Chapter LXVII: Conclusion (12)

Shelley was eighteen when he wrote “Queen Mab”; he never published it. When it was written, he had come to the decision that he was too young to be a ‘judge of controversies’; and he was desirous of acquiring ‘that sobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism.’ But he never doubted the truth or utility of his opinions; and, in printing and privately distributing “Queen Mab”, he believed that he should further their dissemination, without occasioning the mischief either to others or himself that might arise from publication. It is doubtful whether he would himself have admitted it into a collection of his works. His severe classical taste, refined by the constant study of the Greek poets, might have discovered defects that escape the ordinary reader; and the change his opinions underwent in many points would have prevented him from putting forth the speculations of his boyish days. But the poem is too beautiful in itself, and far too remarkable as the production of a boy of eighteen, to allow of its being passed over: besides that, having been frequently reprinted, the omission would be vain. In the former edition certain portions were left out, as shocking the general reader from the violence of their attack on religion. I myself had a painful feeling that such erasures might be looked upon as a mark of disrespect towards the author, and am glad to have the opportunity of restoring them. The notes also are reprinted entire—not because they are models of reasoning or lessons of truth, but because Shelley wrote them, and that all that a man at once so distinguished and so excellent ever did deserves to be preserved. The alterations his opinions underwent ought to be recorded, for they form his history.

A series of articles was published in the “New Monthly Magazine” during the autumn of the year 1832, written by a man of great talent, a fellow-collegian and warm friend of Shelley: they describe admirably the state of his mind during his collegiate life. Inspired with ardour for the acquisition of knowledge, endowed with the keenest sensibility and with the fortitude of a martyr, Shelley came among his fellow-creatures, congregated for the purposes of education, like a spirit from another sphere; too delicately organized for the rough treatment man uses towards man, especially in the season of youth, and too resolute in carrying out his own sense of good and justice, not to become a victim. To a devoted attachment to those he loved he added a determined resistance to oppression. Refusing to fag at Eton, he was treated with revolting cruelty by masters and boys: this roused instead of taming his spirit, and he rejected the duty of obedience when it was enforced by menaces and punishment. To aversion to the society of his fellow-creatures, such as he found them when collected together in societies, where one egged on the other to acts of tyranny, was joined the deepest sympathy and compassion; while the attachment he felt for individuals, and the admiration with which he regarded their powers and their virtues, led him to entertain a high opinion of the perfectibility of human nature; and he believed that all could reach the highest grade of moral improvement, did not the customs and prejudices of society foster evil passions and excuse evil actions.

The oppression which, trembling at every nerve yet resolute to heroism, it was his ill-fortune to encounter at school and at college, led him to dissent in all things from those whose arguments were blows, whose faith appeared to engender blame and hatred. ‘During my existence,’ he wrote to a friend in 1812, ‘I have incessantly speculated, thought, and read.’ His readings were not always well chosen; among them were the works of the French philosophers: as far as metaphysical argument went, he temporarily became a convert. At the same time, it was the cardinal article of his faith that, if men were but taught and induced to treat their fellows with love, charity, and equal rights, this earth would realize paradise. He looked upon religion, as it is professed, and above all practised, as hostile instead of friendly to the cultivation of those virtues which would make men brothers.

Can this be wondered at? At the age of seventeen, fragile in health and frame, of the purest habits in morals, full of devoted generosity and universal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain wisdom, resolved at every personal sacrifice to do right, burning with a desire for affection and sympathy,—he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth as a criminal.

The cause was that he was sincere; that he believed the opinions which he entertained to be true. And he loved truth with a martyr’s love; he was ready to sacrifice station and fortune, and his dearest affections, at its shrine. The sacrifice was demanded from, and made by, a youth of seventeen. It is a singular fact in the history of society in the civilized nations of modern times that no false step is so irretrievable as one made in early youth. Older men, it is true, when they oppose their fellows and transgress ordinary rules, carry a certain prudence or hypocrisy as a shield along with them. But youth is rash; nor can it imagine, while asserting what it believes to be true, and doing what it believes to be right, that it should be denounced as vicious, and pursued as a criminal.

