Selected Poems and Prose

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  205Sleep 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

  210Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men

  The playthings of their babyhood, and mar,

  In self-important childishness, that peace

  Which men alone appreciate?

  Spirit of Nature! no.

  215The 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

  220 Man’s brief and frail authority

  Is powerless as the wind

  That passeth idly by.

  Thine the tribunal which surpasseth

  The shew of human justice,

  225 As God surpasses man.

  Spirit of Nature! thou

  Life of interminable multitudes;

  Soul of those mighty spheres

  Whose changeless paths thro’ Heaven’s deep silence lie;

  230 Soul of that smallest being,

  The dwelling of whose life

  Is one faint April sun-gleam;—

  Man, like these passive things,

  Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth:

  235 Like theirs, his age of endless peace,

  Which time is fast maturing,

  Will swiftly, surely come;

  And the unbounded frame, which thou pervadest,

  Will be without a flaw

  240 Marring its perfect symmetry.

  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,

  5Studded with stars unutterably bright,

  Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls,

  Seems like a canopy which love had spread

  To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,

  Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;

  10Yon 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

  15A 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,

  20In southern climes, o’er ocean’s waveless field

  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

  25Is 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

  30That shrouds the boiling surge; the pityless fiend,

  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

  35Blotting 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 deaf’ning peals

  In countless echoes through the mountains ring,

  40Startling pale midnight on her starry throne!

  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

  45Inebriate 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,

  50In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts

  That beat with anxious life at sun-set 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;

  55Save 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 grey morn

  Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke

  60Before the icy wind slow rolls away,

  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 lineaments

  65Death’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,

  70Waves o’er a warrior’s tomb.

  I see thee shrink,

  Surpassing Spirit!—wert thou human else?

  I see a shade of doubt and horror fleet

  Across thy stainless features: yet fear not;

  This is no unconnected misery,

  75Nor 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.

  80From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose,

  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 venomed exhalations spread

  85Ruin, 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,

  90That formed this world so beautiful, that spread

  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

  95The lovely silence of the unfathomed main,

  And filled the meanest worm that crawls in dust

  With spirit, thought, and love; on Man alone,

  Partial in causeless malice, wantonly

  Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery; his soul

  100Blasted with withering curses; placed afar

  The meteor-happiness, that shuns his grasp,

  But serving on the frightful gulph to glare

  Rent wide beneath his footsteps?

  Nature!—no!

  Kings, priests, and statesmen, blast the human flower

  105Even in its tender bud; their influence darts

  Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins

  Of desolate society. T
he child,

  Ere he can lisp his mother’s sacred name,

  Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts

  110His baby-sword even in a hero’s mood.

  This infant-arm becomes the bloodiest scourge

  Of devastated earth; whilst specious names,

  Learnt in soft childhood’s unsuspecting hour,

  Serve as the sophisms with which manhood dims

  115Bright 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 falshood hang even o’er the cradled babe,

  120Stifling 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!

  125How withered all the buds of natural good!

  No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms

  Of pityless power! On its wretched frame,

  Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and woe

  Heaped on the wretched parent whence it sprung

  130By 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

  135Long 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

  140Soul is the only element, the block

  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,

  145And the minutest atom comprehends

  A world of loves and hatreds; these beget

  Evil and good: hence truth and falsehood spring;

  Hence will and thought and action, all the germs

  Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate,

  150That variegate the eternal universe.

  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

  155Of 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,

  160To grovel on the dunghill of his fears,

  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,

  165Yet 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,

  170And, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones

  Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,

  The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.

  Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround

  Their palaces, participate the crimes

  175That force defends, and from a nation’s rage

  Secure 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:

  180These are the sinks and channels of worst vice,

  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

  185Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt,

  Alone might kindle; they are decked in wealth,

  Honour and power, then are sent abroad

  To do their work. The pestilence that stalks

  In gloomy triumph through some eastern land

  190Is 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

  195Is 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,

  200Sneering at public virtue, which beneath

  Their pityless tread lies torn and trampled, where

  Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.

  Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites,

  Without a hope, a passion, or a love,

  205Who, through a life of luxury and lies,

  Have crept by flattery to the seats of power,

  Support the system whence their honours flow …

  They have three words:—well tyrants know their use,

  Well pay them for the loan, with usury

  210Torn from a bleeding world!—God, Hell, and Heaven.

  A vengeful, pityless, and almighty fiend,

  Whose mercy is a nick-name for the rage

  Of tameless tygers hungering for blood.

  Hell, a red gulf of everlasting fire,

  215Where poisonous and undying worms prolong

  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

  220Before the mockeries of earthly power.

  These tools the tyrant tempers to his work,

  Wields in his wrath, and as he wills destroys,

  Omnipotent in wickedness: the while

  Youth springs, age moulders, manhood tamely does

  225His 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!

  230Red glows the tyrant’s stamp-mark on its bloom,

  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,

  235To 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,

  240With whom thy master was:—or thou delightst

  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,

  245A pomp-fed king. Look to thy wretched self!

  Aye, 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,

&
nbsp; 250‘When will the morning come?’ Is not thy youth

  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,

  255Is 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

  260Thou holdst in their protraction? When the grave

  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,

  265That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die?

  V

  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

  5Which 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

  10From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes,

  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,

  15Like 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,

  20And judgment cease to wage unnatural war

  With passion’s unsubduable array.

  Twin-sister of religion, selfishness!

  Rival in crime and falshood, aping all

  The wanton horrors of her bloody play;

  25Yet 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

  30All, save the brood of ignorance: at once

  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