Percy Bysshe Shelley - Delphi Poets Series Read online

— The drones of the community; they feed

  On the mechanic’s labour: the starved hind 110

  For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield

  Its unshared harvests; and yon squalid form,

  Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes

  A sunless life in the unwholesome mine,

  Drags out in labour a protracted death, 115

  To glut their grandeur; many faint with toil,

  That few may know the cares and woe of sloth.

  ‘Whence, think’st thou, kings and parasites arose?

  Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap

  Toil and unvanquishable penury 120

  On those who build their palaces, and bring

  Their daily bread? — From vice, black loathsome vice;

  From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong;

  From all that ‘genders misery, and makes

  Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust, 125

  Revenge, and murder…And when Reason’s voice,

  Loud as the voice of Nature, shall have waked

  The nations; and mankind perceive that vice

  Is discord, war, and misery; that virtue

  Is peace, and happiness and harmony; 130

  When man’s maturer nature shall disdain

  The playthings of its childhood; — kingly glare

  Will lose its power to dazzle; its authority

  Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne

  Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall, 135

  Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood’s trade

  Shall be as hateful and unprofitable

  As that of truth is now.

  Where is the fame

  Which the vainglorious mighty of the earth

  Seek to eternize? Oh! the faintest sound 140

  From Time’s light footfall, the minutest wave

  That swells the flood of ages, whelms in nothing

  The unsubstantial bubble. Ay! today

  Stern is the tyrant’s mandate, red the gaze

  That flashes desolation, strong the arm 145

  That scatters multitudes. To-morrow comes!

  That mandate is a thunder-peal that died

  In ages past; that gaze, a transient flash

  On which the midnight closed, and on that arm

  The worm has made his meal.

  The virtuous man, 150

  Who, great in his humility, as kings

  Are little in their grandeur; he who leads

  Invincibly a life of resolute good,

  And stands amid the silent dungeon depths

  More free and fearless than the trembling judge, 155

  Who, clothed in venal power, vainly strove

  To bind the impassive spirit; — when he falls,

  His mild eye beams benevolence no more:

  Withered the hand outstretched but to relieve;

  Sunk Reason’s simple eloquence, that rolled 160

  But to appal the guilty. Yes! the grave

  Hath quenched that eye, and Death’s relentless frost

  Withered that arm: but the unfading fame

  Which Virtue hangs upon its votary’s tomb;

  The deathless memory of that man, whom kings 165

  Call to their mind and tremble; the remembrance

  With which the happy spirit contemplates

  Its well-spent pilgrimage on earth,

  Shall never pass away.

  ‘Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; 170

  The subject, not the citizen: for kings

  And subjects, mutual foes, forever play

  A losing game into each other’s hands,

  Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man

  Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. 175

  Power, like a desolating pestilence,

  Pollutes whate’er it touches; and obedience,

  Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,

  Makes slaves of men, and, of the human frame,

  A mechanized automaton.

  When Nero, 180

  High over flaming Rome, with savage joy

  Lowered like a fiend, drank with enraptured ear

  The shrieks of agonizing death, beheld

  The frightful desolation spread, and felt

  A new-created sense within his soul 185

  Thrill to the sight, and vibrate to the sound;

  Think’st thou his grandeur had not overcome

  The force of human kindness? and, when Rome,

  With one stern blow, hurled not the tyrant down,

  Crushed not the arm red with her dearest blood 190

  Had not submissive abjectness destroyed

  Nature’s suggestions?

  Look on yonder earth:

  The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun

  Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees,

  Arise in due succession; all things speak 195

  Peace, harmony, and love. The universe,

  In Nature’s silent eloquence, declares

  That all fulfil the works of love and joy, —

  All but the outcast, Man. He fabricates

  The sword which stabs his peace; he cherisheth 200

  The snakes that gnaw his heart; he raiseth up

  The tyrant, whose delight is in his woe,

  Whose sport is in his agony. Yon sun,

  Lights it the great alone? Yon silver beams,

  Sleep they less sweetly on the cottage thatch 205

  Than on the dome of kings? Is mother Earth

  A step-dame to her numerous sons, who earn

  Her unshared gifts with unremitting toil;

  A mother only to those puling babes

  Who, nursed in ease and luxury, make men 210

  The playthings of their babyhood, and mar,

  In self-important childishness, that peace

  Which men alone appreciate?

  ‘Spirit of Nature! no.

  The pure diffusion of thy essence throbs 215

  Alike in every human heart.

  Thou, aye, erectest there

  Thy throne of power unappealable:

  Thou art the judge beneath whose nod

  Man’s brief and frail authority 220

  Is powerless as the wind

  That passeth idly by.

