Q^ d THE CAMBRIDGE POETS Student's Edition SHELLEY EDITED BY GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY €fje CamBri&se ^nttfi Edited by BROWNING Horace E. Scudder BURNS W. E. Henley BYRON Paul E. More CHAUCER F. N. Robinson DRYDEN George R. Noyes ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH > Helen Child Sargent > George L. Kittredge POPULAR BALLADS KEATS Horace E. Scudder LONGFELLOW Horace E. Scudder LOWELL Horace E. Scudder MILTON William Vaughn Moody POPE Henry W. Boynton SHAKESPEARE W. A. Neilson SHELLEY George E. Woodberry SPENSER R. E. Neil Dodge TENNYSON William J. Rolfe WHITTIER Horace E. Scudder WORDSWORTH A. J. George HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston New York Chicago Dallas Atlanta San Francisco THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY §>t^txCC$ €am6riti0e oEtiition p B ^^1 mtWrnmsm^ HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY BOSTON • NEW YORK • CHICAGO • DALLAS • SAN FRANCISCO ®i)e3l3iibet£;ibe ^resist Cambtilifie 6^ 0> V^^.A*' OPYRIGHT, I9OI, BY HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND CO. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED I CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. TO EDWARD DOWDEN FOP, aiS SERVICE TO THE MEMORY OF SHELLEY THIS EDITION IS DEDICATED EDITOR'S NOTE The text of this edition is that of the Centenary Edition of Shelley's Poetical Works, 1892, hut differs from it hy the omission of variant readings and emenda- tions except in cases where the text is acknowledged to he corrupt or of doubtful authority. The only contribution to our knowledge of the sources of the text since 1892 is Professor Zupitza's description of some of the Oxford (formerly Boscombe) MSS., contributed to the Archiv fur das Studium der neueren Sprachen und Literaturen, Band XCIV, Heft 1, from which a few corrections have been noted ; but for the student of the text the Centenary Edition is indispensable. The Me- moir of that Edition is reprinted as the Biographical Sketch, and a condensation of the documentary extracts which in that edition were used to illustrate the history of the poems has been embodied in the Headnotes. The long notes in French and Greek affixed by Shelley to Queen Mab have been omitted at the suggestion of the General Editor of the series ; and the Original Poetry of Victor and Cazire, of which a copy was found in 1898, has not been included. The Notes and Illustrations have been mainly confined to the more important poems of Shelley, especially Alastor, Prometheus Unbound, Epipsychidion, Adonais and Hellas ; and they embrace only simple explanations of the text, the principal sources and parallel passages in the poets familiar to Shelley, and such cross-references as seemed to throw light on his ideas and habit of mind, together with a few critical comments ; no attempt has been made to include such information as can be readily obtained from encyclopaedias, dictionaries, manuals of mythology, and hke works. In this portion of the work the editor has made use of the labors of scholars and critics who have studied particular poems of Shelley, and he takes pleasure in acknowledging special obligation to Professor Al. Beljame's Alastor, Miss Vida Scudder's Prometheus Unbound, Rossetti's Adonais, and Dr. Richard Ackermann's investigation of these three works and also the Epipsychidion ; the fact that these studies have appeared in the last ten years in France, America, Dngland and Germany indicates the vitality and extent of Shelley's fame. G. E. W. Aug^t, 1901. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH . . . xv QUEEN MAB: A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM. Introductory Note .... 1 To Harriet ***** . , , , 2 Queen Mab 3 aLASTOR: or, the SPIRIT OF SOL- ITUDE. Introductory Note . . . .31 Alastor 33 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM. Introductory Note . . . .43 Author's Preface .... 45 To Mary .... 49 Canto First 51 Canto Second 61 Canto Third 69 Canto Fourth 74 Canto Fifth 80 Canto Sixth 91 Canto Seventh .... 100 Canto Eighth 107 Canto Ninth Ill Canto Tenth 117 Canto Eleventh .... 125 Canto Twelfth 129 ROSALIND AND HELEN: A MOD- ERN ECLOGUE. Introductory Note .... 136 Rosalind and Helen . . . 137 JULIAN AND MADDALO: A CON- VERSATION. Introductory Note . . . 151 Author's Preface .... 152 Julian and Maddalo . . . 152 PROMETHEUS UNBOUND : A LYRI- CAL DRAMA. Introductory Note . . . 160 Author's Preface .... 162 Act I 165 Act II 178 Act III 189 Act rV 197 9^8 THE CENCI : A TRAGEDY. Introductory Note . . . 206 Dedication to Leigh Hunt, Esq. . 208 Author's Preface .... 209 Act I 211 Act II 218 Act III 224 Act IV 232 Act V 242 THE MASK OF ANARCHY. Introductory Note . . . 252 The Mask of Anarchy . . . 253 PETER BELL THE THIRD. Introductory Note . . . 258 Dedication 259 Prologue 260 Part the First : Death . . . 260 Part the Second: The Devil . 261 Part the Third: Hell . . . 262 Part the Fourth: Sin. . . 264 Part the Fifth: Grace . . • 265 Part the Sixth: Damnation . 267 Part the Seventh: Double Dam- nation 269 THE WITCH OF ATLAS. Introductory Note .... 271 To Mary 272 The Witch of Atlas . . . 273 (EDIPUS TYRANNUS, OR SWELL- FOOT THE TYRANT: A TRAGEDY. Introductory Note .... 283 Advertisement .... 284 Act I 284 Act II 291 EPIPSYCHIDION. Introductory Note .... 297 Advertisement .... 298 Epipsychidion 298 ADONAIS: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS. Introductory Note .... 307 Author's Preface . . . « 307 Adonais 308 CONTENTS HELLAS : A LYRICAL DRAMA. Introductory Note Author's Preface Prologue : a Fragment Hellas . . . • • 317 318 320 322 jIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Early Pobwls. Evening: To Harriet . . . 339 To Ianthe 3i0 Stanza written at Brack- nell 340 To COh, there are spirits OF the air') 340 To (' Yet look on me — take not thine eyes away ') . . 341 Stanzas. April, 1814. . . 341 To Harriet 342 To Mary Wollstonecraft God- win 342 Mutability 343 On Death 343 A Summer Evening Churchyard 343 To Wordsworth .... 344 Feelings of a Republican on the Fall of Bonaparte . . 344 Lines ('The cold earth slept below') 345 Poems written in 1816. The Sunset 345 Hymn to Intellectual Beauty 346 Mont Blanc: IjInes written in the Vale of Chajviouni . . 347 Poems written in 1817. Marianne's Dream . . . 350 to constantia singing . . 352 To THE Lord Chancellor. . 353 To William Shelley . . . 354 On Fanny Godwin . . . 355 Lines ('That time is dead for- ever, child') .... 355 Death 355 Sonnet. — Ozymandias . . 356 Lines to a Critic .... 356 ■*oems written in 1818. Sonnet : To the Nile . . . 357 Passage of the Apennines . 357 The Past 358 On a Faded Violet . . . 358 Lines written among the Euga- NEAN Hills 358 Invocation to Misery . 362 Stanzas written in Dejection, NEAR Naples .... 363 Sonnet (' Lift not the painted veil which those who live ') 363 Poems written in 1819. Lines written during the Cab- tlereagh administration . 364 Song to the Men of England 364 To SiDMOUTH AND Castlereagh . 365 England in 1819 .... 365 National Anthem .... 365 Ode to Heaven .... 366 An Exhortation .... 367 Ode to the West Wind . . 367 An Ode written October, 1819, before the Spaniards had re- covered their Liberty . . 369 On the Medusa of Leonardo da Vinci in the Florentine Gal- lery 369 The Indian Serenade . . . 370 To Sophia 370 Love's Philosophy .... 371 Poems written in 1820. The Sensitive Plant. Part First . . . .372 Part Second .... 374 Part Third . . . . 375 Conclusion .... 376 A Vision of the Sea . . . 377 The Cloud 380 To A Skylark .... 381 Ode to Liberty .... 382 to c i fear thy kisses, gen- tle maiden ') 387 Arethusa 387 Song of Proserpine while gath- ering Flowers on the Plain OF Enna 388 Hymn of Apollo .... 388 Hymn of Pan 389 The Question .... 389 The Two Spirits: an Allegory 390 Letter to Maria Gisborne . 390 Ode to Naples .... 395 Autumn: a Dirge . . • 398 Death 398 Liberty 398 Summer and Winter . . . 399 The Tower of Famine . . 399 An Allegory ('A portal as of shadowy adamant ') . . 399 The World's Wanderers • • 400 Sonnet ('Ye hasten to the grave ! What seek ye there ') 400 Lines to a Reviewer . . 400 Time Long Past .... 400 buona notte .... 400 Good-Night 401 Poems written in 1821. Dirge for the Yeak • • • 402 CONTENTS Xl Time 402 From the Arabic: an Imitation 403 Song ('Rarely, rarely, coolest thou') 403 To Night 403 To C Music, when soft voices die') 404 To (' When passion's trance IS overpast') .... 404 Mutability 404 Lines (' Far, far away, ye ') 405 The Fugitives 405 Lines written on hearing the News of the Death of Napo- leon 406 Sonnet : Political Greatness . 406 A Bridal Song .... 406 Epithalamium 407 Another Version . . . 407 Evening : Ponte al Mare, Pisa 407 The Aziola 408 To (' One word is too often profaned ') 408 Remembrance 408 To Edward Williams . . 409 To-morrow 410 Lines (' If I walk in Autumn's EVEN ') 410 A Lament (' world ! life ! TIME ! ') 410 Poems written in 1822. Lines C When the lamp is shat- tered ') 410 The Magnetic Lady to her Pa- tient 411 To Jane. The Invitation . . . 412 The Recollection . . • 412 With a Guitar : To Jane . . 413 To Jane 415 Epitaph (' These are two friends whose lives were undivided ') 415 The Isle 415 A Dirge (' Rough wind, that moanest loud'). . . . 415 Lines written in the Bay of Lerici 416 Fragments. Part I. The D-emon of the World. Part 1 416 Part II 420 Prince Athanase. Part I 425 Part II 427 The Woodman and the Night- ingale 430 Otho . . . i . . 431 Tasso 431 Marenghi 432 Lines written for Julian and Maddalo 435 Lines written for Prometheus Unbound 435 Lines written for Mont Blanc 435 Lines written for the Indian Serenade 435 Lines written for the Ode to Liberty 436 Stanza written for the Ode written October, 1819 . . 436 Lines coi^nected with Epipsy- CHIDION 436 Lines written for Adonais . 438 Lines written for Hellas . . 439 The Pine Forest op the Cas- ciNE NEAR Pisa. First Draft OF 'To Jane: The Invitation, The Recollection' . . . 440 Orpheus 441 FlORDISPINA 443 The Birth of Pleasure . . 444 Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear . 444 A Satire on Satire • . . 445 GiNEVRA 446 The Boat on the Serchio . 449 The Zucca 450 Lines (' We meet not as we PARTED ') 452 Charles the First. Introductory Note. . . 452 Scene I 453 Scene II 456 Scene III .... 464 Scene IV 465 Scene V 466 Fragments of an Unfinished Drama 466 The Triumph of Life . . . 470 Part II. Minor Fragments. Home 480 Fragment of a Ghost Story . 480 To Mary ('O Mary dear, that you were here ! ') . • • 480 To Mary (' The world is dreary ') 480 To Mary ('My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone ') . 481 To William Shelley ('My lost William, thou in whom') . 481 Lines written for the Poem to William Shelley . . . 481 To William Shelley (' Thy lit- tle FOOTSTEPS ON THE SANDS ') . 481 To CONSTANTIA . . , .481 To Emilia Viviani , > . 482 CONTENTS to (' mighty mind, in whose deep stream this age ') . . 482 Sonnet to Byron .... 482 A Lost Leader .... 482 On Keats 482 To C For me, my friend, if NOT that tears DID TREM- BLE ') 483 Milton's Spirit .... 483 * Mighty eagle' .... 483 Laurel 483 * Once more descend ' . . . 483 l^spiration ..... 483 To the People of England . 484 *• What men gain fairly ' . . 484 Rome 484 To Italy 484 'Unrisen splendor' . . . 484 To Zephyr 484 ' Follow ' 484 The Rain- Wind .... 484 Rain 484 'When soft winds' . . . 484 The Vine 485 The Waning Moon . . .485 To THE Moon (' Bright wanderer, FAIR COQUETTE OF HEAVEN ') . 485 To THE Moon C Art thou pale FOR weariness ') . . . 485 Poetry and Music .... 485 *A GENTLE story' . . . 485 The Lady of the South . . 485 The Tale Untold . . .485 Wine of Eglantine . . . 485 A Roman's Chamber . . . 486 Song of the Furies . . . 486 'The rude wind is singing' . 486 Before and After .... 486 The Shadow of Hell . . 486 Consequence 486 A Hate-Song .... 486 A Face 486 The Poet's Lover . . . 487 ' I would not be a king ' . . 487 'is it that in some brighter sphere ' 487 To-day 487 Love's Atmosphere . . . 487 Torpor 487 'Wake the serpent not' , . 487 ' Is not to-day enough ? ' . . 487 'to thirst and find no fill ' . 487 Love (' Wealth and dominion fade into the mass ') • . . 488 Music ('I pant for the music "WHICH is divine ') . a . . 488 To One Singing . « « . 488 To Music ('Silver key of the FOUNTAIN OF TEARS ') . . 488 To Music (' No, Music, thou art NOT the "food of Love " ') . 488 ' I FAINT, I PERISH WITH MY LOVE ! ' 489 To Silence 489 ' Oh, THAT A Chariot of Cloud were mine ! ' . . . . 489 'The fierce beasts' . . . 489 'He wanders' .... 489 The Deserts of Sleep . . . 489 A Dream 489 The Heart's Tomb . . . .489 Hope, Fear, and Doubt . . 489 'Alas ! this is not what I thought LIFE was' 490 Crowned 490 ' Great Spirit ' . . . . 490 'o thou immortal deity ' . . 490 'Ye gentle visitations' . . 490 ' My thoughts ' . . . . 490 TRANSLATIONS. From Homer. Hymn to Mercury . . .491 Hymn to Venus .... 503 Hymn to Castor and Pollux . 504 Hymn to Minerva .... 504 Hymn to the Sun . . . 504 Hymn to the Moon . . . 505 Hymn to the Earth, Mother of All 505 From Euripides. The Cyclops : a Satyric Drama 506 Epigrams from the Greek. Spirit of Plato .... 519 Circumstance .... 619 To Stella 519 Kissing Helena .... 619 From Moschus. I. ' When winds that move not ITS calm surface sweep' . 520 II. Pan, Echo, and the Satyr 520 III. Fragment of the Elegy on THE Death of Bion . . 520 From Bion. Fragment of the Elegy on the Death of Adonis . . . 620 From Virgil. The Tenth Eclogue . . .521 From Dante. I. Adapted from a Sonnet in THE Vita Nuova . . 522 II. Sonnet: Dante Alighieri to Guido Cavalcanti . 522 III. The First Canzone of the CoNViTO . t . . 522 CONTENTS xiii IV. Matilda gathering Flowers 523 V. Ugolino 524 From Cavalcanti. Sonnet: Guido Cavalcanti to Dante Alighieri. . . • 525 From Calderon. Scenes from the Magico Prodi- GIOSO. Scene I 526 Scene II 531 Scene III 533 Stanzas from Cisma de Ingla- TERRA 537 From Goethe. Scenes from Faust. Scene I. Prologue in Hea- ven 538 Scene II. May-day Night . 540 JUVENILIA. Verses on a Cat .... 546 Omens 547 Epitaphium: Latin Version of the Epitaph in Gray's Elegy 547 In Horologium .... 548 A Dialogue 548 To the Moonbeam . . . 549 The Solitary ..... 549 To Death 549 Love's Rose 550 Eyes . . . . . . .550 Poems from St. Irvyne, or the rosicrucian. I. Victoria 551 II. 'On the dark height of Jura ' 551 III. Sister Rosa ; a Ballad. 652 rV. St. Irvyne's Tower . . 553 V- Bereavement . . . 553 VI. The Drowned Lover . . 554 Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson. War 555 Fragment supposed to be an Epithalamium of Francis Ra- vaillac and Charlotte Cor- DAY ...... 557 Despair 558 Fragment ('Yes! all is past — swift time has fled away') . 559 The Spectral Horseman . . 559 Melody to a Scene of Former Times 560 Stanza from a Translation op the Marseillaise Hymn . . 561 Bigotry's Victim .... 561 On an Icicle that clung to the Grass of a Grave .... 562 Love (' Why is it said thou canst NOT LIVE ') 562 On a Fete at Carlton House . 563 To A Star ...... 563 To Mary, who died in this Opinion 563 A Tale of Society as it is from Facts, 1811 56S To the Republicans of North America 565 To Ireland 565 On Robert Emmet's Grave . . 566 The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812 566 Fragment of a Sonnet to Harriet 568 To Harriet 568 Sonnet : To a Balloon laden with Knowledge 569 Sonnet : On Launching Some Bot- tles filled with Knowledge INTO THE Bristol Channel . 569 The Devil's Walk: a Ballad . 570 Fragment of a Sonnet: Fare- well TO North Devon . . . 572 On leaving London for Wales. 572 The Wandering Jew's Soliloquy . 573 DOUBTFUL, LOST AND UNPUB- LISHED POEMS. VICTOR AND CAZIRE. Doubtful Poems. The Wandering Jew . . 573 Introduction. . . < 573 Author's Preface . . . 575 Canto I 576 Canto II 579 Canto III ... . 581 Canto IV 585 The Dinner Party Anticipated 589 The Magic Horse . . .589 To the Queen of my Heart . 589 Lost Poems 589 Unpublished Poems .... 590 Original Poetry by Victor and Ca- ziRE 592 NOTES AND ILLUSTRATIONS . . 694 INDEX OF FIRST LINES ... 643 INDEX OF TITLES . . . • .647 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH IlT a small southwestern room of the old-fashioned country house named Field Plac^ in Sussex, there stands over the fireplace this inscription : — ' Shrine of the dawning speech and thought Of Shelley, sacred be To all who bow where Time has brought Gifts to Eternity.' Here Percy Bysshe Shelley was born, on Saturday, August 4, 1792. He was the eldest child of Timothy and Elizabeth (Pilfold) Shelley. In this home he had for playmates, as he grew up, four younger sisters, and a brother the youngest of all : and on their memories were imprinted some scenes of his early days. He was fond of them, and as a schoolboy, when they came in to dessert, would take them on his knee and tell them romantic stories out of books on which his own imagination was fed; or he would declaim Latin for his father's pleasure; sometimes he led them on tramps through the fields, dropping his little sister over inconvenient fences, or he romped with them in the garden, not without accident, upsetting his baby brother in the strawberry bed, and being re- proached by him as ' bad Bit.' St. Leonard's Wood, off to the northeast of the house, was traditionally inhabited by an old Dragon and a headless Spectre, and there was a fabu- lous Great Tortoise in Warnham Pond, which he made creatures in their children's world; nearer home was the old Snake, the familiar of the garden, unfortunately killed by the gardener's scythe; and, these not being marvels enough, a gray alchemist resided in the garret. He once dressed his sisters to impersonate fiends, and ran in front with a fire-stove flaming with magical liquids, — a sport that readily developed with schoolboy knowledge into rude and startling experiments with chemicals and electricity. Altogether he was an amiable brother, mingling high animal spirits with a delightful imagination and a gentle manner. His young pranks were numerous. He delighted in mystification, both verbal and practical; he invented incidents which he told for truth, and he espe- cially enjoyed the ruse of a disguise. A single childish answer survives in the anecdote that when he set the fagot-stack on fire and was rebuked, he explained that he wanted * a little hell of his own.' He also wished to adopt a child, — a fancy which lasted late into life, — and thought a small Gypsy tumbler at the door would serve. As child or boy, all our recollections of him are pleasant and natural, with touches of harmless mis- chief and vivid fancy. There was a spirit of wildness in him. Even before he went away to school, while still a fair, slight boy, with long, bright hair and full, blue eyes, running about or riding on his pony in the lanes, — where, after spending his own, he would stop and borrow money of the servant to give the beggars, — he attracted the notice of the villagers at Horsham as a madcap. Toward the end of his boyhood he liked to wander out alone at night, but the servant sent to watch him reported that he only * took a walk and came back again.' Of all the scenes of this early home life, while it was still untroubled, the most attractive is the picture impressed on his five-year-old sister, Margaret, whose closest childish memory of him was of the day when, being xvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY home ill from Eton, he first went out again, and, coming up to the window where she was, pressed his face against the pane and gave her a kiss through the glass. His education began at the age of six, when he went for the rudiments of Latin and Greek to the Rev. Mr. Edwards, a Welsh parson at Warnham, and got traditional Welsh instruction from the old man. At ten he was sent away from home to Sion House Academy, near Brentford, under Dr. Greenlaw, whom he afterward spoke of ' not without respect,' says Hogg, as ' a hard-headed Scotchman, and a man of rather liberal opinions.' Shelley was then tall for his years, with a pink and white complexion, curling brown hair in abundance, large, prominent blue eyes, — dull in reverie, flashing in feeling, — and an expression of countenance, says his cousin and schoolfellow, Medwin, * of exceeding sweet- ness and innocence.' He was met in the playground, shut in by four stone walls with a single tree in it, by some sixty scholars drawn from the English middle class, who, writes Medwin, pounced on every new boy with a zest proportioned to the ordeal each had undergone in his turn. The new boy in this case knew nothing of peg-top, leapfrog, fives, or cricket. One challenged him to spar, and another to race. His only welcome was ' a general shout of derision.' To all this, continues Medwin, ' he made no reply, but with a look of disdain written in his countenance, turned his back on his new associ- ates, and, when he was alone, found relief in tears.' It was but a step from the boys to the masters. If he idled over his books and watched the clouds, or drew those rude pines and cedars which he used to scrawl on his manuscripts to the end of his life, a box on the ear recalled him; and under English school discipline he had his share of flogging. * He would roll on the floor,' says Gellibrand, another schoolmate, ' not from the pain, but from a sense of indignity.' He was a quick scholar, but he did not relish the master's coarseness in Virgil, and though he was well grounded in his classics, he owed little to such a moral discipline as he there received. He was very unhappy, and Medwin does not scruple to describe Sion House as ' a perfect hell ' to him. He kept much to himself, but he had pleasures of his own. He formed a taste for the wild sixpenny romances of the time, full of ghosts, bandits, and enchantments; and his curiosity in the wonders of science was awakened by a travelling lecturer, Adam Walker, who exhibited his Orrery at the school. He and Medwin boated together on the river, and ran away at times to Kew and Richmond, where Shelley saw his first play, Mrs. Jordan in the * Country Girl.' Sport, however, played a small part in such a boyhood. * He passed among his school- fellows,' says Medwin, ' as a strange and unsocial being, for when a holiday relieved us from our tasks, and the other boys were engaged in such sports as the narrow limits of our prison court allowed, Shelley, who entered into none of them, would pace backwards and forwards, — I think I see him now, — along the southern wall.' Rennie, another schoolmate, from whom comes the anecdote that Shelley once threw a small boy at his tormentors, adds that, * if treated with kindness he was very amiable, noble, high-spirited, and generous.' It is noteworthy that at Sion House he first developed the habit of sleep- walking, for which he was punished. A single fragment of autobiography softens the harshness of these two years. It is Shelley's description of his first boy friendship : — * I remember forming an attachment of this kind at school. I cannot recall to my memory the precise epoch at which this took place; but I imagine that it must have been at the age of eleven or twelve. The object of these sentiments was a boy about my own age, of a character eminently generous, brave and gentle; and the elements of human feeling seem to have been, from his birth, genially compounded within him. There was a delicacy and simplicity in his manners inexpressibly attractive. It has BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xvii never been my fortune to meet with him since my schoolboy days; but either I confound my present recollection with the delusions of past feelings, or he is now a source of honor and utility to every one around him. The tones of his voice were so soft and winning that every word pierced into my heart; and their pathos was so deep that in listening to him the tears have involuntarily gushed from my eyes. Such was the being for whom I first experienced the sacred sentiments of friendship. I remember in my simplicity writing to my mother a long account of his admirable qualities and my own devoted attachment. I suppose she thought me out of my wits, for she returned no answer to my letter. I remember we used to walk the whole play-hours up and down by some moss-covered palings, pouring out our hearts in youthful talk. We used to speak of the ladies with whom we were in love, and I remember that our usual practice was to confirm each other in the everlasting fidelity in which we had bound ourselves toward them and toward each other. I recollect thinking my friend exquisitely beautiful. Every night when we parted to go to bed we kissed each other like children, as we still were.' Shelley went up to Eton, July 29, 1804, being then almost twelve. Dr. Goodall, an amiable and dignified gentleman, was Head Master, and was succeeded in 1809 by Dr. Keate, renowned for flogging, who was previously Master of the Lower School. Shelley went into the house of a writing master, Hecker, and later into that of George Bethel, remembered as the dullest tutor of the school. He found a larger body of scholars, some five hundred, a more regulated fagging system, and a change of masters ; but if he was better off than before, it was because of his own growth and of the greater scale of the school, which afforded more freedom and variety and better companionship. He refused to fag, and he brought into the world of boyhood a compound of tastes and qualities that made him strange. ' He stood apart from the whole school,' says one of his mates, * a being never to be forgotten.' In particular the union in him of natural gentleness with a high spirit that could be exasperated to the point of frenzy exposed him to attack; but he was dangerous, and once, according to his own account, struck a fork through the hand of a boy, — an act which he spoke of in after-life as ' almost in- voluntary,' and ' done on the spur of anguish.' He was called ' Mad Shelley ' by the boys, who banded against him. Dowden describes their fun: — 'Sometimes he would escape by flight, and before he was lost sight of the gamesome youths would have chased him in full cry and have enjoyed the sport of a " Shelley-bait " up town. At other times escape was impossible, and then he became desperate. " I have seen him," wrote a schoolfellow, " surrounded, hooted, baited like a maddened bull, and at this distance of time I seem to hear ringing in my ears the cry which Shelley was wont to utter in his paroxysm of revengeful anger." In dark and miry winter evenings it was the practice to assemble under the cloisters previous to mounting to the Upper School. To surround " Mad Shelley " and " nail " him with a ball slimy with mud, was a favorite pastime; or his name would suddenly be sounded through the cloisters, in an instant to be taken up by another and another voice, until hundreds joined in the clamor, and the roof would echo and reecho with " Shelley ! Shelley ! Shelley ! " Then a space would be opened, in which as in a ring or alley the victim must stand to endure his tor- ture ; or some urchin would dart in behind and by one dexterous push scatter at Shelley's feet the books which he had held under his arm ; or mischievous hands would pluck at his garments, or a hundred fingers would point at him from every side, while still the outcry " Shelley ! Shelley ! " rang against the walls. An access of passion — the desired result — would follow, which, declares a witness of these persecutions, "made his eyes flash like a tiger's, his cheeks grow pale as death, his limbs quiver." * xviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Shelley, however, though private, was not a recluse. He took part in the school life on its public side as well as in his studies. He boated, marched in the Montem proces- sion as pole-bearer or corporal, and declaimed a speech of Cicero on an Election Monday. He once appeared in the boys' prize ring, but panic surprised him in the second round. He became an excellent Latin versifier and began that thoughtful acquaintance with Lucretius and Pliny's Natural History, which afterwards showed its effect in his early writings, and he learned something of Condorcet, Franklin and Godwin. Why he was called the ' atheist,' as the tradition is, cannot be made out, as there is no other trace of the word in the Eton vocabulary. His scientific interest was reinforced by a visit of the same itinerary Adam Walker who first revealed the mechanism of the heavens to him; and he bought an electrical machine from the philosopher's assistant, which the dull tutor. Bethel, unexpectedly felt the force of, when he undertook to investigate his lodger's instruments for ' raising the devil,' as Shelley boldly proclaimed his occupation to be at the moment. The willow stump which he set on fire with gunpowder and a burning glass is still shown, and there are other waifs of legend or anecdote which show his divided love for the ghosts of the cheap romances and incantations of his own inven- tion. Chemistry, his favorite amusement, was forbidden him, and from these escapades of a youthful search for knowledge, doubtless, some of his undefined troubles with the masters arose. In the six years he passed at Eton his native intellectual impulse was the strongest element in his growth. He began authorship, and there wrote ' Zastrozzi,' his first published story, and with the proceeds of that romance he is said to have paid for the farewell breakfast he gave to his Eton friends at the same time that he presented them with books for keepsakes. The reminiscences of these friends, several of whom have spoken of him, relieve the wilder traits of his Eton career. Halliday's description is the most full and heartfelt : — * Many a long and happy walk have I had with him in the beautiful neighborhood of dear old Eton. We used to wander for hours about Clewer, Frogmore, the Park at Windsor, the Terrace; and I was a delighted and willing listener to his marvellous stories of fairyland and apparitions and spirits and haunted ground; and his speculations were then (for his mind was far more developed than mine) of the world beyond the grave. Another of his favorite rambles was Stoke Park, and the picturesque graveyard, where Gray is said to have written his " Elegy," of which he was very fond. I was myself far too young to form any estimate of character, but I loved Shelley for his kindliness and affectionate ways. He was not made to endure the rough and boisterous pastime of Eton, and his shy and gentle nature was glad to escape far away to muse over strange fancies; for his mind was reflective, and teeming with deep thought. His lessons were child's play to him. . . . His love of nature was intense, and the sparkling poetry of his mind shone out of his speaking eyes when he was dwelling on anything good or great. He certainly was not happy at Eton, for his was a disposition that needed especial personal superintendence to watch and cherish and direct all his noble aspirations and the re- markable tenderness of his heart. He had great moral courage and feared nothing but what was base, and false, and low.' Such guidance as he had he received from Dr. Lind, a physician of Windsor, a man of humane disposition and independent thought, but of unconventional ways. Shelley always spoke of him in later years with veneration, and idealized him in his verse, but his influ- ence can be traced only slightly in the habit Shelley learned from him of addressing let- ters to strangers. At one time, when Shelley was recovering from a fever at Field Place, and thought, on the information of a servant, that his father was contemplating BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xix sending him to an asylum, he sent for Dr. Lind, who came, and, at all events, relieved him of his fears. While Shelley was still an Eton schoolboy Medwin spent the Christmas vacation of 1809 at Field Place, and recalls walks with him in St. Leonard's Wood, and snipe-shoot- ing at Field Place Pond. He envied the marksmanship of Shelley, who was a good shot, pistol-shooting being a favorite amusement with him through life. Shelley was already in the full flow of his early literary faculty, which was first practised in collaboration with his friends. At Eton he at one time composed dramatic scenes with a schoolmate, and acted them before a third lower-form boy in the same house. His sister Helen says that he also sent an original play to Mathews, the comedian. He had written * Zastrozzi/ and he now began a similar romance with Medwin, * The Nightmare,' and also a story, having the Wandering Jew for its hero, which was immediately reworked by the joint authors into the juvenile poem of that title. By Apiil 1, 1810, he had completed his second published romance, ' St. Irvyne,' and before fall came he had, in company with his sister Elizabeth, produced the poems of ' Victor and Cazire,' of which he had 1480 copies printed at Horsham. Sir Bysshe, his grandfather, is said to have given him money to pay this village printer, but just how Shelley used this liberality is unknown. Shelley was always in haste to publish. He had sent ' The Wandering Jew ' to Campbell, who returned it with discouragement, but the manuscript was, nevertheless, put into the hands of Ballantyne & Co., of Edinburgh. Shelley had begun, too, his knight-errantry in be- half of poor and oppressed authors, and while at Eton had accepted bills for the purpose of bringing out a work on Sweden, by a Mr. Brown, who, to take his own account, had been forced to leave the navy in consequence of the injustice of his superior officers. He undertook also on Medwin's introduction a correspondence with Felicia Brown, after- wards well known as Mrs. Hemans, but it was stopped on the interference of her mother, who was alarmed by its skeptical character. These were all noticeable beginnings, mark- ing traits and habits that were to continue in Shelley's life; but the most important of all the events of the year was the attachment which was formed between him and his cousin, Harriet Grove, during a summer visit of the Grove family to Field Place, and a con- tinuance of the intimacy at London, where the whole party, excepting Shelley's father, immediately went. Shelley's attraction toward his cousin, who is described as a very beautiful girl, amiable and of a lively disposition, was sincere if not deep. The match was seriously considered by the two families, and at first no hindrance was thrown in its way. Shelley went up to Oxford in the fall of 1810 at the age of eighteen, with a cheerful and happy mind. He had signed his name in the books of University College, where his father had been before him, on April 10, and, returning to Eton, had finished there in good standing. His father accompanied him to his old college and saw him installed; and Mr. Slatter, then just beginning business as an Oxford publisher, a son of Timothy's old host at the Inn, remembered a kindly call from him in company with Shelley, in the course of which he said: 'My son here has a literary turn. He is already an author, and do, pray, indulge him in his printing freaks.' Shelley had already a publisher in London, Stockdale, afterwards notorious, whom he had induced to take the 1480 copies of the poems of * Victor and Cazire ' off the hands of the Horsham printer; but Stockdale, how- ever, undertook * St. Irvyne,' and brought it out at the end of the year, and he considered *The Wandering Jew,' which Ballantyne had declined; but events moved too rapidly to ndmit of his issuing the poem. Shelley found at Oxford the liberty and seclusion best fitted for his active and explor- XX PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ing mind. There is no safer place than college for a youth whose mind is confused and excited by the crude elements of new knowledge; the chaos of thought, on which Shelley's geuius sat on brood, would naturally take form and order there, in the slow leisure of four years of mingled acquisition, reflection and growth ; but such fortune was denied to him. He maintained friendly relations with his old Eton companions, though he was intimate with none of them; but he was absorbed in the first revelation of dawning thought and knowledge, and needed an intellectual auditor. He found his listener in Hogg, — *a pearl within an oyster shell,' he afterwards called him, — a fellow-student from York, destined for the law. Hogg developed into a cynical humorist; but to his gross nature and more worldly experience, Shelley was the one flash, in a lifetime, of tho ideal. He always regarded him as a spirit from another world, whose adventures in his journey through mortal afiPairs necessarily took on the aspect of a tragi-comedy. Yet he was devoted to him to a point singular in so opposite a character, and he told his story of Shelley out of real elements, with fidelity to his own impression, though touching it with a grotesqueness that is, in its effect, not far from caricature. Hogg first met Shelley in the common dining-hall. They fell into talk, as strangers, over the comparative merits of German and Italian literature ; and the conversation, being carried on with such ani- mation that they were left alone before they were aware of it, Hogg invited his inter- locutor to continue the discussion at his room, where the subject was at once dropped on their mutual confession that one knew as little of the German as the other of the Italian which he was defending. Shelley, however, was furnished with large discourse, and led the talk on to the wonders of science while Hogg scanned his guest. ' His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. He was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of a low stature. His clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day ; but they were tumbled, rumpled and unbrushed. His gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion was delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white ; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. His features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were in fact unusually small ; yet the last appeared of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. . . . His features were not symmetrical (the moutn per- haps excepted), yet was the effect of the whoie extremely powerful. They breathed an animation, a fire and enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence that I never met with in any other countenance. J^or was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual. The one blemish was the shrill, harsh, discordant voice, which ceased when the speaker hurried away to attend a lecture on mineralogy, — ' About stones, about stones,' he said, with downcast look and melancholy tones, on his return at the end of the hour. The evening continued with talk on chemistry, and at last on metaphysics and the prob- lems of the soul, as such youthful college talks will do. * I lighted him downstairs,' says Hogg, * and soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in this still night. The sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear that I still seem to hear Shelley's hasty steps.' Such was Hogg's first night, and the others were like it, and are told with similar graphic power. Peacock corrects the detail of Shelley's shrill voice, while acknowledg- BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH rxi ing the defect, which was * chiefly observable when he spoke under excitement. Then his voice was not only dissonant, like a jarring string, but he spoke ia sharp fourths, the most unpleasiug sequence of sound that can fall on the human ear ; but it was scarcely so when he spoke calmly, and not at all when he read. On the contrary, he seemed then to have his voice under perfect command ; it was good both in time and tone ; it was low and soft, but clear, distinct and expressive.' The matchless disorder of Shelley's room, with its various studious interests of books and apparatus betraying the self-guided seeker in knowledge, though similarly overcharged in the description, reflects the state of Shel- ley's mind. He was completely absorbed in the intellectual life. He read incessantly, as was his custom throughout life, at all times and in all places, — in bed, at meals, or in the