The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley

  Are not thy views of unregretted death

  Drear, comfortless, and horrible? Thy mind,

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  Is it not morbid as thy nerveless frame,

  Incapable of judgment, hope, or love?

  And dost thou wish the errors to survive

  That bar thee from all sympathies of good,

  After the miserable interest

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  Thou hold’st in their protraction? When the grave

  Has swallowed up thy memory and thyself,

  Dost thou desire the bane that poisons earth

  To twine its roots around thy coffined clay,

  Spring from thy bones, and blossom on thy tomb,

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  That of its fruit thy babes may eat and die?

  V

  ‘THUS do the generations of the earth

  Go to the grave, and issue from the womb,

  Surviving still the imperishable change

  That renovates he world; even as the leaves

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  Which the keen frost-wind of the waning year

  Has scattered on the forest soil, and heaped

  For many reasons there—though long they choke,

  Loading with loathsome rottenness the land,

  All germs of promise, yet when the tall trees

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  From which they fell, shorn of their lovely shapes,

  Lie level with the earth to moulder there,

  They fertilize the land they long deformed,

  Till from the breathing lawn a forest springs

  Of youth, integrity, and loveliness,

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  Like that which gave it life, to spring and die,

  Thus suicidal selfishness, that blights

  The fairest feelings of the opening heart,

  Is destined to decay, whilst from the soil

  Shall spring all virtue, all delight, all love,

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  And judgment cease to wage unnatural war

  With passion’s unsubduable array.

  Twin-sister of religion, selfishness!

  Rival in crime and falsehood, aping all

  The wanton horrors of her bloody play;

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  Yet frozen, unimpassioned, spiritless,

  Shunning the light, and owning not its name,

  Compelled, by its deformity, to screen

  With flimsy veil of justice and of right,

  Its unattractive lineaments, that scare

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  All, save the brood of ignorance: at once

  The cause and the effect of tyranny;

  Unblushing, hardened, sensual, and vile;

  Dead to all love but of its abjectness,

  With heart impassive by more noble powers

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  Than unshared pleasure, sordid gain, or fame;

  Despising its own miserable being,

  Which still it longs, yet fears to disenthrall.

  ‘Hence commerce springs, the venal interchange

  Of all that human art or nature yield;

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  Which wealth should purchase not, but want demand,

  And natural kindness hasten to supply

  From the full fountain of its boundless love,

  For ever stifled, drained, and tainted now.

  Commerce! beneath whose poison-breathing shade

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  No solitary virtue dares to spring,

  But Poverty and Wealth with equal hand

  Scatter their withering curses, and unfold

  The doors of premature and violent death,

  To pining famine and full-fed disease,

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  To all that shares the lot of human life,

  Which poisoned, body and soul, scarce drags the chain,

  That lengthens as it goes and clanks behind.

  ‘Commerce has set the mark of selfishness,

  The signet of its all-enslaving power

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  Upon a shining ore, and called it gold:

  Before whose image bow the vulgar great,

  The vainly rich, the miserable proud,

  The mob of peasants, nobles, priests, and kings,

  And with blind feelings reverence the power

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  That grinds them to the dust of misery.

  But in the temple of their hireling hearts

  Gold is a living god, and rules in scorn

  All earthly things but virtue.

  ‘Since tyrants, by the sale of human life,

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  Heap luxuries to their sensualism, and fame

  To their wide-wasting and insatiate pride,

  Success has sanctioned to a credulous world

  The ruin, the disgrace, the woe of war.

  His hosts of blind and unresisting dupes

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  The despot numbers; from his cabinet

  These puppets of his schemes he moves at will,

  Even as the slaves by force or famine driven,

  Beneath a vulgar master, to perform

  A task of cold and brutal drudgery;—

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  Hardened to hope, insensible to fear,

  Scarce living pulleys of a dead machine,

  Mere wheels of work and articles of trade,

  That grace the proud and noisy pomp of wealth!

