Chapter 55

DOUBLE DAMNATION.

1. The Devil now knew his proper cue.— Soon as he read the ode, he drove To his friend Lord MacMurderchouse’s, _655 A man of interest in both houses, And said:—‘For money or for love,

2. ‘Pray find some cure or sinecure; To feed from the superfluous taxes A friend of ours—a poet—fewer _660 Have fluttered tamer to the lure Than he.’ His lordship stands and racks his

3. Stupid brains, while one might count As many beads as he had boroughs,— At length replies; from his mean front, _665 Like one who rubs out an account, Smoothing away the unmeaning furrows:

4. ‘It happens fortunately, dear Sir, I can. I hope I need require No pledge from you, that he will stir _670 In our affairs;—like Oliver. That he’ll be worthy of his hire.’

5. These words exchanged, the news sent off To Peter, home the Devil hied,— Took to his bed; he had no cough, _675 No doctor,—meat and drink enough.— Yet that same night he died.

6. The Devil’s corpse was leaded down; His decent heirs enjoyed his pelf, Mourning-coaches, many a one, _680 Followed his hearse along the town:— Where was the Devil himself?

7. When Peter heard of his promotion, His eyes grew like two stars for bliss: There was a bow of sleek devotion _685 Engendering in his back; each motion Seemed a Lord’s shoe to kiss.

8. He hired a house, bought plate, and made A genteel drive up to his door, With sifted gravel neatly laid,— _690 As if defying all who said, Peter was ever poor.

9. But a disease soon struck into The very life and soul of Peter— He walked about—slept—had the hue _695 Of health upon his cheeks—and few Dug better—none a heartier eater.

10. And yet a strange and horrid curse Clung upon Peter, night and day; Month after month the thing grew worse, _700 And deadlier than in this my verse I can find strength to say.

11. Peter was dull—he was at first Dull—oh, so dull—so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed— _705 Still with this dulness was he cursed— Dull—beyond all conception—dull.

12. No one could read his books—no mortal, But a few natural friends, would hear him; The parson came not near his portal; _710 His state was like that of the immortal Described by Swift—no man could bear him.

13. His sister, wife, and children yawned, With a long, slow, and drear ennui, All human patience far beyond; _715 Their hopes of Heaven each would have pawned, Anywhere else to be.

14. But in his verse, and in his prose, The essence of his dulness was Concentred and compressed so close, _720 ’Twould have made Guatimozin doze On his red gridiron of brass.

15. A printer’s boy, folding those pages, Fell slumbrously upon one side; Like those famed Seven who slept three ages. _725 To wakeful frenzy’s vigil—rages, As opiates, were the same applied.

16. Even the Reviewers who were hired To do the work of his reviewing, With adamantine nerves, grew tired;— _730 Gaping and torpid they retired, To dream of what they should be doing.

17. And worse and worse, the drowsy curse Yawned in him, till it grew a pest— A wide contagious atmosphere, _735 Creeping like cold through all things near; A power to infect and to infest.

18. His servant-maids and dogs grew dull; His kitten, late a sportive elf; The woods and lakes, so beautiful, _740 Of dim stupidity were full. All grew dull as Peter’s self.

19. The earth under his feet—the springs, Which lived within it a quick life, The air, the winds of many wings, _745 That fan it with new murmurings, Were dead to their harmonious strife.

20. The birds and beasts within the wood, The insects, and each creeping thing, Were now a silent multitude; _750 Love’s work was left unwrought—no brood Near Peter’s house took wing.

21. And every neighbouring cottager Stupidly yawned upon the other: No jackass brayed; no little cur _755 Cocked up his ears;—no man would stir To save a dying mother.

22. Yet all from that charmed district went But some half-idiot and half-knave, Who rather than pay any rent, _760 Would live with marvellous content, Over his father’s grave.

23. No bailiff dared within that space, For fear of the dull charm, to enter; A man would bear upon his face, _765 For fifteen months in any case, The yawn of such a venture.

24. Seven miles above—below—around— This pest of dulness holds its sway; A ghastly life without a sound; _770 To Peter’s soul the spell is bound— How should it ever pass away?

NOTES: (_8 To those who have not duly appreciated the distinction between Whale and Russia oil, this attribute might rather seem to belong to the Dandy than the Evangelic. The effect, when to the windward, is indeed so similar, that it requires a subtle naturalist to discriminate the animals. They belong, however, to distinct genera.—[SHELLEY’s NOTE.)

(_183 One of the attributes in Linnaeus’s description of the Cat. To a similar cause the caterwauling of more than one species of this genus is to be referred;—except, indeed, that the poor quadruped is compelled to quarrel with its own pleasures, whilst the biped is supposed only to quarrel with those of others.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

(_186 What would this husk and excuse for a virtue be without its kernel prostitution, or the kernel prostitution without this husk of a virtue? I wonder the women of the town do not form an association, like the Society for the Suppression of Vice, for the support of what may be called the ‘King, Church, and Constitution’ of their order. But this subject is almost too horrible for a joke.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

(_222 This libel on our national oath, and this accusation of all our countrymen of being in the daily practice of solemnly asseverating the most enormous falsehood, I fear deserves the notice of a more active Attorney General than that here alluded to.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

_292 one Fleay cj., Rossetti, Forman, Dowden, Woodberry; out 1839, 2nd edition. _500 Betty]Emma 1839, 2nd edition. See letter from Shelley to Ollier, May 14, 1820 (Shelley Memorials, page 139).