Shelley possessed a quality of mind which experience has shown me to be of the rarest occurrence among human beings: this was his UNWORLDLINESS. The usual motives that rule men, prospects of present or future advantage, the rank and fortune of those around, the taunts and censures, or the praise, of those who were hostile to him, had no influence whatever over his actions, and apparently none over his thoughts. It is difficult even to express the simplicity and directness of purpose that adorned him. Some few might be found in the history of mankind, and some one at least among his own friends, equally disinterested and scornful, even to severe personal sacrifices, of every baser motive. But no one, I believe, ever joined this noble but passive virtue to equal active endeavours for the benefit of his friends and mankind in general, and to equal power to produce the advantages he desired. The world’s brightest gauds and its most solid advantages were of no worth in his eyes, when compared to the cause of what he considered truth, and the good of his fellow-creatures. Born in a position which, to his inexperienced mind, afforded the greatest facilities to practise the tenets he espoused, he boldly declared the use he would make of fortune and station, and enjoyed the belief that he should materially benefit his fellow-creatures by his actions; while, conscious of surpassing powers of reason and imagination, it is not strange that he should, even while so young, have believed that his written thoughts would tend to disseminate opinions which he believed conducive to the happiness of the human race.

If man were a creature devoid of passion, he might have said and done all this with quietness. But he was too enthusiastic, and too full of hatred of all the ills he witnessed, not to scorn danger. Various disappointments tortured, but could not tame, his soul. The more enmity he met, the more earnestly he became attached to his peculiar views, and hostile to those of the men who persecuted him.

He was animated to greater zeal by compassion for his fellow-creatures. His sympathy was excited by the misery with which the world is burning. He witnessed the sufferings 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 was ready to be the first to lay down the advantages of his birth. He was of too uncompromising a disposition to join any party. He did not in his youth look forward to gradual improvement: nay, in those days of intolerance, 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 that 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 Mab”.

He was a lover of the wonderful and wild in literature, but had not fostered these tastes at their genuine sources—the romances and chivalry of the middle ages—but in the perusal of such German works as were current in those days. Under the influence of these he, at the age of fifteen, wrote two short prose romances of slender merit. The sentiments and language were exaggerated, the composition imitative and poor. He wrote also a poem on the subject of Ahasuerus—being led to it by a German fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This fell afterwards into other hands, and was considerably altered before it was printed. Our earlier English poetry was almost unknown 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—composed his favourite reading; the rhythm of “Queen Mab” was founded on that of “Thalaba”, and the first few lines bear a striking resemblance in spirit, though not in idea, to the opening of that poem. His fertile imagination, and ear tuned to the finest sense of harmony, preserved him from imitation. Another of his favourite books was the poem of “Gebir” by Walter Savage Landor. From his boyhood he had a wonderful facility of versification, which he carried into another language; and his Latin school-verses were composed with an ease and correctness that procured for him prizes, and caused him to be resorted to by all his friends for help. He was, at the period of writing “Queen Mab”, a great traveller within the limits of England, Scotland, and Ireland. His time was spent among the loveliest scenes of these countries. Mountain and lake and forest were his home; the phenomena of Nature were his favourite study. He loved to inquire into their causes, and was addicted to pursuits of natural philosophy and chemistry, as far as they could be carried on as an amusement. These tastes gave truth and vivacity to his descriptions, and warmed his soul with that deep admiration for the wonders of Nature which constant association with her inspired.

He never intended to publish “Queen Mab” as it stands; but a few years after, when printing “Alastor”, he extracted a small portion which he entitled “The Daemon of the World”. In this he changed somewhat the versification, and made other alterations scarcely to be called improvements.

Some years after, when in Italy, a bookseller published an edition of “Queen Mab” as it originally stood. Shelley was hastily written to by his friends, under the idea that, deeply injurious as the mere distribution of the poem had proved, the publication might awaken fresh persecutions. At the suggestion of these friends he wrote a letter on the subject, printed in the “Examiner” newspaper—with which I close this history of his earliest work.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE ‘EXAMINER.’

‘Sir,

‘Having heard that a poem entitled “Queen Mab” has been surreptitiously published in London, and that legal proceedings have been instituted against the publisher, I request the favour of your insertion of the following explanation of the affair, as it relates to me.

