The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley

  215

  Bending her beamy eyes in thank fulness.

  Again the enchanted steeds were yoked,

  Again the burning wheels inflame

  The steep descent of Heaven’s untrodden way.

  Fast and far the chariot flew:

  220

  The vast and fiery globes that rolled

  Around the Fairy’s palace-gate

  Lessened by slow degrees and soon appeared

  Such tiny twinklers as the planet orbs

  That there attendant on the solar power

  225

  With borrowed light pursued their narrower way.

  Earth floated then below:

  The chariot paused a moment there;

  The Spirit then descended:

  The restless coursers pawed the ungenial soil,

  230

  Snuffed the gross air, and then, their errand done,

  Unfurled their pinions to the winds of Heaven.

  The Body and the Soul united then,

  A gentle start convulsed Ianthe’s frame:

  Her veiny eyelids quietly unclosed;

  235

  Moveless awhile the dark blue orbs remained:

  She looked around in wonder and beheld

  Henry, who kneeled in silence by her couch,

  Watching her sleep with looks of speechless love,

  And the bright beaming stars

  240

  That through the casement shone.

  NOTE ON QUEEN MAB, BY MRS. SHELLEY

  SHELLEY was eighteen when he wrote Queen Mab; he never published it. When it was written, he had come to the decision that he was too young to be a ‘judge of controversies’; and he was desirous of acquiring ‘that sobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism.’ But he never doubted the truth or utility of his opinions; and, in printing and privately distributing Queen Mab, he believed that he should further their dissemination, without occasioning the mischief either to others or himself that might arise from publication. It is doubtful whether he would himself have admitted it into a collection of his works. His severe classical taste, refined by the constant study of the Greek poets, might have discovered defects that escape the ordinary reader; and the change his opinions underwent in many points would have prevented him from putting forth the speculations of his boyish days. But the poem is too beautiful in itself, and far too remarkable as the production of a boy of eighteen, to allow of its being passed over: besides that, having been frequently reprinted, the omission would be vain. In the former edition certain portions were left out, as shocking the general reader from the violence of their attack on religion. I myself had a painful feeling that such erasures might be looked upon as a mark of disrespect towards the author, and am glad to have the opportunity of restoring them.

  A series of articles was published in the New Monthly Magazine during the autumn of the year 1832, written by a man of great talent, a fellow-collegian and warm friend of Shelley: they describe admirably the state of his mind during his collegiate life. Inspired with ardour for the acquisition of knowledge, endowed with the keenest sensibility and with the fortitude of a martyr, Shelley came among his fellow-creatures, congregated for the purposes of education, like a spirit from another sphere; too delicately organized for the rough treatment man uses towards man, especially in the season of youth, and too resolute in carrying out his own sense of good and justice, not to become a victim. To a devoted attachment to those he loved he added a determined resistance to oppression. Refusing to fag at Eton, he was treated with revolting cruelty by masters and boys: this roused instead of taming his spirit, and he rejected the duty of obedience when it was enforced by menaces and punishment. To aversion to the society of his fellow-creatures, such as he found them when collected together in societies, where one egged-on the other to acts of tyranny, was joined the deepest sympathy and compassion; while the attachment he felt for individuals, and the admiration with which he regarded their powers and their virtues, led him to entertain a high opinion of the perfectibility of human nature; and he believed that all could reach the highest grade of moral improvement, did not the customs and prejudices of society foster evil passions and excuse evil actions.

  The oppression which, trembling at every nerve yet resolute to heroism, it was his ill-fortune to encounter at school and at college, led him to dissent in all things from those whose arguments were blows, whose faith appeared to engender blame and hatred. ‘During my existence,’ he wrote to a friend in 1812, ‘I have incessantly speculated, thought, and read.’ His readings were not always well chosen; among them were the works of the French philosophers: as far as metaphysical argument went, he temporarily became a convert. At the same time, it was the cardinal article of his faith that, if men were but taught and induced to treat their fellows with love, charity, and equal rights, this earth would realize paradise. He looked upon religion, as it is professed, and above all practised, as hostile instead of friendly to the cultivation of those virtues which would make men brothers.

  Can this be wondered at? At the age of seventeen, fragile in health and frame, of the purest habits in morals, full of devoted generosity and universal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain wisdom, resolved at every personal sacrifice to do right, burning with a desire for affection and sympathy,—he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth as a criminal.

  The cause was that he was sincere; that he believed the opinions which he entertained to be true. And he loved truth with a martyr’s love; he was ready to sacrifice station and fortune, and his dearest affections, at its shrine. The sacrifice was demanded from, and made by, a youth of seventeen. It is a singular fact in the history of society in the civilized nations of modern times that no false step is so irretrievable as one made in early youth. Older men, it is true, when they oppose their fellows and transgress ordinary rules, carry a certain prudence or hypocrisy as a shield along with them. But youth is rash; nor can it imagine, while asserting what it believes to be true, and doing what it believes to be right, that it should be denounced as vicious, and pursued as a criminal.

