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The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book)

Page 92

by Percy Bysshe Shelley


  The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes,

  And his burning plumes outspread,

  Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,

  When the morning star shines dead;

  35

  As on the jag of a mountain crag,

  Which an earthquake rocks and swings,

  An eagle alit one moment may sit

  In the light of its golden wings.

  And when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,

  40

  Its ardours of rest and of love,

  And the crimson pall of eve may fall

  From the depth of Heaven above,

  With wings folded I rest, on mine aëry nest,

  As still as a brooding dove.

  45

  That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,

  Whom mortals call the Moon,

  Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor,

  By the midnight breezes strewn;

  And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,

  50

  Which only the angels hear,

  May have broken the woof of my tent’s thin roof,

  The stars peep behind her and peer;

  And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

  Like a swarm of golden bees,

  55

  When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,

  Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,

  Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,

  Are each paved with the moon and these.

  I bind the Sun’s throne with a burning zone,

  60

  And the Moon’s with a girdle of pearl;

  The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,

  When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.

  From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,

  Over a torrent sea,

  65

  Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,—

  The mountains its columns be.

  The triumphal arch through which I march

  With hurricane, fire, and snow,

  When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair,

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  Is the million-coloured bow;

  The sphere-fire above its soft colours wove,

  While the moist Earth was laughing below.

  I am the daughter of Earth and Water,

  And the nursling of the Sky;

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  I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;

  I change, but I cannot die.

  For after the rain when with never a stain

  The pavilion of Heaven is bare,

  And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams

  80

  Build up the blue dome of air,

  I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

  And out of the caverns of rain,

  Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

  I arise and unbuild it again.

  TO A SKYLARK

  HAIL to thee, blithe Spirit!

  Bird thou never wert,

  That from Heaven, or near it,

  Pourest thy full heart

  5

  In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

  Higher still and higher

  From the earth thou springest

  Like a cloud of fire;

  The blue deep thou wingest,

  10

  And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

  In the golden lightning

  Of the sunken sun,

  O’er which clouds are bright-’ning,

  Thou dost float and run;

  15

  Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

  The pale purple even

  Melts around thy flight;

  Like a star of Heaven,

  In the broad daylight

  20

  Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,

  Keen as are the arrows

  Of that silver sphere,

  Whose intense lamp narrows

  In the white dawn clear

  25

  Until we hardly see—we feel that it is there.

  All the earth and air

  With thy voice is loud,

  As, when night is bare,

  From one lonely cloud

  30

  The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.

  What thou art we know not;

  What is most like thee?

  From rainbow clouds there flow not

  Drops so bright to see

  35

  As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

  Like a Poet hidden

  In the light of thought,

  Singing hymns unbidden,

  Till the world is wrought

  40

  To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

  Like a high-born maiden

  In a palace-tower,

  Soothing her love-laden

  Soul in secret hour

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  With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

  Like a glow-worm golden

  In a dell of dew,

  Scattering unbeholden

  Its aëreal hue

  50

  Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view!

  Like a rose embowered

  In its own green leaves,

  By warm winds deflowered,

  Till the scent it gives

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  Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingèd thieves:

  Sound of vernal showers

  On the twinkling grass,

  Rain-awakened flowers,

  All that ever was

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  Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:

  Teach us, Sprite or Bird,

  What sweet thoughts are thine:

  I have never heard

  Praise of love or wine

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  That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

  Chorus Hymeneal,

  Or triumphal chant,

  Matched with thine would be all

  But an empty vaunt,

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  A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

  What objects are the fountains

  Of thy happy strain?

  What fields, or waves, or mountains?

  What shapes of sky or plain?

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  What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

  With thy clear keen joyance

  Languor cannot be:

  Shadow of annoyance

  Never came near thee:

  80

  Thou lovest—but ne’er knew love’s sad satiety.

