The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley

  170

  The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child,

  With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore

  And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild.

  And sweet and subtle talk they evermore,

  The pupil and the master, shared; until,

  175

  Sharing that undiminishable store,

  The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill

  Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran

  His teacher, and did teach with native skill

  Strange truths and new to that experienced man;

  180

  Still they were friends, as few have ever been

  Who mark the extremes of life’s discordant span.

  So in the caverns of the forest green,

  Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar,

  Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen

  185

  By summer woodmen; and when winter’s roar

  Sounded o’er earth and sea its blast of war,

  The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,

  Hanging upon the peakèd wave afar,

  Then saw their lamp from Laian’s turret gleam,

  190

  Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star

  Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,

  Whilst all the constellations of the sky

  Seemed reeling through the storm … They did but seem—

  For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,

  195

  And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing,

  And far o’er southern waves, immovably

  Belted Orion hangs—warm light is flowing

  From the young moon into the sunset’s chasm.—

  ‘O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing

  200

  ‘On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm

  Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness,

  Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm

  ‘Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness,

  Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale,—

  205

  And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness,—

  ‘And the far sighings of yon piny dale

  Made vocal by some wind we feel not here.—

  I bear alone what nothing may avail

  ‘To lighten—a strange load!’—No human ear

  210

  Heard this lament; but o’er the visage wan

  Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere

  Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran,

  Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake,

  Glassy and dark.—And that divine old man

  215

  Beheld his mystic friend’s whole being shake,

  Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest—

  And with a calm and measured voice he spake,

  And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed

  That cold lean hand:—‘Dost thou remember yet

  220

  When the curved moon then lingering in the west

  ‘Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet,

  How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea?

  ’Tis just one year—sure thou dost not forget—

  ‘Then Plato’s words of light in thee and me

  225

  Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east,

  For we had just then read—thy memory

  ‘Is faithful now—the story of the feast;

  And Agathon and Diotima seemed

  From death and dark forgetfulness released..… ’

  FRAGMENT III

  230

  AND when the old man saw that on the green

  Leaves of his opening a blight had lighted

  He said: ‘My friend, one grief alone can wean

  A gentle mind from all that once delighted:—

  Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden

  235

  With feelings which should not be unrequited.’

  And Athanase … then smiled, as one o’erladen

  With iron chains might smile to talk (?) of bands

  Twined round her lover’s neck by some blithe maiden,

  And said..…

  FRAGMENT IV

  240

  ’TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings

  From slumber, as a spherèd angel’s child,

  Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,

  Stands up before its mother bright and mild,

  Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems—

  245

  So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled

  To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,

  The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove

  Waxed green—and flowers burst forth like starry beams;—

  The grass in the warm sun did start and move,

  250

  And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:—

  How many a one, though none be near to love,

  Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen

  In any mirror—or the spring’s young minions,

  The wingèd leaves amid the copses green;—

  255

  How many a spirit then puts on the pinions

  Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,

  And his own steps—and over wide dominions

  Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,

  More fleet than storms—the wide world shrinks below,

  260

  When winter and despondency are past.

  FRAGMENT V

  ’TWAS at this season that Prince Athanase

  Passed the white Alps—those eagle-baffling mountains

  Slept in their shrouds of snow;—beside the ways

  The waterfalls were voiceless—for their fountains

  265

  Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now,

  Or by the curdling winds—like brazen wings

  Which clanged along the mountain’s marble brow—

  Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung

  And filled with frozen light the chasms below.

  Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung

  Under their load of [snow]— . . . . .

  · · · · · · · · · · · ·

  · · · · · · · · · · · ·

  Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down

  275

  From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld]

  [Prince] Athanase; and o’er his mien (?) was thrown

  The shadow of that scene, field after field,

  Purple and dim and wide..…

  FRAGMENT VI

  THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all

  280

  We can desire, O Love! and happy souls,

  Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,

  Catch thee, and feed from their o’erflowing bowls

  Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew;—

  Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls

  285

  Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue

  Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair

  The shadow of thy moving wings imbue

  Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear

  Beauty like some light robe;—thou ever soarest

  290

  Among the towers of men, and as soft air

  In spring, which moves the unawakened forest,

  Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak,

  Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest

  That which from thee they should implore:—the weak

  295

  Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts

  The strong have broken—yet where shall any seek

  A garment whom thou clothest not? the darts

  Of the keen winter storm, barbed with frost,

  Which, from t
he everlasting snow that parts

  300

  The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost

  In the wide waved interminable snow

  Ungarmented,..…

  ANOTHER FRAGMENT (A)

  YES, often when the eyes are cold and dry,

  And the lips calm, the Spirit weeps within

  305

  Tears bitterer than the blood of agony

  Trembling in drops on the discoloured skin

  Of those who love their kind and therefore perish

  In ghastly torture—a sweet medicine

  Of peace and sleep are tears, and quietly

  310

  Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall

  But..…

  ANOTHER FRAGMENT (B)

  HER hair was brown, her spherèd eyes were brown,

  And in their dark and liquid moisture swam,

  Like the dim orb of the eclipsèd moon;

  315

  Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came

  The light from them, as when tears of delight

  Double the western planet’s serene flame.