(_512 Vox populi, vox dei. As Mr. Godwin truly observes of a more famous saying, of some merit as a popular maxim, but totally destitute of philosophical accuracy.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

(_534 Quasi, Qui valet verba:—i.e. all the words which have been, are, or may be expended by, for, against, with, or on him. A sufficient proof of the utility of this history. Peter’s progenitor who selected this name seems to have possessed A PURE ANTICIPATED COGNITION of the nature and modesty of this ornament of his posterity.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

_602-3 See Editor’s Note.

(_583 A famous river in the new Atlantis of the Dynastophylic Pantisocratists.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

(_588 See the description of the beautiful colours produced during the agonizing death of a number of trout, in the fourth part of a long poem in blank verse, published within a few years. [“The Excursion”, 8 2 568-71.—Ed.] That poem contains curious evidence of the gradual hardening of a strong but circumscribed sensibility, of the perversion of a penetrating but panic-stricken understanding. The author might have derived a lesson which he had probably forgotten from these sweet and sublime verses:—

‘This lesson, Shepherd, let us two divide, Taught both by what she (Nature) shows and what conceals, Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.’—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

(_652 It is curious to observe how often extremes meet. Cobbett and Peter use the same language for a different purpose: Peter is indeed a sort of metrical Cobbett. Cobbett is, however, more mischievous than Peter, because he pollutes a holy and how unconquerable cause with the principles of legitimate murder; whilst the other only makes a bad one ridiculous and odious.

If either Peter or Cobbett should see this note, each will feel more indignation at being compared to the other than at any censure implied in the moral perversion laid to their charge.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.])

NOTE ON PETER BELL THE THIRD, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

In this new edition I have added “Peter Bell the Third”. A critique on Wordsworth’s “Peter Bell” reached us at Leghorn, which amused Shelley exceedingly, and suggested this poem.

I need scarcely observe that nothing personal to the author of “Peter Bell” is intended in this poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth’s poetry more;—he read it perpetually, and taught others to appreciate its beauties. This poem is, like all others written by Shelley, ideal. He conceived the idealism of a poet—a man of lofty and creative genius—quitting the glorious calling of discovering and announcing the beautiful and good, to support and propagate ignorant prejudices and pernicious errors; imparting to the unenlightened, not that ardour for truth and spirit of toleration which Shelley looked on as the sources of the moral improvement and happiness of mankind, but false and injurious opinions, that evil was good, and that ignorance and force were the best allies of purity and virtue. His idea was that a man gifted, even as transcendently as the author of “Peter Bell”, with the highest qualities of genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be infected with dulness. This poem was written as a warning—not as a narration of the reality. He was unacquainted personally with Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (to whom he alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely ideal;—it contains something of criticism on the compositions of those great poets, but nothing injurious to the men themselves.

No poem contains more of Shelley’s peculiar views with regard to the errors into which many of the wisest have fallen, and the pernicious effects of certain opinions on society. Much of it is beautifully written: and, though, like the burlesque drama of “Swellfoot”, it must be looked on as a plaything, it has so much merit and poetry—so much of HIMSELF in it—that it cannot fail to interest greatly, and by right belongs to the world for whose instruction and benefit it was written.

***

LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE.

[Composed during Shelley’s occupation of the Gisbornes’ house at Leghorn, July, 1820; published in “Posthumous Poems”, 1824. Sources of the text are (1) a draft in Shelley’s hand, ‘partly illegible’ (Forman), amongst the Boscombe manuscripts; (2) a transcript by Mrs. Shelley; (3) the editio princeps, 1824; the text in “Poetical Works”, 1839, let and 2nd editions. Our text is that of Mrs. Shelley’s transcript, modified by the Boscombe manuscript. Here, as elsewhere in this edition, the readings of the editio princeps are preserved in the footnotes.]

LEGHORN, July 1, 1820.]

The spider spreads her webs, whether she be In poet’s tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves; So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, _5 Sit spinning still round this decaying form, From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought— No net of words in garish colours wrought To catch the idle buzzers of the day— But a soft cell, where when that fades away, _10 Memory may clothe in wings my living name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, Which in those hearts which must remember me Grow, making love an immortality.