  Waking or asleep,

  Thou of death must deem

  Things more true and deep

  Than we mortals dream,

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  Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

  We look before and after,

  And pine for what is not:

  Our sincerest laughter

  With some pain is fraught;

  90

  Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

  Yet if we could scorn

  Hate, and pride, and fear;

  If we were things born

  Not to shed a tear,

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  I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

  Better than all measures

  Of delightful sound,

  Better than all treasures

  That in books are found,

  100

  Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

  Teach me half the gladness

  That thy brain must know,

  Such harmonious madness

  From my lips would flow

  105

  The world should listen then—as I am listening now.

  ODE TO LIBERTY

  Yet
, Freedom, yet, thy banner, torn but flying,

  Streams like a thunder-storm against the wind.—BYRON.

  I

  A GLORIOUS people vibrated again

  The lightning of the nations: Liberty

  From heart to heart, from tower to tower, o’er Spain,

  Scattering contagious fire into the sky,

  5

  Gleamed. My soul spurned the chains of its dismay,

  And in the rapid plumes of song

  Clothed itself, sublime and strong,

  (As a young eagle soars the morning clouds among,)

  Hovering in verse o’er its accustomed prey;

  10

  Till from its station in the Heaven of fame

  The Spirit’s whirlwind rapped it, and the ray

  Of the remotest sphere of living flame

  Which paves the void was from behind it flung,

  As foam from a ship’s swiftness, when there came

  15

  A voice out of the deep: I will record the same.

  II

  The Sun and the serenest Moon sprang forth:

  The burning stars of the abyss were hurled

  Into the depths of Heaven. The daedal earth,

  That island in the ocean of the world,

  20

  Hung in its cloud of all-sustaining air:

  But this divinest universe

  Was yet a chaos and a curse,

  For thou wert not: but, power from worst producing worse,

  The spirit of the beasts was kindled there,

  25

  And of the birds, and of the watery forms,

  And there was war among them, and despair

  Within them, raging without truce or terms:

  The bosom of their violated nurse

  Groaned, for beasts warred on beasts, and worms on worms,

  30

  And men on men; each heart was as a hell of storms.

  III

  Man, the imperial shape, then multiplied

  His generations under the pavilion

  Of the Sun’s throne: palace and pyramid,

  Temple and prison, to many a swarming million

  35

  Were, as to mountain-wolves their ragged caves.

  This human living multitude

  Was savage, cunning, blind, and rude,

  For thou wert not; but o’er the populous solitude,

  Like one fierce cloud over a waste of waves,

  40

  Hung Tyranny; beneath, sate deified

  The sister-pest, congregator of slaves;

  Into the shadow of her pinions wide

  Anarchs and priests, who feed on gold and blood

  Till with the stain their inmost souls are dyed,

  45

  Drove the astonished herds of men from every side.

  IV

  The nodding promontories, and blue isles,

  And cloud-like mountains, and dividuous waves

  Of Greece, basked glorious in the open smiles

  Of favouring Heaven: from their enchanted caves

  50

  Prophetic echoes flung dim melody.

  On the unapprehensive wild

  The vine, the corn, the olive mild,

  Grew savage yet, to human use unreconciled;

  And, like unfolded flowers beneath the sea,

  55

  Like the man’s thought dark in the infant’s brain,

  Like aught that is which wraps what is to be,

  Art’s deathless dreams lay veiled by many a vein

  Of Parian stone; and, yet a speechless child,

  Verse murmured, and Philosophy did strain

  60

  Her lidless eyes for thee; when o’er the Aegean main

  V

  Athens arose: a city such as vision

  Builds from the purple crags and silver towers

  Of battlemented cloud, as in derision

  Of kingliest masonry: the ocean-floors

  65

  Pave it; the evening sky pavilions it;

  Its portals are inhabited

  By thunder-zonèd winds, each head

  Within its cloudy wings with sun-fire garlanded,—

  A divine work! Athens, diviner yet,

  70

  Gleamed with its crest of columns, on the will

  Of man, as on a mount of diamond, set;

  For thou wert, and thine all-creative skill

  Peopled, with forms that mock the eternal dead

  In marble immortality, that hill

  75

  Which was thine earliest throne and latest oracle.

