Heap on me soon, O grave, thy welcome dust!
370
Till 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.”
375
Or 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—
380
To 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,
385
Thou 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
390
Thy 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,
395
My 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
400
As 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 do not love me now”—
405
In 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
410
The spirit it expresses … Never one
Humbled himself before, as I have done!
Even the instinctive worm on which we tread
Turns, though it wound not—then with prostrate head
Sinks in the dusk and writhes like me—and dies?
415
No: 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
425
The 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
430
Which 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 searedst my memory o’er them,—for I heard
And can forget not … they were ministered
435
One 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,
440
If 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
445
For 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
450
The 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
455
With 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 show
460
How 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, though 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
470
Nor 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—
475
But 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
480
And 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!
485
I would 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
490
Each 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
495
That 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.
500
Then, 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
505
Of 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
510
Upon 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
515
And 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,
520
Although 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;
525
And 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
530
Of falsehood 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
535
Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess
From his nice habits and his gentleness;
These were now lost … it were a grief indeed
If he had changed one unsustaining reed
For all that such a man might else adorn.
540
The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn;
For the wild language of his grief was high,
Such as in measure were called poetry;
And I remember one remark which then
Maddalo made. He said: ‘Most wretched men
545
Are cradled into poetry by wrong,
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’
If I had been an unconnected man
I, from this moment, should have formed some plan
Never to leave sweet Venice,—for to me
550
It was delight to ride by the lone sea;
And then, the town is silent—one may write
Or read in gondolas by day or night,
Having the little brazen lamp alight,
Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,
555
Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair
Which were twin-born with poetry, and all
We seek in towns, with little to recall
Regrets for the green country. I might sit
In Maddalo’s great palace, and his wit
560
And subtle talk would cheer the winter night
And make me know myself, and the firelight
Would flash upon our faces, till the day
Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay:
But I had friends in London too: the chief
565
Attraction here, was that I sought relief
From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought
Within me—’twas perhaps an idle thought—
But I imagined that if day by day
I watched him, and but seldom went away,
570
And studied all the beatings of his heart
With zeal, as men study some stubborn art
For their own good, and could by patience find
An entrance to the caverns of his mind,
I might reclaim him from his dark estate:
575
In friendships J had been most fortunate—
Yet never saw I one whom I would call
More willingly my friend; and this was all
Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good
Oft come and go in crowds or solitude
580
And leave no trace—but what I now designed
Made for long years impression on my mind.
The following morning, urged by my affairs,
I left bright Venice.
After many years
And many changes I returned; the name
585
Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same;
But Maddalo was travelling far away
Among the mountains of Armenia.
His dog was dead. His child had now become
A woman; such as it has been my doom
590
To meet with few,—a wonder of this earth,
Where there is little of transcendent worth,—
Like one of Shakespeare’s women: kindly she,
And, with a manner beyond courtesy,
Received her father’s friend; and when I asked
595
Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked,
And told as she had heard the mournful tale:
‘That the poor sufferer’s health began to fail
Two years from my departure, but that then
The lady who had left him, came again.
600
Her mien had been imperious, but she now
Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought her low.
Her coming made him better, and they stayed
Together at my father’s—for I played,
As I remember, with the lady’s shawl—
605
I might be six years old—but after all
She left him’ … ‘Why, her heart must have been tough:
How did it end?’ ‘And was not this enough?
They met—they parted’—‘Child, is there no more?’
‘Something within that interval which bore
610
The stamp of why they parted, how they met:
Yet if thine agèd eyes disdain to wet
Those wrinkled cheeks with youth’s remembered tears,
Ask me no more, but let the silent years
Be closed and cered over their memory
615
As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.’
I urged and questioned still, she told me how
All happened—but the cold world shall not know.
CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO
‘What think you the dead are?’ ‘Why, dust and clay,
What should they be?’ ‘’Tis the last hour of day.
620
Look on the west, how beautiful it is
Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss
Of that unutterable light has made
The edges of that cloud fade
Into a hue, like some harmonious thought,
625
Wasting itself on that which it had wrought,
Till it dies and between
The light hues of the tender, pure, serene,
And infinite tranquillity of heaven.
Ay, beautiful! but when not.… ’
· · · · · · ·
‘Perhaps the only comfort which remains
Is the unheeded clanking of my chains,
The which I make, and call it melody.’
NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY
FROM the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks in the neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, who lent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for his family from Lucca to join him.
I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situated on the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range of higher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and in which he began the Prometheus; and here also, as he mentions in a letter, he wrote Julian and Maddalo. A slight ravine, with a road in its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new abode.
Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even more severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose small features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, showed symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate. Teething increased her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we arrived at Fusina, we found that we had forgotten our passport, and the soldiers on duty attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but they could not resist Shelley’s impetuosity at such a moment. We had scarcely arrived at Venice before life fled from the little sufferer, and we returned to Este to weep her loss.
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 33