Whoever should behold me now, I wist, _15 Would think I were a mighty mechanist, Bent with sublime Archimedean art To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win _20 Its way over the sea, and sport therein; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan:—or the quick Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic, _25 To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic, Or those in philanthropic council met, Who thought to pay some interest for the debt They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation, By giving a faint foretaste of damnation _30 To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest Who made our land an island of the blest, When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire On Freedom’s hearth, grew dim with Empire:— With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag, _35 Which fishers found under the utmost crag Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles, Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn When the exulting elements in scorn, _40 Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey, As panthers sleep;—and other strange and dread Magical forms the brick floor overspread,— Proteus transformed to metal did not make _45 More figures, or more strange; nor did he take Such shapes of unintelligible brass, Or heap himself in such a horrid mass Of tin and iron not to be understood; And forms of unimaginable wood, _50 To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood: Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks, The elements of what will stand the shocks Of wave and wind and time.—Upon the table More knacks and quips there be than I am able _55 To catalogize in this verse of mine:— A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine, But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink When at their subterranean toil they swink, Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who _60 Reply to them in lava—cry halloo! And call out to the cities o’er their head,— Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead, Crash through the chinks of earth—and then all quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. _65 This quicksilver no gnome has drunk—within The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin, In colour like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire—the breeze _70 Is still—blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver—for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood—I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat:— _75 A hollow screw with cogs—Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me,—if so He fears not I should do more mischief.—Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint _80 Traced over them in blue and yellow paint. Then comes a range of mathematical Instruments, for plans nautical and statical, A heap of rosin, a queer broken glass With ink in it;—a china cup that was _85 What it will never be again, I think,— A thing from which sweet lips were wont to drink The liquor doctors rail at—and which I Will quaff in spite of them—and when we die We’ll toss up who died first of drinking tea, _90 And cry out,—‘Heads or tails?’ where’er we be. Near that a dusty paint-box, some odd hooks, A half-burnt match, an ivory block, three books, Where conic sections, spherics, logarithms, To great Laplace, from Saunderson and Sims, _95 Lie heaped in their harmonious disarray Of figures,—disentangle them who may. Baron de Tott’s Memoirs beside them lie, And some odd volumes of old chemistry. Near those a most inexplicable thing, _100 With lead in the middle—I’m conjecturing How to make Henry understand; but no— I’ll leave, as Spenser says, with many mo, This secret in the pregnant womb of time, Too vast a matter for so weak a rhyme. _105

And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery, The self-impelling steam-wheels of the mind Which pump up oaths from clergymen, and grind The gentle spirit of our meek reviews _110 Into a powdery foam of salt abuse, Ruffling the ocean of their self-content;— I sit—and smile or sigh as is my bent, But not for them—Libeccio rushes round With an inconstant and an idle sound, _115 I heed him more than them—the thunder-smoke Is gathering on the mountains, like a cloak Folded athwart their shoulders broad and bare; The ripe corn under the undulating air Undulates like an ocean;—and the vines _120 Are trembling wide in all their trellised lines— The murmur of the awakening sea doth fill The empty pauses of the blast;—the hill Looks hoary through the white electric rain, And from the glens beyond, in sullen strain, _125 The interrupted thunder howls; above One chasm of Heaven smiles, like the eye of Love On the unquiet world;—while such things are, How could one worth your friendship heed the war Of worms? the shriek of the world’s carrion jays, _130 Their censure, or their wonder, or their praise?

