as fish through ocean roam, Not gliding round an even-surfaced dome.

Until the Drama which that hush foretold Did come indeed as at a monarch's call; Although its pregnant scenes were not unrolled Upon that sea-stage, nor within that wall Of circling crystal, nor were lamped at all By that serenest moon, they claimed a stage Of ampler scope and grander equipage.

The stars are speeding in their companies; God's chariots in divine array, they roll Circling the sphere of three infinities, Our symbol of His thought-confounding Whole As Plato saw them with his clear-eyed soul, He saw, we saw; and each one tries to tell The Vision each one knows ineffable.

And every silver-burning chariot-sphere Whose wheels churn Æther to the foam of Light Is guided by its seraph-charioteer, Serenely regnant o'er its fulgent flight, Sceptred and crowned and clothed with awful might: The infinite armies of the Lord, whose pinions Flash fire throughout His infinite dominions.

And yet, as every dreamer seems to be The centre of the action of his dream, Our speck of this poor earth-speck was to me The single central fountain whence did stream The growing river of that drama's theme; Which rolled so far and broadened out so wide That all the worlds were floated on its tide.

A voice fell past me like a plummet cast To fathom that unfathomable sea, A voice austerely sad,—"At last, at last The measure of the earth's iniquity Brims God's great urn; at last it all must be Poured out upon the earth in blood and tears And raging fire, for years and years and years.

"The Churches are polluted,—let them fall And crush old errors underneath their weight; The royal purples are a bloody pall To stifle Freedom,—rend them ere too late; The laws are silken meshes for the great But iron nets to hold the poor and mean,— Let them too perish . . . . But what next is seen?

"Because the priests were false, the shrines impure, Mankind in God Himself all faith have lost; Because blood dyed old purples, they endure To walk all naked in the sun and frost; Because old laws the law of justice crost, They would live henceforth without any law: No loyal service, no revering awe!

"Who will go down amidst these desolations Of fire and blood and lunacies and woe, To chant aloud to all the wildered nations Those heavenly truths no earth can overthrow, The changeless truths Eternal? Who will go To preach the Gospel of our Lord above, Chanting perpetually the law of Love?"

Throughout the whole sphere-throbbing vastitude Deep silence followed when that great voice ended; Even the music of the multitude Of all their rhythmic revolutions blended, The ever-rolling music, seemed suspended: And I then dared to lift my awe-shut eyes And search for him who spoke throughout the skies.

Search for the moon of night, the sun of day!— In centre of the universal round A broad and steadfast disc of splendour lay; Fit field for him who stood upon its ground, The solemn angel with pure glory crowned,— His right hand raised, his countenance divine Intently listening through the hyaline.

From far, far, far, far even in that vast, A voice came trembling ravishingly sweet— "O Raphael beloved of God! the last And meanest of the spirits who repeat Eternal praises round the Judgment-Seat Implores that he, if none of greater worth, May sing the self-same praises on that earth."

A pure joy lighted up great Raphael's face As then he gestured "Hither!"; and there came A star-like speck from out the bounds of space With swift and swerveless flight to reach its aim; Developing into a tongue of flame, Until it stood upon that field of light A fervent Seraph beautiful and bright.

Most beautiful in the eternal youth Of those who ever breathe the heavenly air Of perfect holiness and love and truth; Most bright in full-flusht fervour, standing there With half-spread wings and backward-streaming hair, As if alit for but a moment's rest While speeding forward on his single quest.

Then Raphael laid a benedictive hand On that pure brow, and spake in gentle tone— "Thou dear, dear Child of God, than whom doth stand No purer humbler spirit near His throne, And none more ardent to speed forth alone On any errand from the bliss above In single-hearted and unbounded love;

"Thy service is accepted: thou shalt pall In mortal flesh thy seraphood sublime; A witness of the one true Lord of all Amidst a world gone mad with sin and crime, A prophet of the glorious Future time And of Eternity when Time is past Amidst the Present of a world aghast.

"I see the storm's commencing clouds of gloom, I see the storm's first lightnings fiercely flash, I hear the storm's first thunders roll and boom, I hear the storm's first ruins quake and crash,— O Man, thy judgment-wrath is wild and rash! ...Go down, dear Child; and may God give thee power To serve Him loyally thro' this stern hour."