  * * *

  1 The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase was a good deal modelled on Alastor. In the first sketch of the poem, he named it Pandemos and Urania. Athanase seeks through the world the One whom he may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is embarked, a lady who appears to him to embody his ideal of love and beauty. But she proves to be Pandemos, or the earthly and unworthy Venus; who, after disappointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Athanase, crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. ‘On his deathbed, the lady who can really reply to his soul comes and kisses his lips’ (The Deathbed of Athanase). The poet describes her [in the words of the final fragment, p. 185]. This slender note is all we have to aid our imagination in shaping out the form of the poem, such as its author imagined. [Mrs. Shelley’s Note.]

  2 The Author was pursuing a fuller development of the ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him that in an attempt at extreme refinement and analysis, his conceptions might be betrayed into assuming a morbid character. The reader will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by the difference. [Shelley’s Note.]

  ROSALIND AND HELEN

  A MODERN ECLOGUE

  ADVERTISEMENT

  THE story of Rosalind and Helen is, undoubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awakens a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story; and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure, which only pretends to be regular inasmuch as it corresponds with, and expresses, the irregularity of the imaginations which inspired it.

  I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One,1 which I sent from Italy, was written after a day’s excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse, that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend, with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain, that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness.

  NAPLES, Dec. 20, 1818.

  ROSALIND, HELEN AND HER CHILD

  Scene, the Shore of the Lake of Como

  Helen. Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.

  ’Tis long since thou and I have met;

  And yet methinks it were unkind

  Those moments to forget.

  5

  Come sit by me. I see thee stand

  By this lone lake, in this far land,

  Thy loose hair in the light wind flying,

  Thy sweet voice to each tone of even

  United, and thine eyes replying

  10

  To the hues of yon fair heaven.

  Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me?

  And be as thou wert wont to be

  Ere we were disunited?

  None doth behold us now: the power

  That led us forth at this lone hour

  Will be but ill requited

  If thou depart in scorn: oh! come,

  And talk of our abandoned home.

  Remember, this is Italy,

  20

  And we are exiles. Talk with me

  Of that our land, whose wilds and floods,

  Barren and dark although they be,

  Were dearer than these chestnut woods:

  Those heathy paths, that inland stream,

  25

  And the blue mountains, shapes which seem

  Like wrecks of childhood’s sunny dream:

  Which that we have abandoned now,

  Weighs on the heart like that remorse

  Which altered friendship leaves. I seek

  No more our youthful intercourse.

  That cannot be! Rosalind, speak.

  Speak to me. Leave me not.—When morn did come,

  When evening fell upon our common home,

  When for one hour we parted,—do not frown:

  I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken:

  But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token,

  Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown,

  Turn, as ’twere but the memory of me,

  And not my scornèd self who prayed to thee.

  40

  Rosalind. Is it a dream, or do I see

  And hear frail Helen? I would flee

  Thy tainting touch; but former years

  Arise, and bring forbidden tears;

  And my o’erburthened memory

  45

  Seeks yet its lost repose in thee.

  I share thy crime. I cannot choose

  But weep for thee: mine own strange grief

  But seldom stoops to such relief:

  Nor ever did I love thee less,

  50

  Though mourning o’er thy wickedness

  Even with a sister’s woe. I knew

  What to the evil world is due,

  And therefore sternly did refuse

  To link me with the infamy

  55

  Of one so lost as Helen. Now

  Bewildered by my dire despair,

  Wondering I blush, and weep that thou

  Should’st love me still,—thou only!—There,

  Let us sit on that gray stone,

  60

  Till our mournful talk be done.

  Helen. Alas! not there; I cannot bear

  The murmur of this lake to hear.

  A sound from there, Rosalind dear,

  Which never yet I heard elsewhere

  65

  But in our native land, recurs,

  Even here where now we meet. It stirs

  Too much of suffocating sorrow!

  In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood

  Is a stone seat, a solitude

  70

  Less like our own. The ghost of Peace

  Will not desert this spot. To-morrow,

  If thy kind feelings should not cease,

  We may sit here.

  Rosalind. Thou lead, my sweet,

  And I will follow.

  Henry. ’Tis Fenici’s seat

  75

  Where you are going? This is not the way,

  Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow

  Close to the little river.

  Helen. Yes: I know:

&n
bsp; I was bewildered. Kiss me, and be gay,

  Dear boy: why do you sob?

  Henry. I do not know:

  80

  But it might break any one’s heart to see

  You and the lady cry so bitterly.

  Helen. It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home,

  Henry, and play with Lilla till I come.

  We only cried with joy to see each other;

  We are quite merry now: Good-night.

  85

  The boy

  Lifted a sudden look upon his mother,

  And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy

  Which lightened o’er her face, laughed with the glee

  Of light and unsuspecting infancy,

  90

  And whispered in her ear, ‘Bring home with you

  That sweet strange lady-friend.’ Then off he flew,

  But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile,

  Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while,

  Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.

  95

  In silence then they took the way

  Beneath the forest’s solitude.

  It was a vast and antique wood,

  Thro’ which they took their way;

  And the gray shades of evening