You are not here! the quaint witch Memory sees, In vacant chairs, your absent images, And points where once you sat, and now should be But are not.—I demand if ever we _135 Shall meet as then we met;—and she replies. Veiling in awe her second-sighted eyes; ‘I know the past alone—but summon home My sister Hope,—she speaks of all to come.’ But I, an old diviner, who knew well _140 Every false verse of that sweet oracle, Turned to the sad enchantress once again, And sought a respite from my gentle pain, In citing every passage o’er and o’er Of our communion—how on the sea-shore _145 We watched the ocean and the sky together, Under the roof of blue Italian weather; How I ran home through last year’s thunder-storm, And felt the transverse lightning linger warm Upon my cheek—and how we often made _150 Feasts for each other, where good will outweighed The frugal luxury of our country cheer, As well it might, were it less firm and clear Than ours must ever be;—and how we spun A shroud of talk to hide us from the sun _155 Of this familiar life, which seems to be But is not:—or is but quaint mockery Of all we would believe, and sadly blame The jarring and inexplicable frame Of this wrong world:—and then anatomize _160 The purposes and thoughts of men whose eyes Were closed in distant years;—or widely guess The issue of the earth’s great business, When we shall be as we no longer are— Like babbling gossips safe, who hear the war _165 Of winds, and sigh, but tremble not;—or how You listened to some interrupted flow Of visionary rhyme,—in joy and pain Struck from the inmost fountains of my brain, With little skill perhaps;—or how we sought _170 Those deepest wells of passion or of thought Wrought by wise poets in the waste of years, Staining their sacred waters with our tears; Quenching a thirst ever to be renewed! Or how I, wisest lady! then endued _175 The language of a land which now is free, And, winged with thoughts of truth and majesty, Flits round the tyrant’s sceptre like a cloud, And bursts the peopled prisons, and cries aloud, ‘My name is Legion!’—that majestic tongue _180 Which Calderon over the desert flung Of ages and of nations; and which found An echo in our hearts, and with the sound Startled oblivion;—thou wert then to me As is a nurse—when inarticulately _185 A child would talk as its grown parents do. If living winds the rapid clouds pursue, If hawks chase doves through the aethereal way, Huntsmen the innocent deer, and beasts their prey, Why should not we rouse with the spirit’s blast _190 Out of the forest of the pathless past These recollected pleasures? You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more. _195 Yet in its depth what treasures! You will see That which was Godwin,—greater none than he Though fallen—and fallen on evil times—to stand Among the spirits of our age and land, Before the dread tribunal of “to come” _200 The foremost,—while Rebuke cowers pale and dumb. You will see Coleridge—he who sits obscure In the exceeding lustre and the pure Intense irradiation of a mind, Which, with its own internal lightning blind, _200 Flags wearily through darkness and despair— A cloud-encircled meteor of the air, A hooded eagle among blinking owls.— You will see Hunt—one of those happy souls Which are the salt of the earth, and without whom _210 This world would smell like what it is—a tomb; Who is, what others seem; his room no doubt Is still adorned with many a cast from Shout, With graceful flowers tastefully placed about; And coronals of bay from ribbons hung, _215 And brighter wreaths in neat disorder flung; The gifts of the most learned among some dozens Of female friends, sisters-in-law, and cousins. And there is he with his eternal puns, Which beat the dullest brain for smiles, like duns _220 Thundering for money at a poet’s door; Alas! it is no use to say, ‘I’m poor!’ Or oft in graver mood, when he will look Things wiser than were ever read in book, Except in Shakespeare’s wisest tenderness.— _225 You will see Hogg,—and I cannot express His virtues,—though I know that they are great, Because he locks, then barricades the gate Within which they inhabit;—of his wit And wisdom, you’ll cry out when you are bit. _230 He is a pearl within an oyster shell. One of the richest of the deep;—and there Is English Peacock, with his mountain Fair, Turned into a Flamingo;—that shy bird That gleams i’ the Indian air—have you not heard _235 When a man marries, dies, or turns Hindoo, His best friends hear no more of him?—but you Will see him, and will like him too, I hope, With the milk-white Snowdonian Antelope Matched with this cameleopard—his fine wit _240 Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it; A strain too learned for a shallow age, Too wise for selfish bigots; let his page, Which charms the chosen spirits of the time, Fold itself up for the serener clime _245 Of years to come, and find its recompense In that just expectation.—Wit and sense, Virtue and human knowledge; all that might Make this dull world a business of delight, Are all combined in Horace Smith.—And these. _250 With some exceptions, which I need not tease Your patience by descanting on,—are all You and I know in London. I recall My thoughts, and bid you look upon the night. As water does a sponge, so the moonlight _255 Fills the void, hollow, universal air— What see you?—unpavilioned Heaven is fair, Whether the moon, into her chamber gone, Leaves midnight to the golden stars, or wan Climbs with diminished beams the azure steep; _260 Or whether clouds sail o’er the inverse deep, Piloted by the many-wandering blast, And the rare stars rush through them dim and fast:— All this is beautiful in every land.— But what see you beside?—a shabby stand _265 Of Hackney coaches—a brick house or wall Fencing some lonely court, white with the scrawl Of our unhappy politics;—or worse— A wretched woman reeling by, whose curse Mixed with the watchman’s, partner of her trade, _270 You must accept in place of serenade— Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring To Henry, some unutterable thing. I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit Built round dark caverns, even to the root _275 Of the living stems that feed them—in whose bowers There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers; Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance, _280 Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance, Pale in the open moonshine, but each one Under the dark trees seems a little sun, A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray From the silver regions of the milky way;— _285 Afar the Contadino’s song is heard, Rude, but made sweet by distance—and a bird Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet I know none else that sings so sweet as it At this late hour;—and then all is still— _290 Now—Italy or London, which you will!

Next winter you must pass with me; I’ll have My house by that time turned into a grave Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care, And all the dreams which our tormentors are; _295 Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and Smith were there, With everything belonging to them fair!— We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek; And ask one week to make another week As like his father, as I’m unlike mine, _300 Which is not his fault, as you may divine. Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine, Yet let’s be merry: we’ll have tea and toast; Custards for supper, and an endless host Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies, _305 And other such lady-like luxuries,— Feasting on which we will philosophize! And we’ll have fires out of the Grand Duke’s wood, To thaw the six weeks’ winter in our blood. And then we’ll talk;—what shall we talk about? _310 Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout Of thought-entangled descant;—as to nerves— With cones and parallelograms and curves I’ve sworn to strangle them if once they dare To bother me—when you are with me there. _315 And they shall never more sip laudanum, From Helicon or Himeros (1);—well, come, And in despite of God and of the devil, We’ll make our friendly philosophic revel Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers _320 Warn the obscure inevitable hours, Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;— ‘To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.’