‘A poem entitled “Queen Mab” was written by me at the age of eighteen, I daresay 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 concerns moral and political speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysical and religious doctrine, it is still more crude and immature. I am a devoted enemy to religious, political, and domestic oppression; and I regret this publication, not so much from literary vanity, as because I fear it is better fitted to injure than to serve the sacred cause of freedom. I have directed my solicitor to apply to Chancery for an injunction to restrain the sale; but, after the precedent of Mr. Southey’s “Wat Tyler” (a poem written, I believe, at the same age, and with the same unreflecting enthusiasm), with little hope of success.

‘Whilst I exonerate myself from all share in having divulged opinions hostile to existing sanctions, under the form, whatever it may be, which they assume in this poem, it is scarcely necessary for me to protest against the system of inculcating the truth of Christianity or the excellence of Monarchy, however true or however excellent they may be, by such equivocal arguments as confiscation and imprisonment, and invective and slander, and the insolent violation of the most sacred ties of Nature and society.

‘SIR,

‘I am your obliged and obedient servant,

‘PERCY B. SHELLEY.

‘Pisa, June 22, 1821.’

***

[Of the following pieces the “Original Poetry by Victor and Cazire”, the Poems from “St. Irvyne, or The Rosicrucian”, “The Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson” and “The Devil’s Walk”, were published by Shelley himself; the others by Medwin, Rossetti, Forman and Dowden, as indicated in the several prefatory notes.]

VERSES ON A CAT.

[Published by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1800.]

1. A cat in distress, Nothing more, nor less; Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye, As I am a sinner, It waits for some dinner _5 To stuff out its own little belly.

2. You would not easily guess All the modes of distress Which torture the tenants of earth; And the various evils, _10 Which like so many devils, Attend the poor souls from their birth.

3. Some a living require, And others desire An old fellow out of the way; _15 And which is the best I leave to be guessed, For I cannot pretend to say.

4. One wants society, Another variety, _20 Others a tranquil life; Some want food, Others, as good, Only want a wife.

5. But this poor little cat _25 Only wanted a rat, To stuff out its own little maw; And it were as good SOME people had such food, To make them HOLD THEIR JAW! _30

***

FRAGMENT: OMENS.

[Published by Medwin, “Shelley Papers”, 1833; dated 1807.]

Hark! the owlet flaps his wings In the pathless dell beneath; Hark! ’tis the night-raven sings Tidings of approaching death.

***

EPITAPHIUM.

[LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY’S ELEGY.]

[Published by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847; dated 1808-9.]

1. Hic sinu fessum caput hospitali Cespitis dormit juvenis, nec illi Fata ridebant, popularis ille Nescius aurae.

2. Musa non vultu genus arroganti _5 Rustica natum grege despicata, Et suum tristis puerum notavit Sollicitudo.

3. Indoles illi bene larga, pectus Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit, _10 Et pari tantis meritis beavit Munere coelum.

4. Omne quad moestis habuit miserto Corde largivit lacrimam, recepit Omne quod coelo voluit, fidelis _15 Pectus amici.

5. Longius sed tu fuge curiosus Caeteras laudes fuge suspicari, Caeteras culpas fuge velle tractas Sede tremenda. _20

6. Spe tremescentes recubant in illa Sede virtutes pariterque culpae, In sui Patris gremio, tremenda Sede Deique.

***

IN HOROLOGIUM.

[Published by Medwin, “Life of Shelley”, 1847; dated 1809.]

Inter marmoreas Leonorae pendula colles Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas. Quas MANIBUS premit illa duas insensa papillas Cur mihi sit DIGITO tangere, amata, nefas?

