Selected Poems and Prose

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

  His being—there are some by nature proud,

  Who patient in all else demand but this:

  To love and be beloved with gentleness;

  And being scorned, what wonder if they die

  210Some living death? This is not destiny

  But man’s own wilful ill.’ As thus I spoke

  Servants announced the gondola, and we

  Through the fast-falling rain and high-wrought sea

  Sailed to the island where the madhouse stands.

  215We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands,

  Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,

  And laughter where complaint had merrier been,

  Moans, shrieks and curses and blaspheming prayers

  Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairs

  220Into an old court-yard. I heard on high

  Then, fragments of most touching melody,

  But looking up saw not the singer there—

  Through the black bars in the tempestuous air

  I saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,

  225Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing,

  Of those who on a sudden were beguiled

  Into strange silence, and looked forth and smiled

  Hearing sweet sounds.—Then I: ‘Methinks there were

  A cure of these with patience and kind care

  230If music can thus move … but what is he

  Whom we seek here?’ ‘Of his sad history

  I know but this,’ said Maddalo, ‘he came

  To Venice a dejected man, and fame

  Said he was wealthy, or he had been so;

  235Some thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe;

  But he was ever talking in such sort

  As you do—far more sadly—he seemed hurt,

  Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,

  To hear but of the oppression of the strong,

  240Or those absurd deceits (I think with you

  In some respects, you know) which carry through

  The excellent impostors of this Earth

  When they outface detection—he had worth,

  Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way.’—

  245‘Alas, what drove him mad?’ ‘I cannot say;

  A Lady came with him from France, and when

  She left him and returned, he wandered then

  About yon lonely isles of desart sand

  Till he grew wild—he had no cash or land

  250Remaining,—the police had brought him here—

  Some fancy took him and he would not bear

  Removal; so I fitted up for him

  Those rooms beside the sea, to please his whim,

  And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers

  255Which had adorned his life in happier hours,

  And instruments of music—you may guess

  A stranger could do little more or less

  For one so gentle and unfortunate,

  And those are his sweet strains which charm the weight

  260From madmen’s chains, and make this Hell appear

  A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.’—

  ‘Nay, this was kind of you—he had no claim,

  As the world says.’—‘None—but the very same

  Which I on all mankind were I as he

  265Fallen to such deep reverse;—his melody

  Is interrupted now—we hear the din

  Of madmen, shriek on shriek again begin;

  Let us now visit him; after this strain

  He ever communes with himself again,

  270And sees nor hears not any.’ Having said

  These words we called the keeper, and he led

  To an apartment opening on the sea.—

  There the poor wretch was sitting mournfully

  Near a piano, his pale fingers twined

  275One with the other, and the ooze and wind

  Rushed thro’ an open casement, and did sway

  His hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;

  His head was leaning on a music book,

  And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;

  280His lips were pressed against a folded leaf

  In hue too beautiful for health, and grief

  Smiled in their motions as they lay apart—

  As one who wrought from his own fervid heart

  The eloquence of passion, soon he raised

  285His sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed

  And spoke—sometimes as one who wrote and thought

  His words might move some heart that heeded not

  If sent to distant lands; and then as one

  Reproaching deeds never to be undone

  290With wondering self-compassion; then his speech

  Was lost in grief, and then his words came each

  Unmodulated, cold, expressionless;

  But that from one jarred accent you might guess

  It was despair made them so uniform:

  295And all the while the loud and gusty storm

  Hissed thro’ the window, and we stood behind

  Stealing his accents from the envious wind

  Unseen. I yet remember what he said

  Distinctly: such impression his words made.

  300 ‘Month after month,’ he cried, ‘to bear this load

  And as a jade urged by the whip and goad

  To drag life on, which like a heavy chain

  Lengthens behind with many a link of pain!—

  And not to speak my grief—O not to dare

  305To give a human voice to my despair,

  But live and move, and wretched thing! smile on

  As if I never went aside to groan

  And wear this mask of falshood even to those

  Who are most dear—not for my own repose—

  310Alas, no scorn or pain or hate could be

  So heavy as that falshood is to me—

  But that I cannot bear more altered faces

  Than needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,

  More misery, disappointment and mistrust

  315To own me for their father … Would the dust

  Were covered in upon my body now!