Then most elastic Time, as oft in dream, Stretched out until five lustrums came and went, Swaying my soul upon their stormy stream. The earth was shaken, the great deeps were rent; From all the quarters of the firmament A desolating deluge seemed to pour Of fire and blood and tears and frantic war.

Amidst whose terrors one stern human form, Above the mad crowds throned in haughty state, Appeared to wield the thunders of the storm And hurl its dreadful lightnings, and dilate— The Captain-Executioner of Fate; Until dragged down, and with a galling chain Bound to a lonely rock amidst the main.

And then another lustrum came and went, Of peaceful years compared with those before; Wherein I heard that Voice whose ravishment I had not heard amid the crash and roar And shriekings of the earth-confusing war. Through all the lustrum till the chained Chief died That glorious Voice the air beatified.

A voice of right amidst a world gone wrong, A voice of hope amidst a world's despair, A voice instinct with such melodious song As hardly until then had thrilled the air Of this gross underworld wherein we fare With heavenly inspirations, too divine For souls besotted with earth's sensual wine.

All powers and virtues that ennoble men— The hero's courage and the martyr's truth, The saint's white purity, the prophet's ken, The high unworldliness of ardent youth, The poet's rapture, the apostle's ruth, Informed the Song; whose theme all themes above Was still the sole supremacy of Love.

The peals of thunder echoing through the sky, The moaning and the surging roar of seas, The rushing of the storm's stern harmony, The subtlest whispers of the summer breeze, The notes of singing birds, the hum of bees, All sounds of nature, sweet and wild and strong Commingled in the flowing of the song;

Which flowing mirrored all the Universe,— With sunsets flushing down the golden lines, And mountains towering in the lofty verse, And landscapes with their olives and their vines Spread out beneath a sun which ever shines, With moonlit seas and pure star-spangled skies, The World a Poem, and Earth Paradise.

But ever and anon in its swift sweetness The voice was heard to lisp and hesitate, Or quiver absently from its completeness, As one in foreign realms who must translate Old thoughts into new language—Ah, how great The difference between our rugged tongue And that in which its hymns before were sung!

A glorious voice of glorious inspiration; A voice of rapid rapture so intense That in its musical intoxication The Truth arrayed with such an affluence Of Beauty half-escaped the ravished sense,— A sun scarce visible in its own shine, A god forgotten in his gorgeous shrine.

A voice divinely sweet, a voice no less Divinely sad; for all the maddening jar Of all the wide world's sin and wretchedness Swelled round its music, as when round a star Black storm-clouds gather and its white light mar: Pure music is pure bliss in heaven alone; Earth's air transmutes it to melodious moan.

The lustrum passed. The vultures of despair And fierce ambition ceased not to consume The heart of him rock-bound, who failed to bear With Titan-patience his Promethean doom— Lacking the Titan's conscience. When the tomb Had held him but a little while in peace, I heard the singing voice for ever cease.

And then once more the Vision filled my soul Of universal Æther, and the spheres Whose marshalled myriads through its silence roll With life and light and music; while the years, Heavy with anguish, blind with blood and tears, Pant after them, exhausted one by one Till the last heir of Time shall sink foredone.

Upon his central field of burning gold Great Raphael stood; and there with meek head bowed And drooping wings and suppliant hands, behold, The Seraph knelt, whom still the sullen cloud Of mortal life enveloped like a shroud, Through which his native glorious beauty shone Star-sad, star-pure, star-tremulous, star-wan.

And Raphael said "How faint and sad and pale You now return to us, Beloved One, From that far Earth of stormy guilt and bale Wherein thy errand now is wholly done! Hath ever God deserted a dear Son?" While bending down, his princely hand carest The saintly brow so pallid and deprest.

What voice of quivering anguish made reply!— "I am unworthy of thy ruthful love, Thou pure Archangel! Never more may I Rejoin in bliss the stainless quires above, Who singing in their circles ever move Around the footstool of the Throne of Grace; Ah, never, nevermore behold His face!

"I dared—weak worm unconscious of my weakness!— To claim a service to our Lord and King—; And I have failed;—in hope and faith and meekness, In wisdom, knowledge, patient suffering, In prudence, calmness, power, in everything! The awful eyes of all Thy stars, O Lord, Transfix me with rebukes, each glance a sword!