***

A DIALOGUE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1809. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

DEATH: For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave, I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave, Where Innocence sleeps ‘neath the peace-giving sod, And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny’s nod; I offer a calm habitation to thee,— _5 Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me? My mansion is damp, cold silence is there, But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair; Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath, Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of Death. _10 I offer a calm habitation to thee,— Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

MORTAL: Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose, It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes, It longs in thy cells to deposit its load, _15 Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,— Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away, And Bigotry’s bloodhounds lose scent of their prey. Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o’er, What awaits on Futurity’s mist-covered shore? _20

DEATH: Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale; Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love, That will hail their blest advent to regions above. For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway, _25 And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray. Hast thou loved?—Then depart from these regions of hate, And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate. I offer a calm habitation to thee.— Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me? _30

MORTAL: Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the ray Which after thy night introduces the day; How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest’s breath, Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death! I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all, _35 Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall, And duty forbids, though I languish to die, When departure might heave Virtue’s breast with a sigh. O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine, And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine. _40

NOTE: _22 o’er Esdaile manuscript; on 1858.

***

TO THE MOONBEAM.

[Published by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858: dated 1809. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale, To bathe this burning brow. Moonbeam, why art thou so pale, As thou walkest o’er the dewy dale, Where humble wild-flowers grow? _5 Is it to mimic me? But that can never be; For thine orb is bright, And the clouds are light, That at intervals shadow the star-studded night. _10

2. Now all is deathy still on earth; Nature’s tired frame reposes; And, ere the golden morning’s birth Its radiant hues discloses, Flies forth its balmy breath. _15 But mine is the midnight of Death, And Nature’s morn To my bosom forlorn Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn.

3. Wretch! Suppress the glare of madness _20 Struggling in thine haggard eye, For the keenest throb of sadness, Pale Despair’s most sickening sigh, Is but to mimic me; And this must ever be, _25 When the twilight of care, And the night of despair, Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there.

NOTE: _28 rankle Esdaile manuscript wake 1858.

***

THE SOLITARY.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1810. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Dar’st thou amid the varied multitude To live alone, an isolated thing? To see the busy beings round thee spring, And care for none; in thy calm solitude, A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude _5 To Zephyr’s passing wing?

2. Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother’s hate, Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: _10 He bears a load which nothing can remove, A killing, withering weight.

3. He smiles—’tis sorrow’s deadliest mockery; He speaks—the cold words flow not from his soul; He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,— _15 Yet, yet he longs—although he fears—to die; He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly, Dull life’s extremest goal.

***

TO DEATH.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1810. Included (under the title, “To Death”) in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

Death! where is thy victory? To triumph whilst I die, To triumph whilst thine ebon wing Enfolds my shuddering soul? O Death! where is thy sting? _5 Not when the tides of murder roll, When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss, Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this— When in his hour of pomp and power His blow the mightiest murderer gave, _10 Mid Nature’s cries the sacrifice Of millions to glut the grave; When sunk the Tyrant Desolation’s slave; Or Freedom’s life-blood streamed upon thy shrine; Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine? _15

To know in dissolution’s void That mortals’ baubles sunk decay; That everything, but Love, destroyed Must perish with its kindred clay,— Perish Ambition’s crown, _20 Perish her sceptred sway: From Death’s pale front fades Pride’s fastidious frown. In Death’s damp vault the lurid fires decay, That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue’s beam— That all the cares subside, _25 Which lurk beneath the tide Of life’s unquiet stream;— Yes! this is victory! And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky, To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled; _30 To baffle the lean passions of their prey, To sleep within the palace of the dead! Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne His countless courtiers mock the words they say, Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, _35 As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!

Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe Which props the column of unnatural state! You the plainings, faint and low, From Misery’s tortured soul that flow, _40 Shall usher to your fate.

Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command The war-fiend riots o’er a peaceful land! You Desolation’s gory throng Shall bear from Victory along _45 To that mysterious strand.

NOTE: _10 murderer Esdaile manuscript; murders 1858.

***

LOVE’S ROSE.

[Published (without title) by Hogg, “Life of Shelley”, 1858; dated 1810. Included in the Esdaile manuscript book.]

1. Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, Live not through the waste of time! Love’s rose a host of thorns invests; Cold, ungenial is the clime, Where its honours blow. _5 Youth says, ‘The purple flowers are mine,’ Which die the while they glow.

2. Dear the boon to Fancy given, Retracted whilst it’s granted: Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven, _10 Although on earth ’tis planted, Where its honours blow, While by earth’s slaves the leaves are riven Which die the while they glow.