NOTES: _13 must Bos. manuscript; most edition 1824. _27 philanthropic Bos. manuscript; philosophic edition 1824. _29 so 1839, 2nd edition; They owed... edition 1824. _36 Which fishers Bos. manuscript; Which fishes edition 1824; With fishes editions 1839. _38 rarely transcript; seldom editions 1824, 1839. _61 lava—cry]lava-cry editions 1824, 1839. _63 towers transcript; towns editions 1824, 1839. _84 queer Bos. manuscript; green transcript, editions 1824, 1839. _92 odd hooks transcript; old books editions 1839 (an evident misprint); old hooks edition 1824. _93 A]An edition 1824. _100 those transcript; them editions 1824, 1839. _101 lead Bos. manuscript; least transcript, editions 1824, 1839. _127 eye Bos. manuscript, transcript, editions 1839; age edition 1824. _140 knew Bos. manuscript; know transcript, editions 1824, 1839. _144 citing Bos. manuscript; acting transcript, editions 1824, 1839. _151 Feasts transcript; Treats editions 1824, 1839. _153 As well it]As it well editions 1824, 1839. _158 believe, and]believe; or editions 1824, 1839. _173 their transcript; the editions 1824, 1839. _188 aethereal transcript; aereal editions 1824, 1839. _197-201 See notes Volume 3. _202 Coleridge]C— edition 1824. So too H—t l. 209; H— l. 226; P— l. 233; H.S. l. 250; H— — and — l. 296. _205 lightning Bos. manuscript, transcript; lustre editions 1824, 1839. _224 read Bos. manuscript; said transcript, editions 1824, 1839. _244 time Bos. manuscript, transcript; age editions 1824, 1839. _245 the transcript: a editions 1824, 1839. _272, _273 found in the 2nd edition of P. W., 1839; wanting in transcript, edition 1824 and 1839, 1st. edition. _276 that transcript; who editions 1824, 1839. _288 the transcript; a editions 1824, 1839. _296 See notes Volume 3. _299, _300 So 1839, 2nd edition; wanting in editions 1824, 1839, 1st. _301 So transcript; wanting in editions 1824, 1839. _317 well, come 1839, 2nd edition; we’ll come editions 1824, 1839. 1st. _318 despite of God] transcript; despite of... edition 1824; spite of... editions 1839.

(_317 Imeros, from which the river Himera was named, is, with some slight shade of difference, a synonym of Love.—[SHELLEY’S NOTE.]

***

THE WITCH OF ATLAS.

[Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820; published in Posthumous Poems, edition Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The dedication To Mas-y first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition Sources of the text are (1) the editio princeps, 1824; (2) editions 1839 (which agree, and, save in two instances, follow edition 1824); (3) an early and incomplete manuscript in Shelley’s handwriting (now at the Bodleian, here, as throughout, cited as B.), carefully collated by Mr. C.D. Locock, who printed the results in his Examination of the Shelley manuscripts, etc., Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1903; (4) a later, yet intermediate, transcript by Mrs. Shelley, the variations of which are noted by Mr. H. Buxton Forman. The original text is modified in many places by variants from the manuscripts, but the readings of edition 1824 are, in every instance, given in the footnotes.]

TO MARY (ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST).

1. How, my dear Mary,—are you critic-bitten (For vipers kill, though dead) by some review, That you condemn these verses I have written, Because they tell no story, false or true? What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5 May it not leap and play as grown cats do, Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time, Content thee with a visionary rhyme.

2. What hand would crush the silken-winged fly, The youngest of inconstant April’s minions, _10 Because it cannot climb the purest sky, Where the swan sings, amid the sun’s dominions? Not thine. Thou knowest ’tis its doom to die, When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, _15 Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.

3. To thy fair feet a winged Vision came, Whose date should have been longer than a day, And o’er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; _20 The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way— And that is dead.—O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live!

4. Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years _25 Considering and retouching Peter Bell; Watering his laurels with the killing tears Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well _30 May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil The over-busy gardener’s blundering toil.

5. My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise Clothes for our grandsons—but she matches Peter, _35 Though he took nineteen years, and she three days In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays, Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress Like King Lear’s ‘looped and windowed raggedness.’ _40

6. If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow Scorched by Hell’s hyperequatorial climate Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow: A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at; In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. _45 If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate Can shrive you of that sin,—if sin there be In love, when it becomes idolatry.

THE WITCH OF ATLAS.

1. Before those cruel Twins, whom at one birth Incestuous Change bore to her father Time, _50 Error and Truth, had hunted from the Earth All those bright natures which adorned its prime, And left us nothing to believe in, worth The pains of putting into learned rhyme, A lady-witch there lived on Atlas’ mountain _55 Within a cavern, by a secret fountain.

2. Her mother was one of the Atlantides: The all-beholding Sun had ne’er beholden In his wide voyage o’er continents and seas So fair a creature, as she lay enfolden _60 In the warm shadow of her loveliness;— He kissed her with his beams, and made all golden The chamber of gray rock in which she lay— She, in that dream of joy, dissolved away.

3. ’Tis said, she first was changed into a vapour, _65 And then into a cloud, such clouds as flit, Like splendour-winged moths about a taper, Round the red west when the sun dies in it: And then into a meteor, such as caper On hill-tops when the moon is in a fit: _70 Then, into one of those mysterious stars Which hide themselves between the Earth and Mars.