"Breathing for ever Heaven's inviolate calm, I knew not how on Earth the wild winds blow; Singing for ever Heaven's ecstatic psalm, I knew not how on earth the wails of woe And shrieks of rage to maddening discord grow; Circling for ever in the Sun's full light, I knew not Earth's black clouds and sphereless night.

"I could not understand men; all their hearts Had secrets which I could not even guess. Their greed for dross upon the daily marts, Their pride and fawning in the palaces, Their solemn church-attending worldliness, Their servile fear of Custom's lawless law, Filled me with sad perplexity and awe.

"Their gods seemed hideous monsters only great In power and malice, or such phantoms vain As self-bewildered thought might evocate To mock the yearning heart and weary brain. I strove to teach them the true God, Whose reign Is infinite love for all things that exist; And I was branded as an Atheist.

"I pitied both the tyrant and the slave; The one so cursed with pride and heartless mood, The other from the cradle to the grave With soul and body famishing for food. I charged them by their common brotherhood To fling their mutual bonds off and be free: They paused in their old strife to spurn at me.

"I who was sent to charm their souls to love, Could only vex them to worse hate and scorn; And yet I swear, O Raphael, that I strove With all my power to mend their state forlorn: By every pang they felt my heart was torn, And wounded worse by their unkindly spurning: I love them with a love of infinite yearning.

"Lo, I have failed: but God, He cannot fail. He speeds a shaft against Hell's Dragon-King, And it falls shivered from the iron mail;— There let it rot, the weak and worthless thing! I dare to triumph in my perishing: His quiver lacks not many a nobler dart Equal to pierce the Monster to the heart!"

But Raphael raised the Seraph from his kneeling, And prest him heart to heart in long embrace; Then stood erect, to all the heights revealing The fulgent beauty of his solemn face; And flung abroad his voice to swell through space And thrill on all the ever-rolling spheres Triumphant music for celestial ears.

"I call to witness all the angel-quires Sphering the heavens with their eternal hymn, I call to witness all the orbed fires Bearing the light of life through Æther dim; The Saints, the Cherubim, the Seraphim, All armies of the Servants of our Lord, I call to witness to my just award.

"Thou hast not failed; where holy love and truth Contend with Evil failure cannot be: Their sorest scars claim reverence not ruth, Their worst repulse is still a victory. Thou, well-belovèd, who didst bend the knee In pure self-sacrifice to meet God's frown, Kneeling wert circled with the martyr's crown.

"Music is sweet, whatever madmen's ears Be startled and tormented by the strain; Sunshine is glorious, whatever spheres Cloud themselves from it in dark storm and rain: Your spirit is as pure from worldly stain As is a moonbeam on a shore of slime; You sank not your Eternity in Time.

"O wretched Earth! God sends thee age by age, In pity of thy wild perpetual moan, The saint, the bard, the hero, and the sage: But still the lofty life is led alone, The singer sings as in a tongue unknown, The sage's wisdom lamps his single urn; Thou wilt not heed or imitate or learn.

"The blood of prophets thou hast loved to shed Still keepeth green thy fields, whose costly soil Is of the dust of nameless heroes dead; The only music in the vast turmoil Of all thy complicated strife and toil Was breathed from poets whom you starved with scorn: O ever-unregenerate world forlorn!"

Lo, while the great Archangel's voice rang on, The spirit by that tearful earth-cloud shaded In ever clear and clearer beauty shone To full transfiguration; for it faded As mists of night whose meshes are unbraided By the swift beams of morning, so that they Evanish wholly in the perfect day.

And there, amidst the wheeling constellations, Upon the central disc of burning gold That throbbed harmonious with their palpitations, He stood with Raphael glorious to behold. . . . . Then all the Vision from my brain was rolled; For that broad disc of palpitating fire, Consuming far through heaven the dead night's pyre,

And bridging the deep bay with golden splendour, Was our own Sun . . . The sky was clear and calm, The morning air most fragrant, fresh and tender; The green earth glittered with its dewy balm: The flashing waters sang a joyous psalm, All was as beautiful and pure that morn As if a sinless world had just been born.

