by Mary Shelley
The stream—”Thanks to the Gods!” he cried aloud
In joy; then having cast aside his robes
He leaped into the waves, and with his palm
Throwing the waters high—”This is not gold,”
He cried, “I’m free, I have got rid of gold.”
And then he drank, and seizing with delight
A little leaf that floated down the stream,
“Thou art not gold,” he said —
Zopyr. But all this time —
Did you behold? — Did he take off his crown? —
Lacon. No: — It was strange to see him as he plunged
Hold tight his crown with his left hand the while.
Zopyr. (aside) Alas, my fate! I thought they had been seen.
Lac. He ordered garments to the river side
Of coarsest texture; — those that erst he wore
He would not touch, for they were trimmed with gold.
Zopyr. And yet he did not throw away his crown?
Lac. He ever held it tight as if he thought
Some charm attached to its remaining there.
Perhaps he is right; — know you, Zopyrion,
If that strange voice this morning spoke the truth?
Zopyr. Nay guess; — think of what passed & you can judge.
I dare not — I know nothing of his ears.
Lac. I am resolved some night when he sleeps sound
To get a peep. — No more,’tis he that comes.
He has now lost the boon that Bacchus gave,
Having bestowed it on the limpid waves.
Now over golden sands Pactolus runs,
And as it flows creates a mine of wealth.
Enter Midas, (with grapes in his hand).
Mid. I see again the trees and smell the flowers
With colours lovelier than the rainbow’s self;
I see the gifts of rich-haired Ceres piled
And eat. (holding up the grapes)
This is not yellow, dirty gold,
But blooms with precious tints, purple and green.
I hate this palace and its golden floor,
Its cornices and rafters all of gold: —
I’ll build a little bower of freshest green,
Canopied o’er with leaves & floored with moss: —
I’ll dress in skins; — I’ll drink from wooden cups
And eat on wooden platters — sleep on flock;
None but poor men shall dare attend on me.
All that is gold I’ll banish from my court,
Gilding shall be high treason to my state,
The very name of gold shall be crime capital[.]
Zopyr. May we not keep our coin?
Mid. No, Zopyrion,
None but the meanest peasants shall have gold.
It is a sordid, base and dirty thing: —
Look at the grass, the sky, the trees, the flowers,
These are Joves treasures & they are not gold: —
Now they are mine, I am no longer cursed. —
The hapless river hates its golden sands,
As it rolls over them, having my gift; —
Poor harmless shores! they now are dirty gold.
How I detest it! Do not the Gods hate gold?
Nature displays the treasures that she loves,
She hides gold deep in the earth & piles above
Mountains & rocks to keep the monster down.
Asph. They say Apollo’s sunny car is gold.
Mid. Aye, so it is for Gold belongs to him: —
But Phoebus is my bitterest enemy,
And what pertains to him he makes my bane.
Zopyr. What [!] will your Majesty tell the world? —
Mid. Peace, vile gossip! Asphalion, come you here.
Look at those golden columns; those inlaid walls;
The ground, the trees, the flowers & precious food
That in my madness I did turn to gold: —
Pull it all down, I hate its sight and touch;
Heap up my cars & waggons with the load
And yoke my kine to drag it to the sea:
Then crowned with flowers, ivy & Bacchic vine,
And singing hymns to the immortal Gods,
We will ascend ships freighted with the gold,
And where no plummet’s line can sound the depth
Of greedy Ocean, we will throw it in,
All, all this frightful heap of yellow dirt.
Down through the dark, blue waters it will sink,
Frightening the green-haired Nereids from their sport
And the strange Tritons — the waves will close above
And I, thank Bacchus, ne’er shall see it more!
And we will make all echoing heaven ring
With our loud hymns of thanks, & joyous pour
Libations in the deep, and reach the land,
Rich, happy, free & great, that we have lost
Man’s curse, heart-bartering, soul-enchaining gold.
FINIS.
The Poems
Shelley’s Cottage in West Street, Marlow, where she finished writing ‘Frankenstein’ and her husband wrote the epic poem ‘Laon and Cyntheia’, while also arranging relief for the poor people of Marlow.
Absence
Ah! he is gone — and I alone! —
How dark and dreary seems the time!
‘Tis thus, when the glad sun is flown,
Night rushes o’er the Indian clime.
Is there no star to cheer this night?
No soothing twilight for the breast?
Yes, Memory sheds her fairy light,
Pleasing as sunset’s golden west —
And hope of dawn — oh! brighter far
Than clouds that in the orient burn;
More welcome than the morning star
Is the dear thought — he will return!