street, threading even the crowds of London thoroughfares with a book before his eyes. His faith in great minds was an intense feeling. When he took up a classic for the first time 'his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled.' He approached Hume and Locke in the same way. What he read was thought over and discussed in the long evenings. Life went on with him, however, as it does even in revo- lutionary periods, with much matter of fact. He was indifferent to his meals, and showed already that abstemiousness which characterized him. Bread was his favorite food ; perhaps because it was handiest, and could be eaten with least interruption to his pursuits. In London he would go into a shop and return with a loaf, which he broke in two, giving the fragment to his astonished companion. Sweets, fruits and salads were relished, but he cared less for animal food, which he afterwards gave up wholly in his vegetarian days. Wine he took rarely, and much diluted, and, indeed, he had no taste for it. In his morals he was pure, and he was made uneasy by indelicacy, which he always resented with a maiden feeling. He was given to a bizarre kind of fun in high spirits, and occasionally to real gayety. He was always capable of a childlike light- heartedness, and from his boyhood he would sing by himself. These traits, which Hogg describes, are gathered from a longer period than their college days. At Oxford his physical regime was sufficient, if not hearty. He was well and strong. Every afternoon the friends took a long walk across country, and Shelley always car- ried his pistols for practice in shooting. Several of their adventures on these walks are recorded, and are too characteristic to be wholly passed over. The picture of him feed- ing a little girl, mean, dull and unattractive, whom he found oppressed by cold and hun- ger and the vague feeling of abandonment, and drew, not without a gentle violence, to a cottage near by to get some milk for her, is one of the most vivid. ' It was a strange spectacle to watch the young poet whilst . . . holding the wooden bowl in one hand and the wooden spoon in the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he might more cer- tainly attain to her mouth, he urged and encouraged the torpid and timid child to eat.' His adventure with the gypsy boy and girl, also, is pretty. He had met them a day or two before, and, on seeing him again, the children, with a laughing salutation, darted back into the tent and Shelley after them. ' He placed a hand on each round, rough head, spoke a few kind words to the skulking children, and then returned not less pre- cipitately, and with as much ease and accuracy as if he had been a dweller in tents from the hour when he first drew air and milk to that day.' As he walked off he rolled an orange under their feet. On returning from these excursions Shelley would curl up on the rug, with his head to the fire where the heat was hottest, and sleep for three or four hours ; then he woke and took supper and talked till two, which Hogg had sternly fixed as the hour to retire. Hogg describes Shelley's figure rather than his life. He had come up to Oxford with xxii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY many plans already on foot, but he constantly found something new to do. The practical instinct in him was as strong as the intellectual. He was in haste to act, and not merely from that necessity for expression which belongs to literary genius, but with that passion for realizing ideas which belongs to the reformer. In his early career the latter quality seems to predominate because its effects were obvious, and, besides, literary progress is a slower matter ; but both elements worked together equally in developing his character and determining his career. Stockdale had withdrawn the poems of 'Victor and Cazire,* but he was publishing ' St. Irvyne,' and considering ' The Wandering Jew.' The Oxford printers undertook ' The Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson,' a new collec- tion of poems, and published it. These verses, in which only the slight burlesque element, due to Hogg, was contemporary, represent the results on Shelley's imagination and taste of a really earlier period, and belong with ' Zastrozzi,' and ' St. Irvyne.' His poetic taste was improving, but the ferment of his mind was now mainly intellectual, and the new elements showed their influence principally in the propagandism of his spec- ulative opinions, his sympathy with the agitators for political reform, and his efforts to be of service to obscure writers. He continued to be interested in Brown's ' Sweden,* and on his last day at Oxford, became joint security with the publishers for £800 — a loss which fell upon them — to bring out the work. He also encouraged the publication (and may have undertaken to help pay for it) of a volume of poems by Miss Janetfa* Phillips, in whom he thought he had discovered a schoolgirl genius like Felicia Brown. He was more deeply interested in the case of Finnerty, an Irish agitator imprisoned for political publications, and published a poem, now lost, for his benefit, and subscribed his guinea to the fund for his relief ; and, in connection with this case also he first addressed Leigh Hunt, urging an association of men of liberal principles for mutual protection. His acquaintance with Hume and Locke, and the writings of the English reformers, led him to skeptical views. He informed Stockdale of a novel (presumably 'Leonora,* which was printed but not published, and is now unknown, in which Hogg may have had the principal share) ' principally constructed to convey metaphysical and political opin- ions by way of conversation,' and also of ' A Metaphysical Essay in support of Atheism, which he intended to promulgate throughout the University.' The most important expres- sion of these new views was made in his letters to his cousin, Harriet Grove, to the alarm of herself and her parents, who communicated with Shelley's father, and broke off the match. Stockdale, also, found it to be his duty to inform Shelley's father of his son's dangerous principles, and at the same time to express injurious ideas of Hogg's influence and character. When Shelley returned home at Christmas, between the anxiety of his family over his state of mind and his own feeling of exasperation and sense of injustice in the check given to his love, he had little enjoyment. On his return to Oxford his intel- lectual life reached a climax in the publication of his tract, ' The Necessity of Atheism,* which he seems to have intended as a circular letter for that irresponsible correspondence with strangers of which he had learned the habit from Dr. Lind. He strewed copies of this paper in Slatter's bookstore, where they remained on sale twenty minutes before dis- covery ; but the friends who at once summoned him to remonstrate were shocked when he told them that he had sent copies to every bishop on the bench, to the vice-chancellor, and to each of the Heads of Houses. The college authorities did not at once act, but on March 25, they assembled and summoned him. Hogg describes what followed : — * It was a fine spring morning, on Lady Day, in the year 1811, when I went to Shelley's room. He was absent, but before I had collected our books he rushed in. He was ter- ribly agitated. I anxiously inquired what had happened. " I am expelled," he said, as BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxiii soon as he had recovered himself a little, " I am expelled ! I was sent for suddenly a few minutes ago. I went to our common room, where I found our Master and two or three of the Fellows. The Master produced a copy of the little syllabus, and asked me whether I was the author of it. He spoke in a rude, abrupt and insolent tone. I begged to be informed for what purpose he put the question. No answer was given, but the Master loudly and angrily repeated, * Are you the author of this book ? ' * If I can judge from your manner,' I said, * you are resolved to punish me if I should acknowledge that it is my work. If you can prove that it is, produce your evidence. It is neither just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case and for such a purpose. Such proceed- ings would become a court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free country.' * Do you choose to deny that this is your composition ? ' the Master reiterated in the same rude and angry voice." Shelley complained much of his violence and ungentlemanly deport- ment, saying, " I have experienced tyranny and injustice before, and I well know what vulgar violence is, but I never met with such unworthy treatment. I told him calmly, but firmly, that I was determined not to answer any questions respecting the publication. He immediately repeated his demands. I persisted in my refusal, and he said furiously, * Then you are expelled, and I desire that you will quit the college early to-morrow morning at the latest.' One of the Fellows took up two papers and handed one of them to me, — here it is." He produced a regular sentence of expulsion drawn up in due form, under the seal of the college. ... I have been with Shelley in many trying situations of his after-life, but I never saw him so deeply shocked or so cruelly agitated as on this occasion. . . . He sat on the sofa, repeating with convulsive vehemence the words " expelled ! expelled ! " his head shaking with emotion, and his whole frame quiver- ing.' Hogg immediately sent word that he was as much concerned in the affair as Shelley, and received straightway the same sentence. In the afternoon a notice was publicly posted on the hall door, announcing the expulsion of the two students ' for contumaciously refusing to answer questions proposed to them, and for also repeatedly declining to disa- vow a publication entitled " Necessity of Atheism." ' That afternoon Shelley visited his old Eton friend, Halliday, saying, ' Halliday, I am come to say good-by to you, if you are not afraid to be seen with me.' The next morning the two friends left Oxford for Lon- don. Medwin tells how, a day or two later, at four o'clock in the morning, Shelley knocked at his door in Gardin* Court in the Temple. * I think I hear his cracked voice, with his well-known pipe, " Medw«in, let me in ! I am expelled ! " Here followed a loud half-hysteric laugh, and the repetition of the words, " I am expelled," with the addition of " for atheism." ' He and Hogg took lodgings in London, but in a few weeks the lat- ter went home and left Shelley alone. If Shelley was shocked. Field Place was troubled. His father demanded that he should return home, place himself submissively under a tutor, give up all connection with Hogg, apologize to the authorities at Oxford, and profess conformity to the church; otherwise he should have neither home nor money. Timothy Shelley was not a harsh man or an unfeeling father; he was kind-hearted, irascible and obstinate, inconsequential in his talk, and destitute of tact, with character and principles neither better nor worse than respectability required. He received the world from Providence, and his opinions from the Duke of Norfolk, and was content. He was a country squire and satisfied his constituents, his tenants, his family, and his servants, and all that was his except his father and his eldest son. It is pleasant to recall the fact that long after Shelley was dead his old nurse received her Christmas gift at the homestead to the end of her days. xxiv PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY Timothy Shelley was both alarmed and scandalized by his son's conduct, and he was evi- dently sincerely concerned. He did not understand it, and he did not know what to do. At this time, too, Shelley was an important person to his family, which had recently obtained wealth and title. He was looked to, as the heir, to maintain and secure its position, and the entail was already made for a large portion of the estate, — £80,000, although a remainder of £120,000 was still unsettled. Old Sir Bysshe, who had been made a baronet in 1806, was the founder of this prosperity. If he was an abler man than Timothy, whom he was accustomed to curse roundly to his face, he was a worse man. He was miserly, sordid, and vulgar in his tastes. He professed himself an atheist, and though he appears to have favored his grandson, when young, he had set an example which profited him ill. He was born in America, where his father had emigrated early in the last century and had married with a stock not now traceable, so that there were some drops of American blood in Shelley's veins. On his father's return to England, owing to the lunacy of his elder brother, to take charge of the small family place at Fen Place, Bysshe, then eighteen years old, went with him, and began the career of a fortune- hunter. He twice eloped with wealthy heiresses, and their property was the nucleus of the estate he built up. Two of his daughters followed his example in their mode of marrying. He had devoted himself to founding a family and had succeeded, and at the end of his days he was deeply concerned in the fate of the settlements. There were reasons, therefore, for making Shelley take a view of his place more in harmony with family expectations. Shelley, on his side, was not lacking in family affection. He was tenderly attached to his sisters, and Hogg relates that at Oxford he never received a letter from them or his mother without manifest pleasure. He certainly left in their minds only pleasant mem- ories of himself. He had a boy's regard for his father in early years, and his letters are, if firm, not deficient in respect. The only sign of distrust up to this period was the sus- picion, already mentioned, that his father intended sending him to a lunatic asylum at the time when he was home from Eton ill with fever. But, however warm his home affections were, he was not, at the age of eighteen, prepared to abandon on command his mind and what was to him moral duty; and he declined to accede to his father's terms. His relatives, the Med wins and Groves, helped him in London, and his sisters, who were at school, sent him their pocket money by a schoolmate. In the course of six weeks, after several ineffectual letters and interviews, a settlement was brought about, appar- ently through a maternal uncle, Captain Pilfold, who lived near Field Place and was always Shelley's friend; and it was agreed that Shelley should have £200 a year and entire freedom. This was toward the middle of May, and early in June he returned home, where he was well received, though he found his favorite sister, Elizabeth, whom he hoped Hogg might marry, less confiding in her brother than before these events. He was especially struck by the fact that the principles of his parents were social conven- tions, and that conflict with his own ideas did not proceed from any real convictions. In Shelley's enforced absence from his family an unknown opportunity had been given for blasting their hopes more effectual than any concession that could have been made which would have kept him near them. He had become acquainted with Harriet West- brook in the Christmas vacation before he left Oxford. She was a schoolmate of his sisters at Mrs. Fenning's, Clapham, like Sion House a middle-class school; and he had been commissioned to take her a gift. A correspondence sprang up, which, like all of Shelley's correspondences, was confined to his opinions, as he was still in the missionary stage of conviction. When he was living in London, it was she who acted between him BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxv and his sisters and brought him their savings. There was also an elder Miss Westbrook, Eliza, thirty years old, who was very kind to Shelley; she took him to walk with Harriet, invited him to call, and was on all occasions ready to bring them together, guided the conversation upon love, and left them alone. Mr. Westbrook, Shelley noticed, was very civil. He was a retired tavern-keeper. Shelley's interest was the more engaged, because Harriet was reproached at school for being friendly with a youth of his principles, and suffered petty annoyances. She was a pretty, bright, amiable girl, sixteen, slightly formed, with regular features, a pink and white complexion uncommonly brilliant, and pure, brown hair — 'like a poet's dream,' says Helen; and with this youthful bloom she had a frank air, grace, and a pleasant lively laugh. But Shelley, though interested in his 'little friend,' as he called her, was untouched; and when he went down to his uncle Pil- fold's in May, in search of reconciliation with his father, he there met another to admire, Miss Hitchener, a school-teacher of twenty-nine, who was to hold a high place in his esteem, and with whom he began his customary correspondence on metaphysics, educa- tion, and the causes that interested him. He remained at home a mouth, and wrote apparently his lost poem on the fete at Carlton House, and in July went to Wales to visit his cousins, the Groves. He was taken soon after his arrival with a brief though violent nervous illness, but recovered, and was greatly delighted with the mountain scenery, then new to him. In his rambles in the neighborhood he met with that adventure with the beggar which seems to have impressed him deeply. He gave the man something and fol- lowed him a mile, trying to enter into talk with him. Finally the beggar said, ' I see by your dress that you are a rich man. They have injured me and mine a million times. Y^ou appear to me well intentioned, but I have no security of it while you live in such a house as that, or wear such clothes as those. It would be charity to quit me.' The Westbrooks also were in Wales, and letters came from Harriet, who wrote de- spondently, complained of unhappiness at home, dwelt upon suicide, and at last asked Shelley's protection. ' Her letters,' says Shelley, writing two months later to Miss Hitchener, ' became more and more gloomy. At length one assumed a tone of such de- spair, as induced me to leave Wales precipitately. I arrived in London. I was shocked at observing the alteration in her looks. Little did I divine its cause. She had become violently attached to me, and feared that I should not return her attachment. Prejudice made the confession painful. It was impossible to avoid being much affected; I promised to unite my fate to hers. I stayed in London several days, during which she recovered her spirits. I promised at her bidding to come again to London.' This was in the early part of August. He wrote to Hogg, whom he had previously told that he was not in love, detailing the affair, and discussed with him whether he should marry Harriet, or, as she was ready to do, should disregard an institution which he had learned from Godwin to consider irrational. He went home and did not anticipate that any decision would be necessary at present. Within a week Harriet called him back because her father would force her to return to school. He went to her, took the course of honor, and in the last week of August went with her to Edinburgh, where they were married, August 28. He was nineteen, and she sixteen years of age. Shelley was no sooner married than he began to feel the pecuniary embarrassments which were to become familiar to him. He had never been without money, except for the six weeks in London after leaving Oxford, and he did not anticipate that his father would cut him off. He had borrowed the money for his journey from the elder Medwin^ and now, his quarterly allowance not being paid, he was kept from want only by a kindly remittance from his uncle Pilfold. Hogg had joined them at Edinburgh, but Shelley xxvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY was anxious to make a settlement, and early in October the party went to York, where Shelley left Harriet in Hogg's charge while he went on to his uncle's to seek some com- munication with his father. Within a week he returned, unsuccessful, to York, whither Harriet's elder sister, Eliza, had preceded him. He found on his arrival that Hogg had undertaken to intrigue with Harriet. A month later, in a letter to Miss Hitchener he gave an account of the interview he had with him: — * We walked to the fields beyond York. I desired to know fully the account of this affair. I heard it from him and I believe he was sincere. All that I can recollect of that terrible day is that I pardoned him, — fully, freely pardoned him; that I would still be a friend to him, and hoped soon to convince him how lovely virtue was; that his crime, not himself, was the object of my detestation ; that I value a human being not for what it has been, but for what it is; that I hoped the time would come when he would regard this horrible error with as much disgust as I did. He said little. He was pale, terror- struck, remorseful.' After this incident Shelley remained in York but a few days, and in November left without giving Hogg any intimation of his intentions. ' I leave him,' wrote Shelley, * to his fate. Would that I could rescue him.' He took a cottage at Keswick. He had already written to the Duke of Norfolk, who had before been brought in as a peacemaker between father and son, soliciting his inter- vention, aiid was invited to Grey stoke by the duke, where he spent with his family a few days at the expense of almost his last guinea. He wrote to the elder Med win: * We are now so poor as to be actually in danger of every day being deprived of the necessaries of life.' In December Mr. Westbrook allowed Harriet £200 a year, and in January Shelley's father made an equal allowance to him, to prevent ' his cheating strangers.' At Grey- stoke he had met Calvert, who introduced him to Southey. * Here is a man at Keswick,* wrote Southey, ' who acts upon me as my own ghost would do; he is just what I was in 1794.' Shelley had long regarded Southey with admiration, and ^ Thalaba ' remained a favorite book with him. But, although Southey was kind to him, contributing to his domestic comfort in material ways, the acquaintance resulted in a diminution of Shelley's regard. On January 2 he introduced himself to Godwin by letter, according to his custom, having only then heard that the writer whom he really revered was still alive, and he interested the grave philosopher very earnestly in his welfare. Meanwhile he had not been idle. Through all these events, indeed, he must have kept busy with his pen. He designed a poem representing the perfect state of man, gathered his verses to make a volume, worked on his metaphysical essays, and, especially, composed a novel, ' Hubert Cauvin,' to illustrate the causes of the failure of the French Revolution. At Keswick, too, occurred the first of the personal assaults on Shelley, which tried the be- lief of his friends. He had begun the use of laudanum, as a relief from pain, but he had recovered from the illness which discloses this fact, before the incident occurred. On January 19, at seven o'clock at night, Shelley, hearing an unusual noise, went to the door and was struck to the ground and stunned by a blow. His landlord, alarmed by the noise, came to the scene, and the assailant fled. The affair was publisVied in the local paper, and is spoken of by Harriet as well as Shelley. Some of the neighbors disbelieved in it, but his simple chemical experiments had excited their minds and made him an object of suspicion, and it is to be said that the country was in a disturbed state. Shelley's thoughts were already turned to Ireland as a field of practical action, and, his private affairs being now satisfactorily settled, he determined to go there and work for the cause of Catholic emancipation. At Keswick he wrote his * Address to the Irish People,' and in spite of BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxvii the dissuasion of Calvert and Godwin be started with his wife in the first days of Feb- ruary, 1812, and arrived in Dublin on the 12th. Shelley sent bis ' Address ' to the printer, and within two weeks had fifteen hundred copies on hand, which he distributed freely, sending them to sixty coffee-houses, flinging them from his balcony, giving them away on the street, and sending out a man with them. He wrote also ' Proposals for an Association,' published March 2. He had pre- sented a letter from Godwin to Curran, and made himself known to the leaders. On February 28, at a public meeting which O'Connell addressed, Shelley also spoke for an hour, and received mingled hisses and applause, — applause for the wrongs of Ireland, hisses for his plea for religious toleration. He also became acquainted with Mr. Lawless, a follower of Curran, and wrote passages of Irish history for a proposed work by him. Meanwhile Godwin sent letters dissuading him from his course, and finally wound up, — ' Shelley, you are preparing a scene of blood.' Shelley's Irish principles were but remotely connected with the practical politics of the hour, and consisted, in the main, of very general convictions in regard to equality, toleration, and the other elements of republican government. He did compose, out of French sources, a revolutionary ' De- claration of Rights.' He was soon discouraged by the character of the men and of the situation. His heart, too, was touched by the state of the people, for he engaged at once in that practical philanthropy which was always a large part of his personal life. ' A poor boy,' he writes, ' whom I found starving with his mother, in a hiding place of unut- terable filth and misery, — whom I rescued and was about to teach, has been snatched on a charge of false and villainous effrontery to a Magistrate of Hell, who gave him the alternative of the tender or of military servitude. ... I am sick of this city, and long to be with you and peace.' At last he gave up, sent forward a box filled with his books, which was inspected by the government and reported as seditious, and on April 4 left Ireland. He settled ten days later at Nantgwilt, near Cwm Elan, the seat of his cousins, the Groves, and there remained until June. In this period he appears to have met Pea- cock, through whom he was probably introduced to his London publisher, Hookham. In June he again migrated to Lynmouth in Devon. Here he wrote his * Letter to Lord Ellenborough,' defending Eaton, who had been sentenced for publishing Paine's * Age of Reason ' in a periodical. He amused himself by putting copies of the ' Declaration of Rights ' and a new satirical poem, ' The Devil's Walk,' in bottles and fire balloons, and setting them adrift by sea and air; but a more mundane attempt to circulate the 'De- claration of Rights ' resulted unfortunately for his servant, Dan Healy, who had become attached to him and followed him from Ireland, and was punished in a fine of £200 or eight months' imprisonment for posting it on the walls of Barnstable. Shelley could not pay the fine, but he provided fifteen shillings a week to make the prisoner's confinement more comfortable. The government now put Shelley under surveillance, and he was watched by Leeson, a spy. At Lynmouth * Queen Mab ' is first heard of. In September be removed to Tanyrallt, near Treraadoc, in Wales, where he became deeply interested in a scheme of Mr. Maddock's for reclaiming some waste land by an embankment. It was a large, practical enterprise, which engaged both Shelley's imagination and his spirit of philanthropy. He subscribed £100, and on October 4, went to London, seeking to interest others in this undertaking. Here he first met Godwin, through whom he became acquainted with the Newtons, of vegetarian fame, but before this, while in Dublin, he had himself adopted that way of life. It is uncertain whether at this time he saw God- win's daughter Mary. He renewed his acquaintance with Hogg, in whose narrative scenes of Shelley's life at this period, presented with the same vigor and vivacity as in xxviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY the Oxford time, occur. None of them are more humorous than such as describe the ap« pearance of Miss Kitchener, who, yielding to Shelley's long expressed wish, had joined the family before they left Wales and was now an inmate of the household. Shelley had idealized her at a distance, but her near neighborhood was disenchantment. Hogg's de- scription of his walk with the ' Brown Demon,' as he called her, on one arm, and the * Black Diamond,' as he nicknamed Eliza, on the other, has given her an unenviable figure. She was finally got rid of, and a stipend paid her to make good the loss she had suffered by giving up her school-teaching; but in her after-life she was much respected by those with whom she lived; and she appears to have remained very loyal to the poet, whose correspondence for nearly two years was so large a part of her life. Shelley returned to Wales on November 13, going to Tanyrallt. There he worked very constantly at his essays, an unpublished collection of ' Biblical Extracts ' for popular distribution, and * Queen Mab.' There also occurred the second assault upon him, which has been received with more distrust than any other event in his life. On February 26, between ten and eleven o'clock, Shelley, after retiring, was alarmed by a noise in the parlor below. He went down with two loaded pistols to the billiard room, and followed the sound of retreating footsteps into a small office, where he saw a man passing, through a glass window. The man fired, and Shelley's pistol flashed, on which the man knocked Shelley down, and, while they struggled, Shelley fired his second pistol, which he thought took effect. The man arose with a cry and said, ' By God, I will be revenged ! I will murder your wife ! I will ravish your sister ! By God, I will be revenged ! ' He then fled. The servants were still up, and the whole family assembled in the parlor and remained for two hours. Shelley and his servant, Dan, who had that day returned from prison, sat up. At four o'clock, Harriet heard a pistol shot, and on going down, found that Shelley's clothes and the window curtain had been shot through. Dan had left the room to see what time it was, when Shelley heard a noise at the window; as he approached it, a man thrust his arm through the glass and fired. Shelley's pistol again missed fire, and he struck at the man with an old sword ; while they were still struggling, Dan came back, and the man escaped. Peacock was there the next summer, and heard that persons, who examined the premises in the morning, found the grass trampled and rolled on, but there were no footprints except toward the house, and the impression of the ball on the wainscot showed that the pistol had been fired toward the window and not from it. There are other accounts of what Shelley said. In after years he ascribed the spasms of pain, from which he suffered, to the pressure of the man's knee on his body. It is not unlikely, as Dowden remarks, that Dan Healy had been followed by a spy, and it is known that Shelley was dogged by Leeson, whom he feared long afterwards. If the affair is regarded as an illusion of the sort to which Shelley was said to be subject, the material circumstances show that the event was one of intense reality to Shelley, and it is not strange that he immediately left the neighborhood, finding life there insupportable. He made a short journey to Ireland, where he arrived March 9, visited the Lakes of Killarney, and returned to Dublin, March 21. Early in April he was back in London. On returning to London, Shelley entered again into negotiations with his father for a further settlement. He would soon be of age, and it was necessary to make some terms to prevent the loss the estate would suffer by raising money on post-obit bonds. He was much harassed by his creditors, and his father is said privately to have taken measures to relieve him from their persecutions without his knowledge. It is uncertain whether he lived in a hotel or in lodgings. His first child, lanthe Eliza, was born in June. At the end of July he was settled at Bracknell, near the Boinvilles, who were connected BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxlx with the Newtons. Here Peacock visited him, and from this time became intimate. Peacock's cold judgment, notwithstanding his frequent skepticism and imperfect know- ledge of Shelley's affairs, makes his impressions valuable. To him, more than to any other external influence, is to be attributed the devotion of Shelley, which now began, to Greek studies. In the first week of October Peacock joined the family in a journey to Edinburgh, taken in a private carriage which Shelley had bought for Harriet. Nothing noteworthy occurred except that Shelley made a new convert, Baptista, a young Brazilian, who corresponded with him and partly translated ' Queen Mab,' which had been printed in the late spring, into Portuguese ; but he died while young. Shelley returned to London in December. Two years and a half had now passed since Shelley's marriage, and the union, in which love upon his part had not originally been an element, had become one of warm affection. Through all the vicissitudes of his wandering life it was a main source of Shelley's happi- ness. Time now began to disclose those limitations of character and temperament which were to be anticipated. The last pleasant scene in this early married life is Peacock's description of Shelley's pleasure in his child : — ' He was extremely fond of it, and would walk up and down the room with it in his arms for a long time together, singing to it a monotonous melody of his own making, which ran on the repetition of a word of his own making. His song was, " Y^hmani, Yahmani, Yahmani, Yahmani." It did not please me; but, what was more important, it pleased the child, and lulled it when it was fretful. Shelley was extremely fond of his children. He was preeminently an affectionate father. But to the firstborn there were accompaniments which did not please him. The child had a wet nurse, whom he did not like, and was much looked after by his wife's sister, whom he intensely disliked. I have often thought that if Harriet had nursed her own child, and if this sister had not lived with them, the link of their married love would not have been so readily broken,' In the autumn of 1813, on coming to London, Harriet began to vary from that de- scription of her which Shelley had written to Fanny Godwin in December, 1812: — * How is Harriet a fine lady ? You indirectly accuse her of this offence, — to me the most unpardonable of all. The ease and simplicity of her habits, the unassuming plain- ness of her address, the uncalculated connection of her thought and speech, have ever formed in my eyes her greatest charm ; and none of these are compatible with fashionable -ire, or the attempted assumption of its vulgar and noisy eclat.'' It was to please her that he then bought a carriage and a quantity of plate, and she disolavec'. a taste for expensive things. On the birth of the child her intellectual sym- patuy with him seems to have ended. Afterwards she neither read nor studied. She was disenchanted of his views, which, Peacock mentions, she joined with him in not tak- ing seriously; she was disenchanted, too, of the wandering life and recurring poverty to which they led. Her sister's presence in the household became a cause of difference between her and her husband. The first expressed sign of domestic unhappiness occurs in Shelley's melancholy letter to Hogg, March 22, 1814. He had then been staying for a month with Mrs. Boinville, and looked forward with regret to ending his visit. He thus refers to Eliza: — * Eliza is still with us, not here, but will be with me when the infinite malice of destiny forces me to depart. I am now but little inclined to contest this point. I certainly hate her with all my heart and soul. It is a sight which awakens an inexpressible sensation of disgust and horror to see her caress my poor little lanthe, in whom I may hereafter XXX PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY find the consolation of sympathy. I sometimes feel faint with the fatigue of checking the overflowing of my unbounded abhorrence for this miserable wretch. But she is no more than a blind and loathsome worm that cannot see to sting.' Shelley felt keenly the contrast of the peaceful home in which he was staying with his own. Some years afterwards, in 1819, he wrote to Peacock: — * I could not help considering Mrs. B. when I knew her as the most admirable specimen of a human being I had ever seen. Nothing earthly ever appeared to me more perfect than her character and manners. It is improbtible that I shall ever meet again the per- son whom I so much esteem and still admire. I wish, however, that when you see her you would tell her that I have not forgotten her, nor any of the amiable circle once assembled around her; and that I desired such remembrances to her as an exile and a Pariah may be permitted to address to an acknowledged member of the community of mankind.' With Mrs. Boinville and her daughter, Mrs. Turner, he now made his first acquaint- ance with Italian. On March 26 he remarried Harriet, who had not been with him for the previous month, in St. George's Church, London, in order to place beyond doubt the validity of the Scotch marriage and the rights of his children. Shortly afterwards, in April, Harriet again left him, and to this month belongs the poem, ' Stanza, April, 1814,' the most melancholy verses he had yet written, in which he speaks of his ' sad and silent home,' and 'its desolated hearth.' During the next month Harriet was still away; and, at some time in it, he addressed to her the stanzas, ' To Harriet, May, 1814,' in which he appeals to her to return to him and restore his happiness, tells her that her feeling is ' remorseless,' that it is ' malice,' ' revenge,' ' pride,' and begs her to ' pity if thou canst not love.' There is no evidence that Harriet rejoined Shelley, and, when her residence is next discovered, in July, she was living at Bath apparently with her sister. The story of Harriet's voluntarily leaving Shelley may have sprung from this protracted absence. Meanwhile Shelley had met Godwin's daughter, Mary, a girl of sixteen, who is de- scribed as golden-haired, with a pale, pure face, hazel eyes, a somewhat grave manner, and strength both of mind and will. Early in June he was feeling a strong attraction toward her. He confided in her, and out of their intimacy, through her sympathy, sprang that mutual love which soon became passion. The stanzas ' To Mary, June, 1814,' show deep feeling and a sense of doubtfulness in their position, but do not disclose any thought or suggestion of a relation other than friendship. But to Shelley, who was suffering deeply and was indeed wretched, it was not unnatural that he should reflect whether this was not one of those occasions justifying separation, which he had always held should be met by putting an end to a relation which had become false. This was his view of marriage, well known to Harriet at the time that he married her, when he had observed the ceremony for her sake, and openly repeated in his writings dedicated to her within a year. Shelley would not violate his principles by such an action; nor could it be pleaded that he had taken up with this view after obligations already incurred or subsequent to the incidents which made him desire a change. Harriet probably did not realize v/hat Shelley's convictions were, and may have been deceived by her experience of his disposi- tion. The natural inference from the state of the facts, which, at best, are imperfectly known, is that, as Shelley had now come of age and was in a position to make his rights of property felt, Harriet, under the guidance of her sister, who had been the intriguer from the start, desired such a settlement as would put her in possession of the social posi- tion and privileges which were at Shelley's command; that differences arose in the home, possibly on the comparatively slight question whether Eliza should continue to live with BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxl ^ - them; and that Harriet, swayed by her sister, was endeavoring to subdue