Chapter 19

1. The transport of a fierce and monstrous gladness _4450 Spread through the multitudinous streets, fast flying Upon the winds of fear; from his dull madness The starveling waked, and died in joy; the dying, Among the corpses in stark agony lying, Just heard the happy tidings, and in hope _4455 Closed their faint eyes; from house to house replying With loud acclaim, the living shook Heaven’s cope, And filled the startled Earth with echoes: morn did ope

2. Its pale eyes then; and lo! the long array Of guards in golden arms, and Priests beside, _4460 Singing their bloody hymns, whose garbs betray The blackness of the faith it seems to hide; And see, the Tyrant’s gem-wrought chariot glide Among the gloomy cowls and glittering spears— A Shape of light is sitting by his side, _4465 A child most beautiful. I’ the midst appears Laon,—exempt alone from mortal hopes and fears.

3. His head and feet are bare, his hands are bound Behind with heavy chains, yet none do wreak Their scoffs on him, though myriads throng around; _4470 There are no sneers upon his lip which speak That scorn or hate has made him bold; his cheek Resolve has not turned pale,—his eyes are mild And calm, and, like the morn about to break, Smile on mankind—his heart seems reconciled _4475 To all things and itself, like a reposing child.

4. Tumult was in the soul of all beside, Ill joy, or doubt, or fear; but those who saw Their tranquil victim pass, felt wonder glide Into their brain, and became calm with awe.— _4480 See, the slow pageant near the pile doth draw. A thousand torches in the spacious square, Borne by the ready slaves of ruthless law, Await the signal round: the morning fair Is changed to a dim night by that unnatural glare. _4485

5. And see! beneath a sun-bright canopy, Upon a platform level with the pile, The anxious Tyrant sit, enthroned on high, Girt by the chieftains of the host; all smile In expectation, but one child: the while _4490 I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier Of fire, and look around: each distant isle Is dark in the bright dawn; towers far and near, Pierce like reposing flames the tremulous atmosphere.

6. There was such silence through the host, as when _4495 An earthquake trampling on some populous town, Has crushed ten thousand with one tread, and men Expect the second; all were mute but one, That fairest child, who, bold with love, alone Stood up before the King, without avail, _4500 Pleading for Laon’s life—her stifled groan Was heard—she trembled like one aspen pale Among the gloomy pines of a Norwegian vale.

7. What were his thoughts linked in the morning sun, Among those reptiles, stingless with delay, _4505 Even like a tyrant’s wrath?—The signal-gun Roared—hark, again! In that dread pause he lay As in a quiet dream—the slaves obey— A thousand torches drop,—and hark, the last Bursts on that awful silence; far away, _4510 Millions, with hearts that beat both loud and fast, Watch for the springing flame expectant and aghast.

8. They fly—the torches fall—a cry of fear Has startled the triumphant!—they recede! For, ere the cannon’s roar has died, they hear _4515 The tramp of hoofs like earthquake, and a steed Dark and gigantic, with the tempest’s speed, Bursts through their ranks: a woman sits thereon, Fairer, it seems, than aught that earth can breed, Calm, radiant, like the phantom of the dawn, _4520 A spirit from the caves of daylight wandering gone.

9. All thought it was God’s Angel come to sweep The lingering guilty to their fiery grave; The Tyrant from his throne in dread did leap,— Her innocence his child from fear did save; _4525 Scared by the faith they feigned, each priestly slave Knelt for his mercy whom they served with blood, And, like the refluence of a mighty wave Sucked into the loud sea, the multitude With crushing panic, fled in terror’s altered mood. _4530

10. They pause, they blush, they gaze,—a gathering shout Bursts like one sound from the ten thousand streams Of a tempestuous sea:—that sudden rout One checked, who, never in his mildest dreams Felt awe from grace or loveliness, the seams _4535 Of his rent heart so hard and cold a creed Had seared with blistering ice—but he misdeems That he is wise, whose wounds do only bleed Inly for self,—thus thought the Iberian Priest indeed,

11. And others, too, thought he was wise to see, _4540 In pain, and fear, and hate, something divine; In love and beauty, no divinity.— Now with a bitter smile, whose light did shine Like a fiend’s hope upon his lips and eyne, He said, and the persuasion of that sneer _4545 Rallied his trembling comrades—‘Is it mine To stand alone, when kings and soldiers fear A woman? Heaven has sent its other victim here.’

