What sober reflections in the midst of this letter!
Jocularity sure would have suited much better;
But there are exceptions to all common rules,
For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools.
65
Now adieu my dear —– [Hattie] I’m sure I must tire,
For if I do, you may throw it into the fire,
So accept the best love of your cousin and friend,
Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.
April 30, 1810.
III. SONG
COLD, cold is the blast when December is howling,
Cold are the damps on a dying man’s brow,—
Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling,
And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low;
5
But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee,
More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee,
More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee,
Which mixed with groans, anguish and wild madness flow—
And ah! poor —— has felt all this horror,
10
Full long the fallen victim contended with fate:
‘Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow,
She sought her babe’s food at her ruiner’s gate—
Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer,
He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer,
15
She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair,
Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late.
’Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr,
That the form of the wasted —– reclined;
She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar,
And she sighed to the gusts of the wind sweeping wind.—
‘I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle,
I call not yon clouds where the elements battle,
But thee, cruel —– I call thee unkind!’—
Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain,
25
And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined,
She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o er the fountain,
And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind.
‘Ah! go,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the tempest is yelling,
’Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling,
30
But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling,
My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—’
Not long lived —–, but over her grave
Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew,
Around it no de nons or ghosts dare to rave,
35
But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew.
Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather,
Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather,
For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her,
Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.—
JULY, 1810.
IV. SONG
COME [Harriet]! sweet is the hour,
Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around,
The anemone’s night-boding flower,
Has sunk its pale head on the ground.
5
’Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn,
Some mild heart that expands to its blast,
’Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,
Sinks poor and neglected at last.—
The world with its keenness and woe,
10
Has no charms or attraction for me,
Its unkindness with grief has laid low,
The heart which is faithful to thee.
The high trees that wave past the moon,
As I walk in their umbrage with you,
15
All declare I must part with you soon,
Ah bid you a tender adieu!—
Then [Harriet]! dearest farewell,
You and I love, may ne’er meet again;
These woods and these meadows can tell
20
How soft and how sweet was the strain.—
APRIL, 1810.
V. SONG
DESPAIR
ASK not the pallid stranger’s woe,
With beating heart and throbbing breast,
Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,
As though the body needed rest.—
5
Whose ’wildered eye no object meets,
Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,
With silent grief his bosom beats,—
Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.
Who looks around with fearful eye,
10
And shuns all converse with mankind,
As though some one his griefs might spy,
And soothe them with a kindred mind.
A friend or foe to him the same,
He looks on each with equal eye;
15
The difference lies but in the name,
To none for comfort can he fly.—
’Twas deep despair, and sorrow’s trace,
To him too keenly given,
Whose memory, time could not efface—
20
His peace was lodged in Heaven.—
He looks on all this world bestows,
The pride and pomp of power,
As trifles best for pageant shows
Which vanish in an hour.
When torn is dear affection’s tie,
Sinks the soft heart full low;
It leaves without a parting sigh,
All that these realms bestow.
JUNE, 1810.
VI. SONG
SORROW
To me this world’s a dreary blank,
All hopes in life are gone and fled,
My high strung energies are sank,
And all my blissful hopes lie dead.—
5
The world once smiling to my view,
Showed scenes of endless bliss and joy;
The world I then but little knew,
Ah! little knew how pleasures cloy;
All then was jocund, all was gay,
10
No thought beyond the present hour,
I danced in pleasure’s fading ray,
Fading alas! as drooping flower.
Nor do the heedless in the throng,
One thought beyond the morrow give[,]
15
They court the feast, the dance, the song,
Nor think how short their time to live.
The heart that bears deep sorrow’s trace,
What earthly comfort can console,
It drags a dull and lengthened pace,
20
’Till friendly death its woes enroll.—
The sunken cheek, the humid eyes,
E’en better than the tongue can tell;
In whose sad breast deep sorrow lies,
Where memory’s rankling traces dwell.—
25
The rising tear, the stifled sigh,
A mind but ill at ease display,
Like blackening clouds in stormy sky,
Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.
Thus when souls’ energy is dead,
30
When sorrow dims each earthty view,
When every fairy hope is fled,
We bid ungrateful world adieu.
AUGUST, 1810.
VII. SONG
HOPE
AND said I that all hope was fled,
That sorrow and despair were mine,
That each enthusiast wish was dead,
Had sank beneath pale Misery’s shrine.—
5
Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow glow,
That robes with liquid streams of light;
Yon distant Mountai
n’s craggy brow.
And shows the rocks so fair,—so bright—–
Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,
10
In softer view shows distant hours,
And portrays each succeeding day,
As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers,–
The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom
Are frozen but to bud anew,
15
Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom,
Although thy visions be not true,—
Yet true they are,—and I’ll believe,
Thy whisperings soft of love and peace,
God never made thee to deceive,
20
’Tis sin that bade thy empire cease.
Yet though despair my life should gloom,
Though horror should around me close,
With those I love, beyond the tomb,
Hope shows a balm for all my woes.
AUGUST, 1810.
VIII. SONG
TRANSLATED FROM THE ITALIAN
OH! what is the gain of restless care,
And what is ambitious treasure?
And what are the joys that the modish share,
In their sickly haunts of pleas-sure?