Shelley to her way by a certain hardness in her conduct, and by if not refusing to live with him, refrain- ing from doing so. But Shelley, on his part, in Harriet's absence, had come to lovo Mary, and to see in following that love the way of escape from his troubles. The time was one of intense mental excitement to him, especially when the crisis came early in July. He secured Mary's consent. She was the daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and of Godwin, and derived from both parents the same principles of marriage, both by practice and precept, that Shelley held. In their own eyes neither of them was committing a wrong. Shelley sent for Harriet. She came to London, and he told her his determina- tion. She was greatly shocked and made ill by the disclosure. Shelley acted with a certain deliberation as well as with openness. He directed settlements to be made for Harriet's maintenance, and saw that she was supplied with money for the present. At the same time his state of mind was one of conflict and distress. Peacock describes his appearance : — ' Nothing that I ever read in tale or history could present a more striking image of a sudden, violent, irresistible, uncontrollable passion, than that under which I found him laboring, when, at his request, I went up from the country to call on him in London. Between his old feelings toward Harriet, from whom he was not then separated, and his new passion for Mary, he showed in his looks, in his gestures, in his speech, the state of a mind " suffering like a little kingdom the nature of an insurrection." His eyes were bloodshot, his hair and dress disordered. He caught up a bottle of laudanum and said, " I never part from this." He added, " I am always repeating to myself your lines from Sophocles : — ' •' ' Man's happiest lot is not to be : And when we tread life's thorny steep Most blest are they who earliest free Descend to death's eternal sleep.' " ' Mary appears to have been determined at last by fears for Shelley's life, and on July 28 she left England with him. It is unfortunately necessary to notice another element in the situation. It is the tes- timony of the common friends of Harriet and Shelley — Hogg, Peacock, and Hookham — that, up to the period of their parting, she was pure. It is said, indeed, on what must be regarded as the very doubtful authority of Miss Clairmont, that Shelley persuaded Mary to go by asserting Harriet's unfaithfulness. What is certain is that, after Harriet's death, he wrote to Mary, January 11, 1817, ' I learned just now from Godwin that he has evidence that Harriet was unfaithful to me four months before I left England with you.' That Godwin had such a story is known by his own evidence. The name of an obscure person, Ryan, who was acquainted with the family as early as the summer of 1813, was brought into connection with the affair. Shelley at one time doubted the paternity of his second child, Charles Bysshe, born in November, 1814, but he was afterwards satisfied that he was in error. I do not find any reliable evidence that Shelley ever maintained that he was convinced in July, 1814, of Harriet's infidelity. He afterwards believed that she had been in fault, as is shown by his letter to Southey in 1820, in which he maintains the rightfulness of his conduct : * I take God to witness, if such a being is now regarding both you and me ; and I pledge myself, if we meet, as perhaps you expect, before Him after death, to repeat the same in his presence — that you accuse me wrongfully. I am innocent of ill, either done or intended. The consequence you allude to flowed in no respect from me.' At the time of the event itself, it was not necessary xxxii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY to Shelley's mind to have a justification which would appeal to all the world and ordinary ways of thinking ; but, when time disclosed such justification, he made use of it to strengthen his action in his own eyes and the eyes of Mary, and, though only by implica- tion, in Southey's judgment. He appears never to have mentioned the matter to others. Shelley's habitual reticence was far greater than he has ever received credit for. Shelley and Mary had for a companion on their voyage Miss Clairmont, a daughter of the second Mrs. Godwin by her first marriage. They visited Paris, crossed France, and stopped on the shores of Lake Lucerne, near Brunnen. There they remained but a short time, and, descending the Rhine to Cologne, journeyed by Rotterdam to England, where they arrived September 13. Peacock describes the following winter as the most solitary period of Shelley's life. He settled in London, and was greatly embarrassed with his affairs, endeavoring to raise money and to keep out of the way of creditors. He had written to Harriet during his journey, often saw her in London, and seems to have been upon pleasant terms with her. Godwin, who bad at first been very angry, renewed his relations under the stress of his own financial difficulties, and the money to be had from Shelley. In January, 1815, old Sir Bysshe's death greatly improved Shelley's position by making him the immediate heir. He went home, and was refused admittance by his father; but negotiations could not be long delayed. They lasted for eighteen months. He was given the choice of entailing the entire estate, £200,000, surrendering his claim to that part of the property, £80,000, which could not be taken from him, and accepting a life interest, on which condition he should receive the whole ; or, refusing this, he should be deprived of the £120,000, which would go to his younger brother, John. Shelley refused to execute the entail, which he thought wrong, and yielded the larger part of the property. To pay his immediate debts he sold his succession to the fee-simple of a portion of the estate, valued at £18,000,. to his father for £11,000, in June, 1815, and by the same agreement received a fixed annual allowance of £1,000, and also a considerable sum of money. He sent Harriet £200 for her debts, and directed his bankers to pay her £200 annually from his allowance. Mr. Westbrook also continued to his daughter his allowance of £200, so that she now had £400 a year. Early in this year Shelley was told that he was dying rapidly of consumption. His health was certainly broken before this time, but every symptom of pulmonary disease suddenly and completely passed away. In February Mary's first child was born, but died within a fortnight. In the spring he settled at Bishopgate and there wrote ' Alas- tor.' In 1816, Mary's second child, William, was born. In May, Shelley, with Mary and Miss Clairmont, left England for the Continent, and within two weeks arrived at Lake Geneva. There he became acquainted with Byron, and spent the summer boating with him. Unknown to Shelley or Mary, Miss Clairmont, before leaving London, had become Byron's mistress, and the intrigue went on at Geneva without their knowledge. There Shelley also met Monk Lewis. On returning to England, where he arrived Sep- tember 7, he settled at Bath for some months. The two incidents that saddened the year occurred in quick succession. On October 8, Mary's half-sister Fanny, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and Imlay, committed suicide by taking laudanum at an inn in Swansea. Shelley was much shocked by this event, but another blow was in store for him. He seems to have lost sight of Harriet during his residence abroad, and it is doubt- ful whether he saw her after reaching England. She had received her allowances reg- ularly. In Novem-ber Shelley sought for and could not find her. It is affirmed that she was living under the protection of her father until shortly before her death. She was in lodgings, however, in that month, and did not return to them after November 9. On BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxiii December 10 her body was found in the Serpentine River. Of the two suicides, he said that he felt that of Fanny most acutely; but it is plain that, while he said at a later time she had * a heart of stone,' the fate of Harriet brought a melancholy that was not to pass away, though he had ceased to love her. Unfortunately there is no doubt that she had erred in her life after leaving his protection, but the letters she wrote to an Irish friend excite pity and sympathy with her. Shelley was married to Mary December 30, in St. Mildred's Church. He immediately undertook to recover his children from the Westbrooks. These children had been placed, before Harriet's death, under the care of the Rev. John Kendall, at Budbrooke. The Westbrooks were determined to contest Shelley's possession of them. The affair was brought into the Chancery Court. It was set forth that Shelley was a man of atheistical and immoral principles, and ' Queen Mab,' which had been distributed only in a private way, was offered in proof. The case was heard early in 1817 before Lord Eldon. Shelley was represented by his lawyers. On March 27 Lord Eldon gave judgment against Shelley, basing it on his opinions as affecting his conduct. The children were not placed in the hands of the Westbrooks, but were made wards, and the persons nominated by Shelley, Dr. and Mrs. Hume, were appointed guardians. Shelley was to be allowed to visit them twelve times in the year, but only in the presence of their guardians, and the Westbrooks were given the same privilege without that restriction. Shelley settled at Marlow early in 1817, having with him Miss Clairmont and her new- born child Allegra, and his own two children, William and Clara. In the summer he wrote 'The Revolt of Islam,' besides prose pamphlets upon politics; but he had now really begun his serious life as a poet. The only cloud on his happiness was the separa- tion from his children, which his poems sufficiently illustrate. Hunt, with whom he was now intimate, says, that after the decision Shelley ' never dared to trust himself with mentioning their names in my hearing, though I had stood at his side throughout the business.' He was in fear lest his other children should be taken from him; and he finally determined to leave England and settle in Italy, being partly led thereto by the state of his health, for which he was advised to try a warm climate. The private and intimate view of Shelley, from the time of his union with Mary in the summer of 1814 to that of his final departure from England in the spring of 1818, is given by Peacock and Hunt. Peacock had become his familiar friend, though Shelley was less confidential with him than Peacock supposed. In the solitary winter of 1814-15, which was spent drearily in London, Peacock saw him often; and in the next summer, during his residence at Bishopgate, the pleasant voyage up the Thames to Lechlade was taken. It was on this excursion that Peacock's favorite prescription for Shelley's ills — •three mutton chops well peppered' — effected so sudden a cure. Peacock attributes much of Shelley's physical ills to his vegetarian diet. He observes that whenever Shelley took a journey and was obliged to live ' on what he could get,' as Shelley said, he became better in health, so that his frequent wanderings were beneficial to him. On these jour- neys, he notes, too, Shelley always took with him pistols for self-defence, and laudanum as a resource from the extreme fits of pain to which he was subject. Shelley was appre- hensive of personal danger, and he had a vague fear, till he left England, that his father would attempt to restrain his liberty on a charge of madness. He also had at one time the suspicion that he was afflicted with elephantiasis. Peacock took these incidents more seriously than is at all warranted. Shelley's mind was, in general, strong, active and sound; his industry, both in acquisition and creation, was remarkable ; and the theory that be was really unbalanced in any material degree is not in harmony with his constant xxxiv PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY intellectual power, his very noticeable practical sense and carefulness in such business as be bad to execute, and his adherence to fact in those cases where bis account can be tested by another's. He had visions, both waking and sleeping; he had wandering fears that became ideas temporarily, perhaps approaching the point of hallucination; but to give such incidents, which are not extraordinary, undue weight is to disturb a just impression of Shelley's mind and life, as a whole, which were singularly distinguished by continual intellectual force, tenacity and consistency of principle, and studies and moral aims main- tained in the midst of confusing and annoying affairs, perpetual discouragement, and bodily weariness and pain. The excess of ideality in him disturbed his judgment of wo- men, but in other relations of life, except at times of illness, he did not vary from the normal more than is the lot of genius. Peacock brings out, more than other friends, the manner of Shelley, his temperance in discussion, especially when his own affairs were concerned, and his serene demeanor. One anecdote is illustrative of this courtesy, and at the same time indicates that limitation under which his friendship with Peacock went on: — ' I was walking with him in Bisham Wood, and we had been talking in the usual way of our ordinary subjects, when he suddenly fell into a gloomy reverie. I tried to rouse him out of it, and made some remarks which I thought might make him laugh at his own abstraction. Suddenly he said to me, still with the same gloomy expression: *' There is one thing to which I have decidedly made up my mind. I will take a great glass of ale every night." I said, laughingly, " A very good resolution, as the result of a melancholy musing." " Yes," he said, " but you do not know why I take it. I shall do it to deaden my feelings; for I see that those who drink ale have none." The next day he said to me, " You must have thought me very unreasonable yesterday evening ? " I said, " I did, certainly." " Then," he said, " I will tell you what I would not tell any one else. I was thinking of Harriet." I told him I had no idea of such a thing; it was so long since he had named her.' This is the single instance of expression of the remorse which Shelley felt for Harriet's fate. Peacock mentions the heartiness of Shelley's laughter, in connection with his failure to cultivate a taste for comedy in him, for Shelley felt the pain of comedy and its neces- sary insensibility to finer humane feeling; but this did not make him enjoy less his famil- iar, harmless humor, in which there was a dash of his early wild spirits. He was always fond of amusements of a childlike sort. Peacock thought that it was from him Shelley learned the sport of sailing paper-boats, happy if he could load them with pennies for the boys on the other side of stream or pond. At Marlow he used to play with a little girl who had attracted him, pushing a table across the floor to her, and when he went away he gave her nuts and raisins heaped on a plate,- which she kept through life in memory of him, and on her death willed it, so that it is now among the few personal relics of the poet. At Marlow, too, he visited the poor in their homes, as his custom was, helping and advising. His house there was a large one with many rooms, and handsomely fur- nished, the library being large enough for a ball-room, and the garden pleasant. Pea- cock's last service was to introduce him to the Italian opera, cf which he became fond, just before leaving England. Hunt had once seen Shelley in earlier years, and in prison had received letters of ad- miration and encouragement from him ; but he did not really know him until the end of 1816, just at the time of Harriet's death. He is more evenly appreciative, and no such allowances as are made for Hogg and Peacock have to be observed in his case, Shelley BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxv was especially fond of Hunt's children, and would play with them to their great delight. The anecdote of their begging him ' not to do the horn ' (meaning that he should not twist his hair on his forehead in acting the monster) is well known. It had been the temptation of setting off fireworks with the Newton children that took Shelley away from Godwin on his first night with the philosopher and introduced him to the vegetarian circle. Hunt was in many ways more fitted by nature to enter into sympathy with Shel- ley than any one he had known; the friendship they formed was delightful to both, and Shelley's part in it caused him to show some of his finest qualities of tact, toleration and service, that asked no thanks and knew no bounds. On the other hand. Hunt several times defended Shelley's good name under virulent and slanderous attacks, and after his death was one of those who repeatedly spoke out for him. Hunt ascribes Shelley's dis- repute in England in considerable measure to the effect of the Lord Chancellor's decree depriving him of his children. He says: — * He was said to be keeping a seraglio at Marlow, and his friends partook of the scan- dal. This keeper of a seraglio, who, in fact, was extremely difficult to please in such matters, and who had no idea of love unconnected with sentiment, passed his days like a hermit. He rose early in the morning, walked and read before breakfast, took that meal sparingly, wrote and studied the greater part of the morning, walked and read again, dined on vegetables (for he took neither meat nor wine) conversed with nis friends (to whom his house was ever open), again walked out, and usually finished with reading to his wife till ten o'clock, when he went to bed. This was his daily existence. His book was generally Plato, or Homer, or one of the Greek tragedies, or the Bible, in which last he took a great, though peculiar, and often admiring interest.' Hunt notices, as others have done, the great variability of Shelley's expression, due io his responsiveness to the scenes about him or his own memories, and in particular the suddenness with which he would droop into an aspect of dejection. He admired his char- acter, and did not distrust his temperament because some of his moods might seem at the time inexplicable. He especially praises his generosity, and the noble way of it, as he had reason to do, having at one time received £1,400 from him, besides the loans (which were the same as gifts) in the ordinary course of affairs; and, indeed, nothing but its emptiness ever closed Shelley's purse to any of his friends, who, it must be said, availed themselves somewhat freely of his liberal nature. One anecdote told by Hunt brings Shelley before the eye better than pages of description, and with it he closes his reminis- cences of the Marlow period: — ' Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had found a woman lying near the top of the hill in fits. It was a fierce winter night, with snow upon the ground; and winter loses nothing of its fierceness at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as well as most pitying on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to have the woman taken in. The invariable answer was that they could not do it. He asked for an outhouse to put her in, while he went for a doctor. Impossible. In vain he assured them that she was no impostor. They would not dispute the point with him; but doors were closed, and windows shut down. . . . Time flies. The poor woman is in convulsions; her son, a young man, lamenting over her. At last my friend sees a car- riage driving up to a house at a little distance. The knock is given; the warm door opens; servants and lights pour forth. Now, thought he, is the time. He puts on his best address. . . . He tells his story. They only press on the faster. " Will you go and see her?" "No, sir; there's no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it. Im- postors swarm everywhere. The thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is extraordi* xxxvi PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY . ' '' ■ ■■■. — — — - — ■ ' - — - . ■ - ■ ' ■^-^.—^^i^^^^^ nary." " Sir," cried Shelley, assuming a very different manner and forcing the flourishing householder to stop out of astonishment, '* I am sorry to say that your conduct is not ex- traordinary, and if my own seems to amaze you, I will tell you something which will amaze you more, and I hope will frighten you. It is such men as you who madden the spirits and the patience of the poor and wretched; and if ever a convulsion comes in this country (as is very probable) recollect what I tell you: you will have your house, that you refuse to put the miserable woman into, burnt over your head." " God bless me, sir ! Dear me, sir ! " exclaimed the poor, frightened man, and fluttered into his man- sion. The woman was then brought to our house, which was at some distance and down a bleak path; and Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till the doctor could arrive. It appeared that she had been attending this son in London, on a criminal charge made against him, the agitation of which had thrown her into fits on her return. The doctor said that she would have perished, had she remained there a short time longer. The next day my friend sent mother and son comfortably home to Hendon, where they were known, and whence they returned him thanks full of gratitude.' Shelley left England for the last time on March 12, 1818, and travelled by the way of Paris and Mont Cenis to Milan. Thenceforth he resided in Italy, with frequent changes of abode at first, but finally at Pisa and its neighborhood. He had now matured, and his intimate life, his nature, and his character, are disclosed by himself in the rapidly pro- duced works on which his fame rests. From this time it is not necessary to seek in others' impressions that knowledge of himself which is the end of biography ; and the singular consistency and self-possession of his character and career, as shown in his poetry and prose, and in his familiar letters, bearing out as they do the permanent traits of his dis- position already known, and correcting or shedding light upon what was extraordinary in his personality, give the best reason for belief that much in Shelley's earlier career which seems abnormal is due to the misapprehension and the misinterpretation of him by his friends. It was the life of a youth, impulsive and self-confident, and, moreover, it is the only full narrative of youth which our literature affords. If the thoughts and actions of first years were more commonly and minutely detailed, there might be less wonder, less distrust, less harsh judgment upon what seems erratic and foolish in Shelley's early days. His misfortune was that immaturity of mind and judgment became fixed in im- prudent acts; his practical responsibility foreran its due time. Yet the story, as it stands, demonstrates generous aims, a sense of human duty, an interest in man's welfare, and a resolution to serve it, as exceptional as Shelley's poetic genius, intimate as the tie was between the two; for he was right in characterizing his poetic genius as in the main a moral one. The latter years, during which his life is contained and expressed in his works, require less attention to such details as have been followed thus far; his life in manhood must be read in his poetry and prose, and especially in his letters, but some account of external affairs is still necessary. He had taken Miss Clairmont and her child with him, but at Milan the baby, Allegra, was sent to Byron, who undertook her bringing up and education. He enjoyed the opera at Milan, and made an excursion to Como in search of a house, but finally decided to go further south, and departed, on May 1, for Leghorn, where the party arrived within ten days. The presence there of the Gisbornes, old friends of Godwin, drew him to that city, which became, with Pisa, his principal place of residence. Mrs. Gisborne was a middle- aged woman of sense and experience, and possessed of much literary cultivation. She had been brought up as a girl, in the East, and had married Reveley, the student of Athepian antiquities, in Rome. He was a Radical; and on returning to England became BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxvii associated with Godwin, Holcroft, and others of the group of reformers; and in this way it happened that when Mary's mother died at her child's birth, Mrs. Reveley took the babe home and cared for it. Two years later, when Reveley died, Godwin proposed marriage to her, but was refused; and afterwards she married Mr. Gisborne, with whom she had lived in Italj'^ for some years. She welcomed Mary with great cordiality, and the pleasantest relations, which were only once broken, sprang up between the families. She introduced Shelley to Calderon, and read Spanish with him, as time went on, greatly to his pleasure; and, on his side, he became attached to her son, Henry Reveley, a young engineer, and especially assisted him in the scheme of putting a steamboat on the Medi- terranean ; but the plan, in which Shelley had embarked capital, failed. It was in the financial complications springing out of this affair that opportunity was given for the breach of confidence which then occurred, as Shelley thought he was to be defrauded; but the trouble between them was amicably settled. These events took place at a later time. Shelley did not at once settle in Leghorn, but took a house at the Baths of Lucca, where he spent a quiet period, pleased with the scene, his walks and rides, the bath under the woodland waterfall, and all the first delights of Italy, while he was not blind to its miseries. He finished ' Rosalind and Helen,' which he had begun at Marlow, and translated Plato's * Symposium.' Miss Clairmont had already begun to be discontented at the separation from Allegra, and was far from comforted by what news reached her of Byron's life at Venice. Shelley yielded to her anxiety and, on August 19, accompa- nied her by Florence to Venice, where Byron received him cordially, and offered him his villa at Este, where her mother, whose presence in Venice was concealed, would be per- mitted to see Allegra. Shelley wrote to Mary, who left Lucca August 30, and the family was soon settled at Este. Here their youngest child, Clara, sickened, and, on their tak- ing her at once to Venice for advice, she died in that city, September 24. The loss made the autumn lonely at Este, but there, except for brief visits to Byron, Shelley remained, writing the ' Lines on the Euganean Hills,' ' Julian and Maddalo,' and the first act of * Prometheus Unbound.' His poetic genius had come somewhat suddenly to its mastery, and his mind was full of great plans, keeping it restless and absorbed, while his melauv choly seemed to deepen. On November 5 they departed for the south. Miss Clairmont still accompanying them, and she continued to live with them. They arrived at Rome November 20, and, remaining only a week, were settled at Naples December 1. Here Shelley was intoxicated with the beauty of Italy; he visited Pompeii, ascended Vesuvius, and went south as far as Paestum,and in his letters gives marvellously beautiful descriptions of these scenes; but he was, for causes which remain obscure, deeply dejected and unhappy to such a degree that he hid his verses from Mary and disclosed no more of his grief than he could help. She ascribed his melancholy to physical depression, but there were other reasons, never satisfactorily made out. He worked but little, only at finishing and remodelling old poems, except that he wrote the well-known personal poems of that winter. On March 5 they returned to Rome, and there he plucked up courage again, and fin- ished three acts of ' Prometheus Unbound,' writing in that wilderness of beauty and ruin which he describes with a sad eloquence. Here the most severe domestic sorrow they were to undergo came upon them in the death of their boy, William, on June 7. Shelley watched by him for sixty hours uninterruptedly, and immediately was called on to forget his grief and sustain Mary, who sank under this last blow. * Yesterday,' he wrote to Peacock, •after sxi illness of only a few days, mv little WiUiam died. There was no hope from Kxxviii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY the moment of the attack. You will be kind enough to tell all my friends, so that I need not write to them. It is a great exertion to me to write even this, and it seems to me as if, hunted by calamity as I have been, that I should never recover any cheerfulness again.' He removed with Mary at once to Leghorn, that she might have Mrs. Gisborne's com- pany, and there spent the summer. ' The Cenci ' was the work of these months, written in a tower on the top of his house overlooking the country. On October 2 they went to Florence, where his last child, Percy, was born November 12. The galleries were a per- petual delight to him, and especially the sculptures, on which he made notes and from which he derived poetic stimulus. Here he wrote the fourth act of * Prometheus Un- bound,' finishing that poem. On January 27 they removed to Pisa, where they found a friend in Mrs. Mason, one of the Earl of Kingston's daughters whom Mary Wollstonecraft had once in charge. She was one of their set of acquaintances from this time. Shelley was much troubled in the opening months of this year, 1820, by Godwin's complaints and embarrassments, but as he had already given Godwin £4,000 or £5,000, and in order to do it had divested himself, as he reminded Godwin, of four or five times this amount, which he had raised from money-lenders, and as he was really unable to accomplish anything by such sacri- fices, he receded from the impossible task of extricating him from debt. Miss Clairmont, too, toward whom Shelley's conduct is tenderly considerate and manly, caused him trouble by her anxiety about Allegra, and her inability to keep on good terms with Mary, who was now unwilling that she should continue with them. His discharged servant, Paolo, also was a source of uneasiness and exasperation, as he first attempted to black- mail Shelley and then spread scandals about his private life, which were taken up in Italy and echoed in England. On June 15 they again removed to Leghorn, taking the house of the Gisbornes, and on August 5 went for the summer to the Baths of San Giuli- ano near Pisa. To these months belong ' The Witch of Atlas,' and ' (Edipus Tyrannus;' but Shelley's principal works were the occasional pieces. He had become greatly dis- couraged by the continued neglect of the public, and by the personal attacks to which his character was subjected in England. He certainly felt keenly his position as an out- cast, and though his enthusiasm for political causes was undiminished and flamed up in *The Mask of Anarchy,' and the 'Odes,' his spirit was depressed and hopeless. Miss Clairmont left them at the end of the summer, and became a private governess in Flor- ence, though from time to time she visited them. On October 22 Medwin joined them for some months, and directly after, on October 29, they returned from the Baths to Pisa for the winter. Here their circle of acquaintance was now large, and included Professor Pacchiani, Emilia Viviani, Prince Mavrocordato, the Princess Argiropoli, Sgricci, Taaffe, — new names, but, excepting two, of minor importance. Emilia Viviani was a young lady who interested Mary and Miss Clairmont as well as Shelley in her misfortunes. She was the occasion of * Epipsychidion,' in writing which Shelley expressed his full idealization of woman as the object of love and in so doing broke the charm of this last object of his idolatry. The event ended in exciting a certain jealousy in Mary, who was soon disen-« chanted of the distressed maiden; but she continued to be treated by all with the great- est kindness. Mavrocordato was the occasion of Shelley's keener interest in the Greek revolt, which was expressed in * Hellas,' an improvisation of 1821, and he was welcome also to Mary, who read Greek with him. The most important addition to the circle was Edward Williams and his wife, Jane, who came on January 13, 1821, and were Shelley's constant and most prized companions, from this time to the end. The summer was spent 6t the Baths of Giuliano, where * Adonais * was composed, except that Shelley went to BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xxxix Ravenna to see Byron in August; and the winter was passed at Pisa, where Byron settled in November with the Countess Guiccioli. Med win also returned and joined the circle. It was proposed, too, to invite Hunt, who was in straits, to Italy, and a plan was made for him to join with Byron in issuing ' The Liberal ' there, and in consequence of this arrangement, and by Shelley's free but self-denying material aid, he was enabled to come, but did not arrive so soon as was hoped. Such, in rapid outline, was the external course of Shelley's life in these four Italian years up to the spring of 1822. He had accomplished his poetic work, though it remained in large part unpublished, and he looked upon himself as having failed, — not that he did not know that his work was good, but that it had received no recognition. In private life he had continued to meet with grave misfortune, and his character still stood black- ened and traduced in the eyes of the world. His life with Mary had been a happy one, but he had early learned that it was his part to deny himself and contain his own moods and sorrows. It is plain that he felt a lack of perfect sympathy between them, a certain coldness, and something like fault-finding with him because of his persistent difference from the world and its ways. He was pained by this, and made solitary, and Mary afterwards was aware of it, as her self-reproaches show; but the union, notwithstanding, was one of tender affection in the midst of many circumstances that might have disturbed it. To Shelley's continued loneliness must be ascribed the deep melancholy of his verses to Mrs. Williams, the sheaf of poems that was the last of all. Edward Williams, who had been at Eton in Shelley's time, may have had some knowledge of him, but he was practically a new acquaintance. He was manly and generous by nature, and had a taste for literature, though his previous life had been an active one. Shelley became much attached to him, and found in his company, as they boated on the Serchio together, great enjoyment. Both he and Mary express warm admiration for their friend. Mrs. Wil- liams suffered the same idealization that Shelley had wrought about every woman who attracted him at all; and the peace and happiness of her life with her husband especially won upon him. The verses he wrote her were kept secret from Mary, and have the personal and intimate quality of poems meant for one alone to read. This friendship was the last pleasure that Shelley was to know, and Williams was to be his companior in death. Trelawny, from whom the true description of Shelley at the end of life comes, joined the circle January 14, 1822. He had led a romantic life as a sailor, and was now twenty- eight years old when he sought out Shelley, and made friends with Byron, and through these friendships became an interesting character to the world. The scene of his intro- duction to Shelley has been often quoted: — * The Williamses received me in their earnest, cordial manner. We had a great deal to communicate to each other, and were in loud and animated conversation, when I was rather put out by observing in the passage near the open door opposite to where I sat a pair of glittering eyes steadily fixed on mine. It was too dark to make out whom they belonged to. With the acuteness of a woman, Mrs. Williams's eyes followed the direc- tion of mine, and going to the doorway she laughingly said, "Come in, Shelley; it's only our friend Tre, just arrived." Swiftly gliding in, blushing like a girl, a tall, slim strip- ling held out both his hands; and, although I could hardly believe, as I looked at his flushed, feminine and artless face, that it could be the poet, I returned his warm pressure. After the ordinary greetings and courtesies he sat down and listened. I was silent from astonishment. Was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy could be the veritable monster at war with all the world ? — excommunicated by the Fathers of the Church, xl PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school ? I could not believe it; it must be a hoax. . . . He was habited like a boy in a black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had most shamefully stinted him in his " sizings." Mrs. Williams saw my embarrassment and, to relieve me, asked Shelley what book he had in his hand. His face brightened, and he answered briskly, " Calderon's ' Magico Prodigioso.' I am translating some passages in it." " Oh, read it to us ! " Shoved off from the shore of commonplace incidents, that could not interest him, and fairly launched on a theme that did, he instantly became oblivious of everything but the book in his hand. The masterly manner in which he analyzed the genius of the author, his lucid interpretation of the story, and the ease with which he translated into our language the most subtle and imag- inative passages of the Spanish poet were marvellous, as was his command of the two languages. After this touch of his quality I no longer doubted his identity. A dead silence ensued. Looking up I asked, " Where is he ? " Mrs. Williams said, " Who ? Shelley ? Oh, he comes and goes like a spirit, no one knows when or where." Pre- sently he reappeared with Mrs. Shelley.' Trelawny's whole narrative is very vivid and clear, and, in particular, he renders the boyishness of Shelley better than Hogg or Peacock, who turned it to ridicule. He found in him the old qualities, however, and many of the old habits. He still read or wrote incessantly, and could close his senses to the world around, even at Byron's dinner- parties, and withdraw to his own thoughts. He had no regular habits of eating, and lived on water and bread, — ' bread literally his staff of life.' He could jump into the water, on being told to swim, and lie quiet on the bottom till 'fished out,' — an incident that would have read very differently in Hogg or Peacock, but is here told with perfect nature. He was self-willed. ' I always go on till I am stopped, and I never am stopped,' he said. He had filled Williams with enthusiasm for self-improvement, and won him over wholly to books and thought and poetizing, just as he always sought to do with his friends, men or women. He was as passionately fond of boating as ever and eager for the craft he had ordered for the summer, which they were to spend in the Gulf of Spezia, as had been decided; and he wandered out alone into the Pine Forest to write, as when he composed * Alastor.' The same features, the same traits, are here as of old, — with the difference that they are told naturally without the suggestion of grotesqueness on one side or of incipient lunacy on the other. This sustains our belief in Shelley's always having been a natural being, subject to no more of eccentricity or disease than exists within the bounds of an ordinary healthy nature. ' He was like a healthy, well-condi- tioned boy,' says Trelawny. The gentle timidity is here, too, the half ludicrous fear of a * party ' with which Mary had * threatened ' him, and similar shynesses that existed in his temperament, with the openness that knew no wrong where no wrong was meant. His dislike of Byron, mixed with admiration of his genius and discouragement in its pre^ sence, is not concealed, and the vigor and brilliancy of his talk, its eloquent flow, together with his spells of sadness and the physical spasms that made him roll on the floor, but with self-command and words of unforgetting kindness for those about him who were obliged to look on, and also the constant discouragement of his spirits in respect to him- self and his life, — are all spread on these pages, which are biographically of the highest Value. It is fortunate that there is so faithful a witness of these last days ; but this memoir must draw to a close without lingering over the last