  Thine the tribunal which surpasseth

  The show of human justice,

  As God surpasses man. 225

  ‘Spirit of Nature! thou

  Life of interminable multitudes;

  Soul of those mighty spheres

  Whose changeless paths through

  Heaven’s deep silence lie;

  Soul of that smallest being, 230

  The dwelling of whose life

  Is one faint April sun-gleam; —

  Man, like these passive things,

  Thy will unconsciously fulfilleth:

  Like theirs, his age of endless peace, 235

  Which time is fast maturing,

  Will swiftly, surely come;

  And the unbounded frame, which thou pervadest,

  Will be without a flaw

  Marring its perfect symmetry. 240

  4.

  ‘How beautiful this night! the balmiest sigh,

  Which vernal zephyrs breathe in evening’s ear,

  Were discord to the speaking quietude

  That wraps this moveless scene. Heaven’s ebon vault,

  Studded with stars unutterably bright, 5

  Through which the moon’s unclouded grandeur rolls,

  Seems like a canopy which love had spread

  To curtain her sleeping world. Yon gentle hills,

  Robed in a garment of untrodden snow;

  Yon darksome rocks, whence icicles depend, 10

  So stainless, that their white and glittering spires

  Tinge not the moon’s pure beam; yon castled steep,

  Whose banner hangeth o’er the time-worn tower

  So idly, that rapt
fancy deemeth it

  A metaphor of peace; — all form a scene 15

  Where musing Solitude might love to lift

  Her soul above this sphere of earthliness;

  Where Silence undisturbed might watch alone,

  So cold, so bright, so still.

  The orb of day,

  In southern climes, o’er ocean’s waveless field 20

  Sinks sweetly smiling: not the faintest breath

  Steals o’er the unruffled deep; the clouds of eve

  Reflect unmoved the lingering beam of day;

  And vesper’s image on the western main

  Is beautifully still. To-morrow comes: 25

  Cloud upon cloud, in dark and deepening mass,

  Roll o’er the blackened waters; the deep roar

  Of distant thunder mutters awfully;

  Tempest unfolds its pinion o’er the gloom

  That shrouds the boiling surge; the pitiless fiend, 30

  With all his winds and lightnings, tracks his prey;

  The torn deep yawns, — the vessel finds a grave

  Beneath its jagged gulf.

  Ah! whence yon glare

  That fires the arch of Heaven! — that dark red smoke

  Blotting the silver moon? The stars are quenched 35

  In darkness, and the pure and spangling snow

  Gleams faintly through the gloom that gathers round!

  Hark to that roar, whose swift and deaf’ning peals

  In countless echoes through the mountains ring,

  Startling pale Midnight on her starry throne! 40

  Now swells the intermingling din; the jar

  Frequent and frightful of the bursting bomb;

  The falling beam, the shriek, the groan, the shout,

  The ceaseless clangour, and the rush of men

  Inebriate with rage: — loud, and more loud 45

  The discord grows; till pale Death shuts the scene,

  And o’er the conqueror and the conquered draws

  His cold and bloody shroud. — Of all the men

  Whom day’s departing beam saw blooming there,

  In proud and vigorous health; of all the hearts 50

  That beat with anxious life at sunset there;

  How few survive, how few are beating now!

  All is deep silence, like the fearful calm

  That slumbers in the storm’s portentous pause;

  Save when the frantic wail of widowed love 55

  Comes shuddering on the blast, or the faint moan

  With which some soul bursts from the frame of clay

  Wrapped round its struggling powers.

  The gray morn

  Dawns on the mournful scene; the sulphurous smoke

  Before the icy wind slow rolls away, 60

  And the bright beams of frosty morning dance

  Along the spangling snow. There tracks of blood

  Even to the forest’s depth, and scattered arms,

  And lifeless warriors, whose hard lineaments 65

  Death’s self could change not, mark the dreadful path

  Of the outsallying victors: far behind,

  Black ashes note where their proud city stood.

  Within yon forest is a gloomy glen —

  Each tree which guards its darkness from the day,

  Waves o’er a warrior’s tomb.

  I see thee shrink, 70

  Surpassing Spirit! — wert thou human else?

  I see a shade of doubt and horror fleet

  Across thy stainless features: yet fear not;

  This is no unconnected misery,

  Nor stands uncaused, and irretrievable. 75

  Man’s evil nature, that apology

  Which kings who rule, and cowards who crouch, set up

  For their unnumbered crimes, sheds not the blood

  Which desolates the discord-wasted land.

  From kings, and priests, and statesmen, war arose, 80

  Whose safety is man’s deep unbettered woe,

  Whose grandeur his debasement. Let the axe

  Strike at the root, the poison-tree will fall;

  And where its venomed exhalations spread

  Ruin, and death, and woe, where millions lay 85

  Quenching the serpent’s famine, and their bones

  Bleaching unburied in the putrid blast,

  A garden shall arise, in loveliness

  Surpassing fabled Eden.