The Keepsake, 1830.
A Dirge
This morn, thy gallant bark, love,
Sail’d on the sunny sea ;
‘Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
Have wreck’d it on the lee.
Ah, woe ! ah, woe ! ah, woe !
By spirits of the deep
He’s cradled on the billow,
To his unwaking sleep !
Thou liest upon the shore, love,
Beside the swelling surge ;
But sea-nymphs ever more, love,
Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
O come ! O come ! O come
Ye spirits of the deep !
While near his sea- weed pillow,
My lonely watch I keep.
From far across the sea, love,
I hear a wild lament,
By Echo’s voice, for thee, love,
From ocean’s caverns sent :
O list ! O list ! O list !
The spirits of the deep
Loud sounds their wail of sorrow,
While I for ever weep !
The Keepsake, 1830.
A Night Scene
I see thee not, my gentlest Isabel;
Ambrosial night, with her mysterious spell,
Has woven shadows thick before thy face,
Drawing impervious veils athwart the space
That does divide us; thy bright eyes alone
A lucid beam into the dark have thrown,
Till the long lashes and the downcast lid
Quench it again, and the bright orbs are hid.
I see thee not: the touch of they soft hand,
And thy deep sighs, fraught with emotion bland,
Are to my sense the only outward signs
That on that couch my Isabel reclines.
I see yon brilliant star and waving tree,
Through which its beams rain down inconstantly;
I see ten thousand of those radiant flowers
Which shed light on us in dim silver showers,
High in the glorious heavens; I see full well
All other forms - not thi
ne, my Isabel.
Sweet Mystery! I know that thou art there —
I scent the fragrance of thy silken hair;
The lines that do encircle thee I trace;
That spot is hallow’d by thy lovely face;
Thy woman’s form, in soft voluptuousness,
Enriches vacant air in yon recess;
Yet to my eyes no sign of thee appears,
And the drear blank suggests a thousand fears.
Speak, Isabel! - And yet not thus were broken
The cruel spell - for have not spirits spoken?
Are then thine eyes no nearer than that star,
Which unattainably doth shine afar?
Thy voice as immaterial as the wind
That murmurs past, yet leaves no form behind?
And is the visiting of this soft gale,
Rich with the odours of the flow’rets pale,
Which sweeps my bosom with delicious fanning,
My thrilling limbs with arms aerial spanning,
Is it as truly real, as warmly glowing
As thy dear form, rich with the life-tide flowing?
Ah, darling, quick thine arms around me throw,
Press thy warm lips upon my night-cool brow,
In thy dark eyes thy fair soul I must read -
One kiss, sweet heaven, ‘tis Isabel indeed!
The Keepsake, 1830.
When I’m no more, this harp that rings
When I’m no more, this harp that rings
With passion’s tones profound,
Shall hang with rent and tuneless strings
O’er my sepulchral mound;
Then, as the breeze of night steals o’er
Its lone and ruined frame,
‘Twill seek the music that of yore
To greet its murmurs came.
But vainly shall the night winds breathe
O’er every mouldering wire,
Mute as the form that sleeps beneath
Shall rest that broken lyre.
O Memory! be thy unction blest,
Poured then around my bed,
Like balm that haunts the rose’s breast
When all her bloom hath fled long.
The Keepsake, 1830.
To love in solitude and mystery
To love in solitude and mystery;
To prize one only who can ne’er be mine;
To see a dark gulf yawn all fearfully
Between myself and my selected shrine,
And prodigal to one — myself a slave —
What harvest reap I from the seed I gave?
Love answers with a dear and subtle wile;
For he incarnate comes in such sweet guise,
That, using but the weapon of a smile,
And gazing on me with love-kindling eyes,
I can no more resist the strong control,
But to his worship dedicate my soul.
The Keepsake, 1832.
I must forget thy dark eyes’ love-fraught gaze
I must forget thy dark eyes’ love-fraught gaze,
Thy voice, that fill’d me with emotion bland,
Thy vows, which lost me in this ‘wild’ring maze,
The thrilling pressure of thy gentle hand;
And, dearer yet, that interchange of thought,
That drew us nearer still to one another,
Till in two hearts one sole idea wrought,
And neither hoped nor fear’d but for the other.
I must forget to deck myself with flowers:
Are not those wither’d which I gave to thee?
I must forget to count the day-bright hours,
Their sun is set — thou com’st no more to me!
I must forget thy love! — Then let me close
My tearful eyes upon unwelcome day,
And let my tortured thoughts seek that repose
Which corpses find within the tomb alway.