portrait. The plan to pass the summer on the Gulf of Spezia was carried out. On May 1, after BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xli » _ : ^___ some difficulties in finding a place of abode, Shelley was settled in the Casa Magn'i, a lonely house on the edge of the sea, under steep and wooded slopes, beneath which rocky footpaths wound to Lerici on the south and to the near village of San Terenzo on the north. The Williamses were with him, and, temporarily. Miss Clairmont, to whom in the first days he there broke the news of the death of Allegra. The spot is one of inde- scribable beauty, with lovely views, both near and distant, wherever the eye wanders or rests ; but it had also an aspect of wildness and strangeness, which depressed Mary's spirits. ' The gales and squalls,' she says, ' that hailed our first arrival surrounded the bay with foam. The howling winds swept round our exposed house, and the sea roared unremittingly. . . . The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbors of San Terenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before lived among. Many a night they passed on the beach singing, or rather howling, the women dancing about among the waves that broke at their feet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud, wild chorus.' It was among these villagers that Shelley's last offices of charity were done, as he visited them in their houses, and helped the sick and the poor as he was able. On May 12 arrived the boat which Shelley christened the Ariel, — 'a per- fect plaything for the summer,' Williams said. They made also a shallop of canvas and reeds, and in one or the other of these crafts he incessantly boated. He wrote * The Triumph of Life,' going off by himself in his shallop in the moonlight. Mary thought it was the happiest period in his life. ' I still inhabit this divine bay,' he wrote, * reading Spanish dramas, and sailing and listening to the most enchanting music' Again he says^ * If the past and future could be obliterated, the present would content me so well that I could say with Faust to the passing moment, — " Remain thou, thou art so beautiful." ' Mary unfortunately was not so happy, and she says, took no pleasure excepting when * sailing, lying down with my head on his knee, I shut my eyes and felt the wind and our swift motion alone.' She was also at one time dangerously ill, and Shelley himself was far from well. The house was a place of visions. One night, when with Williams, he saw Allegra as a naked child rise from the waves, clapping her hands; again he saw the image of himself, who asked him, ' How long do you mean to be content ? ' And Mrs. Williams twice saw Shelley when he was not present. Two months passed by in this retreat, and it was now time for Leigh Hunt to arrive. Shelley set off to meet him at Leghorn, taking Williams and the sailor-boy, Charles Vivian, with him. Mary called Shelley back two or three times and told him that if he did not come soon she should go to Pisa, with their child Percy, and cried bitterly when he went away. The next day he arrived at Leghorn. Thornton Hunt always remem- bered the cry with which Shelley rushed into his father's arms, saying, ' I am inexpressi- bly delighted ! you cannot think how inexpressibly happy it makes me.' He saw the Hunts settled, and arranged affairs between Hunt and Byron ; but both he and W^illiams were anxious to return to their families in their lonely situation. On July 8 they set sail in the Ariel, not without warning of risk. The weather was threatening, and in a few moments they were lost in a sea-fog. Trelawny describes the scene : — * Although the sun was obscured by mists it was oppressively sultry. There was not a breath of air in the harbor. TLe heaviness of the atmosphere and an unwonted stillness benumbed my senses. I went down into the cabin and sank into a slumber. I was roused up by a noise overhead, and went on deck. The men were getting up a chain cable to let go another anchor. There was a general stir amongst the shipping; shifting berths, getting down yards and masts, veering out cables, hauling in of hawsers, letting go anchors, hailing from the ships and quays, boats sculling rapidly to and fro. It was xlii PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY almost dark, although only half past six. The sea was of the color and looked as solid and smooth as a sheet of lead, and covered with an oily scum ; gusts of wind swept over without ruffling it, and big drops of rain fell on its surface, rebounding, as if they could not penetrate it. There was a commotion in the air, made up of many threatening sounds, coming upon us from the sea. Fishing craft and coasting vessels under bare poles rushed by us in shoals, running foul of the ships in the harbor. As yet the din and hubbub was that made by men, but their shrill pipings were suddenly silenced by the crashing voice of a thunder squall that burst right over our heads. For some time no other sounds were to be heard than the thunder, wind and rain. When the fury of the storm, which did not last for more than twenty minutes, had abated, and the horizon was in some degree cleared, I looked to seaward anxiously, in the hope of descrying Shelley's boat amongst the many small crafts scattered about. I watched every speck that loomed on the hori- zon, thinking that they would have borne up on their return to the port, as all the other boats that had gone out in the same direction had done. I sent our Genoese mate on board some of the returning crafts to make inquiries, but they all professed not to have seen the English boat. . . . During the night it was gusty and showery, and the light- ning flashed along the coast; at daylight I returned on board and resumed my examina- tions of the crews of the various boats which had returned to the port during the night. They either knew nothing or would say nothing. My Genoese, with the quick eye of a sailor, pointed out on board a fishing-boat an English-made oar that he thought he had seen in Shelley's boat, but the entire crew swore by all the saints in the calendar that this was not so. Another day was passed in horrid suspense. On the morning of the third day I rode to Pisa. Byron had returned to the Lanfranchi Palace. I hoped to find a letter from the Villa Magni; there was none. I told my fears to Hunt, and then went upstairs to Byron. When I told him his lip quivered, and his voice faltered as he ques- tioned me.' Trelawny sent a courier to Leghorn and Byron ordered the Bolivar to cruise along the coast. He himself took his horse and rode. At Via Reggio he recognized a punt, a water keg, and some bottles that had been on Shelley's boat, and his fears became almost certainties. To quicken their watchfulness he promised rewards to the coast-guard patrol. On July 18 two bodies were found. ' The tall, slight figure, the jacket, the vol- ume of iEschylus in one pocket, and Keats's poems in the other, doubled back as if the reader in the act of reading had hastily thrust it away, were all too familiar to me to leave a doubt on my mind that this mutilated corpse was any other than Shelley's.' The second body was that of Williams. A few days later, the body of the sailor-boy, Charles Vivian, was also found. Trelawny went on to Lerici and broke the news to the two widows there, who, after suffering great suspense, and going to Pisa and returning, still hoped against hope through these days. There was nothing more to be done except that the last offices must be discharged. The bodies had been buried in the sand, but permission was obtained from the authorities to burn them. Trelawny took charge. He had a furnace made, and provided what else was necessary. On the first day Williams's body was burned, and on the second, August 18, Shelley's. Three white wands had been stuck in the sand to mark the grave, but it was nearly an hour before his body was found. The preparations were then completed. Only Byron and Hunt besides Trelawny and some natives of the place were present. ♦ The sea,' says Trelawny, ' with the islands of Gorgona, Capraja and Elba, was before us. Old battlemented watch towers stretched along the coast, backed by the marble- crested Apennines glistening in the sun, picturesque from their diversified outlines, and BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH xliii not a human dwelling was in sight.' And Hunt takes up the description: * The beauty of the flame arising from the funeral pile was extraordinary. The weather was beauti- fully fine. The Mediterranean, now soft and lucid, kissed the shore as if to make peace with it. The yellow sand and blue sky were intensely contrasted with one another; marble mountains touched the air with coolness, and the flame of the fire bore away to- ward heaven in vigorous amplitude wavering and quivering with a brightness of incon- ceivable beauty.' Wine, oil and salt were thrown on the pile, and with them the volume of Keats, and all was slowly consumed. Trelawny snatched the heart from the flames. Hunt and Byron hardly maintained themselves, but at last all was over, and they rode away. The ashes were deposited in the English burying ground at Rome, in the no\9 familiar spot where Trelawny placed a slab in the ground and inscribed its «= Percy Btsshe Shelley Cor Cordium Natus IV Aug. MDCCXCH Obiit VIII Jul. MDCCCXXII * Nothing of him that doth fade, But doth suffer a sea change into something rich and strange.' r 1? W QUEEN MAB A PHILOSOPHICAL POEM WITH NOTES ECRASEZ L'INFAME! Correspondatice de Voltairs^ Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante Trita solo, juvat integros accedere fonteis ; Atque haurire : juvatque novos decerpere flores. Unde prius nulli velarint tempora Musae. Primum quod magnis doceo de rebus ; et arctis Religionum animos nodis exsolvere pergo. Lucretius, lib. iv. Abj TTOu CTTO), KOI KoafJLOv Kivqaoi. Archimedes * During' my existence I have incessantly speculated, thought and read.' So Shelley wrote when he was yet not quite twenty years old ; and the statement fairly represents the history of his boyhood and youth. Queen Mab was composed in 1812-13, in its present form, and issued during the summer of the latter year, when Shelley was just twenty-one. It embodies substantially the contents of his mind at that period, especially those speculative, religious and philanthropic opinions to the ex- pression of which his ' passion for reforming the world ' was the incentive ; and, poetically, it is his first work of importance. Much of its subject-matter had been previously treated by him. The figure of Ahasuerus, which was a permanent imaginative motive for him, had been the centre of a juvenile poem, The Wan- dering Jew, in which Medwin claims to have collaborated with him, as early as 1809-10 ; and youthful verse written before 1812 is clearly incorporated in Queen Mab. It may fairly be regarded, poetically and intellectu- ally, as the result of the three preceding years, from the eighteenth to the twenty-first of the poet's life. The poem owes much to Shelley's studies in the Latin and French authors. The limitations of his poetical training and taste in English verse are justly stated by Mrs. Shelley, in her note : " Our earlier English poetry was almost un- known to him. The love and knowledge of nature developed by Wordsworth — the lofty melody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge's poetry — and the wild fantastic machinery and gorgeous scenery adopted by Southey, com- posed his favorite reading. The rhythm of Queen Mab was founded on that of Thalaba, and the first few lines bear a striking resem- blance in spirit, though not in idea, to the opening of that poem. His fertile imagina- tion, and ear tuned to the finest sense of har- mony, preserved him from imitation. Another of his favorite books was the poem of Gebir, by Walter Savage Landor.' Queen Mab is, in form, what would be ex- pected from such preferences. His own Notes indicate the prose sources of his thought. He dissented from all that was established in so- ciety, for the most part very radically, and was a believer in the perfectibility of man by moral means. Here, again, Mrs. Shelley's note is most just : ' He was animated to greater zeal by com- passion for his fellow-creatures. His sym- pathy was excited by the misery with which the world is bursting. He witnessed the suf- ferings of the poor, and was aware of the evils of ignorance. He desired to induce every rich man to despoil himself of superfluity, and to create a brotherhood of property and service, and Avas ready to be the first to lay down the advantages of his birth. He was of too un-' compromising a disposition to Join a,nj party QUEEN MAB He did not in his youth look forward to grad- ual improvement : nay, in those days of intol erance, now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look forward to the sort of millennium of freedom and brotherhood, which he thought the proper state of mankind, as to the present reign of moderation and improvement. Ill health made him believe tliat his race would soon be run ; that a year or two was all he had of life. He desired that these years should be useful and illustrious. He saw, in a fervent call on his fellow-creatures to share alike the blessings of the creation, to love and serve each other, the noblest work that life and time permitted him. In this spirit he composed Queen Mob.'' Shelley's own opinion of the poem changed in later years. He always referred to it as written in his nineteenth year, when it was ap- parently begun, though its final form at any rate dates from the next year. In 18il7 he wrote of it as follows : . . . ' Full of those errors which belong to youth, as far as imagery and language and a connected plan is concerned. But it was a sin- cere overflowing of the heart and mind, and that at a period when they are most uncorrupted and pure. It is the author's boast, and it consti- tutes no small portion of his happiness, that, after six years [this period supports the date 1811] of added experience and reflection, the doctrine of equality, and liberty, and disinter- estedness, and entire unbelief in religion of any sort, to which this poem is devoted, have gained rather than lost that beauty and that grandeur which first determined him to devote his life to the investigation and inculcation of them.' In 1821, when the poem was printed by W. Clark, Shelley, in a letter of protest to the edi- tor of the Exaviiner, describes it in a different strain : 'A poem, entitled Queen Mab, was written by me, at the age of eighteen, I dare say in a sufficiently intemperate spirit — but even then was not intended for publication, and a few copies only were struck off, to be distributed among my personal friends. I have not seen this production for several years ; I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless in point of literary composition ; and that in all that con- cerns moral and political speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysi- cal and religious doctrine, it is still more crude and immature. I am a devoted enemy to re- ligious, political, and domestic oppression ; and I regret this publication not so much from lit- erary vanity, as because I fear it is better fitted' to injure than to serve the sacred cause of freedom.' Queen Mob, as Shelley here states, was pri- vately issued. The name of the printer was cut out of nearly all copies, for fear of prose- cution. The edition was of two hundred and fifty copies, of which about seventy were put in circulation by gift. Many pirated editions were issvied after Shelley's death both in Eng- land and America, and the poem was especially popular with the Owenites. By it Shelley was long most widely known, and it remains one of the most striking of his works in popular apprehension. Though at last he abandoned it, because of its crudities, he had felt inter- est in it after its first issue and had partly recast it, and included a portion of this re- vision in his next volunie, Alastor, 1816, as the Daemon of the World. \ The radical character of Queen Mab, which was made a part of the evidence against his character, on the occasion of the trial which resulted in his being de- prived of the cvistody of his children by Lord Eldon, was a main element in the contempo- rary obloquy in which his name was involved in England, though very few persons could ever have read the poem then ; but it may be doubted whether in the end it did not help his fame by the fascination it exercises over a cer- tain class of minds in the first stages of social and intellectual revolt or angry unrest so wide- spread in this century. The dedication To Harriet ***** is to his first wife. TO HARRIET ***** Whose is the love that, gleaming through the world, Wards off the poisonous arrow of its scorn? Whose is the warm and partial praise. Virtue's most sweet reward ? Beneath whose looks did my reviving soul Riper in truth and virtuous daring grow ? Whose eyes have I gazed fondly on, And loved mankind the more ? Harriet ! on thine : — thou wert my purer mind ; Thou wert the inspiration of my song ; Thine are these early wilding flowers, Though garlanded by me. Then press into thy breast this pledge of love ; And know, though time may change and years may roll, Each floweret gathered in my heart It consecrates to thine. QUEEN MAB How wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep ! One pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue ; The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean's wave It blushes o'er the world ; Yet both so passing wonderful ! Hath then the gloomy Power Whose reign is in the tainted sepulchres lo Seized on her sinless soul ? Must then that peerless form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, those azure veins Which steal like streams along a field of snow. That lovely outline which is fair As breathing marble, perish ? Must putrefaction's breath Leave nothing of this heavenly sight But loathsomeness and ruin ? 20 Spare nothing but a gloomy theme. On which the lightest heart might moral- ize? Or is it only a sweet slumber Stealing o'er sensation, Which the breath of roseate morning Chaseth into darkness ? Will lanthe wake again, And give that faithful bosom joy Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch Light, life and rapture, from her smile ? Yes ! she will wake again, 31 Although her glowing limbs are motionless, And silent those sweet lips, Once breathing eloquence That might have soothed a tiger's rage Or thawed the cold heart of a conqueror. Her dewy eyes are closed. And on their lids, whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs beneath, The baby Sleep is pillowed ; 40 Her golden tresses shade The bosom's stainless pride, Curling like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column. Hark ! whence that rushing sound ? 'Tis like the wondrous strain That round a lonely ruin swells. Which, wandering on the echoing shore, The enthusiast hears at evening ; 'T is softer than the west wind's sigh ; 'T is wilder than the unmeasured notes Of that strange lyre whose strings 52 The genii of the breezes sweep ; Those lines of rainbow light Are like the moonbeams when they fall Through some cathedral window, but the tints Are such as may not find Comparison on earth. Behold the chariot of the Fairy Queen ! Celestial coursers paw the unyielding air; 6c Their filmy pennons at her word they furl, And stop obedient to the reins of light ; These the Queen of Spells drew in ; Slie spread a charm around the spot. And, leaning graceful from the ethereal car. Long did she gaze, and silently, Upon the slumbering maid. Oh ! not the visioned poet in his dreams. When silvery clouds float through the wil- dered brain, When every sight of lovely, wild and grand 70 Astonishes, enraptures, elevates. When fancy at a glance combines The wondrous and the beautiful, — So bright, so fair, so wild a shape Hath ever yet beheld, As that which reined the coursers of the air And poured the magic of her gaze Upon the maiden's sleep. The broad and yellow moon Shone dimly through her form — 80 That form of faultless symmetry; The pearly and pellucid car Moved not the moonlight's line. 'T was not an earthly pageant. Those, who had looked upon the sight Passing all human glory, Saw not the yellow moon, Saw not the mortal scene, Heard not the night-wind's rush, Heard not an earthly sound, 90 Saw but the fairy pageant. Heard but the heavenly strains That filled the lonely dwelling. QUEEN MAB The Fairy's frame was slight — yon fibrous cloud, That catches but the palest tinge of even, And which the straining eye can hardly seize When melting into eastern twilight's shad- ow. Were scarce so thin, so slight ; but the fair star That gems the glittering coronet of morn, Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, loo As that which, bursting from the Fairy's form. Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, Yet with an undulating motion, Swayed to her outline gracefully. From her celestial car The Fairy Q\ieen descended, And thrice she waved her wand Circled with wreaths of amaranth; Her thin and misty form Moved with the moving air, no And the clear silver tones. As thus she spoke, were such As are unheard by all but gifted ear. FAIRY * Stars ! your balmiest influence shed ! Elements ! your wrath suspend ! Sleep, Ocean, in the rocky bounds That circle thy domain ! Let not a breath be seen to stir Around yon grass-grown ruin's height ! Let even the restless gossamer 120 Sleep on the moveless air ! Soul of lanthe ! thou, Judged alone worthy of the envied boon That waits the good and the sincere ; that waits Those who have struggled, and with reso- lute will Vanquished earth's pride and meanness, burst the chains, The icy chains of custom, and have shone The day - stars of their age ; — Soul of lanthe ! Awake ! arise ! ' Sudden arose 130 lanthe's Soul; it stood All beautiful in naked purity. The perfect semblance of its bodily frame ; Instinct with inexpressible beauty and grace — Each stain of earthliness Had passed away — it reassumed Its native dignity and stood Immortal amid ruin. Upon the couch the body lay. Wrapt in the depth of slumber; 140 Its features were fixed and meaningless, Yet animal life was there. And every organ yet performed Its natural functions; 'twas a sight Of wonder to behold the body and the soul. The self-same lineaments, the same Marks of identity were there; Yet, oh, how different ! One aspires to Heaven, Pants for its sempiternal heritage. And, ever changing, ever rising still, 150 Wantons in endless being: The other, for a time the unwilling sport Of circumstance and passion, struggles on; Fleets through its sad duration rapidly; Then like an useless and worn-out machine. Rots, perishes, and passes. FAIRY * Spirit ! who hast dived so deep; Spirit ! who hast soared so high; Thou the fearless, thou the mild, Accept the boon thy worth hath earned. Ascend the car with me ! ' 161 SPIRIT * Do I dream ? Is this new feeling But a visioned ghost of slumber ? If indeed I am a soul, A free, a disembodied soul, Speak again to me.' FAIRY ' I am the Fairy Mab: to me 'tis given The wonders of the human world to keep; The secrets of the immeasurable past, In the unfailing consciences of men, 170 Those stern, unflattering chroniclers, I find; The future, from the causes which arise In each event, I gather; not the sting Which retribxitive memory implants In the hard bosom of the selfish man. Nor that ecstatic and exulting throb Which virtue's votary feels when he sums up The thoughts and actions of a well-spent day. QUEEN MAB Are unforeseen, unregistered by me; And it is yet permitted me to rend i8o The veil of mortal frailty, that the spirit, Clothed in its changeless purity, may know How soonest to accomplish the great end For which it hath its being, and may taste That peace which in the end all life will share. This is the meed of virtue; happy Soul, Ascend the car with me ! ' The chains of earth's immurement Fell from lanthe's spirit; They shrank and brake like bandages of straw 190 Beneath a wakened giant's strength. She knew her glorious change, And felt in apprehension uncontrolled New raptures opening round; Each day-dream of her mortal life. Each frenzied vision of the slumbers That closed each well-spent day. Seemed now to meet reality. The Fairy and the Soul proceeded; The silver clouds disparted; 200 And as the car of magic they ascended. Again the speechless music swelled, Again the coursers of the air Unfurled their azure pennons, and the Queen, Shaking the beamy reins, Bade them pursue their way. The magic car moved on. The night was fair, and countless stars Studded heaven's dark blue vault; Just o'er the eastern wave 210 Peeped the first faint smile of morn. The magic car moved on — From the celestial hoofs The atmosphere in flaming sparkles flew. And where the burning wheels Eddied above the mountain'sloftiest peak. Was traced a line of lightning. Now it flew far above a rock, The utmost verge of earth, 219 The rival of the Andes, whose dark brow Lowered o'er the silver sea. Far, far below the chariot's path, Calm as a slumbering babe, Tremendous Ocean lay. The mirror of its stillness showed The pale and waning stars, The chariot's fiery track, And the gray light of morn Tinging those fleecy clouds That canopied the dawn. 230 Seemed it that the chariot's way Lay through the midst of an immense con- cave Radiant with million constellations, tinged With shades of infinite color, And semicircled with a belt Flashing incessant meteors. The magic car moved on. As they approached their goal, 238 The coursers seemed to gather speed; The sea no longer was distinguished; earth Appeared a vast and shadowy sphere; The sun's unclouded orb Rolled through the black concave ; Its rays of rapid light Parted around the chariot's swifter course. And fell, like ocean's feathery spray Dashed from the boiling surge • Before a vessel's prow. The magic car moved on. Earth's distant orb appeared 250 The smallest light that twinkles in thtf heaven ; Whilst round the chariot's way Innumerable systems rolled And countless spheres diffused An ever-varying glory. It was a sight of wonder: some Were horned like the crescent moon; Some shed a mild and silver beam Like Hesperus o'er the western sea; 259 Some dashed athwart with trains of flame, Like worlds to death and ruin driven; Some shone like suns, and as the chariot passed, Eclipsed all other light. Spirit of Nature ! here — In this interminable wilderness Of worlds, at whose immensity Even soaring fancy staggers, Here is thy fitting temple! Yet not the lightest leaf 269 That quivers to the passing breeze Is less instinct with thee; Yet not the meanest worm QUEEN MAB That lurks in graves and fattens on the dead, Less shares thy eternal breath! Spirit of Nature! thou, Imperishable as this scene — Here is thy fitting temple! II If solitude hath ever led thy steps To the wild ocean's echoing shore, And thou hast lingered there, Until the sun's broad orb Seemed resting on the burnished wave, Thou must have marked the lines Of purple gold that motionless Hung o'er the sinking sphere ; Thou must have marked the billowy clouds, Edged with intolerable radiancy, lo Towering like rocks of jet Crowned with a diamond wreath; And yet there is a moment, When the sun's highest point Peeps like a star o'er ocean's western edge. When those far clouds of feathery gold. Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea; Then has thy fancy soared above the earth And furled its wearied wing 20 Within the Fairy's fane. Yet not the golden islands Gleaming in yon flood of light. Nor the feathery curtains Stretching o'er the su;i's bright couch, Nor the burnished ocean-waves Paving that gorgeous dome. So fair, so wonderful a sight As Mab's ethereal palace could afford. 29 Yet likest evening's vault, that faery Hall ! As Heaven, low resting on the wave, it spread Its floors of flashing light, Its vast and azure dome, Its fertile golden islands Floating on a silver sea; Whilst suns their mingling beamings darted Through clouds of circumambient darkness. And pearly battlements around Looked o'er the immense of Heaven. The magic car no longer moved. The Fairy and the Spirit Entered the Hall of Spells. Those golden clouds 40 That rolled in glittering billows Beneath the azure canopy. With the ethereal footsteps trembled not; The light and crimson mists. Floating to strains of thrilling melody Through that unearthly dwelling, Yielded to every movement of the will; 50 Upon their passive swell the Spirit leaned. And, for the varied bliss that pressed around, Used not the glorious privilege Of virtue and of wisdom. 'Spirit!' the Fairy said. And pointed to the gorgeous dome, ' Tins is a wondrous sight And mocks all human grandeur; But, were it virtue's only meed to dwell In a celestial palace, all resigned 60 To pleasurable impulses, immured Within the prison of itself, the will Of changeless Nature would be unfulfilled. Learn to make others happy. Spirit, come! This is thine high reward: — the past shall rise; Thou shalt behold the present; I will teach The secrets of the future.' The Fairy and the Spirit Approached the overhanging battlement. Below lay stretched the universe! 70 There, far as the remotest line That bounds imagination's flight, Countless and unending orbs In mazy motion intermingled, Yet still fulfilled immutably Eternal Nature's law. Above, below, around, The circling systems formed A wilderness of harmony; Each with undeviating aim, 80 In eloquent silence, through the depths of space Pursued its wondrous way. There was a little light That twinkled in the misty distance. None but a spirit's eye Might ken that rolling orb. None but a spirit's eye. And in no other place But that celestial dwelling, might behold Each action of this earth's inhabitants, gt But matter, space, and time, In those aerial mansions cease to act; QUEEN MAB And all-prevailing wisdom, when it reaps The harvest of its excellence, o'erbounds Those obstacles of which an earthly soul Fears to attempt the conquest. The Fairy pointed to the earth. The Spirit's intellectual eye Its kindred beings recognized. 99 The thronging thousands, to a passing view, Seemed like an ant-hill's citizens. How wonderful ! that even The passions, pnejudices, interests, That sway the meanest being — the weak touch That moves the finest nerve And in one human brain Causes the faintest thought, becomes a link In the great chain of Nature! ' Behold,' the Fairy cried, 'Palmyra's ruined palaces! no Behold where grandeur frowned! Behold where pleasure smiled! What now remains ? — the memory Of senselessness and shame. What is immortal there ? Nothing — it stands to tell A melancholy tale, to give An awful warning; soon Oblivion will steal silently The remnant of its fame. 120 Monarchs and conquerors there Proud o'er prostrate millions trod — The earthquakes of the human race; Like them, forgotten when the ruin That marks their shock is past. ' Beside the eternal Nile The Pyramids have risen. Nile shall pursue his changeless way; Those Pyramids shall fall. Yea! not a stone shall stand to tell The spot whereon they stood; Their very site shall be forgotten, As is their builder's name! 130 * Behold yon sterile spot, Where now the wandering Arab's tent Flaps in the desert blast! There once old Salem's haughty fane Reared high to heaven its thousand golden domes. And in the blushing face of day Exposed its shameful glory. 140 Oh! many a widow, many an orphan cursed The building of that fane ; and many a father. Worn out with toil and slavery, implored The poor man's God to sweep it from the earth And spare his children the detested task Of piling stone on stone and poisoning The choicest days of life To soothe a dotard's vanity. There an inhuman and uncultured race 149 Howled hideous praises to their Demon- God; They rushed to war, tore from the mother's womb The unborn child — old age and infancy Promiscuous perished; their victorious arms Left not a soul to breathe. Oh! they were fiends! But what was he who taught them that the God Of Nature and benevolence had given A special sanction to the trade of blood? His name and theirs are fading, and the tales Of this barbarian nation, which impos- ture Recites till terror credits, are pursuing 160 Itself into forgetfulness. * Where Athens, Rome, and Sparta stood, There is a moral desert now. The mean and miserable huts. The yet more wretched palaces, Contrasted with those ancient fanes Now crumbling to oblivion, — The long and lonely colonnades Through which the ghost of Freedom stalks, — Seem like a well-known tune, 170 Which in some dear scene we have loved to hear. Remembered now in sadness. But, oh ! how much more changed, How gloomier is the contrast Of human nature there ! Where Socrates expired, a tyrant's slave, A coward and a fool, spreads death around — Then, shuddering, meets his own. Where Cicero and Antoninus lived, A cowled and hypocritical monk 180 Prays, curses and deceives. ' Spirit ! ten thousand years Have scarcely passed away. 8 QUEEN MAB Since in the waste, where now the savage drinks His enemy's blood, and, aping Europe's sons, Wakes the unholy song of war. Arose a stately city, Metropolis of the western continent. There, now, the mossy column-stone, Indented by time's uurelaxing grasp, 190 Which once appeared to brave All, save its country's ruin, — There the wide forest scene. Rude in the uncultivated loveliness Of gardens long run wild, — Seems, to the unwilling sojourner whose steps Chance in that desert has delayed. Thus to have stood since earth was what it is. Yet once it was the busiest haunt, 199 Whither, as to a common centre, flocked Strangers, and ships, and merchandise ; Once peace and freedom blest The cultivated plain; But wealth, that curse of man, Blighted the bud of its prosperity; Virtue and wisdom, truth and liberty. Fled, to return not, until man shall know That they alone can give the bliss Worthy a soul that claims Itii kindred with eternity. 210 * There 's not one atom of yon earth But once was living man ; Nor the minutest drop of rain, Tliat hangeth in its thinnest cloud, But flowed in human veins; And from the burning plains Where Libyan monsters yell. From the most gloomy glens Of Greenland's sunless clime, To where the golden fields 220 Of fertile England spread Their harvest to the day. Thou canst not find one spot Whereon no city stood. ' How strange is human pride ! I tell thee that those living things. To whom the fragile blade of grass That springeth in the morn And perisheth ere noon. Is an unbounded world; 230 I tell thee that those viewless beings, Whose mansion is the smallest particle Of the impassive atmosphere, Think, feel and live like man; That their affections and antipathies, Like his, produce the laws Ruling their moral state; And the minutest throb That through their frame diffuses The slightest, faintest motion, 24s Is fixed and indispensable As the majestic laws That rule yon rolling orbs.' The Fairy paused. The Spirit, In ecstasy of admiration, felt All knowledge of the past revived ; the events Of old and wondrous times. Which dim tradition interruptedly Teaches the credulous vulgar, were un- folded In just perspective to the view; 250 Yet dim from their infinitude. The Spirit seemed to stand High on an isolated pinnacle; The flood of ages combating below. The depth of the unbounded universe Above, and all around Nature's unchanging harmony. Ill * Fairy ! ' the Spirit said, And on the Queen of Spells Fixed her ethereal eyes, ' I thank thee. Thou hast given A boon which I will not resign, and taught A lesson not to be unlearned. I know The past, and thence I will essay to glean A warning for the future, so that man May profit by his errors and derive Experience from his folly; i« For, when the power of imparting joy Is equal to the will, the human soul Requires no other heaven.' MAB ' Turn thee, surpassing Spirit ! Much yet remains unscanned. Thou knowest how great is man, Thou knowest his imbecility; Yet learn thou what he is: Yet learn the lofty destiny Which restless Time prepares 2a For every living soul. * Behold a gorgeous palace that amid You populous city rears its thousand towers QUEEN MAB And seems itself a city. Gloomy troops Of sentinels in stern and silent ranks Encompass it around; the dweller there Cannot be free and happy; hearest thou not The curses of the fatherless, the groans Of those who have no friend ? He passes on — The King, the wearer of a gilded chain 30 That binds his soul to abjectness, the fool Whom courtiers nickname monarch, whilst a slave Even to the basest appetites — that man Heeds not the shriek of penury; he smiles At the deep curses which the destitute Mutter in secret, and a sullen joy Pervades his bloodless heart when thou- sands groan But for those morsels which his wantonness Wastes in unjoyous revelry, to save All that they love from famine ; when he hears 40 The tale of horror, to some ready-made face Of hypocritical assent he turns, Smothering the glow of shame, that, spite of him, Flushes his bloated cheek. Now to the meal Of silence, grandeur and excess he drags His palled unwilling appetite. If gold. Gleaming around, and numerous viands culled From every clime could force the loathing sense To overcome satiety, — if wealth The spring it draws from poisons not, — or vice, 50 Unfeeling, stubborn vice, converteth not Its food to deadliest venom ; then that king Is happy ; and the peasant who fulfils His unforced task, when he returns at even And by the blazing fagot meets again Her welcome for whom all his toil is sped. Tastes not a sweeter meal. Behold him now Stretched on the gorgeous couch ; his fe- vered brain Reels dizzily awhile ; but ah ! too soon The slumber of intemperance subsides, 60 And conscience, that undying serpent, calls Her venomous brood to their nocturnal task. Listen ! he speaks ! oh ! mark that frenzied eye — Oh ! mark that deadly visage I ' KING * No cessation ! Oh ! must this last forever ! Awful death, I wish, yet fear to clasp thee ! — Not one moment Of dreamless sleep ! O dear and blessed Peace, Why dost thou shroud thy vestal purity In penury and dungeons ? Wherefore lurkest With danger, death, and solitude ; yet shun'st 70 The palace I have built thee ? Sacred Peace ! Oh, visit me but once, — but pitying shed One drop of balm upon my withered soul ! ' THE FAIRY ' Vain man ! that palace is the virtuous heart, And Peace defileth not her snowy robes In such a shed as thine. Hark ! yet he mutters ; His slumbers are but varied agonies ; They prey like scorpions on the springs of life. There needeth not the hell that bigots frame To punish those who err ; earth in itself 80 Contains at once the evil and the cure ; And all-sufficing Nature can chastise Those who transgress her law ; she only knows How justly to proportion to the fault The punishment it merits. Is it strange That this poor wretch should pride him in his woe ? Take pleasure in his abjectness, and hug The scorpion that consumes him ? Is it strange That, placed on a conspicuous throne of thorns, Grasping an iron sceptre, and immured 90 Within a splendid prison whose stern bounds Shut him from all that's good or dear on earth. His soul asserts not its humanity ? That man's mild nature rises not in war lO QUEEN MAB Against a king's employ ? No — 'tis not strange. He, like the vulgar, thinks, feels, acts, and lives Just as his father did ; the unconquered powers Of precedent and custom interpose Between a king and virtue. Stranger yet, To those who know not Nature nor de- duce lOO The future from the present, it may seem. That not one slave, who suffers from the crimes Of this unnatural being, not one wretch, Whose children famish and whose nuptial bed Is earth's unpitying bosom, rears an arm To dash him from his throne ! Those gilded flies That, basking in the sunshine of a court. Fatten on its corruption ! what are they ? — The drones of the community ; they feed On the mechanic's labor ; the starved hind no For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield Its unshared harvests ; and yon squalid form, Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes A sunless life in the unwholesome mine. Drags out in labor a protracted death To glut their grandeur ; many faint with toil That few may know the cares and woe of sloth. Whence, thinkest thou, kings and parasites arose ? Whence that unnatural line of drones who heap Toil and unvanquishable penury 120 On those who build their palaces and bring Their daily bread ? — From vice, black loathsome vice ; From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong ; From all that genders misery, and makes Of earth this thorny wilderness ; from lust, Revenge, and murder. — And when reason's voice. Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked The nations ; and mankind perceive that vice Is discord, war and misery ; that virtue Is peace and happiness and harmony ; 130 When man's maturer nature shall disdain The playthings of its childhood ; — kingly glare Will lose its power to dazzle ; its authority Will silently pass by ; the gorgeous throne Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall. Fast falling to decay ; whilst falsehood's trade Shall be as hateful and unprofitable As that of truth is now. Where is the fame Which the vain-glorious mighty of the earth Seek to eternize ? Oh ! the faintest sound 140 From time's light footfall, the minutest wave That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing The unsubstantial bubble. Ay ! to-day Stern is the tyrant's mandate, red the gaze That flashes desolation, strong the arm That scatters multitudes. To - morrow comes ! That mandate is a thunder-peal that died In ages past ; that gaze, a transient flash On which the midnight closed ; and on that arm 149 The worm has made his meal. The virtuous man, Who, great in his humility as kings Are little in their grandeur; he who leads Invincibly a life of resolute good And stands amid the silent dungeon-depths More free and fearless than the trembling judge Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove To bind the impassive spirit; — when he falls, His mild eye beams benevolence no more; Withered the hand outstretched but to re- lieve; 159 Sunk reason's simple eloquence that rolled But to appall the guilty. Yes! the grave Hath quenched that eye and death's relent- less frost Withered that arm ; but the unfading fame Which virtue hangs upon its votary's tomb. The deathless memory of that man whom kings Call to their minds and tremble, the re- membrance With which the ^appy spirit contemplates QUEEN MAB II Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth, Shall never pass away. 169 * Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; The subject, not the citizen; for kings And subjects, mutual foes, forever play A losing game into each other's hands, Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence. Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience. Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame 179 A mechanized automaton. When Nero High over flaming Rome with savage joy Lowered like a fiend, drank with enrap- tured ear The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld The frightful desolation spread, and felt A new-created sense within his soul Thrill to the sight and vibrate to the sound, — Thinkest thou his grandeur had not over- come The force of human kindness ? And when Rome With one stern blow hurled not the tyrant down, Crushed not the arm red with her dearest blood, 190 Had not submissive abjectness destroyed Nature's suggestions ? Look on yonder earth: The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun Sheds light and life ; the fruits, the flowers, the trees. Arise in due succession ; all things speak Peace, harmony and love. The universe. In Nature's silent eloquence, declares That all fulfil the works of love and joy, — All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates The sword which stabs his peace; he cherisheth 200 The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth The tyrant whose delight is in his woe, Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun, Lights it the great alone ? Yon silver beams, Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch Than on the dome of kings ? Is mother earth A step-dame to her numerous sons who earn Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil; A mother only to those puling babes 209 Who, nursed iu ease and luxui-y, make men The playthings of their babyhood and mar In self-important childishness that peace Which men alone appreciate ? * Spirit of Nature, no ! The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs Alike in every human heart. Thou aye erectest there Thy throne of power unappealable; Thou art the judge beneath whose nod Man's brief and frail authority 22a Is powerless as the vsdnd That passeth idly by; Thine the tribunal which surpasseth The show of human justice As God surpasses man! * Spirit of Nature ! thou Life of interminable multitudes; Soul of those mighty spheres Whose changeless paths through Heaven's deep silence lie; Soul of that smallest being, 230 The dwelling of whose life Is one faint April sun-gleam ; — Man, like these passive things, Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth; Like theirs, his age of endless peace, Which time is fast maturing, Will swiftly, surely, come; And the unbounded frame which thou per- vadest. Will be without a flaw Marring its perfect symmetry! 240 IV ' How beautiful this night ! the balmiest sigh. Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening's ear. Were discord to the speaking quietude That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven's ebon vault. Studded with stars unutterably bright, Through which the moon's unclouded gran- deur rolls, Seems like a canopy which love had spread To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills. 12 QUEEN MAB Robed in a garment of nutrodflen snow; 9 Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend So stainless that their white and glittering spires Tinge not the moon's pure beam ; yon castled steep Whose banner hangeth o'er the time-worn tower So idly that rapt fancy deemeth it A metaphor of peace ; — all form a scene Where musing solitude might love to lift Her soul above this sphere of earthliness; Where silence undisturbed might watch alone — So cold, so bright, so still. The orb of day In southern climes o'er ocean's waveless field 20 Sinks sweetly smiling ; not the faintest breath Steals o'er the unruffled deep ; the clouds of eve Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day; And Vesper's image on the western main Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes: Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass, Roll o'er the blackened waters; the deep roar Of distant thunder mutters awfully; Tempest unfolds its pinion o'er the gloom That shrouds the boiling surge ; the pitiless fiend, 30 With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey; The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a grave Beneath its jagged gulf. Ah ! whence yon glare That fires the arch of heaven ? that dark red smoke Blotting the silver moon ? The stars are quenched In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round. Hark to that roar whose swift and deafen- ing peals In countless echoes through the mountains ring, Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne ! 40 Now swells the intermingling din; the jar Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb ; The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout, The ceaseless clangor, and the rush of men Inebriate with rage: — loud and more loud The discord grows; till pale Death shuts the scene And o'er the conqueror and the conquered draws His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the men Whom day's departing beam saw blooming there In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts 50 That beat with anxious life at sunset there; How few survive, how few are beating now ! All is deep silence, like the fearful calm That slumbers in the storm's portentous pause ; Save when the frantic wail of widowed love Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay Wrapt round its struggling powers. The gray morn Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphur- ous smoke Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 60 And the bright beams of frosty morning dance Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood Even to the forest's depth, and scattered arms, And lifeless warriors, whose hard linea- ments Death's self could change not, mark the dreadful path Of the outsallying victors; far behind Black ashes note where their proud city stood. Within yon forest is a gloomy glen — Each tree which guards its darkness from the day, 69 Waves o'er a warrior's tomb. I see thee shrink, Surpassing Spirit ! — wert thou human else? QUEEN MAB 13 I see a shade of doubt aud horror fleet Across thy stainless features; yet fear not; This is no unconnected misery, Nor stands uncaused and irretrievable. Man's evil nature, that apology Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, set up For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood Which desolates the discord-wasted land. From kings and priests and statesmen war arose, 80 Whose safety is man's deep unbettered woe. Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the axe Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall; And where its venoraed exhalations spread Ruin, and death, and woe, where millions lay Quenching the serpent's famine, and their bones Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast, A garden shall arise, in loveliness Surpassing fabled Eden. Hath Nature's soul, — That formed this world so beautiful, that spread 90 Earth's lap with plenty, and life's smallest chord Strung to unchanging unison, that gave The happy birds their dwelling in the grove. That yielded to the wanderers of the deep The lovely silence of the unfathomed main, And filled the meanest worm that crawls in dust W^ith spirit, thought and love, — on Man alone. Partial in causeless malice, wantonly Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery; his soul 99 Blasted with withering curses; placed afar The meteor-happiness, that shuns his grasp, But serving on the frightful gulf to glare Rent wide beneath his footsteps ? Nature ! — no ! Kings, priests and statesmen blast the hu- man flower Even in its tender bud; their influence darts Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins Of desolate society. The child. Ere he can lisp his mother's sacred name, Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts His baby-sword even in a hero's mood, no This infant arm becomes the bloodiest scourge Of devastated earth ; whilst specious names. Learnt in soft childhood's unsuspecting hour, Serve as the sophisms v/ith which manhood dims Bright reason's ray and sanctifies the sword Upraised to shed a brother's innocent blood. Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim that man Inherits vice and misery, when force And falsehood hang even o'er the cradled babe, irg Stifling with rudest grasp all natural good. * Ah ! to the stranger-soul, when first it peeps From its new tenement and looks abroad For happiness and sympathy, how stern And desolate a tract is this wide world ! How withered all the buds of natural good ! No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms Of pitiless power ! On its wretched frame Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and woe Heaped on the wretched parent whence it sprung 129 By morals, law and custom, the pure winds Of heaven, that renovate the insect tribes. May breathe not. The untainting light of day May visit not its longings. It is bound Ere it has life; yea, all the chains are forged Long ere its being; all liberty and love And peace is torn from its defencelessness; Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle doomed To abjectness and bondage ! * Throughout this varied and eternal world Soul is the only element, the block 140 That for uncounted ages has remained. The moveless pillar of a mountain's weight Is active living spirit. Every grain Is sentient both in unity and part, And the minutest atom comprehends A world of loves and hatreds; these begef 14 QUEEN MAB Evil and good; hence truth and falsehood spring; Hence will and thought and action, all the germs Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate. That variegate the eternal universe. 150 Soul is not more polluted than the beams Of heaven's pure orb ere round their rapid lines The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise. * Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds Of high resolve; on fancy's boldest wing To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield; Or he is formed for abjectness and woe. To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, 160 To shrink at every sound, to quench the flame Of natural love in sensualism, to know That hour as blest when on his worthless days The frozen hand of death shall set its seal. Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. The one is man that shall hereafter be; The other, man as vice has made him now. ' War is the statesman's game, the priest's delight, The lawyer's jest, the hired assassin's trade. And to those royal murderers whose mean thrones 170 Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore. The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean. Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, sur- round Their palaces, participate the crimes That force defends and from a nation's rage Secures the crown, which all the curses reach That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe. These are the hired bravos who defend The tyrant's throne — the bullies of his fear; These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, 180 The refuse of society, the dregs Of all that is most vile; their cold hearts blend Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride. All that is mean and villainous with rage Which hopelessness of good and self-con- tempt Alone might kindle; they are decked in wealth. Honor and power, then are sent abroad To do their work. The pestilence that stalks In gloomy triumph through some eastern land 189 Is less destroying. They cajole with gold And promises of fame the thoughtless youth Already crushed with servitude; he knows His wretchedness too late, and cherishes Repentance for his ruin, when his doom Is sealed in gold and blood ! Those too the tyrant serve, who, skilled to snare The feet of justice in the toils of law. Stand ready to oppress the weaker still, And right or wrong will vindicate for gold, Sneering at public virtue, which beneath Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled where 201 Honor sits smiling at the sale of truth. ^ * Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites, Without a hope, a passion or a love. Who through a life of luxury and lies Have crept by flattery to the seats of power, Support the system whence their honors flow. They have three words — well tyrants know their use. Well pay them for the loan with usury Torn from a bleeding world ! — God, Hell and Heaven: 210 A vengeful, pitiless, and almighty fiend, Whose mercy is a nickname for the rage Of tameless tigers hungering for blood; Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire, Where poisonous and undying worms pro- long Eternal misery to those hapless slaves Whose life has been a penance for its crimes; And Heaven, a meed for those who dare belie Their human nature, quake, believe and cringe /T Before the mockeiies of earthly power. 220 'These tools the tyrant tempers to his work. Wields in his wrath, and as he wills de- stroys, QUEEN MAB 15 Omnipotent in wickedness; the while Youth springs, age moulders, manhood tamely does His bidding, bribed by short-lived joys to lend Force to the weakness of his trembling arm. They rise, they fall; one generation comes Yielding its harvest to destruction's scythe. It fades, another blossoms; yet behold ! Red glows the tyrant's stamp-mark on its bloom, 230 Withering and cankering deep its passive prime. He has invented lying words and modes. Empty and vain as his own coreless heart; Evasive meanings, nothings of much sound, To lure the heedless victim to the toils Spread round the valley of its paradise. 'Look to thyself, priest, conqueror or prince Whether thy trade is falsehood, and thy lusts Deep wallow in the earnings of the poor. With whom thy master was; or thou de- light'st 240 In numbering o'er the myriads of thy slain. All misery weighing nothing in the scale Against thy short-lived fame; or thou dost load With cowardice and crime the groaning land, A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self! Ay, art thou not the veriest slave that e'er Crawled on the loathing earth ? Are not thy days Days of unsatisfying listlessness ? Dost thou not cry, ere night's long rack is o'er, " When will the morning come ? " Is not thy youth 250 A vain and feverish dream of sensualism ? Thy manhood blighted with unripe disease ? Are not thy views of unregretted death Drear, comfortless and horrible ? Thy mind. Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame, Incapable of judgment, hope or love ? And dost thou wish the errors to survive, That bar thee from all sympathies of good. After the miserable interest Thou hold'st in their protraction ? When the grave 260 Has swallowed up thy memory and thyself, Dost thou desire the bane that poisons earth To twine its roots around thy coffined clay, Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy tomb. That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die? * Thus do the generations of the earth Go to the grave and issue from the womb, Surviving still the imperishable change That renovates the world ; even as the leaves Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year Has scattered on the forest-soil and heaped For many seasons there — though long they choke. Loading with loathsome rottenness the land, All germs of promise, yet when the tall trees From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes, jo Lie level with the earth to moulder there, They fertilize the land they long deformed; Till from the breathing lawn a forest springs Of youth, integrity and loveliness. Like that which gave it life, to spring and die. Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights The fairest feelings of the opening heart, Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love, And judgment cease to wage unnatural war 20 With passion's unsubduable array. Twin-sister of Religion, Selfishness ! Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all The wanton horrors of her bloody play J Yet frozen, unimpassioned, spiritless, Shunning the light, and owning not its name. Compelled by its deformity to screen With flimsy veil of justice and of right Its unattractive lineaments that scare All save the brood of ignorance; at once 30 The cause and the effect of tyranny; Unblushing, hardened, sensual and vile; Dead to all love but of its abjectness; With heart impassive by more noble powers Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, 01 fame; i6 QUEEN MAB Despising its own miserable being, Which still it longs, yet fears, to disen- thrall. * Hence commerce springs, the venal inter- change Of all that human art or Nature yield ; Which wealth should purchase not, but want demand, 4° And natural kindness hasten to supply From the full fountain of its boundless love, Forever stifled, drained and tainted now. Commerce ! beneath whose poison-breath- ing shade No solitary virtue dares to spring, But poverty and wealth with equal hand Scatter their withering curses, and unfold The doors of premature and violent death To pining famine and full-fed disease, To all that shares the lot of human life, 50 Which, poisoned body and soul, scarce drags the chain That lengthens as it goes and clanks be- hind. * Commerce has set the mark of selfishness. The signet of its all-enslaving power, Upon a shining ore, and called it gold ; Before whose image bow the vulgar great. The vainly rich, the miserable proud, The mob of peasants, nobles, priests and kings, And with blind feelings reverence the power That grinds them to the dust of misery. 60 But in the temple of their hireling hearts Gold is a living god and rules in scorn All earthly things but virtue. * Since tyrants by the sale of human life Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and fame To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride. Success has sanctioned to a credulous world The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war. His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes The despot numbers ; from his cabinet 70 These puppets of his schemes he moves at will, Even as the slaves by force or famine driven. Beneath a vulgar master, to perform A task of cold and brutal drudgery ; — Hardened to hope, insensible to fear, Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine. Mere wheels of work and articles of trade, That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth ! ' The harmony and happiness of man Yields to the wealth of nations; that which lifts 80 His nature to the heaven of its pride. Is bartered for the poison of his soul; The weight that drags to earth his tower- ing hopes. Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain, Withering all passion but of slavish fear. Extinguishing all free and generous love Of enterprise and daring, even the pulse That fancy kindles in the beating heart To mingle with sensation, it destroys, — Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self, 90 The grovelling hope of interest and gold, Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed Even by hypocrisy. And statesmen boast Of wealth ! The wordy eloquence that lives After the ruin of their hearts, can gild The bitter poison of a nation's woe ; Can turn the worship of the servile mob To their corrupt and glaring idol, fame, From virtue, trampled b}' its iron tread, — Although its dazzling pedestal be raised 100 Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field. With desolated dwellings smoking round. The man of ease, who, by his warm fire- side. To deeds of charitable intercourse And bare fulfilment of the common laws Of decency and prejudice confines The struggling nature of his human heart. Is duped by their cold sophistry; he sheds A passing tear perchance upon the wreck Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling's door no The frightful waves are driven, — when his son Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion Drives his wife raving mad. But the poor man Whose life is misery, and fear and care; Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil; Who ever hears his famished offspriag's scream ; QUEEN MAB 17 Whom their pale mother's uncomplaining gaze Forever meets, and the proud rich man's eye Flashing command, and the heart-breaking scene Of thousands like himself ; — he little heeds The rhetoric of tyranny ; his hate 121 Is quenchless as his wrongs ; he laughs to scorn The vain and bitter mockery of words, Feeling the horror of the tyrant's deeds. And unrestrained but by the arm of power. That knows and dreads his enmity. ' The iron rod of penury still compels Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth, And poison, with unprofitable toil, A life too void of solace to confirm 130 The very chains that bind him to his doom. Nature, impartial in munificence, Has gifted man with all-subduing will. Matter, with all its transitory shapes, Lies subjected and plastic at his feet, That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread. How many a rustic Milton has passed by, Stifling the speechless longings of his heart. In unremitting drudgery and care ! How many a vulgar Cato has compelled 140 His energies, no longer tameless then, To mould a pin or fabricate a nail ! How many a Newton, to whose passive ken Those mighty spheres that gem infinity Were only specks of tinsel fixed in heaven To light the midnights of his native town ! * Yet every heart contains perfection's germ. The wisest of the sages of the earth, That ever from the stores of reason drew Science and truth, and virtue's dreadless tone, 150 Were but a weak and inexperienced boy, Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued With pure desire and universal love, Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain, Untainted passion, elevated will. Which death (who even would linger long in awe Within his noble presence and beneath His changeless eye-beam) might alone sub- due- Him, every slave now dragging through the filth Of some corrupted city his sad life, i6a Pining with famine, swoln with luxury, Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense With narrow schemings and unworthy cares. Or madly rushing through all violent crime To move the deep stagnation of his soul, — Might imitate and equal. But mean lust Has bound its chains so tight about the earth That all within it but the virtuous man Is venal ; gold or fame will surely reach The price prefixed by Selfishness to all 170 But him of resolute and unchanging will ; Whom nor the plaudits of a servile crowd, Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury, Can bribe to yield his elevated soul To Tyranny or Falsehood, though they wield With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world. ' All things are sold : the very light of heaven Is venal ; earth's unsparing gifts of love. The smallest and most despicable things That lurk in the abysses of the deep, 180 All objects of our life, even life itself, And the poor pittance which the laws al- low Of liberty, the fellowship of man. Those duties which his heart of human love Should urge him to perform instinctively. Are bought and sold as in a public mart Of undisguising Selfishness, that sets On each its price, the stamp-mark of hei reigUo Even love is sold ; the solace of all woe Is turned to deadliest agony, old age 190 Shivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms, And youth's corrupted impulses prepare A life of horror from the blighting bane Of commerce ; whilst the pestilence that springs From unen joying sensualism, has filled All human life with hydra-headed woes. * Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs Of outraged conscience; for the slavish priest i8 QUEEN MAB Sets no great value on his hireling faith ; A little passing pomp, some servile souls, 200 Whom cowardice itself might safely chain Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe To deck the triumph of their languid zeal, Can make him minister to tyranny. More daring crime requires a loftier meed. Without a shudder the slave-soldier lends His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart, When the dread eloquence of dying men. Low mingling on the lonely field of fame. Assails that nature whose applause he sells 210 For the gross blessings of the patriot mob. For the vile gratitude of heartless kings, And for a cold world's good word, — viler still ! * There is a nobler glory which survives Until our being fades, and, solacing All human care, accompanies its change; Deserts not virtue in the dungeon's gloom. And in the precincts of the palace guides Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime ; Imbues his lineaments with dauntless- ness, 220 Even when from power's avenging hand he takes Its sweetest, last and noblest title — death ; — The consciousness of good, which neither gold, Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly bliss, Can purchase ; but a life of resolute good, Unalterable will, quenchless desire Of universal happiness, the heart That beats with it in unison, the brain Whose ever-wakeful wisdom toils to change Reason's rich stores for its eternal weal. 230 * This commerce of sincerest virtue needs No meditative signs of selfishness. No jealous intercourse of wretched gain. No balancings of prudence, cold and long ; In just and equal measure all is weighed, One scale contains the sum of human weal. And one, the good man's heart. How vainly seek The selfish for that happiness denied To aught but virtue ! Blind and hardened, they, Who hope for peace amid the storms of care, 240 Who covet power they know not how to use, And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give, — Madly they frustrate still their own de- signs; And, where they hope that quiet to en- Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul, Pining regrets, and vain repentances. Disease, disgust and lassitude pervade Their valueless and miserable lives. ' But hoary-headed selfishness has felt Its death-blow and is tottering to the grave; 250 A brighter morn awaits the human day. When every transfer of earth's natural gifts Shall be a commerce of good words and works ; When poverty and wealth, the thirst of fame, The fear of infamy, disease and woe. War with its million horrors, and fierce hell. Shall live but in the memory of time. Who, like a penitent libertine, shall start. Look back, and shudder at his younger years.' VI All touch, all eye, all ear, The Spirit felt the Fairy's burning speech. O'er the thin texture of its frame The varying periods painted changing glows, As on a summer even, When soul-enfolding music floats around, The stainless mirror of the lake Re-images the eastern gloom, Mingling convulsively its purple hues With sunset's burnished gold. 10 Then thus the Spirit spoke : ' It is a wild and miserable world ! Thorny, and full of care, Which every fiend can make his prey at will! O Fairy ! in the lapse of years, Is tliere no hope in store ? Will yon vast suns roll on Interminably, still illuming The night of so many wretched souls, And see no hope for them ? 20 QUEEN MAB 19 Will not the universal Spirit e'er Revivify this withered limb of Heaven ? ' The Fairy calmly smiled In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope Suffused the Spirit's lineaments. •Oh ! rest thee tranquil; chase those fear- ful doubts Which ne'er could rack an everlasting soul That sees the chains which bind it to its doom. Yee ! crime and misery are in yonder earth, Falsehood, mistake and lust; 30 But the eternal world Contains at once the evil and the cure. Some eminent in virtue shall start up, Even in perversest time; The truths of their pure lips, that never die, Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath Of ever-living flame, Until the monster sting itself to death. * How sweet a scene will earth become ! Of purest spirits a pure dwelling-place, 40 Symphonious with the planetary spheres; When man, with changeless Nature coa- lescing, Will undertake regeneration's work. When its ungenial poles no longer point To the red and baleful sun That faintly twinkles there ! * Spirit, on yonder earth, Falsehood now triumphs; deadly power Has fixed its seal upon the lip of truth ! Madness and misery are there ! 50 The happiest is most wretched ! Yet con- fide Until pure health-drops from the cup of . joy Fall like a dew of balm upon the world. Now, to the scene I show, in silence turn. And read the blood-stained charter of all woe. Which Nature soon with recreating hand Will blot in mercy from the book of earth. How bold the flight of passion's wandering wing. How swift the step of reason's firmer tread. How calm and sweet the victories of life. How terrorlesB the triumph of the grave ! How powerless were the mightiest mon- arch's arm, 62 Vain his loud threat, and impotent his frown ! How ludicrous the priest's dogmatic roar I The weight of his exterminating curse How light ! and his affected charity, To suit the pressure of the changing times. What palpable deceit ! — but for thy aid, Religion ! but for thee, prolific fiend. Who peoplest earth with demons, hell with men, 70 And heaven with slaves ! * Thou faintest all thou lookest upon ! — the stars. Which on thy cradle beamed so brightly sweet, Were gods to the distempered playfulness Of thy untutored infancy; the trees. The grass, the clouds, the mountains and the sea. All living things that walk, swim, creep or fly, W^ere gods; the sun had homage, and the moon Her worshipper. Then thou becamest, a boy, 79 More daring in thy frenzies; every shape, Monstrous or vast, or beautifully wild. Which from sensation's relics fancy culls; The spirits of the air, the shuddering ghost, The genii of the elements, the powers That give a shape to Nature's varied works. Had life and place in the corrupt belief Of thy blind heart; yet still thy youthful hands Were pure of human blood. Then man- hood gave Its strength and ardor to thy frenzied brain ; Thine eager gaze scanned the stupendous scene, 9a Whose wonders mocked the knowledge of thy pride; Their everlasting and unchanging laws Reproached thine ignorance. Awhile thou stood'st Baffled and gloomy; then thou didst sum up The elements of all that thou didst know; The changing seasons, winter's leaflesg reign. The budding of the heaven-breathing trees, The eternal orbs that beautify the night. The sunrise, and the setting of the moon. 20 QUEEN MAB Earthquakes and wars, and poisons and disease, loo And all their causes, to an abstract point Converging thou didst bend, and called it God! The self-sufficing, the omnipotent, The merciful, and the avenging God ! Who, prototype of human misrule, sits High in heaven's realm, upon a golden throne, Even like an earthly king; and whose dread work, Hell, gapes forever for the unhappy slaves Of fate, whom he created in his sport To triumph in their torments when they fell! Earth heard the name; earth trembled as the smoke Of his revenge ascended up to heaven. Blotting the constellations; and the cries Of millions butchered in sweet confidence And unsuspecting peace, even when the bonds Of safety were confirmed by wordy oaths Sworn in his dreadful name, rung through the land; Whilst innocent babes writhed on thy stub- born spear, And thou didst laugh to hear the mother's shriek Of maniac gladness, as the sacred steel 120 Felt cold in her torn entrails ! * Religion ! thou wert then in manhood's prime ; But age crept on; one God would not suf- fice For senile puerility; thou framedst A tale to suit thy dotage and to glut Thy misery-thirsting soul, that the mad fiend Thy wickedness had pictured might afford A plea for sating the unnatural thirst For murder, rapine, violence and crime, 129 That still consumed thy being, even when Thou heard'st the step of fate; that flames might light Thy funeral scene; and the shrill horrent shrieks Of parents dying on the pile that burned To light their children to thy paths, the roar Of the encircling flames, the exulting cries Of thine apostles loud commingling there. Might sate thine hungry ear Even on the bed of death ! ' But now contempt is mocking thy gray hairs; Thou art descending to the darksome grave, 14a Unhonored and unpitied but by those Whose pride is passing by like thine, and sheds, Like thine, a glare that fades before the sun Of truth, and shines but in the dreadful night That long has lowered above the ruined world. ' Throughout these infinite orbs of mingling light Of which yon earth is one, is wide diffused A Spirit of activity and life, That knows no term, cessation or decay; That fades not when the lamp of earthly life, 15a Extinguished in the dampness of the grave, Awhile there slumbers, more than when the babe In the dim newness of its being feels The impulses of sublunary things. And all is wonder to unpractised sense; But, active, steadfast and eternal, still Guides the fierce whirlwind, in the tempest roars, Cheers in the day, breathes in the balmy groves. Strengthens in health, and poisons in dis- ease; And in the storm of change, that cease- lessly 160 Bolls round the eternal universe and shakes Its undecaying battlement, presides. Apportioning with irresistible law The place each spring of its machine shall fill; So that, when waves on waves tumultuous heap Confusion to the clouds, and fiercely driven Heaven's lightnings scorch the uprooted ocean-fords — Whilst, to the eye of shipwrecked mariner, Lone sitting on the bare and shuddering rock. All seems unlinked contingency and chance — 170 No atom of this tnrbulence fulfils A vague and unnecessitated task Or acts but as it must and ought to act. Jiven the minutest molecule of light^ QUEEN MAB 21 That in an April sunbeam's fleeting glow Fulfils its destined though invisible work, The universal Spirit guides; nor less When merciless ambition, or mad zeal, Has led two hosts of dupes to battle-field, That, blind, they there may dig each other's graves 180 And call the sad work glory, does it rule All passions; not a thought, a will, an act. No working of the tyrant's moody mind, Nor one misgiving of the slaves who boast Their servitude to hide the shame they feel. Nor the events enchaining every will. That from the depths of unrecorded time Have drawn all-influencing virtue, pass Unrecognized or unforeseen by thee. Soul of the Universe ! eternal spring 190 Of life and death, of happiness and woe. Of all that chequers the phantasmal scene That floats before our eyes in wavering light. Which gleams but on the darkness of our prison Whose chains and massy walls We feel but cannot see. * Spirit of Nature ! all-sufficing Power, Necessity ! thou mother of the world ! Unlike the God of human error, thou Requirest no prayers or praises; the ca- price 200 Of man's weak will belongs no more to thee Than do the changeful passions of his breast To thy unvarying harmony; the slave, Whose horrible lusts spread misery o'er the world. And the good man, who lifts with virtuous pride His being in the sight of happiness That springs from his own works; the poison-tree, Beneath whose shade all life is withered up, And the fair oak, whose leafy dome affords A temple where the vows of happy love 210 Are registered, are equal in thy sight; No love, no hate thou cherishest; revenge And favoritism, and worst desire of fame Thou knowest not; all that the wide world contains Are but thy passive instruments, and thou Regard'st them all with an impartial eye, Whose joy or pain thy nature cannot feel, Because thou hast not human sense, Because thou art not human mind. ' Yes ! when the sweeping storm of time 220 Has sung its death-dirge o'er the ruined fanes And broken altars of the almighty fiend, Whose name usurps thy honors, and the blood Through centuries clotted there has floated down The tainted flood of ages, shalt thou live Unchangeable! A shrine is raised to thee, Which nor the tempest breath of time, Nor the interminable flood Over earth's slight pageant rolling, Availeth to destroy, — 230 The sensitive extension of the world; That wondrous and eternal fane. Where pain and pleasure, good and evil join, To do the will of strong necessity. And life, in multitudinous shapes, Still pressing forward where no term can be. Like hungry and unresting flame Curls round the eternal columns of its strength.' VII SPIRIT ' I was an infant when ray mother went To see an atheist burned. She took me there. The dark-robed priests were met around the pile; The multitude was gazing silently; And as the culprit passed with dauntless mien. Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye. Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth ; The thirsty fire crept round his manly limbs; His resolute eyes were scorched to blind- ness soon; His death-pang rent my heart! the insen- sate mob la Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept " Weep not, child! " cried my mother, "for that man Has said. There is no God." ' 22 QUEEN MAB FAIRY * There is no God ! Nature confirms tlie faith his death-groan sealed. Let heaven and earth, let man's revolving race, His ceaseless generations, tell their tale ; liCt every part depending on the chain That links it to the whole, point to the hand That grasps its term! Let every seed that falls In silent eloquence unfold its store 20 Of argument; infinity within. Infinity without, belie creation; The exterminable spirit it contains Is Nature's only God; but human pride Is skilful to invent most serious names To hide its ignorance. ' The name of God Has fenced about all crime with holiness, Himself the creature of his worshippers, AVhose names and attributes and passions change, 29 Seeva, Buddh, Fob, Jehovah, God, or Lord, Even with the human dupes who build his shrines. Still serving o'er the war-polluted world For desolation's watchword; whether hosts Stain his death-blushing chariot-wheels, as on Triumphantly they roll, whilst Brahmins raise A sacred hymn to mingle with the groans; Or countless partners of his power divide His tyranny to weakness; or the smoke Of burning towns, the cries of female help- lessness, 39 Unarmed old age, and youth, and infancy. Horribly massacred, ascend to heaven In honor of his name ; or, last and woriit, Earth groans beneath religion's iron age. And priests dare babble of a God of peace. Even whilst their hands are red with guilt- less blood. Murdering the while, uprooting every germ Of truth, exterminating, spoiling all, Making the earth a slaughter-house! * O Spirit ! through the sense By which thy inner nature was apprised 50 Of outward shows, vague dreams have rolled. And varied reminiscences have waked Tablets that never fade; All things have been imprinted there, The stars, the sea, the earth, the sky, Even the unshapeliest lineaments Of wild and fleeting visions Have left a record there To testify of earth. ' These are my empire, for to me is given 6a The wonders of the human world to keep, And fancy's thin creations to endow With manner, being and reality; Therefore a wondrous phantom from the dreams Of human error's dense and purblind faith I will evoke, to meet thy questioning. Ahasuerus, rise ! ' A strange and woe-worn wight Arose beside the battlement. And stood unmoving there. 70 His inessential figure cast no shade Upon the golden floor; His port and mien bore mark of many years, And chronicles of untold ancientness Were legible within his beamless eye; Yet his cheek bore the mark of youth; Freshness and vigor knit his manly frame; The wisdom of old age was mingled there With youth's primeval dauntlessness; And inexpressible woe, 8<» Chastened by fearless resignation, gave An awful grace to his all-speaking brow. SPIRIT * Is there a God ? ' AHASUERUS ' Is there a God! — ay, an almighty God, And vengeful as almighty! Once his voice Was heard on earth; earth shuddered at the sound; The fiery-visaged firmament expressed Abhorrence, and the grave of Nature yawned To swallow all the dauntless and the good That dared to hurl defiance at his throne, Girt as it was with power. None but slaves 91 Survived, — cold-blooded slaves, who did the work Of tyrannous omnipotence; whose soulii No honest indignation ever urged To elevated daring, to one deed QUEEN MAB 23 Which gross and sensual self did not pol- lute. These slaves built temples for the omnipo- tent fiend, Gorgeous and vast; the costly altars smoked With human blood, and hideous paeans rung Through all the long-drawn aisles. A mur- derer heard 100 His voice in Egypt, one whose gifts and arts Had raised him to his eminence in power, Accomplice of omnipotence in crime And confidant of the all-knowing one. These were Jehovah's words. ' " From an eternity of idleness I, God, awoke ; in seven days' toil made earth From nothing; rested, and created man; I placed him in a paradise, and there Planted the tree of evil, so that he no Might eat and perish, and my soul procure Wherewith to sate its malice and to turn, Even like a heartless conqueror of the earth, All misery to my fame. The race of men. Chosen to my honor, with impunity May sate the lusts I planted in their heart. Here I command thee hence to lead them on, Until with hardened feet their conquering troops Wade on the promised soil through wo- man's blood. And make my name be dreaded through the land. 120 Yet ever-burning flame and ceaseless woe Shall be the doom of their eternal souls. With every soul on this ungrateful earth, Virtuous or vicious, weak or strong, — even all Shall perish, to fulfil the blind revenge (Which you, to men, call justice) of their God." * The murderer's brow Quivered with horror. * ** God omnipotent. Is there no mercy ? must our punishment Be endless ? will long ages roll away, 130 And see no term ? Oh ! wherefore hast thou made In mockery and wrath this evil earth ? Mercy becomes the powerful — be but just ! God ! repent and save ! " * " One way remains: I will beget a son and he shall bear The sins of all the world; he shall arise In an unnoticed corner of the earth. And there shall die upon a cross, and purge The universal crime; so that the few On whom my grace descends, those who are marked 14a As vessels to the honor of their God, May credit this strange sacrifice and save Their souls alive. Millions shall live and die. Who ne'er shall call upon their Saviour's name. But, unredeemed, go to the gaping grave, Thousands shall deem it an old woman's tale. Such as the nurses frighten babes withal; These in a gulf of anguish and of flame Shall curse their reprobation endlessly. Yet tenfold pangs shall force them to avow. 150 Even on their beds of torment where they howl. My honor and the justice of their doom. What then avail their virtuous deeds, their thoughts Of purity, with radiant genius bright Or lit with human reason's earthly ray ? Many are called, but few will I elect. Do thou my bidding, Moses ! " * Even the murderer's cheek Was blanched with horror, and his quiver ing lips Scarce faintly uttered — " O almighty one, I tremble and obey ! " 160 * O Spirit ! centuries have set their seal On this heart of many wounds, and loaded brain. Since the Incarnate came ; humbly he came, Veiling his horrible Godhead in the shape Of man, scorned by the world, iiis name unheard Save by the rabble of his native town. Even as a parish demagogue. He led The crowd ; he taught them justice, truth and peace, In semblance ; but he lit within their souls The quenchless flames of zeal, and blessed the sword 170 He brought on earth to satiate with the blood Of truth and freedom his malignant soul. 24 QUEEN MAB At lengrth his mortal frame was led to death. I stood beside him ; on the torturing cross No pain assailed his unterrestrial sense; And yet he groaned. Indignantly I summed The massacres and miseries which his name Had sanctioned in my country, and I cried, " Go ! go ! " in mockei-y. A smile of godlike malice reillumined i8o His fading lineaments. " I go," he cried, " But thou shalt wander o'er the unquiet earth Eternally." The dampness of the grave Bathed my imperishable front. I fell. And long lay tranced upon the charmed soil. When I awoke hell burned within my brain Which staggered on its seat; for all around The mouldering relics of my kindred lay, Even as the Almighty's ire arrested them. And in their various attitudes of death 190 My murdered children's mute and eyeless skulls Glared ghastily upon me. But my soul, From sight and sense of the polluting woe Of tyranny, had long learned to prefer Hell's freedom to the servitude of heaven. Therefore I rose, and dauntlessly began My lonely and unending pilgrimage. Resolved to wage unweariable war With my almighty tyrant and to hurl Defiance at his impotence to harm 200 Beyond the curse I bore. The very hand. That barred my passage to the peaceful grave. Has crushed the earth to misery, and given Its empire to the chosen of his slaves. These I have seen, even from the earliest dawn Of weak, unstable and precarious power. Then preaching peace, as now they practise war; So, when they turned but from the mas- sacre Of unoffending infidels to quench Their thirst for ruin in the very blood 210 That flowed in their own veins, and pitiless zeal Froze every human feeling as the wife Sheathed in her husband's heart the sacred steel, Even whilst its hopes were dreaming of her love; And friends to friends, brothers to brothers stood Opposed in bloodiest battle-field, and war, Scarce satiable by fate's last death-draught, waged, Drunk from the wine-press of the Al- mighty's wrath; Whilst the red cross, in mockery of peace, Pointed to victory! When the fray was done, 220 No remnant of the exterminated faith Svirvived to tell its ruin, but the flesh, With putrid smoke poisoning the atmo- sphere, That rotted on the half-extinguished pile. ' Yes ! I have seen God's worshippers un- sheathe The sword of his revenge, when grace de- scended. Confirming all unnatural impulses. To sanctify their desolating deeds; And frantic priests waved the ill-omened cross O'er the unhappy earth ; then shone the sun 230 On showers of gore from the upflashing steel Of safe assassination, and all crime Made stingless by the spirits of the Locd, And blood-red rainbows canopied the land. ' Spirit! no year of my eventful being Has passed unstained by crime and misery. Which flows from God's own faith. I 've marked his slaves With tongues, whose lies are venomous, beguile The insensate mob, and, whilst one hand was red 239 With murder, feign to stretch the other out For brotherhood and peace; and that they now Babble of love and mercy, whilst their deeds Are marked with all the narrowness and crime That freedom's young arm dare not yet chastise. Reason may claim our gratitude, who now, Establishing the imperishable throne Of truth and stubborn virtue, maketh vain The unprevailing malice of my foe, Whose bootless rage heaps torments for the brave. Adds impotent eternities to pain, 250 QUEEN MAB 25 Whilst keenest disappointment racks his breast To see the smiles of peace around them play, To frustrate or to sanctify their doom. * Thus have I stood, — through a wild waste of years Struggling with whirlwinds of mad agony, Yet peaceful, and serene, and self-en- shrined, Mocking my powerless tyrant's horrible curse With stubborn and unalterable will, Even as a giant oak, which heaven's fierce flame Had scathed in the wilderness, to stand 260 A monument of fadeless ruin there ; Yet peacefully and movelessly it braves The midnight conflict of the wintry storm. As in the sunlight's calm it spreads Its worn and withered arms on high To meet the quiet of a summer's noon.' The Fairy waved her wand; Ahasuerus fled Fast as the shapes of mingled shade and mist, 269 That lurk in the glens of a twilight grove, Flee from the morning beam; — The matter of which dreams are made Not more endowed with actual life Than this phantasmal portraiture Of wandering human thought. VIII THE FAIRY * The present and the past thou hast beheld. It was a desolate sight. Now, Spirit, learn, The secrets of the future. — Time! Unfold the brooding pinion of thy gloom. Render thou up thy half-devoured babes. And from the cradles of eternity. Where millions lie lulled to their portioned sleep By the deep murmuring stream of passing things, Tear thou that gloomy shroud. — Spirit, behold Thy glorious destiny!' 10 Joy to the Spirit came. Through the wide rent in Time's eternal veil. Hope was seen beaming through the mists of fear; Earth was no longer bell; Love, freedom, health had given Their ripeness to the manhood of its prime, And all its pulses beat Symphonious to the planetary spheres; Then dulcet music swelled ig Concordant with the life-strings of the soul; It throbbed in sweet and languid beatings there. Catching new life from transitory death; Like the vague sighings of a wind at even That wakes the wavelets of the slumbering sea And dies on the creation of its breath, And sinks and rises, falls and swells by fits. Was the pure stream of feeling That sprung from these sweet notes. And o'er the Spirit's human sympsithies 29 With mild and gentle motion calmly flowed. Joy to the Spirit came, — Such joy as when a lover sees The chosen of his soul in happiness And witnesses her peace Whose woe to him were bitterer than death; Sees her nnfaded cheek Glow mantling in first luxury of health, Thrills with her lovely eyes. Which like two stars amid the heaving main Sparkle through liquid bliss. 40 Then in her triumph spoke the Fairy Queen * I will not call the ghost of ages gone To unfold the frightful secrets of its lore; The present now is past. And those events that desolate the earth Have faded from the memory of Time, Who dares not give reality to that Whose being I annul. To me is given The wonders of the human world to keep, Space, matter, time and mind. Futurity 50 Exposes now its treasure; let the sight Renew and strengthen all thy failing hope. O human Spirit! spur thee to the goal Where virtue fixes universal peace, And, 'midst the ebb and flow of human things. Show somewhat stable, somewhat certain still, A light-house o'er the wild of dreary waves. 26 QUEEN MAB * The habitable earth is full of bliss ; Those wastes of frozen billows that were hurled By everlasting snow-storms round the poles, 60 Where matter dared not vegetate or live, But ceaseless frost round the vast solitude Bound its broad zone of stillness, are un- loosed; And fragrant zephyrs there from spicy isles Ruffle the placid ocean-deep, that rolls Its broad, bright surges to the sloping sand. Whose roar is wakened into echoings sweet To murmur through the heaven-breathing groves And melodize with man's blest nature there. • Those deserts of immeasurable sand, 70 Whose age-collected fervors scarce allowed A bird to live, a blade of grass to spring. Where the shrill chirp of the green lizard's love Broke on the sultry silentness alone, Now teem with countless rills and shady woods, Cornfields and pastures and white cottages ; And w^here the startled wilderness beheld A savage conqueror stained in kindr\ad blood, A tigress sating with the flesh of lambs The unnatural famine of her toothless cubs, 80 Whilst shouts and bowlings through the desert rang, — Sloping and smooth the daisy-spangled lawn, Offering sweet incense to the sunrise, smiles To see a babe before his mother's door, Sharing his morning's meal With the green and golden basilisk That comes to lick his feet. ' Those trackless deeps, where many a weary sail Has seen above the illimitable plain Morning on night and night on morning rise, 90 Whilst still no land to greet the wanderer spread its shadowy mountains on the sun-bright sea. Where the loud roarings of the tempest- waves So long have mingled with the gusty wind In melancholy loneliness, and swept The desert of those ocean solitudes But vocal to the sea-bird's harrowing shriek, The bellowing monster, and the rushing storm ; Now to the sweet and many - mingling sounds Of kindliest human impulses respond. 100 Those lonely realms bright garden-isles begem, With lightsome clouds and shining seas between. And fertile valleys, resonant with bliss. Whilst green woods overcanopy the wave, Which like a toil-worn laborer leaps to shore To meet the kisses of the flowrets there. ' All things are recreated, and the flame Of consentaneous love inspires all life. The fertile bosom of the earth gives suck To myriads, who still grow beneath her care, no Rewarding her with their pure perfectness; The balmy breathings of the wind inhale Her virtues and diffuse them all abroad; Health floats amid the gentle atmosphere, Glows in the fruits and mantles on the stream ; No storms deform the beaming brow of heaven. Nor scatter in the freshness of its pride The foliage of the ever- verdant trees; But fruits are ever ripe, flowers ever fair. And autumn proudly bears her matron grace, 120 Kindling a flush on the fair cheek of spring, Whose virgin bloom beneath the ruddy fruit Reflects its tint and blushes into love. ' The lion now forgets to thirst for blood ; There might you see him sporting in the sun Beside the dreadless kid; his claws are sheathed. His teeth are harmless, custom's force has made His nature as the nature of a lamb. Like passion's fruit, the nightshade's tempt- ing bane Poisons no more the pleasure it be- stows ; i3« All bitterness is past; the cup of joy QUEEN MAB 27 Unraingled mantles to the goblet's brim Aud courts the thirsty lips it fled before. But chief, ambiguous man, he that can know More misery, and dream more joy than all; Whose keen sensations thrill within his breast To mingle with a loftier instinct there, Lending their power to pleasure and to pain, Yet raising, sharpening, and refining each; Who stands amid the ever-varying world. The burden or the glory of the earth; 141 He chief perceives the change; his being notes The gradual renovation and defines Each movement of its progress on his mind. * Man, where the gloom of the long polar night Lowers o'er the snow -clad rocks and frozen soil, Where scarce the hardiest herb that braves the frost Basks in the moonlight's ineffectual glow, Shrank with the plants, and darkened with the night; His chilled and narrow energies, his heart 150 Insensible to courage, truth or love, His stunted stature and imbecile frame. Marked him for some abortion of the earth, Fit compeer of the bears that roamed around. Whose habits and enjoyments were his own; His life a feverish dream of stagnant woe, Whose meagre wants, but scantily ful- filled. Apprised him ever of the joyless length Which his short being's wretchedness had reached ; His death a pang which famine, cold and toil 160 Long on the mind, whilst yet the vital spark Clung to the body stubbornly, had brought: All was inflicted here that earth's revenge Could wreak on the infringers of her law; One curse alone was spared — the name of God. * Nor, where the trooics bound the realms of day With a broad belt of mingling cloud and flame. Where blue mists through the unmoving atmosphere Scattered the seeds of pestilence and fed Unnatural vegetation, where the land 170 Teemed with all earthquake, tempest and disease, Was man a nobler being; slavery Had crushed him to his country's blood- stained dust; Or he was bartered for the fame of power, Which, all internal impulses destroying, Makes human will an article of trade; Or he was changed with Christians for their gold And dragged to distant isles, where to the sound Of the flesh-mangling scourge he does the work Of all-polluting luxury and wealth, 180 Which doubly visits on the tyrants' heads The long-protracted fulness of their woe; Or he was led to legal butchery. To turn to worms beneath that burning sun Where kings first leagued against the rights of men And priests first traded with the name of God. * Even where the milder zone afforded man A seeming shelter, yet contagion there. Blighting his being with unnumbered ills. Spread like a quenchless fire ; nor truth till late I go Availed to arrest its progress or create That peace which first in bloodless victory waved Her snowy standard o'er this favored clime; There man was long the train-bearer of sl^-ves, The mimic of surrounding misery, The jackal of ambition's lion-rage. The bloodhound of religion's hungry zeal. * Here now the human being stands adorn- ing This loveliest earth with taintless body and mind ; Blest from his birth with all bland im- pulses, ioa Which gently in his noble bosom wake 28 QUEEN MAB All kindly passions and all pure desires. Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pur- suing Which from the exhaustless store of human weal Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise In time-destroying infiniteness gift With self-enshrined eternity, that mocks The unprevailing hoariness of age; And man, once fleeting o'er the transient scene Swift as an unremembered vision, stands 210 Immortal upon earth ; no longer now He slays the lamb that looks him in the face. And horribly devours his mangled flesh. Which, still avenging Nature's broken law. Kindled all putrid humors in his frame, All evil passions and all vain belief. Hatred, despair and loathing in his mind, The germs of misery, death, disease and crime. No longer now the winged habitants. That in the woods their sweet lives sing away, 220 Flee from the form of man ; but gather round. And prune their sunny feathers on the hands Which little children stretch in friendly sport Towards these dreadless partners of their play. All things are void of terror; man has lost His terrible prerogative, and stands An equal amidst equals; happiness And science dawn, though late, upon the earth; Peace cheers the mind, health renovates the frame; 229 Disease and pleasure cease to mingle here, Reason and passion cease to combat there; Whilst each unfettered o'er the earth ex- tend Their all-subduing energies, and wield The sceptre of a vast dominion there; Whilst every shape and mode of matter lends Its force to the omnipotence of mind. Which from its dark mine drags the gem of truth To decorate its paradise of peace.* IX * O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! To which those restless souls that cease" lessly Throng through the human universe, aspireJ Thou consummation of all mortal hope! Thou glorious prize of blindly working will, Whose rays, dijjfused throughout all space and time. Verge to one point and blend forever there! Of purest spirits thou pure dwelling-place Where care and sorrow, impotence and crime. Languor, disease and ignorance dare not come! 10 O happy Earth, reality of Heaven! 'Genius has seen thee in her passionate dreams; And dim forebodings of thy loveliness. Haunting the human heart, have there en- twined Those rooted hopes of some sweet place of bliss, Where friends and lovers meet to part no more. Thou art the end of all desire and will. The product of all action; and the souls, That by the paths of an aspiring change ig Have reached thy haven of perpetual peace, There rest from the eternity of toil That framed the fabric of thy perfectness, ' Even Time, the conqueror, fled thee in his fear; That hoary giant, who in lonely pride So long had ruled the world that nations fell Beneath his silent footstep. Pyramids, That for millenniums had withstood the tide Of human things, his storm-breath drove in sand Across that desert where their stones sur- vived The name of him whose pride had heaped them there. 3a Yon monarch, in his solitary pomp. Was but the mushroom of a summer day, That his light-wiugM footstep pressed to dust ; Time was the king of earth ; all things gave way Before him but the fixed and virtuous will, The sacred sympathies of soul and sense, That mocked his fury and prepared his fall QUEEN MAB 29 'Yet slow and gradual dawned the morn of love; Long lay the clouds of darkness o'er the scene, Till from its native heaven they rolled away : 40 First, crime triumphant o'er all hope ca- reered Unblushing, undisguising, bold and strong. Whilst falsehood, tricked in virtue's attri- butes, Long sanctified all deeds of vice and woe, Till, done by her own venomous sting to death. She left the moral world without a law. No longer fettering passion's fearless wing, Nor searing reason with the brand of God. Then steadily the happy ferment worked; Reason was free; and wild though passion went 50 Through tangled glens and wood-embos- omed meads. Gathering a garland of the strangest flow- ers. Yet, like the bee returning to her queen. She bound the sweetest on her sister's brow, Who meek and sober kissed the sportive child. No longer trembling at the broken rod. ' Mild was the slow necessity of death. The tranquil spirit failed beneath its grasp. Without a groan, almost without a fear. Calm as a voyager to some distant land, 60 And full of wonder, full of hope as he. The deadly germs of languor and disease Died in the human frame, and purity Blessed with all gifts her earthly worship- pers. How vigorous then the athletic form of age How clear its open and unwrinkled brow ! Where neither avarice, cunning, pride or care Had stamped the seal of gray deformity On all the mingling lineaments of time. How lovely the intrepid front of youth, 70 Which meek-eyed courage decked with freshest grace; Courage of soul, that dreaded not a name, And elevated will, tl^at journeyed on Through life's phantasmal scene in fear- lessness, With virtue, love and pleasure, hand in hand ! ' Then, that sweet bondage which is free^ dom's self, And rivets with sensation's softest tie The kindred sympathies of human souls, Needed no fetters of tyrannic law. Those delicate and timid impulses 8a In Nature's primal modesty arose, And with undoubting confidence disclosed The growing longings of its dawning love, Unchecked by dull and selfish chastity, That virtue of the cheaply virtuous, W^ho pride themselves in senselessness and frost. No longer prostitution's venomed bane Poisoned the springs of happiness and life; Woman and man, in confidence and love, Equal and free and pure together trod 90 The mountain - paths of virtue, which no more Were stained with blood from many a pil' grim's feet. ' Then, where, through distant ages, long in pride The palace of the monarch - slave had mocked Famine's faint groan and penury's silent tear, A heap of crumbling ruins stood, and thre w Year after year their stones upon the field, Wakening a lonely echo; and the leaves Of the old thorn, that on the topmost tower Usurped the royal ensign's grandeur, shook In the stern storm that swayed the topmost tower, loi And whispered strange tales in the whirl- wind's ear. * Low through the lone cathedral's roofless aisles The melancholy winds a death-dirge sung. It were a sight of awfulness to see The works of faith and slavery, so vast. So sumptuous, yet so perishing withal, Even as the corpse that rests beneath its wall ! A thousand mourners deck the pomp of death 109 To-day, the breathing marble glows above To decorate its memory, and tongues Are busy of its life; to-morrow, worms In silence and in darkness seize then prey. 30 QUEEN MAB * Within the massy prison's mouldering courts, Fearless and free the ruddy children played, Weaving gay chaplets for their innocent brows With the green ivy and the red wall-flower That mock the dungeon's unavailing gloom; The ponderous chains and gratings of strong iron 119 There rusted amid heaps of broken stone That mingled slowly with their native earth ; There the broad beam of day, which feebly once Lighted the cheek of lean captivity With a pale and sickly glare, then freely shone On the pure smiles of infant playfulness; No more the shuddering voice of hoarse despair Pealed through the echoing vaults, but soothing notes Of ivy-fingered winds and gladsome birds And merriment were resonant around. 129 ' These ruins soon left not a wreck behind ; Their elements, wide-scattered o'er the globe, To happier shapes were moulded, and be- came Ministrant to all blissful impulses; Thus human things were perfected, and earth, Even as a child beneath its mother's love. Was strengthened in all excellence, and grew Fairer and nobler with each passing year. ' Now Time his dusky pennons o'er the scene Closes in steadfast darkness, and the past Fades from our charmed sight. My task is done; 140 Thy lore is learned. Earth's wonders are thine own With all the fear and all the hope they bring. My spells are passed ; the present now re- curs. Ah me ! a pathless wilderness remains Yet unsubdued by man's reclaiming hand. * Yet, human Spirit ! bravely hold thy course ; Let virtue teach thee firmly to pursue The gradual paths of an aspiring change; For birth and life and death, and that strange state 149 Before the naked soul has found its home, All tend to perfect happiness, and urge The restless wheels of being on their way. Whose flashing spokes, instinct with infi- nite life. Bicker and burn to gain their destined goal; For birth but wakes the spirit to the sense Of outward shows, whose unexperienced shape New modes of passion to its frame may lend; Life is its state of action, and the store Of all events is aggregated there That variegate the eternal universe; 160 Death is a gate of dreariness and gloom. That leads to azure isles and beaming skies And happy regions of eternal hope. Therefore, O Spirit ! fearlessly bear on. Though storms may break the primrose on its stalk, Though frosts may blight the freshness of its bloom. Yet spring's awakening breath will woo the earth To feed with kindliest dews its favorite flower. That blooms in mossy bank and darksome glens, Lighting the greenwood with its sunny smile. 170 * Fear not then. Spirit, death's disrobing hand. So welcome when the tyrant is awake, So welcome when the bigot's hell-torch burns; 'T is but the voyage of a darksome hour, The transient gulf-dream of a startling sleep. Death is no foe to virtue; earth has seen Love's brightest roses on the scaffold bloom, Mingling with freedom's fadeless laurels there. And presaging the truth of visioned bliss. Are there not hopes within thee, which this scene 180 Of linked and gradual being has confirmed ? Whose stingings bade thy heart look further still. ALASTOR 31 When, to the moonlight walk by Henry led, Sweetly and sadly thou didst talk of death ? And wilt thou rudely tear them from thy breast, Listening supinely to a bigot's creed, Or tamely crouching to the tyrant's rod. Whose iron thongs are red with human gore ? Never : but bravely bearing on, thy will Is destined an eternal war to wage 190 With tyranny and falsehood, and uproot The germs of misery from the human heart. Thine is the hand whose piety would soothe The thorny pillow of unhappy crime. Whose impotence an easy pardon gains. Watching its wanderings as a friend's dis- ease ; Thine is the brow whose mildness would defy Its fiercest rage, and brave its sternest will, When fenced by power and master of the world. Thou art sincere and good ; of resolute mind, 200 Free from heart-withering custom's cold control, Of passion lofty, pure and unsubdued. Earth's pride and meanness could not van- quish thee. And therefore art thou worthy of the boon Which thou hast now received ; virtue shall keep Thy footsteps in the path that thou hast trod. And many days of beaming hope shall bless Thy spotless life of sweet and sacred love. Go, happy one, and give that bosom joy. Whose sleepless spirit waits to catch 210 Light, life and rapture from thy smile ! ' ap- The Fairy waves her wand of charm. Speechless with bliss the Spirit mounts the car, That rolled beside the battlement, Bending her beamy eyes in thankfulness. Again the enchanted steeds were yoked ; Again the burning wheels inflame The steep descent of heaven's mitrodden way. Fast and far the chariot flew; The vast and fiery globes that rolled 330 Around the Fairy's palace-gate Lessened by slow degrees, and soon peared Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs That there attendant on the solar power With borrowed light pursued their nar- rower way. Earth floated then below; The chariot paused a moment there; The Spirit then descended; The restless coursers pawed the ungenial soil. Snuffed the gross air, and then, their errand done, 230 Unfurled their pinions to the winds of heaven. The Body and the Soul united then. A gentle start convulsed lanthe's frame; Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed; Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs re- mained. She looked around in wonder, and beheld Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch, Watching her sleep with looks of speech- less love, And the bright beaming stars That through the casement shone. 240 ALASTOR OR THE SPIRIT OF SOLITUDE Nondum amabam, et amare amabam, quaerebam quid amarem, amans amare. Confess. St. August. Alastor was published nearly three years after the issue of Queen Mab, in 1816, in a thin volume with a few other poems. It is strongly opposed to the earlier poem, and beg-ins that geries of ideal portraits, — in the main, incar- nations of Shelley's own aspiring" and raelan- choly spirit, — which contain his personal charm and shadow forth his own history of isolation in the world ; they are interpretations of the hero rather than pronunciamentos of the cause. 32 ALASTOR and are free from the entanglements of politi- cal and social reform and religious strife. The poetical antecedents of Alastor are Wordsworth and Coleridge. The deepening of the poet's self- consciousness is evident in every line, and the growth of his genius in grace and strength, in the element of expression, is so marked as to give a different cadence to his verse. He composed the poem in the autumn of 1815, when he was twentj^-three years old and after the earlier misfortunes of his life had befallen him. Mrs. Shelley's account of the poem is the best, and nothing has since been added to it : ' Alastor is written in a very different tone from Queen Mab. In the latter, Shelley poured out all the cherished speculations of his youth — all the irrepressible emotions of sympathy, censure, and hope, to which the present suffer- ing, and what he considers the proper destiny of his fellow - creatures, gave birth. Alastor, on the contrary, contains an individual interest only. A very few years, with their attendant events, had checked the ardor of Shelley's hopes, though he still thought them well- grounded, and that to advance their fulfilment was the noblest task man could achieve. ' This is neither the time nor place to speak of the misfortunes that checkered his life. It will be sufficient to say, that in all he did, he at the time of doing it believed himself justi- fied to his own conscience ; while the various ills of poverty and loss of friends brought home to him the sad realities of life. Physical suf- fering had also considerable influence in caus- ing him to turn his eyes inward ; inclining him rather to brood over the thoughts and emotions of his own soul, than to glance abroad, and to make, as in Queen Mab, the whole universe the object and subject of his song. In the spring of 1815, an eminent physician pronounced that he was dying rapidly of a consumption ; ab- scesses were formed on his lungs, and he suf- fered acute spasms. Suddenly a complete change took place ; and though through life he was a martyr to pain and debility, every symp- tom of pulmonary disease vanished. His nerves, which nature had formed sensitive to an unex- ampled degree, were rendered still more suscep- tible by the state of his health. ' As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened the Continent, he went abroad. He visited some of the more magnificent scenes of Swit- zerland, and returned to England from Lucerne by the Reuss and the Rhine. This river-navi- gation enchanted him. In his favorite poem of Thalaba his imagination had been excited by a description of such a voyage. In the summer of 1815, after a tour along the south- ern coast of Devonshire and a visit to Clifton, he rented a house on Bishopgate Heath, on the borders of Windsor Forest, where he enjoyed several months of comparative health and tran- quil happiness. The later summer months were warm and dry. Accompanied by a few friends, he visited the source of the Thames, making a voyage in a wherry from Windsor to Crichlade. His beautiful stanzas in the church- yard of Lechlade were written on that occa- sion. Alastor was composed on his return. He spent his days under the oak-shades of Wind- sor Great Park ; and the magnificent woodland was a fitting study to inspire the various de- scriptions of forest scenery we find in the poem. ' None of Shelley's poems is more character- istic than this. The solemn spirit that reigns throughout, the worship of the majesty of nature, the broodings of a poet's heart in soli- tude — the mingling of the exulting joy which the various aspect of the visible universe in- spires, with the sad and struggling pangs which human passion imparts, give a touching interest to the whole. The death which he had often contemplated during the last months as certain and near, he here represented in such colors as had, in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. The versification sustains the solemn spirit which breathes throughout : it is pecu- liarly melodious. The poem ought rather to be considered didactic than narrative : it was the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied in the purest form he could conceive, painted in the ideal hues which his brilliant imagina- tion inspired, and softened by the recent antici- pation of death.' Peacock explains the title : ' At this time Shelley wrote his Alastor. He was at a loss for a title, and I proposed that which he adopted : Alastor ; or, the Spirit of Solitude. The Greek word, ''Axdarwp, is an evil genius, KaKodaificov, though the sense of the two words is somewhat different, as in the Pavels 'AAaCTtw/j f] KuKos Saljucov TTodev of ^schylus. The poem treated the spirit of solitude as a spirit of evil. I mention the true meaning of the word because many have supposed Alastor to be the name of the hero of the poem.' In his Preface Shelley thus describes the main character, and draws its moral: ' The poem entitled Alastor may be con- sidered as allegorical of one of the most inter- esting situations of the human mind. It re- presents a youth of uncorrupted feelings and adventurous genius led forth by an imagination inflamed and purified through familiarity with all that is excellent and majestic to the con- templation of the universe. He drinks deep of the fountains of knowledge and is still in- satiate. The magnificence and beauty of the external world sinks profoundly into the frame of his conceptions and affords to their modifi- cations a variety not to be exhausted. So long ALASTOR 33 as it is possible for his desires to point towards objects thus infinite and unmeasured, he is joyous and tranquil and self-possessed. But the period arrives when these objects cease to suffice. His mind is at length suddenly awakened and thirsts for intercourse with an intellig'ence similar to itself. He imag-es to himself the Being whom he loves. Conversant with speculations of the sublimest and most perfect natures, the vision in which he em- bodies his own imaginations unites all of won- derful or wise or beautiful, which the poet, the philosopher or the lover could depicture. The intellectual faculties, the imagination, the functions of sense have their respective re- quisitions on the sympathy of corresponding' powers in other human beings. The Poet is represented as uniting these requisitions and attaching them to a single image. He seeks in vain for a prototype of his conception. Blasted by his disappointment, he descends to an untimely grave. ' The picture is not barren of instruction to actual men. The Poet's self-centred seclusion was avenged by the furies of an irresistible passion pursuing him to speedy ruin. But that Power, which strikes the luminaries of the world with sudden darkness and extinction by awakening them to too exqiiisite a perception of its influences, dooms to a slow and poisonous decay those meaner spirits that dare to abjure its dominion. Their destiny is more abject and inglorious as their delinquency is more contemptible and pernicious. They who, de- luded by no generous error, instigated by no sacred thirst of doubtful knowledge, duped by no illustrious superstition, loving nothing on this earth, and cherishing no hopes beyond, yet keep aloof from sympathies with their kind, rejoicing neither in human joy nor mourning with human grief ; these, and such as they, have their apportioned curse. They languish, because none feel with them their common nature. They are morally dead. They are neither friends, nor lovers, nor fathers, nor citizens of the world, nor benefactors of their country. Among those who attempt to exist without human sympathy, the pure and tender- hearted perish through the intensity and pas- sion of their search after its communities, when the vacancy of their spirit suddenly makes itself felt. All else, selfish, blind and torpid, are those unforeseeing multitudes who con- stitute, together with their own, the lasting misery and loneliness of the world. Those who love not their fellow-beings live unfruitful lives and prepare for their old age a miserable grave. ' The good die first. And those whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket ! ' December 14, 1815.' Earth, Ocean, Air, beloved brotherhood! If our great Mother has imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; If dewy morn, and odorous noon, and even. With sunset and its gorgeous ministers, And solemn midnight's tingling silent- ness; If Autumn's hollow sighs in the sere wood. And Winter robing with pure snow and crowns Of starry ice the gray grass and bare boughs ; lo If Spring's voluptuous pantings when she breathes Her first sweet kisses, — have been dear to me; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred ; then for- give This boast, beloved brethren, and with- draw No portion of your wonted favor now? Mother of this unfathomable world! Favor my solemn song, for I have loved ig Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps. And my heart ever gazes on the depth Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed In charnels and on coffins, where black death Keeps record of the trophies won from thee, Hoping to still these obstinate questionings Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost. Thy messenger, to render up the tale Of what we are. In lone and silent hours. When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, 30 Like an inspired and desperate alchemist Staking his very life on some dark hope. Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks With my most innocent love, until strange tears, Uniting with those breathless kisses, made Such magic as compels the charmed night 34 ALASTOR To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary, Enough from incommunicable dream, And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, 40 Has shone within me, that serenely now And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre Suspended in the solitary dome Of some mysterious and deserted fane, I wait thy breath. Great Parent, that my strain May modulate with murmurs of the air. And motions of the forests and the sea. And voice of living beings, and woven hymns Of night and day, and the deep heart of man. 49 There was a Poet whose untimely tomb No human hands with pious reverence reared. But the charmed eddies of autumnal winds Built o'er his mouldering bones a pyra- mid Of mouldering leaves in the waste wilder- ness : A lovely youth, — no mourning maiden decked With weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath, The lone couch of his everlasting sleep : Gentle, and brave, and generous, — no lorn bard Breathed o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh : He lived, he died, he sung in solitude. 60 Strangers have wept to hear his passionate notes. And virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined And wasted for fond love of his wild eyes. The fire of those soft orbs has ceased to burn. And Silence, too enamoured of that voice. Locks its mute music in her rugged cell. By solemn vision and bright silver dream His infancy was nurtured. Every sight And sound from the vast earth and ambient air 70 Sent to his heart its choicest impulses The fountains of divine philosophy Fled not his thirsting lips, and all of great, Or good, or lovely, which the sacred past In truth or fable consecrates, he felt And knew. When early youth had passed, he left His cold fireside and alienated home To seek strange truths in undiscovered lands. Many a wide waste and tangled wilder- ness Has lured his fearless steps; and he has bought With his sweet voice and eyes, from savage men, 80 His rest and food. Nature's most secret steps He like her shadow has pursued, where'er The red volcano overcanopies Its fields of snow and pinnacles of ice With burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes On black bare pointed islets ever beat With sluggish surge, or where the secret caves. Rugged and dark, winding among the springs Of fire and poison, inaccessible To avarice or pride, their starry domes 90 Of diamond and of gold expand above Numberless and immeasurable halls, Frequent with crystal column, and clear shrines Of pearl, and thrones radiant with chryso- lite. Nor had that scene of ampler majesty Than gems or gold, the varying roof of heaven And the green earth, lost in his heart its claims To love and wonder; he would linger long In lonesome vales, making the wild his home, Until the doves and squirrels would par- take 100 From his innocuous hand his bloodless food. Lured by the gentle meaning of his looks. And the wild antelope, that starts when- e'er The dry leaf rustles in the brake, suspend Her timid steps, to gaze upon a form More graceful than her own. His wandering step, Obedient to high thoughts, has visited The awful ruins of the days of old ; Athens, and Tyre, and Balbec, and the wastft X09 ALASTOR 35 Where stood Jerusalem, the fallen towers Of Babylon, the eternal pyramids, Memphis and Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange, Sculptured on alabaster obelisk Or jasper tomb or mutilated sphinX, Dark ^Ethiopia in her desert hills Conceals. Among the ruined temples there, Stupendous columns, and wild images Of more than man, where marble daemons watch The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men Hang their mute thoughts on the mute walls around, 120 He lingered, poring on memorials Of the world's youth: through the long burning day Gazed on those speechless shapes; nor, when the moon Filled the mysterious halls with floating shades Suspended he that task, but ever gazed And gazed, till meaning on his vacant mind Flashed like strong inspiration, and he saw The thrilling secrets of the birth of time. Meanwhile an Arab maiden brought his food, 129 Her daily portion, from her father's tent. And spread her matting for his couch, and stole From duties and repose to tend his steps, Enamoured, yet not daring for deep awe To speak her love, and watched his nightly sleep. Sleepless herself, to gaze upon his lips Parted in slumber, whence the regular breath Of innocent dreams arose; then, when red morn Made paler the pale moon, to her cold home Wildered, and wan, and panting, she re- turned. The Poet, wandering on, through Ara- bic, 140 And Persia, and the wild Carmanian waste. And o'er the aerial mountains which pour down Indus and Oxus from their icy caves, In joy and exultation held his way; Till in the vale of Cashmire, far within Its loneliest dell, where odorous plants en* twine Beneath the hollow rocks a natural bower, Beside a sparkling rivulet he stretched His languid limbs. A vision on his sleep There came, a dream of hopes that never yet 15a Had flushed his cheek. He dreamed a veiled maid Sate near him, talking in low solemn tones. Her voice was like the voice of his own soul Heard in the calm of thought; its music long, Like woven sounds of streams and breezes, held His inmost sense suspended in its web Of many-colored woof and shifting hues. Knowledge and truth and virtue were her themCj And lofty hopes of divine liberty, 159 Thoughts the most dear to him, and poesy, Herself a poet. Soon the solemn mood Of her pure mind kindled through all her frame A permeating fire; wild numbers then She raised, with voice stifled in tremulous sobs Subdued by its own pathos; her fair hands Were bare alone, sweeping from some strange harp Strange symphony, and in their branching veins The eloquent blood told an ineffable tale. The beating of her heart was heard to fill The pauses of her music, and her breath Tumultuously accorded with those fits 171 Of intermitted song. Sudden she rose. As if her heart impatiently endured Its bursting burden; at the sound he turned, And saw by the warm light of their own life Her glowing limbs beneath the sinuous veil Of woven wind, her outspread arms now bare, Her dark locks floating in the breath of night, Her beamy bending eyes, her parted lips Outstretched, and pale, and quivering eagerly. i8a His strong heart sunk and sickened with excess Of love. He reared his shuddering limbs, and quelled 36 ALASTOR His gasping breatli, aud spread his arms to meet Her panting bosom : — she drew back awhile, Then, yielding to the irresistible joy, With frantic gesture and sliort breathless cry Folded his frame in her dissolving arms. Now blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night Involved and swallowed up the vision ; sleep, 189 Like a dark flood suspended in its course. Rolled back its impulse on his vacant brain. Roused by the shock, he started from his trance — The cold white light of morning, the blue moon Low in the west, the clear and garish hills, The distinct valley and the vacant woods, Spread round him where he stood. Whither have fled The hues of heaven that canopied his bower Of yesternight ? The sounds that soothed his sleep, The mystery and the majesty of Earth, The joy, the exultation ? His wan eyes 200 Gaze on the empty scene as vacantly As ocean's moon looks on the moon in heaven. The spirit of sweet human love has sent A vision to the sleep of him who spurned Her choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade; He overleaps the bounds. Alas ! alas ! Were limbs and breath and being inter- twined Thus treacherously ? Lost, lost, forever lost 209 In the wide pathless desert of dim sleep. That beautiful shape ! Does the dark gate of death CoJiduct to thy mysterious paradise, O Sleep ? Does the bright arch of rain- bow clouds And pendent mountains seen in the calm lake Lead only to a black and watery depth, While death's blue vault with loathliest vapors hung. Where every shade which the foul grave exhales Hides its dead eye from the detested day, Conducts, O Sleep, to thy delightful realms? This doubt with sudden tide flowed on his heart ; 220 The insatiate hope which it awakened stung His brain even like despair. While daylight held The sky, the Poet kept mute conference With his still soul. At night the passion came, Like the fierce fiend of a distempered dream, And shook him from his rest, and led him forth Into the darkness. As an eagle, grasped In folds of the green serpent, feels her breast Burn with the poison, and precipitates Through night aud day, tempest, and calm, and cloud, 230 Frantic with dizzying anguish, her blind flight O'er the wide aery wilderness: thus driven By the bright shadow of that lovely dream, Beneath the cold glare of the desolate night. Through tangled swamps and deep preci- pitous dells, Startling with careless step the moon-light snake, He fled. Red morning dawned upon his flight, Shedding the mockery of its vital hues Upon his cheek of death. He wandered on 239 Till vast Aornos seen from Petra's steep Hung o'er the low horizon like a cloud; Through Balk, and where the desolated tombs Of Parthian kings scatter to every wind Their wasting dust, wildly he wandered on, Day after day, a weary waste of hours. Bearing within his life the brooding care That ever fed on its decaying flame. And now his limbs were lean; his scattered hair, Sered by the autumn of strange suffering. Sung dirges in the wind; his listless hand Hung like dead bone within its withered skin; 251 Life, and the lustre that consumed it shone, As in a furnace burning secretly. ALASTOR 37 From his dark eyes alone. The cottagers, Who ministered with human charity His human wants, beheld with wondering awe Their fleeting visitant. The mountaineer. Encountering on some dizzy precipice That spectral form, deemed that the Spirit of Wind, With lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet 260 Disturbing not the drifted snow, had paused In its career; the infant would conceal His troubled visage in his mother's robe In terror at the glare of those wild eyes, To remember their strange light in many a dream Of after times ; but youthful maidens, taught By nature, would interpret half the woe That wasted him, would call him with false names Brother and friend, would press his pallid hand At parting, and watch, dim through tears, the path 270 Of his departure from their father's door. At length upon the lone Chorasmian shore He paused, a wide and melancholy waste Of putrid marshes. A strong impulse urged His steps to the sea-shore. A swan was there, Beside a sluggish stream among the reeds. It rose as he approached, and, with strong wings Scaling the upward sky, bent its bright course High over the immeasurable main. His eyes pursued its flight: — ' Thou hast a home, 280 Beautiful bird ! thou voyagest to thine home. Where thy sweet mate will twine her downy neck With thine, and welcome thy return with eyes Bright in the lustre of their own fond joy. And what am I that I should linger here, With voice far sweeter than thy dying notes, Spirit more vast than thine, frame more attuned To beauty, wasting these surpassing powers (n the deaf air, to the blind earth, and beavea That echoes not my thoughts ? ' A gloomy smile 290 Of desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lijjs. For sleep, he knew, kept most relentlessly Its precious charge, and silent death ex- posed, Faithless perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure, With doubtful smile mocking its owu strange charms. Startled by his own thoughts, he looked around. There wa£ no fair fiend near him, not a sight Or sound of awe but in his own deep mind. A little shallop floating near the shore Caught the impatient wandering of his gaze. 300 It had been long abandoned, for its sides Gaped wide with many a rift, and its frafl joints Swayed with the undulations of the tide. A restless impulse urged him to embark And meet lone Death on the drear ocean's waste; For well he knew that mighty Shadow loves The slimy caverns of the populous deep. The day was fair and sunny ; sea and sky Drank its inspiring radiance, and the wind Swept strongly from the shore, blackening the waves. 31a Following his eager soul, the wanderer Leaped in the boat ; he spread his cloak aloft On the bare mast, and took his lonely seat, And felt the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea Like a torn cloud before the hurricane. As one that in a silver vision floats Obedient to the sweep of odorous winds Upon resplendent clouds, so rapidly Along the dark and ruffled waters fled The straining boat. A whirlwind swept it on, 32a With fierce gusts and precipitating force, Through the white ridges of the chafed sea. The waves arose. Higher and higher still Their fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourge Like serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp. 38 ALASTOR Calm and rejoicing in the fearful war Of wave ruining on wave, and blast on blast Descending, and black flood on whirlpool driven With dark obliterating course, he sate: As if their genii were the ministers 330 Appointed to conduct him to the light Of those beloved eyes, the Poet sate, Holding the steady helm. Evening came on; The beams of sunset hung their rainbow hues High 'mid the shifting domes of sheeted spray That canopied his path o'er the waste deep ; Twilight, ascending slowly from the east. Entwined in duskier wreaths her braided locks O'er the fair front and radiant eyes of Day; Night followed, clad with stars. On every side 340 More horribly the multitudinous streams Of ocean's mountainous waste to mutual war Rushed in dark tumult thundering, as to mock The calm and spangled sky. The little boat Still fled before the storm; still fled, like foam Down the steep cataract of a wintry river; Now pausing on the edge of the riven wave ; Now leaving far behind the bursting mass That fell, convulsing ocean ; safely fled — As if that frail and wasted human form 350 Had been an elemental god. At midnight The moon arose; and lo! the ethereal cliffs Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone Among the stars like sunlight, and around Whose caverned base the whirlpools and the waves Bursting and eddying irresistibly Rage and resound forever. — Who shall save ? — The boat fled on, — the boiling torrent drove, — The crags closed round with black and jagged arms, 359 The shattered mountain overhung the sea, And faster still, beyond all human speed, Suspended on the sweep of the smooth wave. The little boat was driven. A cavern there Yawned, and amid its slant and winding depths Ingulfed the rushing sea. The boat fled on With unrelaxing speed. — * Vision and Love ! ' The Poet cried aloud, ' I have beheld The path of thy departure. Sleep and death Shall not divide us long.' The boat pursued The windings of the cavern. Daylight shone 370 At length upon that gloomy river's flow; Now, where the fiercest war among the waves Is calm, on the unfathomable stream The boat moved slowly. Where the moun- tain, riven. Exposed those black depths to the azure sky, Ere yet the flood's enormous volume fell Even to the base of Caucasus, with sound That shook the everlasting rocks, the mass Filled with one whirlpool all that ample chasm; 379 Stair above stair the eddying waters rose. Circling immeasurably fast, and laved With alternating dash the gnarled roots Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms In darkness over it. I' the midst was left, Reflecting yet distorting every cloud, A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm. Seized by the sway of the ascending stream. With dizzy swiftness, round and round and round, Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose, Till on the verge of the extremest curve. Where through an opening of the rocky bank 391 The waters overflow, and a smooth spot Of glassy quiet 'mid those battling tides Is left, the boat paused shuddering. — Shall it sink Down the abyss ? Shall the reverting stress Of that resistless gulf embosom it ? Now shall it fall ? — A wandering stream of wind Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail. And, lo ! with gentle motion between banks Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream, 40a ALASTOR 39 Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark ! The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods. Where the embowering trees recede, and leave A little space of green expanse, the cove Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes, Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave Of the boat's motion marred their pensive task, Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton winf^, 410 Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay ilad e'er disturbed before. The Poet longed To deck with their bright hues his withered hair, But on his heart its solitude returned, And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame, Had yet performed its ministry; it hung Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods 419 Of night close over it. The noonday sun Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass Of mingling shade, whose brown magnifi- cence A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves, Scooped in the dark base of their aery rocks. Mocking its moans, respond and roar for- ever. The meeting boughs and implicated leaves Wove twilight o'er the Poet's path, as, led By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death, He sought in Nature's dearest haunt some bank. 429 Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark And dark the shades accumulate. The oak, Expanding its immense and knotty arms, Embraces the light beech. The pyramids Of the tall cedar overarching frame Most solemn domes within, and far below. Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky, The ash and the acacia floating hang Tremulous and pale. Like restless ser- pents, clothed In rainbow and in fire, the parasites. Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around 440 The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes, With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles, Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love, These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs. Uniting their close union; the woven leaves Make network of the dark blue light of day And the night's noontide clearness, mutable As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns Beneath these canopies extend their swells, Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms 450 Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen Sends from its woods of musk-rose twin'^ with jasmine A soul-dissolving odor to invite To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades. Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well, Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave. Images all the woven boughs above, 459 And each depending leaf, and every speck Of azure sky darting between their chasms; Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves Its portraiture, but some inconstant star, Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair, Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moou, Or gorgeous insect floating motionless. Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon. Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld Their own wan light through the reflected lines 470 Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth Of that still fountain ; as the human heart, Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave, Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard 40 ALASTOR The motion of the leaves — the grass that sprung Startled and glaneed and trembled even to feel An unaccustomed presence — and the sound Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed To stand beside him — clothed in no bright robes 480 Of shadowy silver or enshrining light, Borrowed from aught the visible world afPords Of grace, or majesty, or mystery; But undulating woods, and silent well. And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming. Held commune with him, as if he and it Were all that was ; only — when his regard Was raised by intense pensiveness — two eyes, Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought, 490 And seemed with their serene and azure smiles To beckon him. Obedient to the light That shone within his soul, he went, pur- suing The windings of the dell. The rivulet, Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell Among the moss with hollow harmony Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones It danced, like childhood laughing as it went ; Then, through the plain in tranquil wan- derings crept, 500 Reflecting every herb and drooping bud That overhung its quietness. — ' O stream ! Whose source is inaccessibly profound, Whither do thy mysterious waters tend ? Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome still- ness. Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs, Thy searchless fountain and invisible course. Have each their type in me ; and the wide sky And measureless ocean may declare as soon What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud 510 Contains thy waters, as the universe Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste I' the passing wind ! ' Beside the grassy shore Of the small stream he went ; he did im- press On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one Roused by some joyous madness from the couch Of fever, he did move ; yet not like him Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame 520 Of his frail exultation shall be spent. He must descend. With rapid steps he went Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow Of the wild babbling rivulet ; and now The forest's solemn canopies were changed For the uniform and lightsome evening sky. Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed The struggling brook ; tall spires of win- dlestrae Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope. And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines 530 Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away. The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes Had shone, gleam stony orbs : — so from his steps Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds And musical motions. Calm he still pur- sued The stream, that with a larger volume now S4<» ALASTOR 41 Rolled through the labyrinthine dell ; and there Fretted a path through its descending curves With its wintry speed. On every side now rose Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms, Lifted their black and barren piunacles In the light of evening, and its preci- pice Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above, 'Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawn- ing caves, Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues To the loud stream. Lo ! where the pass expands 550 Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks. And seems with its accumulated crags To overhang the world ; for wide expand Beneath the wan stars and descending moon Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams. Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge Of the remote horizon. The near scene. In naked and severe simplicity, 560 Made contrast with the universe. A pine. Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast Yielding one only response at each pause In most familiar cadence, with the howl. The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river Foaming and hurrying o'er its rugged path, Fell into that immeasurable void, Scattering its waters to the passing winds. 570 Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine And torrent were not all; — one silent nook Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain, Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks. It overlooked in its serenity The dark earth and the bending vault of stars. It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped The fissured stones with its entwining arms, And did embower with leaves forever green 580 And berries dark the smooth and even space Of its inviolated floor ; and here The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay, Red, yellow, or ethereally pale, Rivals the pride of summer. 'T is the haunt Of every gentle wind whose breath can teach The wilds to love tranquillity. One step, One human step alone, has ever broken The stillness of its solitude ; one voice 590 Alone inspired its echoes ; — even that voice Which hither came, floating among the winds. And led the loveliest among human forms To make their wild haunts the depository Of all the grace and beauty that endued Its motions, render up its majesty. Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm. And to the damp leaves and blue cavern mould. Nurses of rainbow flowers and branching moss, Commit the colors of that varying cheek, 600 That snowy breast, those dark and droop- ing eyes. The dim and horned moon hung low, and poured A sea of lustre on the horizon's verge That overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank Wan moonlight even to fulness ; not a star Shone, not a sound was heard ; the very winds. Danger's grim playmates, on that precipice Slept, clasped in his embrace. — O storm of death. Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night ! 6ia And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still Guiding its irresistible career In thy devastating omnipotence, Art king of this frail world ! from the red field Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital, The patriot's sacred couch, the snowy bed Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne, 42 ALASTOR A mighty voice invokes thee ! Ruin calls His brother Death ! A rare and regal prey He hath prepared, prowling around tlie world ; 620 Glutted with which thou mayst repose, and men Go to their graves like flowers or creeping worms, Nor ever more offer at thy dark shrine The unheeded tribute of a broken heart. When on the threshold of the green recess The wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death Was on him. Yet a little, ere it fled, Did he resign his high and holy soul To images of the majestic past, 629 That paused within his passive being now, Like winds that bear sweet music, when they breathe Through some dim latticed chamber. He did place His pale lean hand upon the rugged trunk Of the old pine; upon an ivied stone Reclined his languid head; his limbs did rest. Diffused and motionless, on the smooth brink Of that obscurest chasm; — and thus he lay. Surrendering to their final impulses The hovering powers of life. Hope and Despair, The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear 640 Marred his repose; the influxes of sense And his own being, unalloyed by pain, Yet feebler and more feeble, calmly fed The stream of thought, till he lay breath- ing there At peace, and faintly smiling. His last sight Was the great moon, which o'er the western line Of the wide world her mighty horn sus- pended. With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills It rests; and still as the divided frame 650 Of the vast meteor sunk, the Poet's blood. That ever beat in mystic sympathy With Nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still; And when two lessening points of ligU alone Gleamed through the darkness, the alter nate gasp Of his faint respiration scarce did stir The stagnate night : — till the minutest ray Was quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart. It paused — it fluttered. But when hea- ven remained 659 Utterly black, the murky shades involved An image silent, cold, and motionless. As their own voiceless earth and vacant air. Even as a vapor fed with golden beams That ministered on sunlight, ere the west Eclipses it, was now that wondrous frame — No sense, no motion, no divinity — A fragile lute, on whose harmonious strings The breath of heaven did wander — a bright stream Once fed with many-voiced waves — a dream Of youth, which night and time have quenched forever — 670 Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now. Oh, for Medea's wondrous alchemy, Which wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale From vernal blooms fresh fragrance ! Oh, that God, Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice Which but one living man has drained, whC now. Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feeli No proud exemption in the blighting curse He bears, over the world wanders for- ever, 680 Lone as incarnate death ! Oh, that the dream Of dark magician in his visioned cave, Raking the cinders of a crucible For life and power, even when his feeble hand Shakes in its last decay, were the true law Of this so lovely world ! But thou art fled, Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ! The brave, the gentle and the beautiful. THE REVOLT OF ISLAM: INTRODUCTORY NOTE 43 The child of grace and genius. Heartless things 690 Are done and said i' the world, and many worms And beasts and men live on, and mighty Earth From sea and mountain, city and wilder- ness, In vesper low or joyous orison. Lifts still its solemn voice : — but thou art fled — Thou canst no longer know or love the shapes Of this phantasmal scene, who have to thee Been purest ministers, who are, alas ! Now thou art not ! Upon those pallid lips So sweet even in their silence, on those eyes 700 That image sleep in death, upon that form Yet safe from the worm's outrage, let no tear Be shed — not even in thought. Nor, when those hues Are gone, and those divinest lineaments, Worn by the senseless wind, shall live alone In the frail pauses of this simple strain, Let not high verse, mourning the memory Of that which is no more, or painting's woe Or sculpture, speak in feeble imagery Their own cold powers. Art and elo- quence, 7I(D And all the shows o' the world, are frail and vain To weep a loss that turns their lights tc shade. It is a woe "too deep for tears," wbeq all Is reft at once, when some surpassing Spirit, Whose light adorned the world around it;, leaves Those who remain behind, not sobs 01 groans. The passionate tumult of a clinging hope; But pale despair and cold tranquillity. Nature's vast frame, the web of human things. Birth and the grave, that are not as they were. 720 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM A POEM IN TWELVE CANTOS 02AI2 AE BPOTON E0NO2 AFAAIAIS AHTOMESQA, HEPAINEI nP02 E2XAT0N HAOON- NAY2I A' OYTE HEZOS ION AN EYP0I2 E2 YnEPBOPEHN APONA ©AYMATAN OAON. Pindar, Pyth. X. The Revolt of Islam is a return to the social and political propaganda of Queen Mab, thoug-h the narrative element is stronger and the ideal characterization is along the more human lines of Alastor. It belongs distinctly in the class of reform poems and obeys a didactic motive in the same way as does the Faerie Queene, in the stanza of which it is written. It was com- posed in the spring and summer of 1817, and embodies the opinions of Shelley nearly as completely as Queen Mab had done, five years earlier. It was printed under the title Laon and Cythna ; or, The Revolution of the Golden City : A Vision of the Nineteenth Century ; a few copies only were issued, when the pub- lisher refused to proceed with the work unless radical alterations were made in the text. Shelley reluctantly consented to this, and made the required changes. The title was altered. and the work published. The circumstances under which the poem was written are told by Mrs. Shelley, with a word upon the main characters : ' He chose 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. 44 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM 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 neighborhood to the Thames. The poem was written in his boat, as it floated under the beech groves of Bisham, or during wanderings in the neig-hboring country, which is distin- guished 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 gentle- men's parks or soil dedicated to agriculture, flourishes around, Marlow was inhabited (I hope it is altered now) by a very poor popu- lation. The women are lacemakers, and lose their health by sedentary labor, 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 pro- duced by peace following a long war, and a bad harvest, brought with them the most heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelley af- forded 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 thousand-fold interest to his speculations, and stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race.' Shelley himself gave two accounts of the poem, of which the most interesting occurs in a letter to Godwin, December 11, 1817: ' The Poem was produced by a series of thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded and sustained enthusiasm. I felt the preca- riousness 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.' The second is contained in an earlier letter to a publisher, October 13, 1817 : ' The whole poem, with the exception of the first canto and part of the last, is a mere human story without the smallest intermixture of supernatural interference. The first canto is, indeed, in some measure a distinct poem, though very necessary to the wholeness of the work. I say this because, if it were all written in the manner of the first canto, 1 could not expect that it would be interesting to any great number of people. I have attempted in the progress of my work to speak to the com' mon elementary emotions of the human heart, so that, though it is the story of violence and revolution, it is relieved by milder pictures of friendship and love and natural affections. The scene is supposed to be laid in Constantinople and modern Greece, but without much attempt at minute delineation of Mahometan manners. It is, in fact, a tale illustrative of such a revo- lution as might be supposed to take place in an European nation, acted upon by the opinions of what has been called (erroneously, as I think) the modern philosophy, and contend- ing with ancient notions and the supposed advantage derivijd from them to those who support them. It is a Revolution of this kind that is the beau ideal, as it were, of the French Revohition, but produced by the influence of individual genius and out of general know- ledge.' Peacock supplements Mrs. Shelley's note, with some details of the revision : ' In the summer of 1817 he wrote The Revolt of Islam, chiefly on a seat on a high promi- nence in Bisham Wood where he passed whole mornings with a blank book and a pencil. This work when completed was printed under the title of Laon and Cythna. In this poem he had carried the expression of his opinions, moral, political, and theological, beyond the bounds of discretion. The terror which, in those days of persecution of the press, the perusal of the book inspired in Mr. Oilier, the publisher, induced him to solicit the alteration of many passages which he had marked. Shelley was for some time inflexible ; but Mr. OUier's refusal to publish the poem as it was, AUTHOR'S PREFACE 4b backed by the advice of all his friends, induced him to submit to the required changes.' Shelley subsequently revised the poem still more, in expectation of a second edition, but the changes so made are now unknown. PREFACE The Poem which I now present to the world is an attempt from which I scarcely dare to expect success, and in which a writer of es- tablished fame might fail without disgrace. It is an experiment on the temper of the public mind as to how far a thirst for a happier con- dition of moral and political society survives, among the enlightened and refined, the tem- pests which have shaken the age in which we live. I have sought to enlist the harmony of metrical language, the ethereal combinations of the fancy, the rapid and subtle transitions of human passion, all those elements which essentially compose a poem, in the cause of a liberal and comprehensive morality ; and in the view of kindling within the bosoms of my readers a virtuous enthusiasm for those doc- trines of liberty and justice, that faith and hope in something good, which neither vio- lence, nor misrepresentation, nor prejudice, can ever totally extinguish among mankind. For this purpose I have chosen a story of human passion in its most universal character, diversified with moving and romantic adven- tures, and appealing, in contempt of all arti- ficial opinions or institutions, to the common sympathies of every human breast. I have made no attempt to recommend the motives which I would substitute for those at present governing mankind, by methodical and sys- tematic argument. I would only awaken the feelings, so that the reader should see the beauty of true virtue, and be incited to those inquiries which have led to my moral and po- litical creed, and that of some of the sublimest intellects in the world. The Poem therefore (with the exception of the first Canto, which is purely introductory) is narrative, not didactic. It is a succession of pictures illustrating the growth and progress of individual mind aspir- ing after excellence and devoted to the love of mankind ; its influence in refining and making pure the most daring and uncommon impulses of the imagination, the understanding, and the senses ; its impatience at ' all the oppressions which are done under the sun ; ' its tendency to awaken public hope and to enlighten and improve mankind ; the rapid effects of the application of that tendency ; the awakening of an immense nation from their slavery and degradation to a true sense of moral dignity and freedom ; the bloodless dethronement of their oppressors and the unveiling of the reli- gious frauds by which they had been deluded into submission ; the tranquillity of successful patriotism and the universal toleration and benevolence of true philanthropy ; the treach« ery and barbarity of hired soldiers ; vice not the object of punishment and hatred, but kindness and pity ; the faithlessness of tyrants ; the confederacy of the Rulers of the World and the restoration of the expelled Dynasty by foreign arms ; the massacre and extermination of the Patriots and the victory of established power ; the consequences of legitimate despo- tism, — civil war, famine, plague, superstition, and an utter extinction of the domestic affec- tions ; the judicial murder of the advocates of liberty ; the temporary triumph of oppression, that secure earnest of its final and inevitable fall ; the transient nature of ignorance and error and the eternity of genius and virtue. Such is the series of delineations of which the Poem consists. And if the lofty passions with which it has been my scope to distinguish this story shall not excite in the reader a gener- ous impulse, an ardent thirst for excellence, an interest profound and strong, such as belongs to no meaner desires, let not the failure be imputed to a natural unfitness for human sympathy in these sublime and animating themes. It is the business of the poet to com- municate to others the pleasure and the enthu- siasm arising out of those images and feelings in the vivid presence of which within his own mind consists at once his inspiration and his reward. The panic which, like an epidemic transport, seized upon all classes of men during the ex- cesses consequent upon the French Revolution, is gradually giving place to sanity. It has ceased to be believed that whole generations of mankind ought to consign themselves to a hope- less inheritance of ignorance and misery be- cause a nation of men who had been dupes and slaves for centuries were incapable of conduct- ing themselves with the wisdom and tranquil- lity of freemen so soon as some of their fetters were partially loosened. That their conduct could not have been marked by any other characters than ferocity and thoughtlessness is the historical fact from which liberty derives all its recommendations, and falsehood the worst features of its deformity. There is a reflux in the tide of human things which bears the shipwrecked hopes of men into a secure haven after the storms are past. Methinks those who now live have survived an age of despair. The French Revolution may be considered as one of those manifestations of a general state of feeling among civilized mankind, pro- duced by a defect of correspondence between the knowledge existing in society and the im.