  Shelley possessed a quality of mind which experience has shown me to be of the rarest occurrence among human beings: this was his unworld-liness. The usual motives that rule men, prospects of present or future advantage, the rank and fortune of those around, the taunts and censures, or the praise, of those who were hostile to him, had no influence whatever over his actions, and apparently none over his thoughts. It is difficult even to express the simplicity and directness of purpose that adorned him. Some few might be found in the history of mankind, and some one at least among his own friends, equally disinterested and scornful, even to severe personal sacrifices, of every baser motive. But no one, I believe, ever joined this noble but passive virtue to equal active endeavours for the benefit of his friends and mankind in general, and to equal power to produce the advantages he desired. The world’s brightest gauds and its most solid advantages were of no worth in his eyes, when compared to the cause of what he considered truth, and the good of his fellow-creatures. Born in a position which, to his inexperienced mind, afforded the greatest facilities to practise the tenets he espoused, he boldly declared the use he would make of fortune and station, and enjoyed the belief that he should materially benefit his fellow-creatures by his actions; while, conscious of surpassing powers of reason and imagination, it is not strange that he should, even while so young, have believed that his written thoughts would tend to disseminate opinions which he believed conducive to the happiness of the human race.

  If man were a creature devoid of passion, he might have said and done all this with quietness. But he was too enthusiastic, and too full of hatred of all the ills he witnessed, not to scorn danger. Various disappointments tortured, but could not tame, his soul. The more enmity he met, the more earnestly he became attached to his peculiar views, and hostile to those of the men who persecuted him.

  He was animated to greater zeal by compassion for h
is fellow-creatures. His sympathy was excited by the misery with which the world is burning. He witnessed the sufferings of the poor, and was aware of the evils of ignorance. He desired to induce every rich man to despoil himself of superfluity, and to create a brotherhood of properly and service, and was ready to be the first to lay down the advantages of his birth. He was of too uncompromising a disposition to join any party. He did not in his youth look forward to gradual improvement: nay, in those days of intolerance, now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look forward to the sort of millennium of freedom and brotherhood which he thought the proper state of mankind as to the present reign of moderation and improvement. Ill-health made him believe that his race would soon be run; that a year or two was all he had of life. He desired that these years should be useful and illustrious. He saw, in a fervent call on his fellow-creatures to share alike the blessings of the creation, to love and serve each other, the noblest work that life and time permitted him. In this spirit he composed Queen Mab.

  He was a lover of the wonderful and wild in literature, but had not fostered these tastes at their genuine sources—the romances and chivalry of the middle ages—but in the perusal of such German works as were current in those days. Under the influence of these he at the age of fifteen, wrote two short prose romances of slender merit. The sentiments and language were exaggerated, the composition imitative and poor. He wrote also a poem on the subject of Ahasuerus—being led to it by a German fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This fell afterwards into other hands, and was considerably altered before it was printed. Our earlier English poetry was almost unknown to him. The love and knowledge of Nature developed by Wordsworth—the lofty melody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge’s poetry—and the wild fantastic machinery and gorgeous scenery adopted by Southey —composed his favourite reading; the rhythm of Queen Mab was founded on that of Thalaba, and the first few lines bear a striking resemblance in spirit, though not in idea, to the opening of that poem. His fertile imagination, and ear tuned to the finest sense of harmony, preserved him from imitation. Another of his favourite books was the poem of Gebir by Walter Savage Landor. From his boyhood he had a wonderful facility of versification, which he carried into another language; and his Latin school-verses were composed with an ease and correctness that procured for him prizes, and caused him to be resorted to by all his friends for help. He was, at the period of writing Queen Mab, a great traveller within the limits of England, Scotland, and Ireland. His time was spent among the loveliest scenes of these countries. Mountain and lake and forest were his home; the phenomena of Nature were his favourite study. He loved to inquire into their causes, and was addicted to pursuits of natural philosophy and chemistry, as far as they could be carried on as an amusement. These tastes gave truth and vivacity to his descriptions, and warmed his soul with that deep admiration for the wonders of Nature which constant association with her inspired.

  He never intended to publish Queen Mab as it stands; but a few years after, when printing Alastor, he extracted a small portion which he entitled The Daemon of the World. In this he changed somewhat the versification, and made other alterations scarcely to be called improvements.