1em

Shelley (Essay)

SHELLEY.

"

WHEREFORE I say unto you, all manner of sin and blasphemy shall be forgiven unto men: but the blasphemy against the Holy Ghost shall not be forgiven unto men. And whosoever speaketh a word against the Son of Man, it shall be forgiven him; but whosoever speaketh a word against the Holy Ghost, it shall not be forgiven him; neither in this world, neither in the world to come." Which glorious scripture we may surely understand to mean, that a man may believe or disbelieve in any book, any historical or legendary personage, any dogmatic formula, and yet be in a state of salvation; that only he who rejects and violates the holy spirit of love and truth, the Conscience of the World, he cannot (because he will not) be saved. Jesus, though absorbed in his personal mission, could speak this truth of sublime toleration; but eighteen centuries have not taught his disciples the wisdom of believing it and acting upon it. Whom he absolved, they dare condemn.

Probably no man of this century has suffered more and more severely, both in person and reputation, from this rash convictive bigotry than Percy Bysshe Shelley. Florence to the living Dante was not more cruelly unjust than England to the living Shelley. Only now, nearly forty years after his death, do we begin to discern his true glory. It is well that this glory is such as can afford to wait for recognition; that it is one of the permanent stars of heaven, not a rocket to be ruined by a night of storm and rain. I confess that I have long been filled with astonishment and indignation at the manner in which he is treated by the majority of our best living writers. Emerson is serenely throned above hearing him at all; Carlyle only hears him "shriek hysterically;" Mrs. Browning discovers him "blind with his white ideal;" Messrs. Ruskin and Kingsley treat him much as senior schoolboys treat the youngster who easily "walks over their heads" in class,—with reluctant tribute of admiration copiously qualified with sneers, pinches, and kicks. Even Bulwer (who, intellectually worthless as he is, now and then serves well as a straw to show how the wind blows among the higher and more educated classes), even Bulwer can venture to look down upon him with pity, to pat him patronisingly on the back, to sneer at him—in "Ernest Maltravers"—with a sneer founded upon a maimed quotation. It was only the other day that a person thought it worth while to send to the Times the discovery that Shelley, in his mock-heroic preface to "Peter Bell" had anticipated Macaulay's famous New Zealander! Now, I do not expect that Shelley—any more than piety and lofty thought and heroic action—will ever be extensively popular; I admit that to himself more than to most poets are his own grand words applicable,—"the jury that sits in judgment upon a poet, belonging as he does to all time, must be composed of his peers: it must be impanneled by time from the selectest of the wise of many generations." Yet it was to be expected that men so noble as Kingsley and Ruskin could surrender themselves to generous sympathy with a most noble and generous life, could love and reverence a most loving and reverent spirit; although that life developed itself without the pale of their sanctuary and that spirit dispensed with the theological primer which they conceive necessary to education.

A poet, in our restricted sense of the term, may be defined, an inspired singer; the singing, the spontaneous musical utterance being essential to the poetical character. Great learning, profound thought, and keen moral insight may all enrich a volume, which shall yet, lacking this instinctive harmony, be no poem—Verse equally with prose may be unpoetic through this fatal want. Through it George Herbert is almost unread, and the "Heaven and Hell" of Swedenborg is a dull map instead of a transcendent picture; through it—tainting both, but in a less degree—the works of the Brownings are less popular than those of Tennyson, though they in all other noble qualities are so far his superiors.

In musicalness, in free and, as it were, living melody, the poems of Shelley are unsurpassed, and on the whole, I think, unequalled by any others in our literature. Compared with that of most others his language is as a river to a canal,—a river ever flowing "at its own sweet will," and whose music is the unpurposed result of its flowing. So subtly sweet and rich are the tones, so wonderfully are developed the perfect cadences, that the meaning of the words of the singing is lost and dissolved in the overwhelming rapture of the impression. I have often fancied, while reading them, that his words were really transparent, or that they throbbed with living lustres. Meaning is therein, firm and distinct, but "scarce visible through extreme loveliness;" so that the mind is often dazzled from perception of the surpassing grandeur and power of his creations. I doubt not that Apollo was mightier than Hercules, though his divine strength was veiled in the splendour of his symmetry and beauty more divine.