That what I thought was an old root which grew With the spent vision of the times that were Frederick, and Paul, Catherine, and Leopold, And hoary anarchs, demagogues, and sage And that the grass, which methought hung so wide" Were or had been eyes:-" If thou canst, forbear "I will unfold that which to this deep scorn "If thirst of knowledge shall not then abate, Follow it thou even to the night, but I Am weary."-Then like one who with the weight Of his own words is staggered, wearily He paused; and, ere he could resume, I cried, "First, who art thou?"-" Before thy memory, "I feared, loved, hated, suffered, did and died, And if the spark with which Heaven lit my spirit Had been with purer sentiment supplied, "Corruption would not now thus much inherit Of what was once Rousseau,-nor this disguise Stained that which ought to have disdained to wear it ; "If I have been extinguished, yet there rise A thousand beacons from the spark I bore""And who are those chained to the car?"—" The wise, "The great, the unforgotten,-they who wore Mitres and helms and crowns, or wreaths of light, Signs of thought's empire over thought-their lore "Taught them not this, to know themselves; their Could not repress the mystery within, [might And for the morn of truth they feigned, deep night "Caught them ere evening."-"Who is he with chin Upon his breast, and hands crost on his chain?"— "The Child of a fierce hour; he sought to win "The world, and lost all that it did contain "Without the opportunity which bore Him on its eagle pinions to the peak From which a thousand climbers have before "Fallen, as Napoleon fell."-I felt my cheek That every pigmy kicked it as it lay; And why God made irreconcilable Good and the means of good; and for despair names which the world thinks always old, "For in the battle life and they did wage, She remained conqueror. I was overcome By my own heart alone, which neither age, "Nor tears, nor infamy, nor now the tomb Could temper to its object."-" Let them pass," I cried, "the world and its mysterious doom "Is not so much more glorious than it was, That I desire to worship those who drew New figures on its false and fragile glass "As the old faded."- Figures ever new Rise on the bubble, paint them as you may; We have but thrown, as those before us threw, "Our shadows on it as it past away. But mark how chained to the triumphal chair The mighty phantoms of an elder day; "All that is mortal of great Plato there Expiates the joy and woe his master knew not: The star that ruled his doom was far too fair, "And life, where long that flower of Heaven grew not, Conquered that heart by love, which gold, or pain, Or age, or sloth, or slavery, could subdue not. "And near him walk the [ "The world was darkened beneath either pinion "If Bacon's eagle spirit had not leapt "To wake, and lead him to the caves that held The treasure of the secrets of its reign. See the great bards of elder time, who quelled "The passions which they sung, as by their strain May well be known: their living melody Tempers its own contagion to the vein "Of those who are infected with it-I Have suffered what I wrote, or viler pain, And so my words have seeds of misery !" "And how and by what paths I have been brought To this dread pass, methinks even thou may'st guess; Why this should be, my mind can compass not; "And what thou wouldst be taught I then may learn From thee. Now listen:-In the April prime, When all the forest tips began to burn "With kindling green, touched by the azure clime Of the young year's dawn, I was laid asleep Under a mountain, which from unknown time "Had yawned into a cavern, high and deep; And from it came a gentle rivulet, Whose water, like clear air, in its calm sweep "Bent the soft grass, and kept for ever wet The stems of the sweet flowers, and filled the grove With sounds, which whoso hears must needs forget "All pleasure and all pain, all hate and love, Which they had known before that hour of rest; A sleeping mother then would dream not of "Her only child who died upon her breast At eventide a king would mourn no more The crown of which his brows were dispossest "When the sun lingered o'er his ocean floor, To gild his rival's new prosperity. Thou wouldst forget thus vainly to deplore "Ills, which if ills can find no cure from thee, The thought of which no other sleep will quell, Nor other music blot from memory, "Was filled with magic sounds woven into one Oblivious melody, confusing sense Amid the gliding waves and shadows dun; "And, as I looked, the bright omnipresence Of morning through the orient cavern flowed, And the sun's image radiantly intense "Burned