3. Age cannot Love destroy, _15 But perfidy can blast the flower, Even when in most unwary hour It blooms in Fancy’s bower. Age cannot Love destroy, But perfidy can rend the shrine _20 In which its vermeil splendours shine.

NOTES: Love’s Rose—The title is Rossetti’s, 1870. _2 not through Esdaile manuscript; they this, 1858.

***

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870; dated 1810. Included (four unpublished eight-line stanzas) in the Esdaile manuscript book.)]

How eloquent are eyes! Not the rapt poet’s frenzied lay When the soul’s wildest feelings stray Can speak so well as they. How eloquent are eyes! _5 Not music’s most impassioned note On which Love’s warmest fervours float Like them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,— That your look may light a waste of years, _10 Darting the beam that conquers cares Through the cold shower of tears. Love, look thus again!

***

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

[Published by Shelley, 1810. A Reprint, edited by Richard Garnett, C.B., LL.D., was issued by John Lane, in 1898. The punctuation of the original edition is here retained.]

A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the idea of the following lines:

1. Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink, First of this thing, and that thing, and t’other thing think; Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind, That the sense or the subject I never can find: This word is wrong placed,—no regard to the sense, The present and future, instead of past tense, Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore, I think I shall never attempt to write more, With patience I then my thoughts must arraign, Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, _10 Like them too must wait in due patience and thought, Or else my fine works will all come to nought. My wit too’s so copious, it flows like a river, But disperses its waters on black and white never; Like smoke it appears independent and free, _15 But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee— Then at length all my patience entirely lost, My paper and pens in the fire are tossed; But come, try again—you must never despair, Our Murray’s or Entick’s are not all so rare, _20 Implore their assistance—they’ll come to your aid, Perform all your business without being paid, They’ll tell you the present tense, future and past, Which should come first, and which should come last, This Murray will do—then to Entick repair, _25 To find out the meaning of any word rare. This they friendly will tell, and ne’er make you blush, With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush! Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put, Not minding the if’s, the be’s, and the but, _30 Then read it all over, see how it will run, How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun, Your writings may then with old Socrates vie, May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie, May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. _35 The pattern or satire to all of the age; But stop—a mad author I mean not to turn, Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn, Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined, My letters may make some slight food for the mind; _40 That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart, In all the warm language that flows from the heart. Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains, It bids me step forward and just hold the reins, My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, _45 Such as I fear can be made but by few— Of writers this age has abundance and plenty, Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty, Three score of them wits who all sharply vie, To try what odd creature they best can belie, _50 A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write, And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,] One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire, And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire, T’other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, _55 And just like a cobbler the old writings mend, The twenty are those who for pulpits indite, And pore over sermons all Saturday night. And now my good friends—who come after I mean, As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. _60 Or like cobblers at mending I never did try, Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie; As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest, So here I believe the matter must rest.— I’ve heard your complaint—my answer I’ve made, _65 And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid, Adieu my good friend; pray never despair, But grammar and sense and everything dare, Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free, Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, _70 Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense, But read it all over and make it out sense. What a tiresome girl!—pray soon make an end, Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend. Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try— _75 So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

JANUARY, 1810.

2.

TO MISS — — [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY].

For your letter, dear — [Hattie], accept my best thanks, Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks, Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better, The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter, All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, _5 Which only are fit for the tardy and late, As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk, How fair the sun shines—a fine day for a walk, Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation, One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation, _10 Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong, The burden this is of each morning-call song. So — is going to — you say, I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—] That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright, _15 And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight. Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart, Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart, Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways, He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, _20 That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake, And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take, A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame, But he fears, for he knows she is not common game, Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, _25 He’s not one that’s caught by a sly looking face, Yet that’s TOO divine—such a black sparkling eye, At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die; Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten, More than is meant by most such kind of men, _30 For they’re all alike, take them one with another, Begging pardon—with the exception of my brother. Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard, Most opinion’s the same, with the difference of word, Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, _35 Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed, As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name, Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame.— So on Friday this City’s gay vortex you quit, And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit— _40 Now your parcel’s arrived — [Bysshe’s] letter shall go, I hope all your joy mayn’t be turned into woe, Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain, When it promises sunshine how often comes rain. So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, _45 How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh, When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed, How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest. When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand, Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked near the strand, _50 And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel, ’Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel— May misfortunes dear Girl, ne’er thy happiness cloy, May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy, May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, _55 Woes, which thy tender heart never may know, For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear, Though sympathy’s soul to a friend drops a tear. Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written, Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. _60 What sober reflections in the midst of this letter! Jocularity sure would have suited much better; But there are exceptions to all common rules, For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools. Now adieu my dear — [Hattie] I’m sure I must tire, _65 For if I do, you may throw it into the fire, So accept the best love of your cousin and friend, Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.