Oh! for the fate of her who, changed to leaves,
No more can weep, nor any longer moan;
Or the lorn queen, who, chilling as she grieves,
Finds her warm beating heart grow calm in stone.
Oh! for a draught of that Lethean wave,
Mortal alike to joy and to regret! —
It may not be! not even that would save!
Love, hope, and thee, I never can forget!
Ode to Ignorance.
Monstrum horrtndum, informe, ingens, cui lumen ademptum
HAIL, Ignorance! majestic queen!
Mysterious, mighty, dark, profound, in mien!
Sprung from no upstart brood of Light,
But of the ancient house of Night!
Daughter of that stupendous line,
Which ere the base-born Sun did shine,
Or one plebeian star appear’d,
Their awful throne in chaos rear’d —
The old nobility of Hell,
Who through the realms of darkness wide,
With lordly morgue and feudal pride
Did reign, and when imperial Satan fell,
By rebel cherubim cast down
And robb’d of his ancestral crown,
Received him like a Bourbon there,
With fond aristocratic care.
Hail! bounteous mother of each royal race;
Corruption, Bigotry and Fraud,
Reflect thy dim patrician face;
They many a kingdom fair and broad,
Great Ignorance, receive from thee —
Thou who didst take the World in fee! —
Ay! thou dost call the total earth thy own;
And every tyrant for his throne
Doth homage at thy knee!
Thou dost for kings, in dungeons bind
The anarch Truth, the rebel Mind,
Who never slip their iron bolts
But some fair realm revolts,
All hail! Legitimacy’s star!
Protectress of the despot Czar!
Thee Czars invoke, and, gorged with Polish blood,
Hallow thy name, and style thee great and good!
Night of the Mind, how long, how long,
Thy praise hath blazoned been in song!
Hail! mighty, mighty queen!
August! serene!
Peers are thy children — noble peers! —
Thou sucklest them upon thy breasts;
Thine is their youth, and thine their years.
Transfus’d on them thy ample spirit rests:
Night of the Mind! all hail!
Gloomy and grand,
Through every land,
Great queen! dost thou prevail!
And conquerors too are of thy brood!
By thee, they cheat the gibbet of their bones,
By thee, they run their race of blood,
And mount by steps of villainy to thrones.
Lo! how they raven, ramp and roar;
The world’s fixed barriers scarcely bind them;
An Eden, is the land before —
A wilderness, the land behind them.
Who stamps their locust-deeds with glory?
Who binds their brows with laurels gory?
Who magnifies their names in story?
Night of the Mind! again, again to thee
We give the praise, for thou art she!
But whither now? —
Whither, dismounting from the thundering car,
Fliest thou the crimson fields of war?
What dust is that upon thy brow?
That’s not the dust of the battle-field: —
Dost thou too haunt the schools; dost thou
The pen as well as faulchion wield?
Dost thou with pale and plodding looks,
Bow down thy stubborn head to books?
Dost thou too mope with owlish eves
In garrets, and through libraries?
Ay! thou art there,
As every where:
Where more than in the Schools hast thou thy reign;
Where oft’ner than in Colleges a fane?
Thou too, in Cabinets, where meet
Grave councillors, the pilots of the realm,
Hast ever thy conspicuous, lofty seat;
And commonly the helm.
Faction, thy fav’rite son, then sound his horn;
Corruption too, thy eldest born;
Holds universal sway:
Then is the day,
Or rather, night,
Of lords and churchmen, all who trust in thee,
And hate with heart and soul, and strength, the light,
Then Politicians sing with joy;
Then hath their gold of office no alloy
Of vile plebeian industry:
Tax’d to the earth, the people moil and mourn —
It is their vulgar lot, and must be borne.
Thou too art found,
And dost abound,
Where bauble sceptred fashion sweeps the ground
With tinsel spangled train;
And Vice and Folly, sisters twain,
Together in meet discord reign.
Of aristocracy the best,
Thou stand’st confest,
Wherever flutters fop, or flirts a belle,
The park, the ball, the club, the turf, the hell.
But, hah! — what hideous change is this?
What damn’d magician interrupts thy bliss?
The eye-ball aches,
And flashes on the sight a horrid gleam
Alas, His Day that breaks!
‘Tis orient knowledge darts that baleful beam-
Knowledge, thy dauntless foe!
Where wilt thou fly, how shun the blow?
What work, what palisade behind?
Night of the mind!
Thy sons are stricken with dismay;
They cannot bear
The hateful glare,
But curse the name of Day.
Prelates wake who long have slumber’d,
Peers believe their days are number’d,