4. Ten times the Mother of the Months had bent Her bow beside the folding-star, and bidden With that bright sign the billows to indent _75 The sea-deserted sand—like children chidden, At her command they ever came and went— Since in that cave a dewy splendour hidden Took shape and motion: with the living form Of this embodied Power, the cave grew warm. _80

5. A lovely lady garmented in light From her own beauty—deep her eyes, as are Two openings of unfathomable night Seen through a Temple’s cloven roof—her hair Dark—the dim brain whirls dizzy with delight. _85 Picturing her form; her soft smiles shone afar, And her low voice was heard like love, and drew All living things towards this wonder new.

6. And first the spotted cameleopard came, And then the wise and fearless elephant; _90 Then the sly serpent, in the golden flame Of his own volumes intervolved;—all gaunt And sanguine beasts her gentle looks made tame. They drank before her at her sacred fount; And every beast of beating heart grew bold, _95 Such gentleness and power even to behold.

7. The brinded lioness led forth her young, That she might teach them how they should forego Their inborn thirst of death; the pard unstrung His sinews at her feet, and sought to know _100 With looks whose motions spoke without a tongue How he might be as gentle as the doe. The magic circle of her voice and eyes All savage natures did imparadise.

8. And old Silenus, shaking a green stick _105 Of lilies, and the wood-gods in a crew Came, blithe, as in the olive copses thick Cicadae are, drunk with the noonday dew: And Dryope and Faunus followed quick, Teasing the God to sing them something new; _110 Till in this cave they found the lady lone, Sitting upon a seat of emerald stone.

9. And universal Pan, ’tis said, was there, And though none saw him,—through the adamant Of the deep mountains, through the trackless air, _115 And through those living spirits, like a want, He passed out of his everlasting lair Where the quick heart of the great world doth pant, And felt that wondrous lady all alone,— And she felt him, upon her emerald throne. _120

10. And every nymph of stream and spreading tree, And every shepherdess of Ocean’s flocks, Who drives her white waves over the green sea, And Ocean with the brine on his gray locks, And quaint Priapus with his company, _125 All came, much wondering how the enwombed rocks Could have brought forth so beautiful a birth;— Her love subdued their wonder and their mirth.

11. The herdsmen and the mountain maidens came, And the rude kings of pastoral Garamant— _130 Their spirits shook within them, as a flame Stirred by the air under a cavern gaunt: Pigmies, and Polyphemes, by many a name, Centaurs, and Satyrs, and such shapes as haunt Wet clefts,—and lumps neither alive nor dead, _135 Dog-headed, bosom-eyed, and bird-footed.

12. For she was beautiful—her beauty made The bright world dim, and everything beside Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade: No thought of living spirit could abide, _140 Which to her looks had ever been betrayed, On any object in the world so wide, On any hope within the circling skies, But on her form, and in her inmost eyes.

13. Which when the lady knew, she took her spindle _145 And twined three threads of fleecy mist, and three Long lines of light, such as the dawn may kindle The clouds and waves and mountains with; and she As many star-beams, ere their lamps could dwindle In the belated moon, wound skilfully; _150 And with these threads a subtle veil she wove— A shadow for the splendour of her love.

14. The deep recesses of her odorous dwelling Were stored with magic treasures—sounds of air, Which had the power all spirits of compelling, _155 Folded in cells of crystal silence there; Such as we hear in youth, and think the feeling Will never die—yet ere we are aware, The feeling and the sound are fled and gone, And the regret they leave remains alone. _160

15. And there lay Visions swift, and sweet, and quaint, Each in its thin sheath, like a chrysalis, Some eager to burst forth, some weak and faint With the soft burthen of intensest bliss. It was its work to bear to many a saint _165 Whose heart adores the shrine which holiest is, Even Love’s:—and others white, green, gray, and black, And of all shapes—and each was at her beck.

16. And odours in a kind of aviary Of ever-blooming Eden-trees she kept, _170 Clipped in a floating net, a love-sick Fairy Had woven from dew-beams while the moon yet slept; As bats at the wired window of a dairy, They beat their vans; and each was an adept, When loosed and missioned, making wings of winds, _175 To stir sweet thoughts or sad, in destined minds.

17. And liquors clear and sweet, whose healthful might Could medicine the sick soul to happy sleep, And change eternal death into a night Of glorious dreams—or if eyes needs must weep, _180 Could make their tears all wonder and delight, She in her crystal vials did closely keep: If men could drink of those clear vials, ’tis said The living were not envied of the dead.

18. Her cave was stored with scrolls of strange device, _185 The works of some Saturnian Archimage, Which taught the expiations at whose price Men from the Gods might win that happy age Too lightly lost, redeeming native vice; And which might quench the Earth-consuming rage _190 Of gold and blood—till men should live and move Harmonious as the sacred stars above;

19. And how all things that seem untameable, Not to be checked and not to be confined, Obey the spells of Wisdom’s wizard skill; _195 Time, earth, and fire—the ocean and the wind, And all their shapes—and man’s imperial will; And other scrolls whose writings did unbind The inmost lore of Love—let the profane Tremble to ask what secrets they contain. _200

20. And wondrous works of substances unknown, To which the enchantment of her father’s power Had changed those ragged blocks of savage stone, Were heaped in the recesses of her bower; Carved lamps and chalices, and vials which shone _205 In their own golden beams—each like a flower, Out of whose depth a fire-fly shakes his light Under a cypress in a starless night.