APRIL 30, 1810.

NOTE: _19 mischievous]mischevious 1810.

3. SONG.

Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, Cold are the damps on a dying man’s brow,— Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low; But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, _5 More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow—

And ah! poor — has felt all this horror, Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: _10 ‘Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, She sought her babe’s food at her ruiner’s gate— Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, _15 Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late. ’Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, That the form of the wasted — reclined; She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.— _20 I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, But thee, cruel — I call thee unkind!’—

Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, _25 She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o’er the fountain, And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. ‘Ah! go,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the tempest is yelling, ’Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, _30 My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—’

Not long lived —, but over her grave Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. _35 Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather, Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her, Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.—

JULY, 1810.

4. SONG.

Come [Harriet]! sweet is the hour, Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around, The anemone’s night-boding flower, Has sunk its pale head on the ground.

’Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn, _5 Some mild heart that expands to its blast, ’Tis thus that the wretched forlorn, Sinks poor and neglected at last.—

The world with its keenness and woe, Has no charms or attraction for me, _10 Its unkindness with grief has laid low, The heart which is faithful to thee. The high trees that wave past the moon, As I walk in their umbrage with you, All declare I must part with you soon, _15 All bid you a tender adieu!—

Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell, You and I love, may ne’er meet again; These woods and these meadows can tell How soft and how sweet was the strain.— _20

APRIL, 1810.

5. SONG.

DESPAIR.

Ask not the pallid stranger’s woe, With beating heart and throbbing breast, Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow, As though the body needed rest.—

Whose ‘wildered eye no object meets, _5 Nor cares to ken a friendly glance, With silent grief his bosom beats,— Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.

Who looks around with fearful eye, And shuns all converse with man kind, _10 As though some one his griefs might spy, And soothe them with a kindred mind.

A friend or foe to him the same, He looks on each with equal eye; The difference lies but in the name, _15 To none for comfort can he fly.—

’Twas deep despair, and sorrow’s trace, To him too keenly given, Whose memory, time could not efface— His peace was lodged in Heaven.— _20

He looks on all this world bestows, The pride and pomp of power, As trifles best for pageant shows Which vanish in an hour.

When torn is dear affection’s tie, _25 Sinks the soft heart full low; It leaves without a parting sigh, All that these realms bestow.

JUNE, 1810.

6. SONG.

SORROW.

To me this world’s a dreary blank, All hopes in life are gone and fled, My high strung energies are sank, And all my blissful hopes lie dead.—

The world once smiling to my view, _5 Showed scenes of endless bliss and joy; The world I then but little knew, Ah! little knew how pleasures cloy;

All then was jocund, all was gay, No thought beyond the present hour, _10 I danced in pleasure’s fading ray, Fading alas! as drooping flower.

Nor do the heedless in the throng, One thought beyond the morrow give[,] They court the feast, the dance, the song, _15 Nor think how short their time to live.

The heart that bears deep sorrow’s trace, What earthly comfort can console, It drags a dull and lengthened pace, ‘Till friendly death its woes enroll.— _20

The sunken cheek, the humid eyes, E’en better than the tongue can tell; In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies, Where memory’s rankling traces dwell.—

The rising tear, the stifled sigh, _25 A mind but ill at ease display, Like blackening clouds in stormy sky, Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.

Thus when souls’ energy is dead, When sorrow dims each earthly view, _30 When every fairy hope is fled, We bid ungrateful world adieu.

AUGUST, 1810.

7. SONG.

HOPE.