12. ‘Were it not impious,’ said the King, ‘to break Our holy oath?’—‘Impious to keep it, say!’ _4550 Shrieked the exulting Priest:—‘Slaves, to the stake Bind her, and on my head the burden lay Of her just torments:—at the Judgement Day Will I stand up before the golden throne Of Heaven, and cry, “To Thee did I betray _4555 An infidel; but for me she would have known Another moment’s joy! the glory be thine own.”’

13. They trembled, but replied not, nor obeyed, Pausing in breathless silence. Cythna sprung From her gigantic steed, who, like a shade _4560 Chased by the winds, those vacant streets among Fled tameless, as the brazen rein she flung Upon his neck, and kissed his mooned brow. A piteous sight, that one so fair and young, The clasp of such a fearful death should woo _4565 With smiles of tender joy as beamed from Cythna now.

14. The warm tears burst in spite of faith and fear From many a tremulous eye, but like soft dews Which feed Spring’s earliest buds, hung gathered there, Frozen by doubt,—alas! they could not choose _4570 But weep; for when her faint limbs did refuse To climb the pyre, upon the mutes she smiled; And with her eloquent gestures, and the hues Of her quick lips, even as a weary child Wins sleep from some fond nurse with its caresses mild, _4575

15. She won them, though unwilling, her to bind Near me, among the snakes. When there had fled One soft reproach that was most thrilling kind, She smiled on me, and nothing then we said, But each upon the other’s countenance fed _4580 Looks of insatiate love; the mighty veil Which doth divide the living and the dead Was almost rent, the world grew dim and pale,— All light in Heaven or Earth beside our love did fail.—

16. Yet—yet—one brief relapse, like the last beam _4585 Of dying flames, the stainless air around Hung silent and serene—a blood-red gleam Burst upwards, hurling fiercely from the ground The globed smoke,—I heard the mighty sound Of its uprise, like a tempestuous ocean; _4590 And through its chasms I saw, as in a swound, The tyrant’s child fall without life or motion Before his throne, subdued by some unseen emotion.—

17. And is this death?—The pyre has disappeared, The Pestilence, the Tyrant, and the throng; _4595 The flames grow silent—slowly there is heard The music of a breath-suspending song, Which, like the kiss of love when life is young, Steeps the faint eyes in darkness sweet and deep; With ever-changing notes it floats along, _4600 Till on my passive soul there seemed to creep A melody, like waves on wrinkled sands that leap.

18. The warm touch of a soft and tremulous hand Wakened me then; lo! Cythna sate reclined Beside me, on the waved and golden sand _4605 Of a clear pool, upon a bank o’ertwined With strange and star-bright flowers, which to the wind Breathed divine odour; high above, was spread The emerald heaven of trees of unknown kind, Whose moonlike blooms and bright fruit overhead _4610 A shadow, which was light, upon the waters shed.

19. And round about sloped many a lawny mountain With incense-bearing forests and vast caves Of marble radiance, to that mighty fountain; And where the flood its own bright margin laves, _4615 Their echoes talk with its eternal waves, Which, from the depths whose jagged caverns breed Their unreposing strife, it lifts and heaves,— Till through a chasm of hills they roll, and feed A river deep, which flies with smooth but arrowy speed. _4620

20. As we sate gazing in a trance of wonder, A boat approached, borne by the musical air Along the waves which sung and sparkled under Its rapid keel—a winged shape sate there, A child with silver-shining wings, so fair, _4625 That as her bark did through the waters glide, The shadow of the lingering waves did wear Light, as from starry beams; from side to side, While veering to the wind her plumes the bark did guide.