  Some years after, when in Italy, a bookseller published an edition of Queen Mab as it originally stood. Shelley was hastily written to by his friends, under the idea that, deeply injurious as the mere distribution of the poem had proved, the publication might awaken fresh persecutions. At the suggestion of these friends he wrote a letter on the subject, printed in the Examiner newspaper—with which I close this history of his earliest work.

  To THE EDITOR OF THE ‘EXAMINER.’

  ‘SIR,

  ‘Having heard that a poem entitled Queen Mab has been surreptitiously published in London, and that legal proceedings have been instituted against the publisher, I request the favour of your insertion of the following explanation of the affair, as it relates to me.

  ’A poem entitled Queen Mab was written by me at the age of eighteen, I daresay in a sufficiently intemperate spirit—but even then was not intended for publication, and a few copies only were struck off, to be distributed among my personal friends. I have not seen this production for several years. I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless in point of literary composition; and that, in all that concerns moral and political speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysical and religious doctrine, it is still more crude and immature. I am a devoted enemy to religious, political, and domestic oppression; and I regret this publication, not so much from literary vanity, as because I fear it is better fitted to injure than to serve the sacred cause of freedom. I have directed my solicitor to apply to Chancery for an injunction to restrain the sale; but, after the precedent of Mr. Southey’s Wat Tyler (a poem written, I believe, at the same age, and with the same unreflecting enthusiasm), with little hope of success.

  ‘Whilst I exonerate myself from all share in having divulged opinions hostile to existing sanctions, under the form, whatever it may be, which they assume in this poem, it is scarcely necessary for me to protest against the system of inculcating the truth of Christianity or the excellence of Monarchy, however true or however excellent they may be, by such equivocal arguments as confiscation and imprisonment, and invective and slander, and the insolent violation of the most sacred ties of Nature and society.

  ‘SIR,

  ‘I am your obliged and obedient servant,

  ‘PERCY B. SHELLEY.

  ‘Pisa, June 22, 1821.’

  VERSES ON A CAT

  I

  A CAT in distress,

  Nothing more, nor less;

  Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye,

  As I am a sinner,

  5

  It waits for some dinner

  To stuff out its own little belly.

  II

  You would not easily guess

  All the modes of distress

  Which torture the tenants of earth;

  10

  And the various evils,

  Which like so many devils,

  Attend the poor souls from their birth.

  III

  Some a living require,

  And others desire

  15

  An old fellow out of the way;

  And which is the best

  I leave to be guessed,

  For I cannot pretend to say.

  IV

  One wants society,

  20

  Another variety,

  Others a tranquil life;

  Some want food,

  Others, as good,

  Only want a wife.

  V

  25

  But this poor little cat

  Only wanted a rat,

  To stuff out its own little maw;

  And it were as good

  Some people had such food,

  30

  To make them hold their jaw!

  FRAGMENT: OMENS

  HARK! the owlet flaps his wings

  In the pathless dell beneath;

  Hark! ’tis the night-raven sings

  Tidings of approaching death.

  EPITAPHIUM

  [LATIN VERSION OF THE EPITAPH IN GRAY’S ELEGY.]

  I

  HIC sinu fessum caput hospitali

  Cespitis dormit juvenis, nec illi

  Fata ridebant, popularis ille

  Nescius aurae.

  II

  5

  Musa non vultu genus arroganti

  Rustica natum grege despicata,

  Et suum tristis puerum notavit

  Sollicitudo.

  III

  Indoles illi bene larga, pectus

  10

  Veritas sedem sibi vindicavit,

  Et pari tantis meritis beavit

  Munere coelum.

  IV

  Omne quod moestis habuit miserto

  Corde largivit lacrimam, recepit

  15

  Omne quod coelo volui
t, fidelis

  Pectus amici.

  V

  Longius sed tu fuge curiosus

  Caeteras laudes fuge suspicari,

  20

  Caeteras culpas fuge velle tractas

  Sede tremenda.

  VI

  Spe tremescentes recubant in illa

  Sede virtutes pariterque culpae,

  In sui Patris gremio, tremenda

  Sede Deique.

  IN HOROLOGIUM

  INTER marmoreas Leonorae pendula colles

  Fortunata nimis Machina dicit horas.

  Quas manibus premit illa duas insensa papillas

  Cur mihi sit digito tangere, amata, nefas?

  A DIALOGUE

  Death.

  FOR my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave,

  I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave,

  Where Innocence sleeps ‘neath the peace-giving sod,

  And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny’s nod;

  I offer a calm habitation to thee,—

  Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

  My mansion is damp, cold silence is there,

  But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair;

  Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath,

  10

  Dares dispute with grim Silence the empire of Death.

  I offer a calm habitation to thee,—

  Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me?

  Mortal.

  Mine eyelids are heavy; my soul seeks repose,

  It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes,

  15

  It longs in thy cells to deposit its load,

  Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad,—