* 46 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM provement or gradual abolition of political institutions. The year 1788 may be assumed as the epoch of one of the most important crises produced by this feeling-. The sympa- thies connected with that event extended to every bosom. The most generous and amia- ble natures were those which participated the most extensively in these sympathies. But such a degree of unmingled good was expected as it was impossible to realize. If the Revolu- tion had been in every respect prosperous, then misrule and superstition would lose half their claims to our abhorrence, as fetters which the captive can unlock with the slightest motion of his fingers, and which do not eat with poison- ous rust into the soul. The revulsion occa- sioned by the atrocities of the demagogues and the reestablishment of successive tyrannies in France was terrible, and felt in the remot- est corner of the civilized world. Could they listen to the plea of reason who had groaned under the calamities of a social state, according to the provisions of which one man riots in lux- ury whilst another famishes for want of bread ? Can he who the day before was a trampled slave suddenly become liberal-minded, forbear- ing, and independent ? This is the consequence of the habits of a state of society to be pro- duced by resolute perseverance and indefatiga- ble hope, and long-suifering and long-believing courage, and the systematic efforts of genera- tions of men of intellect and virtue. Such is the lesson which experience teaches now. But on the first reverses of hope in the progress of French liberty, the sanguine eagerness for good overleapt the solution of these questions, and for a time extinguished itself in the unex- pectedness of their result. Thus many of the most ardent and tender-hearted of the wor- shippers of public good have been morally ruined by what a partial glimpse of the events they deplored appeared to show as the melan- choly desolation of all their cherished hopes. Hence gloom and misanthropy have become the characteristics of the age in which we live, the solace of a disappointment that uncon- sciously finds relief only in the wilful exagger- ation of its own despair. This influence has tainted the literature of the age with the hope- lessness of the minds from which it flows. Metaphysics,^ and inquiries into moral and political science, have become little else than vain attempts to revive exploded superstitions, or sophisms like those '^ of Mr. Malthus, calcu- lated to lull the oppressors of mankind into a ^ I ought to except Sir W. Drummond's Academical Questions; a volume of very acute and powerful meta- physical criticism. 2 It is remarkable, as a symptom of the revival of public hope, that Mr. Malthus has assigned, in the later •ditions of bis work, an indefinite dominion to moral security of everlasting triumph. Our works of fiction and poetry have been overshadowed by the same infectious gloom. But mankind appear to me to be emerging from their trance. I am aware, methinks, of a slow, gradual, silent change. In that belief I have composed the following Poem. I do not presume to enter into competition with our greatest contemporary poets. Yet I am unwilling to tread in the footsteps of any who have preceded me. I have sought to avoid the imitation of any style of language or versification peculiar to the original minds of which it is the character, designing that even if what I have produced be worthless, it should still be properly my own. Nor have I permit- ted any system relating to mere words to divert the attention of the reader from whatever in- terest I may have succeeded in creating, to my own ingenuity in contriving to disgust them according to the rules of criticism. I have simply clothed my thoughts in what appeared to me the most obvious and appropriate lan- guage. A person familiar with Nature, and with the most celebrated productions of the human mind, can scarcely err in following the instinct, with respect to selection of language, produced by that familiarity. There is an education peculiarly fitted for a poet, without which genius and sensibility can hardly fill the circle of their capacities. No ed- ucation indeed can entitle to this appellation a dull and unobservant mind, or one, though neither dull nor unobservant, in which the chan- nels of communication between thought and expression have been obstructed or closed. How far it is my fortune to belong to either of the latter classes I cannot know. I aspire to be something better. The circumstances of my ac- cidental education have been favorable to this ambition. I have been familiar from boyhood with mountains and lakes, and the sea, and the solitude of forests ; Danger which sports upon the brink of precipices has been my playmate. I have trodden the glaciers of the Alps, and lived under the eye of Mont Blanc. I have been a wanderer among distant fields. I have sailed down mighty rivers, and seen the sur rise and set, and the stars come forth, whilst 1 have sailed night and day down a rapid stream among mountains. I have seen populous cities, and have watched the passions which rise and spread, and sink and change, amongst asserai- bled multitudes of men. I have seen the thea- tre of the more visible ravages of tyranny and restraint over the principle of population. This con- cession answers all the inferences from his doctrine unfavorable to human improvement, and reduces the Essay on Population to a commentary illustrative of the uuanswerableuess of Political Justice, AUTHOR'S PREFACE 47 war, cities and villages reduced to scattered groups of black and roofless houses, and the naked inhabitants sitting- famished upon their desolated thresholds. I have conversed with living men of genius. The poetry of ancient Greece and Rome, and modei'u Italy, and our own country, has been to me like external nature, a passion and an enjoyment. Such are the sources from which the materials for the imagery of my Poem have been drawn. I have considered poetry in its most comprehen- sive sense, and have read the poets and the his- torians, and the metaphysicians ^ whose writ- ings have been accessible to me, and have looked upon the beautiful and majestic scenery of the earth, as common sources of those ele- ments which it is the province of the poet to embody and combine. Yet the experience and the feelings to which I refer do not in them- selves constitute men poets, but only prepares them to be the auditors of those who are. How far I shall be found to possess that more essential attribute of poetry, the power of awakening in others sensations like those which animate my own bosom, is that which, to speak sincerely, I know not ; and which, with an acquiescent and contented spirit, I expect to be taught by the effect which I shall produce upon those whom I now address. I have avoided, as I have said before, the imitation of any contemporary style. But there must be a resemblance, which does not depend upon their own will, between all the writers of any particular age. They cannot escape from subjection to a common influence which arises out of an infinite combination of circumstances belonging to the times in which they live, though each is in a degree the author of the very influence by which his being is thus per- vaded. Thus, the tragic poets of the age of Pericles ; the Italian revivers of ancient learn- ing ; those mighty intellects of our own country that succeeded the Reformation, the translators of the Bible, Shakespeare, Spenser, the Dra- matists of the reign of Elizabeth, and Lord Bacon ; ^ the colder spirits of the interval that succeeded ; — all resemble each other, and dif- fer from every other in their several classes. In this view of things, Ford can no more be called the imitator of Shakespeare than Shake- speare the imitator of Ford. There were per- haps few other points of resemblance between these two men than that which the universal and inevitable influence of their age produced. And this is an influence which neither the mean- est scribbler nor the sublimest genius of any 1 In this sense there may be such a thing as perfecti- bility in works of fiction, notwithstanding the conces- sion often made by the advocates of human improve- era can escape ; and which I have not attempted to escape. I have adopted the stanza of Spenser (a measure inexpressibly beautiful) not because I consider it a finer model of poetical harmony than the blank verse of Shakespeare and Mil- ton, but because in the latter there is no shelter for mediocrity ; you must either succeed or fail. This perhaps an aspiring spirit should desire. But I was enticed also by the brilliancy and magnificence of sound which a mind that has been nourished upon musical thoughts can pro- duce by a just and harmonious arrangement of the pauses of tiiis measure. Yet there will be found some instances where I have completely failed in this attempt, and one, which 1 here request the reader to consider as an erratum, where there is left most inadvertently an alex- andrine in the middle of a stanza. But in this, as in every other respect, I have written fearlessly. It is the misfortune of this age that its writers, too thoughtless of immor- tality, are exquisitely sensible to temporary praise or blame. They write with the fear of Reviews before their eyes. This system of criticism sprang up in that torpid interval when poetry was not. Poetry and the art which professes to regulate and limit its powers cannot subsist together. Longinus could not have been the contemporary of Homer, nor Boileau of Horace. Yet this species of crit- icism never presumed to assert an understand- ing of its own ; it has always, unlike true science, followed, not preceded the opinion of mankind, and would even now bribe with worthless adulation some of our greatest poets to impose gratuitous fetters on their own im- aginations and become unconscious accom- plices in the daily murder of all genius either not so aspiring or not so fortunate as their own. I have sought therefore to write, as I believe that Homer, Shakespeare, and Miltinn wrote, with an utter disregard of anonymoo? censure. I am certain that calumny and mis representation, though it may move me to com- passion, cannot disturb my peace. I shall understand the expressive silence of those sa- gacious enemies who dare not trust themselves to speak. I shall endeavor to extract from the midst of insult and contempt and maledic- tions those admonitions which may tend to correct whatever imperfections such censurers may discover in this my first serious appeal to the public. If certain critics were as clear- sighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their virulent ment, that perfectibility is a term \pplicable only tc science. 2 Milton stands alone in the age which he illumined. 48 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM writings ! As it is, I fear I shall be malicious enough to be amused with their paltry tricks and lame invectives. Should the public judge that my composition is worthless, I shall in- deed bow before the tribunal from which Mil- ton received his crown of immortality, and shall seek to gather, if I live, strength from that defeat, which may nerve me to some new enterprise of thought which may not be worth- less. I cannot conceive that Lucretius, when he meditated that poem whose doctrines are yet the basis of our metaphysical knowledge and whose eloquence has been the wonder of mankind, wrote in awe of such censure as the hired sophists of the impure and superstitious noblemen of Rome might affix to what he should produce. It was at the period when Greece was led captive and Asia made tribu- tary to the Republic, fast verging itself to slavery and ruin, that a multitude of Syrian captives, bigoted to the worship of their ob- scene Ashtaroth, and the unworthy successors of Socrates and Zeno, found there a precarious subsistence by administering, under the name of freedmen, to the vices and vanities of the great. These wretched men were skilled to plead, with a superficial but plausible set of sophisms, in favor of that contempt for virtue which is the portion of slaves, and that faith in portents, the most fatal substitute for benevo- lence in the imaginations of men, which arising from the enslaved communities of the East then first began to overwhelm the western na- tions in its stream. Were these the kind of men whose disapprobation the wise and lofty- minded Lucretius should have regarded with a salutary awe ? The latest and perhaps the meanest of those who follow in his footsteps would disdain to hold life on such conditions. The Poem now presented to the public oc- cupied little more than six months in the composition. That period has been devoted to the task with unremitting ardor and enthu- siasm. I have exercised a watchful and ear- nest criticism on my work as it grew under ray hands. I would willingly have sent it forth to the world with that perfection which long labor and revision is said to bestow. But I found that if I should gain something in exactness by this method, I might lose much of the newness and energy of imagery and language as it flowed fresh from my mind. And although the mere composition occupied no more than six months, the thoughts thus arranged were slowly gathered in as many years. I trust that the reader will carefully dis- tinguish between those opinions which have a dramatic propriety in reference to the char- acters which they are designed to elucidate, and such as are properly my own. The erro- neous and degrading idea which men have con- ceived of a Supreme Being, for instance, is spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself. The belief which some superstitious persons whom I have brought upon the stage entertain of the Deity, as injurious to the character of his benevolence, is widely different from my own. In recommending also a great and important change in the spirit which ani- mates the social institutions of mankind, I have avoided all flattery to those violent and malignant passions of our nature which are ever on the watch to mingle with and to alloy the most beneficial innovations. There is no quarter given to revenge, or envy, or prejudice. Love is celebrated everywhere as the sole law which should govern the moral world. In Laon and Cythna the following passage was added, in conclusion : In the personal conduct of my hero and heroine, there is one circumstance which was intended to startle the reader from the trance of ordinary life. It was my object to break through the crust of those outworn opiiiions on which established institutions depend. I have appealed therefore to the most universal of all feelings, and have endeavored to strengthen the moral sense by forbidding it to waste its energies in seeking to avoid actions which are only crimes of convention. It is because there is so great a multitude of artificial vices that there are so few real virtues. Those feelings alone which are benevolent or malevolent are essentially good or bad. The circumstance of which I speak was introduced, however, merely to accustom men to that charitj"^ and tolera- tion which the exhibition of a practice widely differing from their own has a tendency to promote.^ Nothing indeed can be more mis- chievous than many actions innocent in them- selves which might bring down upon indi- viduals the bigoted contempt and rage of the multitude. 1 The sentiments connected with and characteristic of this circumstance have no personal reference to the writer. DEDICATION There is no danger to a man that knows What life and death is : there's notany law Exceeds his knowledge ; neither is it lawful That he should stoop to any other law. Chapman. TO MARY 49 TO MARY So now my summer-task is ended, Mary, And I return to thee, mine own heart's home; As to his Queen some victor Knight of Faery, Earning bright spoils for her enchanted dome; Nor thou disdain, that ere my fame be- come A star among the stars of mortal night, If it indeed may cleave its natal gloom. Its doubtful promise thus I would unite With thy beloved name, thou Child of love and light. II The toil which stole from thee so many an hour. Is ended, — and the fruit is at thy feet ! No longer where the woods to frame a bower With interlaced branches mix and meet. Or where, with sound like many voices sweet, Water-falls leap among wild islands green. Which framed for my lone boat a lone -retreat Of moss-grown trees and weeds, shall I be seen; But beside thee, where still my heart has ever been. Ill Thoughts of great deeds were mine, dear Friend, when first The clouds which wrap this world from youth did pass. I do remember well the hour which burst My spirit's sleep. A fresh May-dawn it was. When I walked forth upon the glittering grass. And wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near school-room voices that, alas! Were but one echo from a world of woes — Che harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes. IV And then I clasped my hands and looked around, But none was near to mock my streaming eyes. Which poured their warm drops on the sunny ground — So without shame I spake: — 'I will be wise. And just, and free, and mild, if in me lies Such power, for I grow weary to behold The selfish and the strong still tyrannize Without reproach or check.' I then con- trolled My tears, my heart grew calm, and I was meek and bold. And from that hour did I with earnest thought Heap knowledge from forbidden mines of lore; Yet nothing that my tyrants knew or taught I cared to learn, but from that secret store Wrought linked armor for my soul, be- fore It might walk forth to war among man- kind; Thus power and hope were strengthened more and more Within me, till there came upon my mind A sense of loneliness, a thirst with which I pined. VI Alas, that love should be a blight and snare To those who seek all sympathies in one ! Such once I sought in vain; then black despair. The shadow of a starless night, was thrown Over the world in which I moved alone : — Yet never found I one not false to me. Hard hearts, and cold, like weights of icy stone Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be Aught but a lifeless clog, until rerived by thee. 50 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM VII Thou Friend, whose presence on my win- try heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herb- less plain; How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of Custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walked as free as light the clouds among, Which many an envious slave then breathed in vain From his dim dungeon, and my spirit sprung Xo meet thee from the woes which had begirt it long ! VIII No more alone through the world's wil- derness. Although I trod the paths of high intent, X journeyed now; no more companion- less, Where solitude is like despair, I went. There is the wisdom of a stern content When Poverty can blight the just and good. When Infamy dares mock the innocent. And cherished friends turn with the mul- titude To trample: this was ours, and we un- shaken stood ! IX Now has descended a serener hour, And with inconstant fortune, friends re- turn; Though suffering leaves the knowledge and the power Which says, — Let scorn be not repaid with scorn. And from thy side two gentle babes are born To fill our home with smiles, and thus are we Most fortunate beneath life's beaming morn; And these delights, and thou, have been to me llie parents of the Song I consecrate to thee. Is it that now my inexperienced fingers But strike the prelude of a loftier strain? Or must the lyre on which my spirit lin- gers Soon pause in silence, ne'er to sound again. Though it might shake the Anarch Cus- tom's reign. And charm the minds of men to Truth's own sway. Holier than was Amphion's ? I would fain Reply in hope — but I am worn away, And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey. XI And what art thou ? I know, but dare not speak: Time may interpret to his silent years. Yet in the paleness of thy thoughtful cheek, And in the light thine ample forehead wears, And in thy sweetest smiles, and in thy tears. And in thy gentle speech, a prophecy Is whispered to subdue my fondest fears; And, through thine eyes, even in thy soul I see A lamp of vestal fire burning internally. XII They say that thou wert lovely from thy birth. Of glorious parents thou aspiring Child ! I wonder not — for One then left this earth Whose life was like a setting planet mild. Which clothed thee in the radiance uude- filed Of its departing glory; still her fame Shines on thee, through the tempests dark and wild Which shake these latter days; and thou canst claim The shelter, from thy Sire, of an immortal name. XIII One voice came forth from many a mighty spirit, CANTO FIRST 51 Which was the echo of three thousand years: And the tumultuous world stood mute to hear it, As some lone man who in a desert hears The music of his home : — unwonted fears Fell on the pale oppressors of our race, And Faith, and Custom, and low- thoughted cares. Like thunder -stricken dragons, for a space Left the torn human heart, their food and dwelling-place. XIV Truth's deathless voice pauses among mankind ! If there must be no response to my cry — If men must rise and stamp with fury blind On his pure name who loves them, — thou and I, Sweet Friend ! can look from our tran- quillity Like lamps into the world's tempestuous night, — Two tranquil stars, while clouds are passing by Which wrap them from the foundering seaman's sight, That burn from year to year with unextin- guished light. CANTO FIRST When the last hope of trampled France had failed Like a brief dream of unremaining glory. From visions of despair I rose, and scaled The peak of an aerial promontory. Whose caverned base with the vexed surge was hoary; And saw the golden dawn break forth, and waken Each cloud and every wave: — but tran- sitory The calm; for sudden, the firm earth was shaken. As if by the last wreck its frame were over- taken. II So as I stood, one blast of muttering thunder Burst in far peals along the waveless deep. When, gathering fast, around, above and under, Long trains of tremulous mist began io creep. Until their complicating lines did steep The orient sun in shadow: — not a sound Was heard; one horrible repose did keep The forests and the floods, and all around Darkness more dread than night was poured upon the ground. Ill Hark ! 't is the rushing of a wind that sweeps Earth and the ocean. See! the light- nings yawn. Deluging Heaven with fire, and the lashed deeps Glitter and boil beneath! it rages on. One mighty stream, whirlwind and waves upt brown. Lightning, and hail, and darkness eddy- ing by! There is a pause — the sea-birds, that were gone Into their caves to shriek, come forth to spy What calm has fall'n on earth, what light is in the sky. IV For, where the irresistible storm had cloven That fearful darkness, the blue sky was seen, Fretted with many a fair cloud inter- woven Most delicately, and the ocean green. Beneath that opening spot of blue serene, Quivered like burning emerald; calm was spread On all below; but far on high, between Earth and the upper air, the vast clouds fled. Countless and swift as leaves on autumn's tempest shed. For ever as the war became more fierce Between the whirlwinds and the rack on high, 52 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM That spot grew more serene; blue light did pierce The woof of those white clouds, which seemed to lie Far, deep and motionless; while through the sky The pallid semicircle of the moon Passed on, in slow and moving majesty ; Its upper horn arrayed in mists, which soon, But slowly, fled, like dew beneath the beams of noon. VI I could not choose but gaze; a fascina- tion Dwelt in that moon, and sky, and clouds, which drew My fancy thither, and in expectation Of what I knew not, I remained. The hue Of the white moon, amid that heaven so blue Suddenly stained with shadow did ap- pear; A speck, a cloud, a shape, approaching grew. Like a great ship in the sun's sinking sphere Beheld afar at sea, and swift it came anear. VII Even like a bark, which from a chasm of mountains, Dark, vast and overhanging, on a river Which there collects the strength of all its fountains, Comes forth, whilst with the speed its frame doth quiver. Sails, oars and stream, tending to one endeavor; So, from that chasm of light a winged Form On all the winds of heaven approaching ever Floated, dilating as it came; the storm Pursued it with fierce blasts, and light- nings swift and warm. VIII A course precipitous, of dizzy speed. Suspending thought and breath; a mon- strous sight! For in the air do I behold indeed An Eagle and a Serpent wreathed in fight : — And now, relaxing its impetuous flight, Before the aerial rock on which I stood, The Eagle, hovering, wheeled to left and right, And hung with lingering wings over the flood. And startled with its yells the wide air's solitude. IX A shaft of light upon its wings de- scended, And every golden feather gleamed therein — Feather and scale inextricably blended. The Serpent's mailed and many-colored skin Shone through the plumes its coils were twined within By many a swollen and knotted fold, and high And far, the neck receding lithe and thin. Sustained a crested head, which warily Shifted and glanced before the Eagle's steadfast eye. Around, around, in ceaseless circles wheeling With clang of wings and scream, the Eagle sailed Incessantly — sometimes on high con- cealing Its lessening orbs, sometimes as if it failed, Drooped through the air; and still it shrieked and wailed. And casting back its eager head, with beak And talon unremittingly assailed The wreathed Serpent, who did ever seek Upon his enemy's heart a mortal wound to wreak. XI What life, what power, was kindled and arose Within the sphere of that appalling fray! For, from the encounter of those won- drous foes, A vapor like the sea's suspended spray CANTO FIRST 53 Hung gathered ; in the void air, far away, Floated the shattered plumes ; bright scales did leap, Where'er the Eagle's talons made their way, Like sparks into the darkness ; — as they sweep, Blood stains the snowy foam of the tumul- tuous deep. XII Swift chances in that combat — many a check, And many a change, a dark and wild turmoil! Sometimes the Snake around his enemy's neck Locked in stiff rings hie adamantine coil. Until the Eagle, faint with pain and toil, Remitted his strong flight, and near the sea Languidly fluttered, hopeless so to foil His adversary, who then reared on high His red and burning crest, radiant with victory. XIII Then on the white edge of the bursting surge. Where they had sunk together, would the Snake Relax his suffocating grasp, and scourge The wind with his wild writhings; for, to break That chain of torment, the vast bird would shake The strength of his unconquerable wings As in despair, and with his sinewy neck Dissolve in sudden shock those linked rings — , Then soar, as swift as smoke from a vol- cano springs. XIV Wile baffled wile, and strength encoun- tered strength, Thus long, but unprevailing. The event Of that portentous fight appeared at length. Until the lamp of day was almost spent It had endured, when lifeless, stark and rent, I Hung high that mighty Serpent, and at last Fell to the sea, while o'er the continent With clang of wings and scream the Eagle passed. Heavily borne away on the exhausted blast XV And with it fled the tempest, so that ocean And earth and sky shone through the atmosphere; Only, 't was strange to see the red com- motion Of waves like mountains o'er the sinking sphere Of sunset sweep, and their fierce roar to hear Amid the calm ; down the steep path I wound To the sea-shore — the evening was most clear And beautiful, and there the sea I found Calm as a cradled child in dreamless slum- ber bound. There was a Woman, beautiful as morn- ing, Sitting beneath the rocks upon the sand Of the waste sea — fair as one flower adorning An icy wilderness; each delicate hand Lay crossed upon her bosom, and the band Of her dark hair had fall'n, and so sue sate Looking upon the waves ; on the bare strand Upon the sea-mark a small boat did wait. Fair as herself, like Love by Hope left desolate. XVII It seemed that this fair Shape had looked upon That unimaginable fight, and now That her sweet eyes were weary of the sim, As brightly it illustrated her woe; For in the tears, which silently to flow Paused not, its lustre hung: she, watch- ing aye The foam-wreaths w^hich the faint tide wove below 54 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM Upon the spangled sands, groaned heav- ily, And after every groan looked up over the sea. XVIII And when she saw the wounded Serpent make His path between the waves, her lips grew pale, Parted and quivered; the tears ceased to break From her immovable eyes; no voice of wail Escaped her; but she rose, and on the gale Loosening her star -bright robe and shadowy hair. Poured forth her voice; the caverns of the vale That opened to the ocean, caught it there. And filled with silver sounds the overflow- ing air. XIX She spake in language whose strange melody Might not belong to earth. I heard alone What made its music more melodious be. The pity and the love of every tone; But to the Snake those accents sweet were known His native tongue and hers; nor did he beat The hoar spray idly then, but winding on Through the green shadows of the waves that meet Near to the shore, did pause beside her snowy feet. XX Then on the sands the Woman sate again. And wept and clasped her hands, and, all between. Renewed the unintelligible strain Of her melodious voice and eloquent mien ; And she unveiled her bosom, and the green And glancing shadows of the sea did play O'er its marmoreal depth — one moment seen, For ere the next, the Serpent did obey Her voice, and, coiled in rest, in her em» brace it lay. XXI Then she arose, and smiled on me with eyes Serene yet sorrowing, like that planet fair, While yet the daylight lingereth in the skies. Which cleaves with arrowy beams the dark-red air. And said : * To grieve is wise, but the de- spair Was weak and vain which led thee here from sleep. This shalt thou know, and more, if thou dost dare With me and with this Serpent, o'er the deep, A voyage divine and strange, companion- ship to keep.' XXII Her voice was like the wildest, saddest tone. Yet sweet, of some loved voice heard long ago. I wept. Shall this fair woman all alone Over the sea with that fierce Serpent go ? His head is on her heart, and who can know How soon he may devour his feeble prey ? — Such were my thoughts, when the tide 'gan to flow ; And that strange boat like the moon's shade did sway Amid reflected stars that in the waters lay. XXIII A boat of rare device, which had no sail But its own curved prow of thin moon- stone. Wrought like a web of texture fine and frail. To catch those gentlest winds which are not known To breathe, but by the steady speed alone With which it cleaves the sparkling sea; and now We are embarked — the mountains bang and frown CANTO FIRST 55 Over the starry deep that gleams below A vast and dim expanse, as o'er the waves we go. XXIV And as we sailed, a strange and awful tale That Woman told, like such mysterious dream As makes the slumberer's cheek with wonder pale ! 'T was midnight, and around, a shoreless stream, Wide ocean rolled, when that majestic theme Shrined in her heart found utterance, and she bent Her looks on mine; those eyes a kin- dling beam Of love divine into my spirit sent. And, ere her lips could move, made the air eloquent. XXV * Speak not to me, but hear ! much shalt thou learn. Much must remain unthought, and more untold. In the dark Future's ever-flowing urn. Know then that from the depth of ages old Two Powers o'er mortal things dominion hold. Ruling the world with a divided lot. Immortal, all-pervading, manifold, Twin Genii, equal Gods — when life and thought Sprang forth, they burst the womb of in- essential Nought. XXVI ' The earliest dweller of the world alone Stood on the verge of chaos. Lo ! afar O'er the wide wild abyss two meteors shone, Sprung from the depth of its tempestu- ous jar — A blood-red Comet and the Morning Star Mingling their beams in combat. As he stood All thoughts within his mind waged mu- tual war In dreadful sympathy — when to the flood That fair Star fell, he turned and shed his brother's blood. XXVII * Thus Evil triumphed, and the Spirit of Evil, One Power of many shapes which none may know, One Shape of many names; the Fiend did revel In victory, reigning o'er a world of woe, For the new race of man went to and fro, Famished and homeless, loathed and loathing, wild. And hating good — for his immortal foe. He changed from starry shape, beauteous and mild. To a dire Snake, with man and beast un- reconciled. XXVIII ' The darkness lingering o'er the dawn of things Was Evil's breath and life ; this made him strong To soar aloft with overshadowing wings ; And the great Spirit of Good did creep among The nations of mankind, and every tongue Cursed and blasphemed him as he passed; for none Knew good from evil, though their names were hung In mockery o'er the fane where many a groan. As King, and Lord, and God, the conquer- ing Fiend did own. XXIX ' The Fiend, whose name was Legion Death, Decay, Earthquake and Blight, and Want, anc' Madness pale, Winged and wan diseases, an array Numerous as leaves that strew the au- tumnal gale; Poison, a snake in flowers, beneath the veil Of food and mirth, hiding his mortal head; And, without whom all these might nought avail. Fear, Hatred, Faith and Tyranny, who spread Those subtle nets which snare the living and the dead. 56 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM XXX * His spirit is their power, and they his slaves In air, and light, and thought, and lan- guage dwell; And keep their state from palaces to graves, In all resorts of men — invisible. But when, in ebon mirror, Nightmare fell. To tyrant or impostor bids tliem rise. Black winged demon - forms — whom, from the hell. His reign and dwelling beneath nether skies. He loosens to their dark and blasting min- istries. XXXI * In the world's youth his empire was as firm As its foundations. Soon the Spirit of Good, Though in the likeness of a loathsome worm, Sprang from the billows of the formless flood, Which shrank and fled; and with that Fiend of blood Renewed the doubtful war. Thrones then first shook, And earth's immense and trampled mul- titude In hope on their own powers began to look. And Fear, the demon pale, his sanguine shrine forsook. XXXII * Then Greece arose, and to its bards and sages. In dream, the golden - pinioned Genii came. Even where they slept amid the night of ages, Steeping their hearts in the divinest flame Which thy breath kindled. Power of holiest name! And oft in cycles since, when darkness gave New weapons to thy foe, their sunlike fame Upon the combat shone — a light to save, Like Paradise spread forth beyond the shadowy grave. XXXIII ' Such is this conflict — when mankind doth strive With its oppressors in a strife of blood, Or when free thoughts, like lightnings, are alive. And in each bosom of the multitude Justice and truth with custom's hydra brood Wage silent war; when priests and kings dissemble In smiles or frowns their fierce disqui- etude. When round pure hearts a host of hopes assemble. The Snake and Eagle meet — the world's foundations tremble! XXXIV ' Thou hast beheld that fight — when to thy home Thou dost return, steep not its hearth in tears; Though thou mayst hear that earth is now become The tyrant's garbage, which to his com- peers, The vile reward of their dishonored years. He will dividing give. The victor Fiend Omnipotent of yore, now quails, and fears His triumph dearly won, which soon will lend An impulse swift and sure to his approach- ing end. XXXV * List, stranger, list! mine is an human form Like that thou wearest — touch me — shrink not now! My hand thou feel'st is not a ghost's, but warm With human blood. 'Twas many years ago, Since first my thirsting soul aspired to know The secrets of this wondrous world, when deep My heart was pierced with sympathy for woe CANTO FIRST 57 Which could not be mine own, and thought did keep In dream unnatural watch beside an in- fant's sleep. XXXVI * Woe could not be mine own, since far from men I dwelt, a free and happy orphan child, By the sea-shore, in a deep mountain glen ; And near the waves and through the for- ests wild I roamed, to storm and darkness recon- ciled; For I was calm while tempest shook the sky. But when the breathless heavens in beauty smiled, I wept sweet tears, yet too tumultuously For peace, and clasped my hands aloft in ecstasy. XXXVII ' These were forebodings of my fate. Be- fore A woman's heart beat in my virgin breast. It had been nurtured in divinest lore; A dying poet gave me books, and blessed With wild but holy talk the sweet unrest In which I watched him as he died away; A youth with hoary hair, a fleeting guest Of our lone mountains; and this lore did sway My spirit like a storm, contending there alway. XXXVIII * Thus the dark tale which history doth unfold I knew, but not, methinks, as others know. For they weep not; and Wisdom had unrolled The clouds which hide the gulf of mortal woe; To few can she that warning vision show; For I loved all things with intense devo- tion. So that when Hope's deep source in full- est flow. Like earthquake did uplift the stagnant ocean Of human thoughts, mine shook beneath the wide emotion. XXXIX * When first the living blood through all these veins Kindled a thought in sense, great France sprang forth, And seized, as if to break, the ponderous chains Which bind in woe the nations of the earth. I saw, and started from my cottage hearth; And to the clouds and waves in tameless gladness Shrieked, till they caught immeasurable mirth. And laughed in light and music: soon sweet madness Was poured upon my heart, a soft and thrilling sadness. XL * Deep slumber fell on me : — my dreams were fire. Soft and delightful thoughts did rest and hover Like shadows o'er my brain ; and strange desire. The tempest of a passion, raging over My tranquil soul, its depths with light did cover. Which passed; and calm, and darkness, sweeter far. Came — then I loved; but not a human lover ! For when I rose from sleep, the Morning Star Shone through the woodbine wreaths which round my casement were. XLI ' 'T was like an eye which seemed to smile on me. I watched, till by the sun made pale it sank Under the billows of the heaving sea; But from its beams deep love my spirit drank. And to my brain the boundless world now shrank Into one thought — one image — yes, forever ! Even like the dayspring, poured on va- pors dank, 58 THE REVOLT OF ISLAM The beams of that one Star did shoot and quiver Through my benighted mind — and were extinguished never. XLII *The day passed thus. At night, me- thought, in dream A shape of speechless beauty did ap- pear; It stood like light on a careering stream Of golden clouds which shook the atmo- sphere; A winged youth, his radiant brow did wear The Morning Star; a wild dissolving bliss Over my frame he breathed, approach- ing near, And bent his eyes of kindling tender- ness Near mine, and on my lips impressed a lingering kiss, XLIII