21. The boat was one curved shell of hollow pearl, _4630 Almost translucent with the light divine Of her within; the prow and stern did curl Horned on high, like the young moon supine, When o’er dim twilight mountains dark with pine, It floats upon the sunset’s sea of beams, _4635 Whose golden waves in many a purple line Fade fast, till borne on sunlight’s ebbing streams, Dilating, on earth’s verge the sunken meteor gleams.

22. Its keel has struck the sands beside our feet;— Then Cythna turned to me, and from her eyes _4640 Which swam with unshed tears, a look more sweet Than happy love, a wild and glad surprise, Glanced as she spake: ‘Ay, this is Paradise And not a dream, and we are all united! Lo, that is mine own child, who in the guise _4645 Of madness came, like day to one benighted In lonesome woods: my heart is now too well requited!’

23. And then she wept aloud, and in her arms Clasped that bright Shape, less marvellously fair Than her own human hues and living charms; _4650 Which, as she leaned in passion’s silence there, Breathed warmth on the cold bosom of the air, Which seemed to blush and tremble with delight; The glossy darkness of her streaming hair Fell o’er that snowy child, and wrapped from sight _4655 The fond and long embrace which did their hearts unite.

24. Then the bright child, the plumed Seraph came, And fixed its blue and beaming eyes on mine, And said, ‘I was disturbed by tremulous shame When once we met, yet knew that I was thine _4660 From the same hour in which thy lips divine Kindled a clinging dream within my brain, Which ever waked when I might sleep, to twine Thine image with HER memory dear—again We meet; exempted now from mortal fear or pain. _4665

25. ‘When the consuming flames had wrapped ye round, The hope which I had cherished went away; I fell in agony on the senseless ground, And hid mine eyes in dust, and far astray My mind was gone, when bright, like dawning day, _4670 The Spectre of the Plague before me flew, And breathed upon my lips, and seemed to say, “They wait for thee, beloved!”—then I knew The death-mark on my breast, and became calm anew.

26. ‘It was the calm of love—for I was dying. _4675 I saw the black and half-extinguished pyre In its own gray and shrunken ashes lying; The pitchy smoke of the departed fire Still hung in many a hollow dome and spire Above the towers, like night,—beneath whose shade _4680 Awed by the ending of their own desire The armies stood; a vacancy was made In expectation’s depth, and so they stood dismayed.

27. ‘The frightful silence of that altered mood, The tortures of the dying clove alone, _4685 Till one uprose among the multitude, And said—“The flood of time is rolling on; We stand upon its brink, whilst THEY are gone To glide in peace down death’s mysterious stream. Have ye done well? They moulder, flesh and bone, _4690 Who might have made this life’s envenomed dream A sweeter draught than ye will ever taste, I deem.

28. ‘“These perish as the good and great of yore Have perished, and their murderers will repent,— Yes, vain and barren tears shall flow before _4695 Yon smoke has faded from the firmament Even for this cause, that ye who must lament The death of those that made this world so fair, Cannot recall them now; but there is lent To man the wisdom of a high despair, _4700 When such can die, and he live on and linger here.

29. ‘“Ay, ye may fear not now the Pestilence, From fabled hell as by a charm withdrawn; All power and faith must pass, since calmly hence In pain and fire have unbelievers gone; _4705 And ye must sadly turn away, and moan In secret, to his home each one returning; And to long ages shall this hour be known; And slowly shall its memory, ever burning, Fill this dark night of things with an eternal morning. _4710

30. ‘“For me that world is grown too void and cold, Since Hope pursues immortal Destiny With steps thus slow—therefore shall ye behold How those who love, yet fear not, dare to die; Tell to your children this!” Then suddenly _4715 He sheathed a dagger in his heart and fell; My brain grew dark in death, and yet to me There came a murmur from the crowd, to tell Of deep and mighty change which suddenly befell.