  Hath Nature’s soul,

  That formed this world so beautiful, that spread 90

  Earth’s lap with plenty, and life’s smallest chord

  Strung to unchanging unison, that gave

  The happy birds their dwelling in the grove,

  That yielded to the wanderers of the deep

  The lovely silence of the unfathomed main, 95

  And filled the meanest worm that crawls in dust

  With spirit, thought, and love; on Man alone,

  Partial in causeless malice, wantonly

  Heaped ruin, vice, and slavery; his soul

  Blasted with withering curses; placed afar 100

  The meteor-happiness, that shuns his grasp,

  But serving on the frightful gulf to glare,

  Rent wide beneath his footsteps?

  Nature! — no!

  Kings, priests, and statesmen, blast the human flower

  Even in its tender bud; their influence darts 105

  Like subtle poison through the bloodless veins

  Of desolate society. The child,

  Ere he can lisp his mother’s sacred name,

  Swells with the unnatural pride of crime, and lifts

  His baby-sword even in a hero’s mood. 110

  This infant-arm becomes the bloodiest scourge

  Of devastated earth; whilst specious names,

  Learned in soft childhood’s unsuspecting hour,

  Serve as the sophisms with which manhood dims

  Bright Reason’s ray, and sanctifies the sword 115

  Upraised to shed a brother’s innocent blood.

  Let priest-led slaves cease to proclaim that man

  Inherits vice and misery, when Force

  And Falsehood hang even o’er the cradled babe

  Stifling with rudest grasp all natural good. 120

  ‘Ah! to the stranger-soul, when first it peeps

  From its new tenement, and looks abroad

  For happiness and sympathy, how stern

  And desolate a tract is this wide world!

  How withered all the buds of natural good! 125

  No shade, no shelter from the sweeping storms

  Of pitiless power! On its wretched frame,

  Poisoned, perchance, by the disease and woe

  Heaped on the wretched parent whence it sprung

  By morals, law, and custom, the pure winds 130

  Of Heaven, that renovate the insect tribes,

  May breathe not. The untainting light of day

  May visit not its longings. It is bound

  Ere it has life: yea, all the chains are forged

  Long ere its being: all liberty and love 135

  And peace is torn from its defencelessness;

  Cursed from its birth, even from its cradle doomed

  To abjectness and bondage!

  ‘Throughout this varied and eternal world

  Soul is the only element: the block 140

  That for uncounted ages has remained

  The moveless pillar of a mountain’s weight

  Is active, living spirit. Every grain

  Is sentient both in unity and part,

  And the minutest atom comprehends 145

  A world of loves and hatreds; these beget

  Evil and good: hence truth and falsehood spring;

  Hence will and thought and action, all the germs

  Of pain or pleasure, sympathy or hate,

  That variegate the eternal universe. 150

  Soul is not more polluted than the beams

  Of Heaven’
s pure orb, ere round their rapid lines

  The taint of earth-born atmospheres arise.

  ‘Man is of soul and body, formed for deeds

  Of high resolve, on fancy’s boldest wing 155

  To soar unwearied, fearlessly to turn

  The keenest pangs to peacefulness, and taste

  The joys which mingled sense and spirit yield.

  Or he is formed for abjectness and woe,

  To grovel on the dunghill of his fears, 160

  To shrink at every sound, to quench the flame

  Of natural love in sensualism, to know

  That hour as blessed when on his worthless days

  The frozen hand of Death shall set its seal,

  Yet fear the cure, though hating the disease. 165

  The one is man that shall hereafter be;

  The other, man as vice has made him now.

  ‘War is the statesman’s game, the priest’s delight,

  The lawyer’s jest, the hired assassin’s trade,

  And, to those royal murderers, whose mean thrones 170

  Are bought by crimes of treachery and gore,

  The bread they eat, the staff on which they lean.

  Guards, garbed in blood-red livery, surround

  Their palaces, participate the crimes

  That force defends, and from a nation’s rage 175

  Secure the crown, which all the curses reach

  That famine, frenzy, woe and penury breathe.

  These are the hired bravos who defend

  The tyrant’s throne — the bullies of his fear:

  These are the sinks and channels of worst vice, 180

  The refuse of society, the dregs

  Of all that is most vile: their cold hearts blend

  Deceit with sternness, ignorance with pride,

  All that is mean and villanous, with rage

  Which hopelessness of good, and self-contempt, 185

  Alone might kindle; they are decked in wealth,

  Honour and power, then are sent abroad

  To do their work. The pestilence that stalks

  In gloomy triumph through some eastern land

  Is less destroying. They cajole with gold, 190

  And promises of fame, the thoughtless youth

  Already crushed with servitude: he knows

  His wretchedness too late, and cherishes

  Repentance for his ruin, when his doom

  Is sealed in gold and blood! 195

  Those too the tyrant serve, who, skilled to snare

  The feet of Justice in the toils of law,

  Stand, ready to oppress the weaker still;

  And right or wrong will vindicate for gold,

  Sneering at public virtue, which beneath 200

  Their pitiless tread lies torn and trampled, where

  Honour sits smiling at the sale of truth.

  ‘Then grave and hoary-headed hypocrites,

  Without a hope, a passion, or a love,

  Who, through a life of luxury and lies, 205