It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,
Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,—
Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away,
And Bigotry’s bloodhounds lose scent of their prey.
Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o’er,
20
What awaits on Futurity’s mist-covered shore?
Death.
Cease, cease, wayward Mortal! I dare not unveil
The shadows that float o’er Eternity’s vale;
Nought waits for the good but a spirit of Love,
That will hail their blest advent to regions above.
25
For Love, Mortal, gleams through the gloom of my sway,
And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray.
Hast thou loved?—Then depart from these regions of hate,
And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate.
I offer a calm habitation to thee,—
30
Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?
Mortal.
Oh! sweet is thy slumber! oh! sweet is the ray
Which after thy night introduces the day;
How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest’s breath,
Though it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death!
35
I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all,
Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall,
And duty forbids, though I languish to die,
When departure might heave Virtue’s breast with a sigh.
O Death! O my friend! snatch this form to thy shrine,
40
And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine.
TO THE MOONBEAM
I
MOONBEAM, leave the shadowy vale,
To bathe this burning brow.
Moonbeam, why art thou so pale,
As thou walkest o’er the dewy dale,
5
Where humble wild-flowers grow?
Is it to mimic me?
But that can never be;
For shine orb is bright,
And the clouds are light,
10
That at intervals shadow the star-studded night.
II
Now all is deathly still on earth;
Nature’s tired frame reposes;
And, ere the golden morning’s birth
Its radiant hues discloses,
15
Flies forth its balmy breath.
But mine is the midnight of Death,
And Nature’s morn
To my bosom forlorn
Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn.
III
20
Wretch! Suppress the glare of madness
Struggling in thine haggard eye
For the keenest throb of sadness,
Pale Despair’s most sickening sigh,
Is but to mimic me;
25
And this must ever be,
When the twilight of care,
And the night of despair,
Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs that rankle there.
THE SOLITARY
I
DAR’ST thou amid the varied multitude
To live alone, an isolated thing?
To see the busy beings round thee spring,
And care for none; in thy calm solitude,
5
A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude
To Zephyr’s passing wing?
II
Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,
Lone, lean, and hunted by his brother’s hate,
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate
10
As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love:
He bears a load which nothing can remove,
A killing, withering weight.
III
He smiles—’tis sorrow’s deadliest mockery;
He speaks—the cold words flow not from his soul;
15
He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,—
Yet, yet he longs—although he fears—to die;
He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly,
Dull life’s extremest goal.
TO DEATH
DEATH! where is thy victory?
To triumph whilst I die,
To triumph whilst thine ebon wing
Enfolds my shuddering soul?
5
O Death! where is thy sting?
Not when the tides of murder roll,
When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss.
Death! canst thou boast a victory such as this—
When in his hour of pomp and power
10
His blow the mightiest murderer gave,
Mid Nature’s cries the sacrifice
Of millions to glut the grave;
When sunk the Tyrant Desolation’s slave;
Or Freedom’s life-blood streamed upon thy shrine;
15
Stern Tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine?
To know in dissolution’s void
That mortals’ baubles sunk decay;
That everything, but Love, destroyed
Must perish with its kindred clay,—
20
Perish Ambition’s crown,
Perish her sceptred sway;
From Death’s pale front fades Pride’s fastidious frown.
In Death’s damp vault the lurid fires decay,
That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue’s beam—
25
That all the cares subside,
Which lurk beneath the tide
Of life’s unquiet stream;—
Yes! this is victory!
And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky,
30
To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled;
To baffle the lean passions of their prey,
To sleep within the palace of the dead!
Oh! not the King, around whose dazzling throne
His countless courtiers mock the words they say,
35
Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown,
As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan!
Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe
Which props the column of unnatural state!
You the plainings, faint and low,
40
From Misery’s tortured soul that flow,
Shall usher to your fate.
Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command
‘The war-fiend riots o’er a peaceful land!
You Desolation’s gory throng
45
Shall bear from Victory along
To that mysterious strand.
· · · · ·
LOVE’S ROSE
I
HOPES, that swell in youthful breasts,
Live not through the waste of time!
Love’s rose a host of thorns invests;
Cold, ungenial is the clime,
5
Where its honours blow.
Youth says, ‘The purple flowers are mine,’
Which die the while they glow.
II
Dear the boon to Fancy given,
Retracted whilst it’s granted:
10
Sweet the rose which lives in Heaven,
Although on earth ’tis planted,
Where its honours blow,
While by earth’s slaves the leaves are riven
Which die the while they glow.
III
15
Age cannot Love destroy,
But perfidy can blast the flower,
Even when on most unwary hour
It blooms in Fancy’s bower.
Age cannot Love destroy,
20
But perfidy can rend the shrine
In which its vermeil splendours shine.