31. ‘Then suddenly I stood, a winged Thought, _4720 Before the immortal Senate, and the seat Of that star-shining spirit, whence is wrought The strength of its dominion, good and great, The better Genius of this world’s estate. His realm around one mighty Fane is spread, _4725 Elysian islands bright and fortunate, Calm dwellings of the free and happy dead, Where I am sent to lead!’ These winged words she said,

32. And with the silence of her eloquent smile, Bade us embark in her divine canoe; _4730 Then at the helm we took our seat, the while Above her head those plumes of dazzling hue Into the winds’ invisible stream she threw, Sitting beside the prow: like gossamer On the swift breath of morn, the vessel flew _4735 O’er the bright whirlpools of that fountain fair, Whose shores receded fast, while we seemed lingering there;

33. Till down that mighty stream, dark, calm, and fleet, Between a chasm of cedarn mountains riven, Chased by the thronging winds whose viewless feet _4740 As swift as twinkling beams, had, under Heaven, From woods and waves wild sounds and odours driven, The boat fled visibly—three nights and days, Borne like a cloud through morn, and noon, and even, We sailed along the winding watery ways _4745 Of the vast stream, a long and labyrinthine maze.

34. A scene of joy and wonder to behold That river’s shapes and shadows changing ever, Where the broad sunrise filled with deepening gold Its whirlpools, where all hues did spread and quiver; _4750 And where melodious falls did burst and shiver Among rocks clad with flowers, the foam and spray Sparkled like stars upon the sunny river, Or when the moonlight poured a holier day, One vast and glittering lake around green islands lay. _4755

35. Morn, noon, and even, that boat of pearl outran The streams which bore it, like the arrowy cloud Of tempest, or the speedier thought of man, Which flieth forth and cannot make abode; Sometimes through forests, deep like night, we glode, _4760 Between the walls of mighty mountains crowned With Cyclopean piles, whose turrets proud, The homes of the departed, dimly frowned O’er the bright waves which girt their dark foundations round.

36. Sometimes between the wide and flowering meadows, _4765 Mile after mile we sailed, and ’twas delight To see far off the sunbeams chase the shadows Over the grass; sometimes beneath the night Of wide and vaulted caves, whose roofs were bright With starry gems, we fled, whilst from their deep _4770 And dark-green chasms, shades beautiful and white, Amid sweet sounds across our path would sweep, Like swift and lovely dreams that walk the waves of sleep.

37. And ever as we sailed, our minds were full Of love and wisdom, which would overflow _4775 In converse wild, and sweet, and wonderful, And in quick smiles whose light would come and go Like music o’er wide waves, and in the flow Of sudden tears, and in the mute caress— For a deep shade was cleft, and we did know, _4780 That virtue, though obscured on Earth, not less Survives all mortal change in lasting loveliness.

38. Three days and nights we sailed, as thought and feeling Number delightful hours—for through the sky The sphered lamps of day and night, revealing _4785 New changes and new glories, rolled on high, Sun, Moon and moonlike lamps, the progeny Of a diviner Heaven, serene and fair: On the fourth day, wild as a windwrought sea The stream became, and fast and faster bare _4790 The spirit-winged boat, steadily speeding there.

39. Steady and swift, where the waves rolled like mountains Within the vast ravine, whose rifts did pour Tumultuous floods from their ten thousand fountains, The thunder of whose earth-uplifting roar _4795 Made the air sweep in whirlwinds from the shore, Calm as a shade, the boat of that fair child Securely fled, that rapid stress before, Amid the topmost spray, and sunbows wild, Wreathed in the silver mist: in joy and pride we smiled. _4800

40. The torrent of that wide and raging river Is passed, and our aereal speed suspended. We look behind; a golden mist did quiver When its wild surges with the lake were blended,— Our bark hung there, as on a line suspended _4805 Between two heavens,—that windless waveless lake Which four great cataracts from four vales, attended By mists, aye feed; from rocks and clouds they break, And of that azure sea a silent refuge make.