  VI

  Within the surface of Time’s fleeting river

  Its wrinkled image lies, as then it lay

  Immovably unquiet, and for ever

  It trembles, but it cannot pass away!

  80

  The voices of thy bards and sages thunder

  With an earth-awakening blast

  Through the caverns of the past:

  (Religion veils her eyes; Oppression shrinks aghast:)

  A wingèd sound of joy, and love, and wonder,

  85

  Which soars where Expectation never flew,

  Rending the veil of space and time asunder!

  One ocean feeds the clouds, and streams, and dew;

  One Sun illumines Heaven; one Spirit vast

  With life and love makes chaos ever new,

  90

  As Athens doth the world with thy delight renew.

  VII

  Then Rome was, and from thy deep bosom fairest,

  Like a wolf-cub from a Cadmaean Maenad,1

  She drew the milk of greatness, though thy dearest

  From that Elysian food was yet unweanèd;

  95

  And many a deed of terrible uprightness

  By thy sweet love was sanctified;

  And in thy smile, and by thy side,

  Saintly Camillus lived, and firm Atilius died.

  But when tears stained thy robe of vestal whiteness,

  100

  And gold profaned thy Capitolian throne,

  Thou didst desert, with spirit-wingèd lightness,

  The senate of the tyrants: they sunk prone

  Slaves of one tyrant: Palatinus sighed

  Faint echoes of Ionian song; that tone

  105

  Thou didst delay to hear, lamenting to disown.

  VIII

  From what Hyrcanian glen or frozen hill,

  Or piny promontory of the Arctic main,

  Or utmost islet inaccessible,

  Didst thou lament the ruin of thy reign,

  110

  Teaching the woods and waves, and desert rocks,

  And every Naiad’s ice-cold urn,

  To talk in echoes sad and stern

  Of that sublimest lore which man had dared unlearn?

  For neither didst thou watch the wizard flocks

  115

  Of the Scald’s dreams, nor haunt the Druid’s sleep.

  What if the tears rained through thy shattered locks

  Were quickly dried? for thou didst groan, not weep,

  When from its sea of death, to kill and burn,

  The Galilean serpent forth did creep,

  120

  And made thy world an undistinguishable heap.

  IX

  A thousand years the Earth cried, ‘Where art thou?’

  And then the shadow of thy coming fell

  On Saxon Alfred’s olive-cinctured brow:

  And many a warrior-peopled citadel,

  125

  Like rocks which fire lifts out of the flat deep,

  Arose in sacred Italy,

  Frowning o’er the tempestuous sea

  Of kings, and priests, and slaves, in tower-crowned majesty;

  That multitudinous anarchy did sweep

  130

  And burst around their walls, like idle foam,

  Whilst from the human spirit’s deepes
t deep

  Strange melody with love and awe struck dumb

  Dissonant arms; and Art, which cannot die,

  With divine wand traced on our earthly home

  135

  Fit imagery to pave Heaven’s everlasting dome.

  X

  Thou huntress swifter than the Moon! thou terror

  Of the world’s wolves! thou bearer of the quiver,

  Whose sunlike shafts pierce tempest-wingèd Error,

  As light may pierce the clouds when they dissever

  140

  In the calm regions of the orient day!

  Luther caught thy wakening glance;

  Like lightning, from his leaden lance

  Reflected, it dissolved the visions of the trance

  In which, as in a tomb, the nations lay;

  145

  And England’s prophets hailed thee as their queen,

  In songs whose music cannot pass away,

  Though it must flow forever: not unseen

  Before the spirit-sighted countenance

  Of Milton didst thou pass, from the sad scene

  150

  Beyond whose night he saw, with a dejected mien.

  XI

  The eager hours and unreluctant years

  As on a dawn-illumined mountain stood,

  Trampling to silence their loud hopes and fears,

  Darkening each other with their multitude,

  155

  And cried aloud, ‘Liberty!’ Indignation

  Answered Pity from her cave;

  Death grew pale within the grave,

  And Desolation howled to the destroyer, Save!

  When like Heaven’s Sun girt by the exhalation

 

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