  ‘The harmony and happiness of man

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  Yields to the wealth of nations; that which lifts

  His nature to the heaven of its pride,

  Is bartered for the poison of his soul;

  The weight that drags to earth his towering hopes,

  Blighting all prospect but of selfish gain,

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  Withering all passion but of slavish fear,

  Extinguishing all free and generous love

  Of enterprise and daring, even the pulse

  That fancy kindles in the beating heart

  To mingle with sensation, it destroys,—

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  Leaves nothing but the sordid lust of self,

  The grovelling hope of interest and gold,

  Unqualified, unmingled, unredeemed

  Even by hypocrisy. And statesmen boast

  Of wealth! The wordy eloquence, that lives

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  After the ruin of their hearts, can gild

  The bitter poison of a nation’s woe,

  Can turn the worship of the servile mob

  To their corrupt and glaring idol, Fame

  From Virtue, trampled by its iron tread,

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  Although its dazzling pedestal be raised

  Amid the horrors of a limb-strewn field,

  With desolated dwellings smoking round.

  The man of ease, who, by his warm fireside,

  To deeds of charitable intercourse,

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  And bare fulfilment of the common laws

  Of decency and prejudice, confines

  The struggling nature of his human heart,

  Is duped by their cold sophistry; he sheds

  A passing tear perchance upon the wreck

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  Of earthly peace, when near his dwelling’s door

  The frightful waves are driven,—when his son

  Is murdered by the tyrant, or religion

  Drives his wife raving mad. But the poor man,

  Whose life is misery, and fear, and care;

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  Whom the morn wakens but to fruitless toil;

  Who ever hears his famished offspring’s scream,

  Whom their pale mother’s uncomplaining gaze

  For ever meets, and the proud rich man’s eye

  Flashing command, and the heart-breaking scene

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  Of thousands like himself;—he little heeds

  The rhetoric of tyranny; his hate

  Is quenchless as his wrongs; he laughs to scorn

  The vain and bitter mockery of words,

  Feeling the horror of
the tyrant’s deeds,

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  And unrestrained but by the arm of power,

  That knows and dreads his enmity.

  ‘The iron rod of Penury still compels

  Her wretched slave to bow the knee to wealth,

  And poison, with unprofitable toil,

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  A life too void of solace to confirm

  The very chains that bind him to his doom.

  Nature, impartial in munificence,

  Has gifted man with all-subduing will.

  Matter, with all its transitory shapes,

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  Lies subjected and plastic at his feet,

  That, weak from bondage, tremble as they tread.

  How many a rustic Milton has passed by,

  Stifling the speechless longings of his heart,

  In unremitting drudgery and care!

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  How many a vulgar Cato has compelled

  His energies, no longer tameless then,

  To mould a pin, or fabricate a nail!

  How many a Newton, to whose passive ken

  Those mighty spheres that gem infinity

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  Were only specks of tinsel, fixed in Heaven

  To light the midnights of his native town!

  ‘Yet every heart contains perfection’s germ:

  The wisest of the sages of the earth,

  That ever from the stores of reason drew

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  Science and truth, and virtue’s dreadless tone,

  Were but a weak and inexperienced boy,

  Proud, sensual, unimpassioned, unimbued

  With pure desire and universal love,

  Compared to that high being, of cloudless brain,

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  Untainted passion, elevated will,

  Which Death (who even would linger long in awe

  Within his noble presence, and beneath

  His changeless eyebeam) might alone subdue.

  Him, every slave now dragging through the filth

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  Of some corrupted city his sad life,

  Pining with famine, swoln with luxury,

  Blunting the keenness of his spiritual sense

  With narrow schemings and unworthy cares,

  Or madly rushing through all violent crime,

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  To move the deep stagnation of his soul,—

  Might imitate and equal.

  But mean lust

  Has bound its chains so tight around the earth,

  That all within it but the virtuous man

  Is venal: gold or fame will surely reach

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  The price prefixed by selfishness, to all

  But him of resolute and unchanging will;

  Whom, nor the plaudits of a servile crowd,

  Nor the vile joys of tainting luxury,

  Can bribe to yield his elevated soul

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  To Tyranny or Falsehood, though they wield

  With blood-red hand the sceptre of the world.

  ‘All things are sold: the very light of Heaven

  Is venal; earth’s unsparing gifts of love,

  The smallest and most despicable things

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  That lurk in the abysses of the deep,

  All objects of our life, even life itself,

  And the poor pittance which the laws allow

  Of liberty, the fellowship of man,

  Those duties which his heart of human love

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  Should urge him to perform instinctively,

  Are bought and sold as in a public mart

  Of undisguising selfishness, that sets

  On each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign.

  Even love is sold; the solace of all woe

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  Is turned to deadliest agony, old age

  Shivers in selfish beauty’s loathing arms,

  And youth’s corrupted impulses prepare

  A life of horror from the blighting bane

  Of commerce; whilst the pestilence that springs

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  From unenjoying sensualism, has filled

  All human life with hydra-headed woes.

