Selected Poems and Prose

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  345Still 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—

  350As if that frail and wasted human form,

  Had been an elemental god.

  At midnight

  The moon arose: and lo! the etherial cliffs

  Of Caucasus, whose icy summits shone

  Among the stars like sunlight, and around

  355Whose cavern’d base the whirlpools and the waves

  Bursting and eddying irresistibly

  Rage and resound for ever.—Who shall save?—

  The boat fled on,—the boiling torrent drove,—

  The crags closed round with black and jagged arms,

  360The 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

  365Ingulphed 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

  370The windings of the cavern. Day-light shone

  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 mountain, riven,

  375Exposed 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;

  380Stair above stair the eddying waters rose,

  Circling immeasurably fast, and laved

  With alternating dash the knarled roots

  Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms

  In darkness over it. I’ the midst was left,

  385Reflecting, 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,

  390Till on the verge of the extremest curve,

  Where, through an opening of the rocky bank,

  The waters overflow, and a smooth spot

  Of glassy quiet mid those battling tides

  Is left, the boat paused shuddering.—Shall it sink

  395Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress

  Of that resistless gulph 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

  400Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream,

  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

  405A little space of green expanse, the cove

  Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers

  For ever gaze on their own drooping eyes,

  Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave

  Of the boat’s motion marred their pensive task,

  410Which nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind,

  Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay

  Had e’er disturbed before. The Poet longed

  To deck with their bright hues his withered hair,

  But on his heart its solitude returned,

  415And 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

  420Of night close over it.

  The noonday sun

  Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass

  Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence

  A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,

  Scooped in the dark base of their aëry rocks

  425Mocking 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,

  430Her 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

  435Most 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 serpents, clothed

  In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,

  440Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around

  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

  445Uniting their close union; the woven leaves

  Make net-work 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,

  450Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms

  Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen

  Sends from its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,

  A soul-dissolving odour, to invite

  To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell,

  455Silence 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,

  460And 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,

  465Or, painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,

  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

  470Their own wan light through the reflected lines

  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

  475The motion of the leaves, the grass that sprung

  Startled and glanced 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

  480To stand beside him—clothed in no bright robes

  Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,

  Borrowed from aught the visible world affords

  Of grace, or majesty, or mystery;—

  But, undulating woods, and silent well,

  485And
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,

  490Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought,

  And seemed with their serene and azure smiles

  To beckon him.

  Obedient to the light

  That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing

  The windings of the dell.—The rivulet

  495Wanton 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:

  500Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept,

  Reflecting every herb and drooping bud

  That overhung its quietness.—‘O stream!

  Whose source is inaccessibly profound,

  Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?

  505Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,

  Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulphs,

  Thy searchless fountain, and invisible course

  Have each their type in me: and the wide sky,

  And measureless ocean may declare as soon

  510What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud

  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

  515Of the small stream he went; he did impress

  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,

  520Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame

  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

  525The 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 windlestrae

  Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope,

  530And nought but knarled roots of ancient pines

  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

  535And 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 pursued

  540The stream, that with a larger volume now

  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,

  545Lifted their black and barren pinnacles

  In the light of evening, and its precipice

  Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,

  Mid toppling stones, black gulphs and yawning caves,

  Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues

  550To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands

  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

  555Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,

  Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom

  Of leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills

  Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge

  Of the remote horizon. The near scene,

  560In naked and severe simplicity,

  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

  565In 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

  570Scattering its waters to the passing winds.

  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,

  575It 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,

  580And did embower with leaves for ever green,

  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,

  585Red, yellow, or etherially pale,

  Rivals the pride of summer. ’Tis the haunt

  Of every gentle wind, whose breath can teach

  The wilds to love tranquillity. One step,

  One human step alone, has ever broken

  590The stillness of its solitude:—one voice

  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

  595Of 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,

  600Commit the colours of that varying cheek,

  That snowy breast, those dark and drooping 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

  605Filled the unbounded atmosphere, and drank

  Wan moonlight even to fullness: 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!

  610Whose sightless speed divides this sullen night:

  And thou, colossal Skeleton, that, still

  Guiding its irresistible career

  In thy devastating omnipotence,

  Art king of this frail world, from the red field

  615Of slaughter, from the reeking hospital,

  The patriot’s sacred couch, the snowy bed

  Of innocence, the scaffold and the throne,

  A mighty voice invokes thee. Ruin calls

  His brother Death. A rare and regal prey

  620He hath prepared, prowling around the world;

  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.

  625 When on the threshold of the green recess

  The wanderer’s footsteps fe
ll, 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,

  630That 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

  635Reclined 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,

  640The torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear

  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 breathing there

  645At peace, and faintly smiling:—his last sight

  Was the great moon, which o’er the western line

  Of the wide world her mighty horn suspended,

  With whose dun beams inwoven darkness seemed

  To mingle. Now upon the jagged hills

  650It rests, and still as the divided frame

  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 light alone

  655Gleamed through the darkness, the alternate 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 heaven remained

  660Utterly black, the murky shades involved

  An image, silent, cold, and motionless,

  As their own voiceless earth and vacant air.

  Even as a vapour fed with golden beams

  That ministered on sunlight, ere the west

  665Eclipses it, was now that wonderous 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

  670Of youth, which night and time have quenched for ever,

  Still, dark, and dry, and unremembered now.

  O, for Medea’s wondrous alchemy,

  Which wheresoe’er it fell made the earth gleam

  With bright flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale

  675From vernal blooms fresh fragrance! O, that God,

  Profuse of poisons, would concede the chalice

  Which but one living man has drained, who now,

  Vessel of deathless wrath, a slave that feels