  That the life ceased to toil within my brow!

  And then these thoughts would at the least be fled;

  Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.

  320 ‘What Power delights to torture us? I know

  That to myself I do not wholly owe

  What now I suffer, tho’ in part I may.

  Alas, none strewed sweet flowers upon the way

  Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale Pain

  325My shadow, which will leave me not again—

  If I have erred, there was no joy in error,

  But pain and insult and unrest and terror;

  I have not as some do, bought penitence

  With pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,

  330For then,—if love and tenderness and truth

  Had overlived hope’s momentary youth,

  My creed should have redeemed me from repenting,

  But loathed scorn and outrage unrelenting

  Met love excited by far other seeming

  335Until the end was gained … as one from dreaming

  Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my state

  Such as it is.—

  ‘O Thou, my spirit’s mate

  Who, for thou art compassionate and wise,

  Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyes

  340If this sad writing thou shouldst ever see—

  My secret groans must be unheard by thee,

  Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to know

  Thy lost friend’s incommunicable woe.

  ‘Ye few by whom my nature has been weighed

  345In friendship, let me not that name degrade

  By placing on your hearts the secret load

  Which crushes mine to dust. There is one
road

  To peace and that is truth, which follow ye!

  Love sometimes leads astray to misery.

  350Yet think not tho’ subdued—and I may well

  Say that I am subdued—that the full Hell

  Within me would infect the untainted breast

  Of sacred nature with its own unrest;

  As some perverted beings think to find

  355In scorn or hate a medicine for the mind

  Which scorn or hate have wounded—O how vain!

  The dagger heals not but may rend again …

  Believe that I am ever still the same

  In creed as in resolve, and what may tame

  360My heart, must leave the understanding free

  Or all would sink in this keen agony—

  Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry,

  Or with my silence sanction tyranny,

  Or seek a moment’s shelter from my pain

  365In any madness which the world calls gain,

  Ambition or revenge or thoughts as stern

  As those which make me what I am, or turn

  To avarice or misanthropy or lust …

  Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!

  370Till then the dungeon may demand its prey,

  And poverty and shame may meet and say—

  Halting beside me on the public way—

  “That love-devoted youth is ours—let’s sit

  Beside him—he may live some six months yet.”

  375Or the red scaffold, as our country bends,

  May ask some willing victim, or ye friends

  May fall under some sorrow which this heart

  Or hand may share or vanquish or avert;

  I am prepared: in truth with no proud joy

  380To do or suffer aught, as when a boy

  I did devote to justice and to love

  My nature, worthless now!…

  ‘I must remove

  A veil from my pent mind. ’Tis torn aside!

  O, pallid as death’s dedicated bride,

  385Thou mockery which art sitting by my side,

  Am I not wan like thee? at the grave’s call

  I haste, invited to thy wedding ball

  To greet the ghastly paramour, for whom

  Thou hast deserted me … and made the tomb

  390Thy bridal bed … but I beside your feet

  Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet—

  Thus … wide awake tho’ dead … yet stay, O stay!

  Go not so soon—I know not what I say—

  Hear but my reasons … I am mad, I fear,

  395My fancy is o’erwrought … thou art not here …

  Pale art thou, ’tis most true … but thou art gone,

  Thy work is finished … I am left alone!—

  * * * * * * *

  ‘Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breast

  Which, like a serpent, thou envenomest

  400As in repayment of the warmth it lent?

  Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?

  Did not thy love awaken mine? I thought

  That thou wert she who said “You kiss me not

  Ever, I fear you cease to love me now”—

  405In truth I loved even to my overthrow

  Her, who would fain forget these words: but they

  Cling to her mind, and cannot pass away.

  * * * * * * *

  ‘You say that I am proud—that when I speak

  My lip is tortured with the wrongs which break

  410The spirit it expresses … Never one

  Humbled himself before, as I have done!

  Even the instinctive worm on which we tread

  Turns, tho’ it wound not—then with prostrate head

  Sinks in the dust and writhes like me—and dies?

  415No: wears a living death of agonies!

  As the slow shadows of the pointed grass

  Mark the eternal periods, his pangs pass

  Slow, ever-moving,—making moments be

  As mine seem—each an immortality!