  ‘Falsehood demands but gold to pay the pangs

  Of outraged conscience; for the slavish priest

  Sets no great value on his hireling faith:

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  A little passing pomp, some servile souls,

  Whom cowardice itself might safely chain,

  Or the spare mite of avarice could bribe

  To deck the triumph of their languid zeal,

  Can make him minister to tyranny.

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  More daring crime requires a loftier meed:

  Without a shudder, the slave-soldier lends

  His arm to murderous deeds, and steels his heart,

  When the dread eloquence of dying men,

  Low mingling on the lonely field of fame,

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  Assails that nature, whose applause he sells

  For the gross blessings of a patriot mob,

  For the vile gratitude of heartless kings,

  And for a cold world’s good word,—viler still!

  ‘There is a nobler glory, which survives

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  Until our being ades, and, solacing

  All human care, accompanies its change;

  Deserts not virtue in the dungeon’s gloom,

  And, in the precincts of the palace, guides

  Its footsteps through that labyrinth of crime;

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  Imbues his lineaments with dauntlessness,

  Even when, from Power’s avenging hand, he takes

  Its sweetest, last and noblest title—death;

  —The consciousness of good, which neither gold,

  Nor sordid fame, nor hope of heavenly bliss

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  Can purchase; but a life of resolute good,

  Unalterable will, quenches desire

  Of universal happiness, the heart

  That beats with it in unison, the brain,

  Whose ever wakeful wisdom toils to change

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  Reason’s rich stores for its eternal weal.

  ‘This commerce of sincerest virtue needs

  No mediative signs of selfishness,

  No jealous intercourse of wretched gain,

  No balancings of prudence, cold and long;

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  In just and equal measure all is weighed,

  One scale contains the sum of human weal,

  And one, the good man’s heart.

  How vainly seek

  The selfish for that happiness denied

  To aught but virtue! Blind and hardened, they,

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  Who hope for peace amid the storms of care,

  Who covet power they know not how to use,

  And sigh for pleasure they refuse to give,—

  Madly they frustrate still their own designs;

  And, where they hope that quiet to enjoy

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  Which virtue pictures, bitterness of soul,

  Pining regrets, and vain repentances,

  Disease, disgust, and lassitude, pervade

  Their valueless and miserable lives.

  ‘But hoary-headed Selfishness has felt

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  Its death-blow, and is tottering to the grave:

  A brighter morn awaits the human day,

  When every transfer of earth’s natural gifts

  Shall be a commerce of good words and works;

  When poverty and wealth, the thirst of fame,

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  The fear of infamy, disease and woe,

  War with its million horrors, and fierce hell

  Shall live but in the memory of Time,

  Who, like a penitent libertine, shall start,

  Look back, and shudder at his younger years.’

  VI

  ALL touch, all eye, all ear,
br />   The Spirit felt the Fairy’s burning speech.

  O’er the thin texture of its frame,

  The varying periods painted changing glows,

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  As on a summer even,

  When soul-enfolding music floats around,

  The stainless mirror of the lake

  Re-images the eastern gloom,

  Mingling convulsively its purple hues

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  With sunset’s burnished gold.

  Then thus the Spirit spoke:

  ‘It is a wild and miserable world!

  Thorny, and full of care,

  Which every fiend can make his prey at will.

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  O Fairy! in the lapse of years,

  Is there no hope in store?

  Will yon vast suns roll on

  Interminably, still illuming

  The night of so many wretched souls,

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  And see no hope for them?

  Will not the universal Spirit e’er

  Revivify this withered limb of Heaven?’

  The Fairy calmly smiled

  In comfort, and a kindling gleam of hope

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  Suffused the Spirit’s lineaments.

  ‘Oh! rest thee tranquil; chase those fearful doubts,

  Which ne’er could rack an everlasting soul,

  That sees the chains which bind it to its doom.

  Yes! crime and misery are in yonder earth,

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  Falsehood, mistake, and lust;

  But the eternal world

  Contains at once the evil and the cure.

  Some eminent in virtue shall start up,

  Even in perversest time:

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  The truths of their pure lips, that never die,

  Shall bind the scorpion falsehood with a wreath

  Of ever-living flame,

  Until the monster sting itself to death.

  ‘How sweet a scene will earth become!

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