21. At first she lived alone in this wild home, And her own thoughts were each a minister, _210 Clothing themselves, or with the ocean foam, Or with the wind, or with the speed of fire, To work whatever purposes might come Into her mind; such power her mighty Sire Had girt them with, whether to fly or run, _215 Through all the regions which he shines upon.

22. The Ocean-nymphs and Hamadryades, Oreads and Naiads, with long weedy locks, Offered to do her bidding through the seas, Under the earth, and in the hollow rocks, _220 And far beneath the matted roots of trees, And in the gnarled heart of stubborn oaks, So they might live for ever in the light Of her sweet presence—each a satellite.

23. ‘This may not be,’ the wizard maid replied; _225 ‘The fountains where the Naiades bedew Their shining hair, at length are drained and dried; The solid oaks forget their strength, and strew Their latest leaf upon the mountains wide; The boundless ocean like a drop of dew _230 Will be consumed—the stubborn centre must Be scattered, like a cloud of summer dust.

24. ‘And ye with them will perish, one by one;— If I must sigh to think that this shall be, If I must weep when the surviving Sun _235 Shall smile on your decay—oh, ask not me To love you till your little race is run; I cannot die as ye must—over me Your leaves shall glance—the streams in which ye dwell Shall be my paths henceforth, and so—farewell!’— _240

25. She spoke and wept:—the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern-roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:—a knell _245 Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o’er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green.

26. All day the wizard lady sate aloof, Spelling out scrolls of dread antiquity, _250 Under the cavern’s fountain-lighted roof; Or broidering the pictured poesy Of some high tale upon her growing woof, Which the sweet splendour of her smiles could dye In hues outshining heaven—and ever she _255 Added some grace to the wrought poesy.

27. While on her hearth lay blazing many a piece Of sandal wood, rare gums, and cinnamon; Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is— Each flame of it is as a precious stone _260 Dissolved in ever-moving light, and this Belongs to each and all who gaze upon. The Witch beheld it not, for in her hand She held a woof that dimmed the burning brand.

28. This lady never slept, but lay in trance _265 All night within the fountain—as in sleep. Its emerald crags glowed in her beauty’s glance; Through the green splendour of the water deep She saw the constellations reel and dance Like fire-flies—and withal did ever keep _270 The tenour of her contemplations calm, With open eyes, closed feet, and folded palm.

29. And when the whirlwinds and the clouds descended From the white pinnacles of that cold hill, She passed at dewfall to a space extended, _275 Where in a lawn of flowering asphodel Amid a wood of pines and cedars blended, There yawned an inextinguishable well Of crimson fire—full even to the brim, And overflowing all the margin trim. _280

30. Within the which she lay when the fierce war Of wintry winds shook that innocuous liquor In many a mimic moon and bearded star O’er woods and lawns;—the serpent heard it flicker In sleep, and dreaming still, he crept afar— _285 And when the windless snow descended thicker Than autumn leaves, she watched it as it came Melt on the surface of the level flame.

31. She had a boat, which some say Vulcan wrought For Venus, as the chariot of her star; _290 But it was found too feeble to be fraught With all the ardours in that sphere which are, And so she sold it, and Apollo bought And gave it to this daughter: from a car Changed to the fairest and the lightest boat _295 Which ever upon mortal stream did float.

32. And others say, that, when but three hours old, The first-born Love out of his cradle lept, And clove dun Chaos with his wings of gold, And like a horticultural adept, _300 Stole a strange seed, and wrapped it up in mould, And sowed it in his mother’s star, and kept Watering it all the summer with sweet dew, And with his wings fanning it as it grew.

33. The plant grew strong and green, the snowy flower _305 Fell, and the long and gourd-like fruit began To turn the light and dew by inward power To its own substance; woven tracery ran Of light firm texture, ribbed and branching, o’er The solid rind, like a leaf’s veined fan— _310 Of which Love scooped this boat—and with soft motion Piloted it round the circumfluous ocean.

34. This boat she moored upon her fount, and lit A living spirit within all its frame, Breathing the soul of swiftness into it. _315 Couched on the fountain like a panther tame, One of the twain at Evan’s feet that sit— Or as on Vesta’s sceptre a swift flame— Or on blind Homer’s heart a winged thought,— In joyous expectation lay the boat. _320

35. Then by strange art she kneaded fire and snow Together, tempering the repugnant mass With liquid love—all things together grow Through which the harmony of love can pass; And a fair Shape out of her hands did flow— _325 A living Image, which did far surpass In beauty that bright shape of vital stone Which drew the heart out of Pygmalion.

36. A sexless thing it was, and in its growth It seemed to have developed no defect _330 Of either sex, yet all the grace of both,— In gentleness and strength its limbs were decked; The bosom swelled lightly with its full youth, The countenance was such as might select Some artist that his skill should never die, _335 Imaging forth such perfect purity.

37. From its smooth shoulders hung two rapid wings, Fit to have borne it to the seventh sphere, Tipped with the speed of liquid lightenings, Dyed in the ardours of the atmosphere: _340 She led her creature to the boiling springs Where the light boat was moored, and said: ‘Sit here!’ And pointed to the prow, and took her seat Beside the rudder, with opposing feet.