on the waters of the well that glowed Like gold, and threaded all the forest's maze With winding paths of emerald fire; there stood "Amid the sun,-as he amid the blaze Of his own glory, on the vibrating Floor of the fountain-paved with flashing rays, "A Shape all light, which with one hand did fling Dew on the earth, as if she were the dawn, And the invisible rain did ever sing "A silver music on the mossy lawn; And still before me on the dusky grass, Iris her many-coloured scarf had drawn: "In her right hand she bore a crystal glass, Mantling with bright Nepenthe; the fierce splendour Fell from her as she moved under the mass "Out of the deep cavern, with palms so tender, "As one enamoured is upborne in dream "Partly to tread the waves with feet which kissed "Or the faint morning beams that fell among The trees, or the soft shadows of the trees; And her feet, ever to the ceaseless song "Of leaves, and winds, and waves, and birds, and bees, And falling drops moved to a measure new, "Up from the lake a shape of golden dew Between two rocks, athwart the rising moon, Dances i' the wind, where never eagle flew ; Show whence I came, and where I am, and why- The grassy vesture of the desert, played, Pass not away upon the passing stream. "Arise and quench thy thirst, was her reply. "I rose; and, bending at her sweet command, "Where the first wave had more than half erased The track of deer on desert Labrador; Whilst the wolf, from which they fled amazed, "Leaves his stamp visibly upon the shore, Until the second bursts;-so on my sight Burst a new vision, never seen before, "And the fair shape waned in the coming light, As veil by veil the silent splendour drops From Lucifer, amid the chrysolite "Of sun-rise, ere it tinge the mountain tops; And as the presence of that fairest planet, Although unseen, is felt by one who hopes "That his day's path may end, as he began it, In that star's smile, whose light is like the scent Of a jonquil when evening breezes fan it, "Or the soft note in which his dear lament The Brescian shepherd breathes, or the caress That turned his weary slumber to content;* "So knew I in that light's severe excess The presence of that shape which on the stream Moved, as I moved along the wilderness, "More dimly than a day-appearing dream, The ghost of a forgotten form of sleep; A light of heaven, whose half-extinguished beam "Through the sick day in which we wake to weep, Glimmers, for ever sought, for ever lost; So did that shape its obscure tenour keep The favourite song, "Stanco di pascolar le pecorelle," is a Brescian national air. Forgetful of the chariot's swift advance; "Others stood gazing, till within the shade Of the great mountain its light left them dim; Others outspeeded it; and others made "Circles around it, like the clouds that swim Round the high moon in a bright sea of air; And more did follow, with exulting hymn, "The chariot and the captives fettered there:-But all like bubbles on an eddying flood Fell into the same track at last, and were "Borne onward. I among the multitude Was swept-me, sweetest flowers delayed not long; Me, not the shadow nor the solitude; "Me, not that falling stream's Lethean song; "The thickest billows of that living storm "Before the chariot had begun to climb "Of him who from the lowest depths of hell, Through every paradise and through all glory, Love led serene, and who returned to tell "The words of hate and care; the wondrous story How all things are transfigured except Love; (For deaf as is a sea, which wrath makes hoary, "The world can hear not the sweet notes that move The sphere whose light is melody to lovers) A wonder worthy of his rhyme-the grove "Grew dense with shadows to its inmost covers, The earth was grey with phantoms, and the air Was peopled with dim forms, as when there hovers "A flock of vampire-bats before the glare Of the tropic sun, bringing, ere evening, Strange night upon some Indian vale;—thus were HERE, my dear friend, is a new book for you; To other friends, one female and one male, Free love has this, different from gold and clay, If I were one whom the loud world held wise, I should disdain to quote authorities These fragments do not properly belong to the poems of 1822. They are gleanings from Shelley's manuscript books and papers; preserved not only because they are beautiful in themselves, but as affording indications of his feelings and virtues. Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be It is a sweet thing friendship, a dear balm, A solitude, a refuge, a delight. If I had but a friend! why I have three, A lute, which those whom love has taught to play * |