41. Motionless resting on the lake awhile, _4810 I saw its marge of snow-bright mountains rear Their peaks aloft, I saw each radiant isle, And in the midst, afar, even like a sphere Hung in one hollow sky, did there appear The Temple of the Spirit; on the sound _4815 Which issued thence, drawn nearer and more near, Like the swift moon this glorious earth around, The charmed boat approached, and there its haven found.

NOTES: _4577 there]then edition 1818. _4699 there]then edition 1818. _4749 When]Where edition 1818. _4804 Where]When edition 1818. _4805 on a line]one line edition 1818.

NOTE ON THE “REVOLT OF ISLAM”, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

Shelley possessed two remarkable qualities of intellect—a brilliant imagination, and a logical exactness of reason. His inclinations led him (he fancied) almost alike to poetry and metaphysical discussions. I say ‘he fancied,’ because I believe the former to have been paramount, and that it would have gained the mastery even had he struggled against it. However, he said that he deliberated at one time whether he should dedicate himself to poetry or metaphysics; and, resolving on the former, he educated himself for it, discarding in a great measure his philosophical pursuits, and engaging himself in the study of the poets of Greece, Italy, and England. To these may be added a constant perusal of portions of the old Testament—the Psalms, the Book of Job, the Prophet Isaiah, and others, the sublime poetry of which filled him with delight.

As a poet, his intellect and compositions were powerfully influenced by exterior circumstances, and especially by his place of abode. He was very fond of travelling, and ill-health increased this restlessness. The sufferings occasioned by a cold English winter made him pine, especially when our colder spring arrived, for a more genial climate. In 1816 he again visited Switzerland, and rented a house on the banks of the Lake of Geneva; and many a day, in cloud or sunshine, was passed alone in his boat—sailing as the wind listed, or weltering on the calm waters. The majestic aspect of Nature ministered such thoughts as he afterwards enwove in verse. His lines on the Bridge of the Arve, and his “Hymn to Intellectual Beauty”, were written at this time. Perhaps during this summer his genius was checked by association with another poet whose nature was utterly dissimilar to his own, yet who, in the poem he wrote at that time, gave tokens that he shared for a period the more abstract and etherealised inspiration of Shelley. The saddest events awaited his return to England; but such was his fear to wound the feelings of others that he never expressed the anguish he felt, and seldom gave vent to the indignation roused by the persecutions he underwent; while the course of deep unexpressed passion, and the sense of injury, engendered the desire to embody themselves in forms defecated of all the weakness and evil which cling to real life.

He chose therefore for his hero a youth nourished in dreams of liberty, some of whose actions are in direct opposition to the opinions of the world; but who is animated throughout by an ardent love of virtue, and a resolution to confer the boons of political and intellectual freedom on his fellow-creatures. He created for this youth a woman such as he delighted to imagine—full of enthusiasm for the same objects; and they both, with will unvanquished, and the deepest sense of the justice of their cause, met adversity and death. There exists in this poem a memorial of a friend of his youth. The character of the old man who liberates Laon from his tower prison, and tends on him in sickness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when Shelley was at Eton, had often stood by to befriend and support him, and whose name he never mentioned without love and veneration.

During the year 1817 we were established at Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Shelley’s choice of abode was fixed chiefly by this town being at no great distance from London, and its neighbourhood to the Thames. The poem was written in his boat, as it floated under the beech groves of Bisham, or during wanderings in the neighbouring country, which is distinguished for peculiar beauty. The chalk hills break into cliffs that overhang the Thames, or form valleys clothed with beech; the wilder portion of the country is rendered beautiful by exuberant vegetation; and the cultivated part is peculiarly fertile. With all this wealth of Nature which, either in the form of gentlemen’s parks or soil dedicated to agriculture, flourishes around, Marlow was inhabited (I hope it is altered now) by a very poor population. The women are lacemakers, and lose their health by sedentary labour, for which they were very ill paid. The Poor-laws ground to the dust not only the paupers, but those who had risen just above that state, and were obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes produced by peace following a long war, and a bad harvest, brought with them the most heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelley afforded what alleviation he could. In the winter, while bringing out his poem, he had a severe attack of ophthalmia, caught while visiting the poor cottages. I mention these things,—for this minute and active sympathy with his fellow-creatures gives a thousandfold interest to his speculations, and stamps with reality his pleadings for the human race.