EYES: A FRAGMENT
How eloquent are eyes!
Not the rapt poet’s frenzied lay
When the soul’s wildest feelings stray
Can speak so well as they.
5
How eloquent are eyes!
Not music’s most impassioned note
On which Love s warmest fervours float
Like them bids rapture rise.
Love, look thus again,—
10
That your look may light a waste of years,
Darting the beam that conquers cares
Through the cold shower of tears.
Love, look thus again!
· · · · ·
ORIGINAL POETRY
BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE
A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the idea of the following lines:
I
HERE I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink,
First of this thing, and that thing, and t’other thing think;
Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind,
That the sense or the subject I never can find:
5
This word is wrong placed,—no regard to the sense,
The present and future, instead of past tense,
Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore,
I think I shall never attempt to write more,
With patience I then my thoughts must arraign,
10
Have them all in due order like mutes in a train,
Like them too must wait in due patience and thought,
Or else my fine works will all come to nought.
My wit too ‘s so copious, it flows like a river,
But disperses its waters on black and white never;
15
Like smoke it appears independent and free,
But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee—
Then at length all my patience entirely lost,
My paper and pens in the fire are tossed;
But come, try again—you must never despair,
20
Our Murray’s or Entick’s are not all so rare,
Implore their assistance—they’ll come to your aid,
Perform all your business without being paid,
They’ll tell you the present tense, future and past,
Which should come first, and which should come last,
25
This Murray will do—then to Entick repair,
To find out the meaning of any word rare.
This they friendly will tell, and ne’er make you blush,
With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush!
Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put,
30
Not minding the if’s, the be’s, and the but,
Then read it all over, see how it will run,
How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun,
Your writings may then with old Socrates vie,
May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie,
35
May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage,
The pattern or satire to all of the age;
But stop—a mad author I mean not to turn,
Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn,
Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined,
40
My letters may make some slight food for the mind;
That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart,
In all the warm language that flows from the heart.
Hark! futurity calls! it loudly complains,
It bids me step forward and just hold the reins,
45
My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true,
Such as I fear can be made but by few—
Of writers this age has abundance and plenty,
Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty,
Three score of them wits who all sharply vie,
50
To try what odd creature they best can belie,
A thousand are prudes who for Charity write,
And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite[,]
One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire,
And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire,
55
T’other million are wags who in Grub-street attend,
And just like a cobbler the old writings mend,
The twenty are those who for pulpits indite,
And pore over sermons all Saturday night.
And now my good friends—who come after I mean,
60
As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean,
Or like cobblers at mending I never did try,
Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie;
As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest,
So here I believe the matter must rest.—
65
I’ve heard your complaint—my answer I’ve made,
And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid,
Adieu my good friend; pray never despair,
But grammar and sense and everything dare,
Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free,
70
Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee,
Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense,
But read it all over and make it out sense.
What a tiresome girl!—pray soon make an end,
Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend.
75
Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try—
So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.
JANUARY, 1810.
II
TO MISS —— [HARRIET GROVE]
FROM MISS — — [ELIZABETH SHELLEY]
FOR your letter, dear —– [Hattie], accept my best thanks,
Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,
Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,
The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter,
5
All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate,
Which only are fit for the tardy and late,
As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,
How fair the sun shines—a fine day for a walk,
Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation,
10
One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation,
Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong,
The burden this is of each morning-call song
So —- is going to —- you say,
I hope that success her great efforts will pay [—-]
15
That [the Colonel] will see her, be dazzled outright,
And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight.
Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart,
Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart,
Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways,
20
He knows not how much to laud forth her praise,
That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake,
And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take,
A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame,
But he fears, for he knows she is not common game,
25
Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace,
He’s not one that’s caught by a sly looking face,
Yet that’s too divine—such a black sparkling eye,
At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die;
Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten,
30
More than is meant by most such kind of men,
For they’re all alike, take them one with another
,
Begging pardon—with the exception of my brother.
Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard,
Most opinion ‘s the same, with the difference of word,
35
Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd,
Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed,
As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name,
Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame.—
So on Friday this City’s gay vortex you quit,
40
And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit—
Now your parcel’s arrived —– [Bysshe’s] letter shall go,
I hope all your joy mayn’t be turned into woe,
Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain,
When it promises sunshine how often comes rain.
45
So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh,
How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh,
When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed,
How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest.
When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand,
50
Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked near the strand,
And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel,
’Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel—
May misfortunes dear Girl, ne’er thy happiness cloy,
May the days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy,
55
May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow,
Woes, which thy tender heart never may know,
For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear,
Though sympathy’s soul to a friend drops a tear.
Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written,
60
Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten.
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 123
