Percy Bysshe Shelley Read online

  With silent grief his bosom beats, —

  Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.

  Who looks around with fearful eye,

  And shuns all converse with man kind, 10

  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;

  The difference lies but in the name, 15

  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 —

  His peace was lodged in Heaven. — 20

  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, 25

  Sinks the soft heart full low;

  It leaves without a parting sigh,

  All that these realms bestow.

  JUNE, 1810.

  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. —

  The world once smiling to my view, 5

  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,

  No thought beyond the present hour, 10

  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(,)

  They court the feast, the dance, the song, 15

  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,

  ‘Till friendly death its woes enroll. — 20

  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. —

  The rising tear, the stifled sigh, 25

  A mind but ill at ease display,

  Like blackening clouds in stormy sky,

  Where fiercely vivid lightnings play.

  Thus when souls’ energy is dead,

  When sorrow dims each earthly view, 30

  When every fairy hope is fled,

  We bid ungrateful world adieu.

  AUGUST, 1810.

  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. —

  Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow glow, 5

  That robes with liquid streams of light;

  Yon distant Mountain’s craggy brow.

  And shows the rocks so fair, — so bright —

  Tis thus sweet expectation’s ray,

  In softer view shows distant hours, 10

  And portrays each succeeding day,

  As dressed in fairer, brighter flowers, —

  The vermeil tinted flowers that blossom;

  Are frozen but to bud anew,

  Then sweet deceiver calm my bosom, 15

  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,

  ‘Tis sin that bade thy empire cease. 20

  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.

  SONG. OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE

  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 pleasure?

  My husband’s repast with delight I spread, 5

  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,

  May I soothe his dying pain, 10

  And then may I dry my fast falling tears,

  And meet him in Heaven again.

  JULY, 1810.

  SONG. AH! GRASP THE DIRE DAGGER AND COUCH THE FELL SPEAR

  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.

  Ah! where is the hero, whose nerves strung by youth, 5

  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,

  To him shall each warrior give merited praise, 10

  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,

  And mutual, eternal, embraces shall prove, 15

  The rewards of the brave are the transports of love.

  OCTOBER, 1809.

  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.

  See! the wide wasting ruin extends all around, 5

  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,

  Ah! sunk is our sweet country’s rapturous measure, 10

  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,

  Or the yelling ghosts ride on the blast that sweeps by, 15

  And ‘my countrymen! vengeance!’ incessantly cry.

  OCTOBER, 1809.

  SONG. FIERCE ROARS THE MIDNIGHT STORM

  Fierce roars the midnight storm

  O’er the wild mountain,

  Dark clouds the night deform,

  Swift rolls the fountain —

  See! o’er yon rocky height, 5

  Dim mists are flying —

  See by the moon’s pale light,

  Poor Laura’s dying!

  Shame and remorse shall howl,

  By her false pillow — 10

  Fiercer than storms that roll,

  O’er the white billow;

  No hand her eyes to close,

  When life is flying,

  But she will find repose, 15

  For Laura’s dying!

  Then will I seek my love,

  Then will I cheer her,

  Then my esteem will prove,

  When no friend is near her. 20

  On her grave I will lie,

  When life is parted,

  On her grave I will die,

  For the false hearted.

  D
ECEMBER, 1809.

  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.

  But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection, 5

  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,

  Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear, 10

  When the hope-winged 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,

  He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! never 15

  Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

  AUGUST, 1810.

  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, 5

  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,

  Who bids to the friend of affection farewell, 10

  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!

  As the outcast whose love-raptured senses are losing, 15

  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,

  The remembrance must live of a friend so sincere. 20

  AUGUST, 1810.

  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, 5

  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,

  ‘Till that holy man come near, 10

  ‘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, 15

  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,

  It sounds like a funeral knell. 20

  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.’

  He crosses his breast, he mutters a prayer, 25

  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, 30

  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,

  The spirit will fade like the morning mist, 35

  At your benedicite.

  ‘Now haste within! the board is spread,

  Keen blows the air, and cold,

  The spectre sleeps in its earthy bed,

  ‘Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled, — 40

  ‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,

  You’ve journeyed many a mile,

  To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,

  That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.

  ‘Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold, 45

  Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,

  Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,

  Must I meet the wandering shade.

  ‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay, —

  For hark! the echoing pile, 50

  A bell loud shakes! — Oh haste away,

  O lead to the haunted aisle.’

  The torches slowly move before,

  The cross is raised on high,

  A smile of peace the Canon wore, 55

  But horror dimmed his eye —

  And now they climb the footworn stair,

  The chapel gates unclose,

  Now each breathed low a fervent prayer,

  And fear each bosom froze — 60

  Now paused awhile the doubtful band

  And viewed the solemn scene, —

  Full dark the clustered columns stand,

  The moon gleams pale between —

  ‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom 65

  Conceals the unquiet shade,

  Within what dark unhallowed tomb,

  The corse unblessed was laid.’

  ‘Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks,

  And murmurs a mournful plaint, 70

  Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks,

  And call on thy patron saint —

  The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes,

  As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine,

  From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise, 75

  And under yon arch recline.’ —

  ‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb,

  What memorial sad appears.’ —

  ‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom,

  No memorial sad it bears’ — 80

  The Canon his paternoster reads,

  His rosary hung by his side,

  Now swift to the chancel doors he leads,

  And untouched they open wide,

  Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel, 85

  To approach to the black marble tomb,

  ‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell,

  ‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’

  He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed.

  Oh! horror, the chancel doors close, 90

  A loud yell was borne on the rising blast,

  And a deep, dying groan arose.

  The Monks in amazement shuddering stand,

  They burst through the chancel’s gloom,

  From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand, 95

  Points to the black marble tomb.

  Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red,

  In characters fresh and clear —

  ‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead,

  And his wife lies buried here!’ 100

  In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun,

  To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore,

  On this eve her noviciate here was begun,

  And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore; —

  O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt, 105

  Remorse she full oft revealed,

  Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt,

  And in death her lips he sealed;

  Her spirit to penance this night was doomed,
r />   ‘Till the Canon atoned the deed, 110

  Here together they now shall rest entombed,

  ‘Till their bodies from dust are freed —

  Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof,

  Round the altar bright lightnings play,

  Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof, 115

  And the storm dies sudden away —

  The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground,

  And a rosary shone through the gloom,

  But never again was the Canon there found,

  Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb. 120

  REVENGE.

  ‘Ah! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,

  Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,

  The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,

  You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’

  I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone — 5

  I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone,

  I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones,

  And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.

  ‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night,

  And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light, 10

  And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day!

  So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away, —

  ‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear,

  Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier,

  And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath, 15

  Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,

  ‘And I love you to madness my Agnes I love,

  My constant affection this night will I prove,

  This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jaw

  Alone will I glut its all conquering maw’ — 20

  ‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share,

  In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there,

  I fear not the spirit, — I fear not the grave,

  My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’ —

  ‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go, 25

  But spare me those ages of horror and woe,

  For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day,

  If you go unattended by Agnes away’ —

  The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around,

  The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground, 30

  Strange forms seemed to flit, — and howl tidings of fate,

  As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate. —

  The youth struck the portal, — the echoing sound

  Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around,

  The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire, 35