And said I that all hope was fled, That sorrow and despair were mine, That each enthusiast wish was dead, Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.—

Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow glow, _5 That robes with liquid streams of light; Yon distant Mountain’s craggy brow. And shows the rocks so fair,—so bright—

Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray, In softer view shows distant hours, _10 And portrays each succeeding day, As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,—

The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom; Are frozen but to bud anew, Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom, _15 Although thy visions be not true,—

Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe, Thy whisperings soft of love and peace, God never made thee to deceive, ’Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. _20

Yet though despair my life should gloom, Though horror should around me close, With those I love, beyond the tomb, Hope shows a balm for all my woes.

AUGUST, 1810.

8. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN.

Oh! what is the gain of restless care, And what is ambitious treasure? And what are the joys that the modish share, In their sickly haunts of pleasure?

My husband’s repast with delight I spread, _5 What though ’tis but rustic fare, May each guardian angel protect his shed, May contentment and quiet be there.

And may I support my husband’s years, May I soothe his dying pain, _10 And then may I dry my fast falling tears, And meet him in Heaven again.

JULY, 1810.

9. SONG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN.

Ah! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear, If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear, The dastard shall perish, death’s torment shall prove, For fate and revenge are decreed from above.

Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, _5 Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth; With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell, To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell—

For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays, To him shall each warrior give merited praise, _10 And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms, He shall find his reward in his loved maiden’s charms.

In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip, The kisses that glow on his love’s dewy lip, And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, _15 The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.

OCTOBER, 1809.

10. THE IRISHMAN’S SONG.

The stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light May sink into ne’er ending chaos and night, Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away, But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.

See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, _5 Our ancestors’ dwellings lie sunk on the ground, Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains, And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.

Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure, Ah! sunk is our sweet country’s rapturous measure, _10 But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears, The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.

Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death, Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath, Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, _15 And ‘my countrymen! vengeance!’ incessantly cry.

OCTOBER, 1809.

11. SONG.

Fierce roars the midnight storm O’er the wild mountain, Dark clouds the night deform, Swift rolls the fountain—

See! o’er yon rocky height, _5 Dim mists are flying— See by the moon’s pale light, Poor Laura’s dying!

Shame and remorse shall howl, By her false pillow— _10 Fiercer than storms that roll, O’er the white billow;

No hand her eyes to close, When life is flying, But she will find repose, _15 For Laura’s dying!

Then will I seek my love, Then will I cheer her, Then my esteem will prove, When no friend is near her. _20

On her grave I will lie, When life is parted, On her grave I will die, For the false hearted.

DECEMBER, 1809.

12. SONG.

TO [HARRIET].

Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain, And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze, And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain, ‘Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, _5 Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve, Though the time it is past!—yet the dear recollection, For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing, Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, _10 When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying, And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.—

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year, He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never _15 Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

AUGUST, 1810.

NOTE: _11 hope-winged]hoped-winged 1810.

13. SONG.

TO — [HARRIET].

Stern, stern is the voice of fate’s fearful command, When accents of horror it breathes in our ear, Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land, Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,

’Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending, _5 And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending, Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending, Which never again to his eyes may appear—

And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry, Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, _10 He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory, He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,

Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing, When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing! As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, _15 The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!

Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never, Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear, In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever, The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. _20

AUGUST, 1810.

14. SAINT EDMOND’S EVE.

Oh! did you observe the Black Canon pass, And did you observe his frown? He goeth to say the midnight mass, In holy St. Edmond’s town.

He goeth to sing the burial chaunt, _5 And to lay the wandering sprite, Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt, The Abbey’s drear aisle this night.

It saith it will not its wailing cease, ‘Till that holy man come near, _10 ‘Till he pour o’er its grave the prayer of peace, And sprinkle the hallowed tear.

The Canon’s horse is stout and strong The road is plain and fair, But the Canon slowly wends along, _15 And his brow is gloomed with care.

Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate? Sullen echoes the portal bell, It sounds like the whispering voice of fate, It sounds like a funeral knell. _20

The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed, And his frame was convulsed with fear, When a voice was heard distinct and loud, ‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’

He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, _25 To Heaven he lifts his eye, He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare, Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.

Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints That frown on the sacred walls, _30 His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints, At the Abbot’s feet he falls.

And straight the father’s robe he kissed, Who cried, ‘Grace dwells with thee, The spirit will fade like the morning mist, _35 At your benedicite.