The poem, bold in its opinions and uncompromising in their expression, met with many censurers, not only among those who allow of no virtue but such as supports the cause they espouse, but even among those whose opinions were similar to his own. I extract a portion of a letter written in answer to one of these friends. It best details the impulses of Shelley’s mind, and his motives: it was written with entire unreserve; and is therefore a precious monument of his own opinion of his powers, of the purity of his designs, and the ardour with which he clung, in adversity and through the valley of the shadow of death, to views from which he believed the permanent happiness of mankind must eventually spring.

‘Marlowe, December 11, 1817.

‘I have read and considered all that you say about my general powers, and the particular instance of the poem in which I have attempted to develop them. Nothing can be more satisfactory to me than the interest which your admonitions express. But I think you are mistaken in some points with regard to the peculiar nature of my powers, whatever be their amount. I listened with deference and self-suspicion to your censures of “The Revolt of Islam”; but the productions of mine which you commend hold a very low place in my own esteem; and this reassures me, in some degree at least. The poem was produced by a series of thoughts which filled my mind with unbounded and sustained enthusiasm. I felt the precariousness of my life, and I engaged in this task, resolved to leave some record of myself. Much of what the volume contains was written with the same feeling—as real, though not so prophetic—as the communications of a dying man. I never presumed indeed to consider it anything approaching to faultless; but, when I consider contemporary productions of the same apparent pretensions, I own I was filled with confidence. I felt that it was in many respects a genuine picture of my own mind. I felt that the sentiments were true, not assumed. And in this have I long believed that my power consists; in sympathy, and that part of the imagination which relates to sentiment and contemplation. I am formed, if for anything not in common with the herd of mankind, to apprehend minute and remote distinctions of feeling, whether relative to external nature or the living beings which surround us, and to communicate the conceptions which result from considering either the moral or the material universe as a whole. Of course, I believe these faculties, which perhaps comprehend all that is sublime in man, to exist very imperfectly in my own mind. But, when you advert to my Chancery-paper, a cold, forced, unimpassioned, insignificant piece of cramped and cautious argument, and to the little scrap about “Mandeville”, which expressed my feelings indeed, but cost scarcely two minutes’ thought to express, as specimens of my powers more favourable than that which grew as it were from “the agony and bloody sweat” of intellectual travail; surely I must feel that, in some manner, either I am mistaken in believing that I have any talent at all, or you in the selection of the specimens of it. Yet, after all, I cannot but be conscious, in much of what I write, of an absence of that tranquillity which is the attribute and accompaniment of power. This feeling alone would make your most kind and wise admonitions, on the subject of the economy of intellectual force, valuable to me. And, if I live, or if I see any trust in coming years, doubt not but that I shall do something, whatever it may be, which a serious and earnest estimate of my powers will suggest to me, and which will be in every respect accommodated to their utmost limits.

[Shelley to Godwin.]

***

PRINCE ATHANASE.

A FRAGMENT.

(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, page 164]. 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.])

[Written at Marlow in 1817, towards the close of the year; first published in “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. Part 1 is dated by Mrs. Shelley, ‘December, 1817,’ the remainder, ‘Marlow, 1817.’ The verses were probably rehandled in Italy during the following year. Sources of the text are (1) “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; (2) “Poetical Works” 1839, editions 1st and 2nd; (3) a much-tortured draft amongst the Bodleian manuscripts, collated by Mr. C.D. Locock. For (1) and (2) Mrs. Shelley is responsible. Our text (enlarged by about thirty lines from the Bodleian manuscript) follows for the most part the “Poetical Works”, 1839; verbal exceptions are pointed out in the footnotes. See also the Editor’s Notes at the end of this volume, and Mr. Locock’s “Examination of Shelley Manuscripts in the Bodleian Library”, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1903.]