5
My husband’s repast with delight I spread,
What though ’tis but rustic fare,
May each guardian angel protect his shed,
May contentment and quiet be there.
And may I support my husband’s years,
10
May I soothe his dying pain,
And then may I dry my fast falling tears,
And meet him in Heaven again.
JULY, 1810.
IX. SONG
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
AH! grasp the dire dagger and couch the fell spear,
If vengeance and death to thy bosom be dear,
The dastard shall perish, death’s torment shall prove,
For fate and revenge are decreed from above.
5
Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth,
Will defend the firm cause of justice and truth;
With insatiate desire whose bosom shall swell,
To give up the oppressor to judgement and Hell—
For him shall the fair one twine chaplets of bays,
10
To him shall each warrior give merited praise,
And triumphant returned from the clangour of arms,
He shall find his reward in his loved maiden’s charms.
In ecstatic confusion the warrior shall sip,
The kisses that glow on his love’s dewy lip,
15
And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove,
The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.
OCTOBER, 1809.
X
THE IRISHMAN’S SONG
THE stars may dissolve, and the fountain of light
May sink into ne’er ending chaos and night,
Our mansions must fall, and earth vanish away,
But thy courage O Erin! may never decay.
5
See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around,
Our ancestors’ dwellings lie sunk on the ground,
Our foes ride in triumph throughout our domains,
And our mightiest heroes lie stretched on the plains.
Ah! dead is the harp which was wont to give pleasure,
10
Ah! sunk is our sweet country’s rapturous measure,
But the war note is waked, and the clangour of spears,
The dread yell of Sloghan yet sounds in our ears.
Ah! where are the heroes! triumphant in death,
Convulsed they recline on the blood sprinkled heath,
15
Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by,
And ‘my countrymen! vengeance!’ incessantly cry.
OCTOBER, 1809.
XI. SONG
FIERCE roars the midnight storm
O’er the wild mountain,
Dark clouds the night deform,
Swift rolls the fountain—
5
See! o’er yon rocky height,
Dim mists are flying—
See by the moon’s pale light,
Poor Laura’s dying!
Shame and remorse shall howl,
10
By her false pillow—
Fiercer than storms that roll,
O’er the white billow;
No hand her eyes to close,
When life is flying,
15
But she will find repose,
For Laura’s dying!
Then will I seek my love,
Then will I cheer her,
Then my esteem will prove.
20
When no friend is near her.
On her grave I will lie,
When life is parted,
On her grave I will die,
For the false hearted.
DECEMBER, 1809.
XII. SONG
TO — — [HARRIET]
AH! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,
And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,
And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,
’Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.
5
But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,
Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,
Though the time it is past!—yet the dear recollection,
For aye in the heart of thy [Percy] must live.
Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,
10
Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,
When the hope-wingèd moments. athwart him are flying,
And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear.—
And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever
Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,
15
He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never
Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.
AUGUST, 1810.
XIII. SONG
TO — — [HARRIET]
STERN, stern is the voice of fate’s fearful command,
When accents of horror it breathes in our ear,
Or compels us for aye bid adieu to the land,
Where exists that loved friend to our bosom so dear,
’Tis sterner than death o’er the shuddering wretch bending,
And in skeleton grasp his fell sceptre extending,
Like the heart-stricken deer to that loved covert wending,
Which never again to his eyes may appear—
And ah! he may envy the heart-stricken quarry,
10
Who bids to the friend of affection farewell,
He may envy the bosom so bleeding and gory,
He may envy the sound of the drear passing knell,
Not so deep is his grief on his death couch reposing,
When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing!
15
As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing,
The last tones of thy voice on the wild breeze that swell!
Those tones were so soft, and so sad, that ah! never,
Can the sound cease to vibrate on Memory’s ear,
In the stern wreck of Nature for ever and ever,
20
The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere.
AUGUST, 1810.
XIV
SAINT EDMOND’S EVE
OH! did you observe the Black Canon pass,
And did you observe his frown?
He goeth to say the midnight mass,
In holy St. Edmond’s town.
He goeth to sing the burial chaunt,
And to lay the wandering sprite,
Whose shadowy, restless form doth haunt,
The Abbey’s drear aisle this night.
It saith it will not its wailing cease,
10
Till that holy man come near,
’Till he pour o’er its grave the prayer of peace,
And sprinkle the hallowed tear.
The Canon’s horse is stout and strong
The road is plain and fair,
But the Canon slowly wends along,
And his brow is gloomed with care.
Who is it thus late at the Abbey-gate?
Sullen echoes the portal bell,
It sounds like the whispering voice of fate,
20
It sounds like a funeral knell.
The Canon his faltering knee thrice bowed,
And his frame was convulsed with fear,
When a voice was heard distinct and loud,
‘Prepare! for thy hour is near.’
25
He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer,
To Heaven he lifts his eye,
He heeds not the Abbot’s gazing stare,
Nor the dark Monks who murmured by.
Bare-headed he worships the sculptured saints
That frown on the sacred walls,
His face it grows pale,—he trembles, he faints,
At the Abbot’s feet he falls.
And straight the father’s robe he kissed,
Who cried, ‘Grace dwells with thee,
35
The spirit will fade like the morning mist,
At your benedicite.
‘Now haste within! the board is spread,
The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley: (A Modern Library E-Book) Page 124