‘Now haste within! the board is spread, Keen blows the air, and cold, The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed, ‘Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,— _40

‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night, You’ve journeyed many a mile, To-morrow lay the wailing sprite, That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

‘Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, _45 Yet to-night must the sprite be laid, Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told, Must I meet the wandering shade.

‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay,— For hark! the echoing pile, _50 A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away, O lead to the haunted aisle.’

The torches slowly move before, The cross is raised on high, A smile of peace the Canon wore, _55 But horror dimmed his eye—

And now they climb the footworn stair, The chapel gates unclose, Now each breathed low a fervent prayer, And fear each bosom froze— _60

Now paused awhile the doubtful band And viewed the solemn scene,— Full dark the clustered columns stand, The moon gleams pale between—

‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom _65 Conceals the unquiet shade, Within what dark unhallowed tomb, The corse unblessed was laid.’

‘Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks, And murmurs a mournful plaint, _70 Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks, And call on thy patron saint—

The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes, As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine, From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, _75 And under yon arch recline.’—

‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb, What memorial sad appears.’— ‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom, No memorial sad it bears’— _80

The Canon his paternoster reads, His rosary hung by his side, Now swift to the chancel doors he leads, And untouched they open wide,

Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, _85 To approach to the black marble tomb, ‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell, ‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’

He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed. Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, _90 A loud yell was borne on the rising blast, And a deep, dying groan arose.

The Monks in amazement shuddering stand, They burst through the chancel’s gloom, From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, _95 Points to the black marble tomb.

Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red, In characters fresh and clear— ‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead, And his wife lies buried here!’ _100

In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun, To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore, On this eve her noviciate here was begun, And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore;—

O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, _105 Remorse she full oft revealed, Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt, And in death her lips he sealed;

Her spirit to penance this night was doomed, ‘Till the Canon atoned the deed, _110 Here together they now shall rest entombed, ‘Till their bodies from dust are freed—

Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof, Round the altar bright lightnings play, Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, _115 And the storm dies sudden away—

The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground, And a rosary shone through the gloom, But never again was the Canon there found, Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. _120

15. REVENGE.

‘Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill, Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill, The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above, You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’

I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone— _5 I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone, I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones, And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.

‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night, And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light, _10 And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day! So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—

‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear, Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier, And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath, _15 Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,

‘And I love you to madness my Agnes I love, My constant affection this night will I prove, This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jaw Alone will I glut its all conquering maw’— _20

‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share, In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there, I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave, My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’—

‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, _25 But spare me those ages of horror and woe, For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day, If you go unattended by Agnes away’—

The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around, The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground, _30 Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate, As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—

The youth struck the portal,—the echoing sound Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around, The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire, _35 And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.

Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined, Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind, When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene, And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien. _40

A mantle encircled his shadowy form, As light as a gossamer borne on the storm, Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze, Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze.—

SPIRIT: Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell, _45 And Conrad has cause to remember it well, He ruined my Mother, despised me his son, I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.

I was nearly expiring—’twas close of the day,— A demon advanced to the bed where I lay, _50 He gave me the power from whence I was hurled, To return to revenge, to return to the world,—

Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms, I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms, On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride, _55 And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride—

He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide, Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride, He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high, And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky— _60

All was now silent,—and over the tomb, Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom, Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone, And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.

DECEMBER, 1809.

16. GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!

The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.

Hark! the owlet flaps her wing, In the pathless dell beneath, Hark! night ravens loudly sing, Tidings of despair and death.—

Horror covers all the sky, _5 Clouds of darkness blot the moon, Prepare! for mortal thou must die, Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—

Fierce the tempest raves around, Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly, _10 Crashing thunder shakes the ground, Fire and tumult fill the sky.—

Hark! the tolling village bell, Tells the hour of midnight come, Now can blast the powers of Hell, _15 Fiend-like goblins now can roam—

See! his crest all stained with rain, A warrior hastening speeds his way, He starts, looks round him, starts again, And sighs for the approach of day. _20

See! his frantic steed he reins, See! he lifts his hands on high, Implores a respite to his pains, From the powers of the sky.—