  * * * * * * *

  420 ‘That you had never seen me—never heard

  My voice, and more than all had ne’er endured

  The deep pollution of my loathed embrace—

  That your eyes ne’er had lied love in my face—

  That, like some maniac monk, I had torn out

  425The nerves of manhood by their bleeding root

  With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne’er

  Our hearts had for a moment mingled there

  To disunite in horror—these were not

  With thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought

  430Which flits athwart our musings, but can find

  No rest within a pure and gentle mind …

  Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word

  And cearedst my memory o’er them,—for I heard

  And can forget not … they were ministered

  435One after one, those curses. Mix them up

  Like self-destroying poisons in one cup,

  And they will make one blessing, which thou ne’er

  Didst imprecate for, on me,—death.

  * * * * * * *

  ‘It were

  A cruel punishment for one most cruel,

  440If such can love, to make that love the fuel

  Of the mind’s hell—hate, scorn, remorse, despair:

  But me—whose heart a stranger’s tear might wear

  As water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,

  Who loved and pitied all things, and could moan

  445For woes which others hear not, and could see

  The absent with the glance of phantasy,

  And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,

  Following the captive to his dungeon deep;

  Me—who am as a nerve o’er which do creep

  450The else unfelt oppressions of this earth

  And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth

  When all beside was cold—that thou on me

  Shouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony—

  Such curses are from lips once eloquent

  455With love’s too partial praise—let none relent

  Who intend deeds too dreadful for a name

  Henceforth, if an example for the same

  They seek … for thou on me lookedst so, and so—

  And didst speak thus … and thus … I live to shew

  460How much men bear and die not!

  * * * * * * *

  ‘Thou wilt tell

  With the grimace of hate how horrible

  It was to meet my love when thine grew less;

  Thou wilt admire how I could e’er address

  Such features to love’s work … this taunt, tho’ true,

  465(For indeed nature nor in form nor hue

  Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)

  Shall not be thy defence … for since thy lip

  Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindled

  With soft fire under mine, I have not dwindled

  470Nor changed in mind or body, or in aught

  But as love changes what it loveth not

  After long years and many trials.

  ‘How vain

  Are words! I thought never to speak again

  Not even in secret,—not to my own heart—

  475But from my lips the unwilling accents start

  And from my pen the words flow as I write,

  Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears … my sight

  Is dim to see that charactered in vain

  On this unfeeling leaf which burns the brain

  480And eats into it … blotting all things fair

  And wise and good which time had written there.

  ‘Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

  The work of their own hearts and this must be

  Our chastisement or recompense—O child!

  485I w
ould that thine were like to be more mild

  For both our wretched sakes … for thine the most

  Who feelest already all that thou hast lost

  Without the power to wish it thine again;

  And as slow years pass, a funereal train

  490Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend

  Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend

  No thought on my dead memory?

  * * * * * * *

  ‘Alas, love!

  Fear me not … against thee I would not move

  A finger in despite. Do I not live

  495That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?

  I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate

  And that thy lot may be less desolate

  Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain

  From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

  500Then, when thou speakest of me, never say

  He could forgive not. Here I cast away

  All human passions, all revenge, all pride;

  I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide

  Under these words like embers, every spark

  505Of that which has consumed me—quick and dark

  The grave is yawning … as its roof shall cover

  My limbs with dust and worms under and over

  So let Oblivion hide this grief … the air

  Closes upon my accents, as despair

  510Upon my heart—let death upon despair!’

  He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile,

  Then rising, with a melancholy smile

  Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept

  A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept

  515And muttered some familiar name, and we

  Wept without shame in his society.

  I think I never was impressed so much;

  The man who were not, must have lacked a touch

  Of human nature … then we lingered not,

  520Although our argument was quite forgot,

  But calling the attendants, went to dine

  At Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wine

  Could give us spirits, for we talked of him

  And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;

  525And we agreed his was some dreadful ill

  Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,

  By a dear friend; some deadly change in love

  Of one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;

  For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot

  530Of falshood on his mind which flourished not

  But in the light of all-beholding truth,

  And having stamped this canker on his youth

  She had abandoned him … and how much more

  Might be his woe, we guessed not—he had store