38. And down the streams which clove those mountains vast, _345 Around their inland islets, and amid The panther-peopled forests whose shade cast Darkness and odours, and a pleasure hid In melancholy gloom, the pinnace passed; By many a star-surrounded pyramid _350 Of icy crag cleaving the purple sky, And caverns yawning round unfathomably.

39. The silver noon into that winding dell, With slanted gleam athwart the forest tops, Tempered like golden evening, feebly fell; _355 A green and glowing light, like that which drops From folded lilies in which glow-worms dwell, When Earth over her face Night’s mantle wraps; Between the severed mountains lay on high, Over the stream, a narrow rift of sky. _360

40. And ever as she went, the Image lay With folded wings and unawakened eyes; And o’er its gentle countenance did play The busy dreams, as thick as summer flies, Chasing the rapid smiles that would not stay, _365 And drinking the warm tears, and the sweet sighs Inhaling, which, with busy murmur vain, They had aroused from that full heart and brain.

41. And ever down the prone vale, like a cloud Upon a stream of wind, the pinnace went: _370 Now lingering on the pools, in which abode The calm and darkness of the deep content In which they paused; now o’er the shallow road Of white and dancing waters, all besprent With sand and polished pebbles:—mortal boat _375 In such a shallow rapid could not float.

42. And down the earthquaking cataracts which shiver Their snow-like waters into golden air, Or under chasms unfathomable ever Sepulchre them, till in their rage they tear _380 A subterranean portal for the river, It fled—the circling sunbows did upbear Its fall down the hoar precipice of spray, Lighting it far upon its lampless way.

43. And when the wizard lady would ascend _385 The labyrinths of some many-winding vale, Which to the inmost mountain upward tend— She called ‘Hermaphroditus!’—and the pale And heavy hue which slumber could extend Over its lips and eyes, as on the gale _390 A rapid shadow from a slope of grass, Into the darkness of the stream did pass.

44. And it unfurled its heaven-coloured pinions, With stars of fire spotting the stream below; And from above into the Sun’s dominions _395 Flinging a glory, like the golden glow In which Spring clothes her emerald-winged minions, All interwoven with fine feathery snow And moonlight splendour of intensest rime, With which frost paints the pines in winter time. _400

45. And then it winnowed the Elysian air Which ever hung about that lady bright, With its aethereal vans—and speeding there, Like a star up the torrent of the night, Or a swift eagle in the morning glare _405 Breasting the whirlwind with impetuous flight, The pinnace, oared by those enchanted wings, Clove the fierce streams towards their upper springs.

46. The water flashed, like sunlight by the prow Of a noon-wandering meteor flung to Heaven; _410 The still air seemed as if its waves did flow In tempest down the mountains; loosely driven The lady’s radiant hair streamed to and fro: Beneath, the billows having vainly striven Indignant and impetuous, roared to feel _415 The swift and steady motion of the keel.

47. Or, when the weary moon was in the wane, Or in the noon of interlunar night, The lady-witch in visions could not chain Her spirit; but sailed forth under the light _420 Of shooting stars, and bade extend amain Its storm-outspeeding wings, the Hermaphrodite; She to the Austral waters took her way, Beyond the fabulous Thamondocana,—

48. Where, like a meadow which no scythe has shaven, _425 Which rain could never bend, or whirl-blast shake, With the Antarctic constellations paven, Canopus and his crew, lay the Austral lake— There she would build herself a windless haven Out of the clouds whose moving turrets make _430 The bastions of the storm, when through the sky The spirits of the tempest thundered by:

49. A haven beneath whose translucent floor The tremulous stars sparkled unfathomably, And around which the solid vapours hoar, _435 Based on the level waters, to the sky Lifted their dreadful crags, and like a shore Of wintry mountains, inaccessibly Hemmed in with rifts and precipices gray, And hanging crags, many a cove and bay. _440

50. And whilst the outer lake beneath the lash Of the wind’s scourge, foamed like a wounded thing, And the incessant hail with stony clash Ploughed up the waters, and the flagging wing Of the roused cormorant in the lightning flash _445 Looked like the wreck of some wind-wandering Fragment of inky thunder-smoke—this haven Was as a gem to copy Heaven engraven,—

51. On which that lady played her many pranks, Circling the image of a shooting star, _450 Even as a tiger on Hydaspes’ banks Outspeeds the antelopes which speediest are, In her light boat; and many quips and cranks She played upon the water, till the car Of the late moon, like a sick matron wan, _455 To journey from the misty east began.

52. And then she called out of the hollow turrets Of those high clouds, white, golden and vermilion, The armies of her ministering spirits— In mighty legions, million after million, _460 They came, each troop emblazoning its merits On meteor flags; and many a proud pavilion Of the intertexture of the atmosphere They pitched upon the plain of the calm mere.

53. They framed the imperial tent of their great Queen _465 Of woven exhalations, underlaid With lambent lightning-fire, as may be seen A dome of thin and open ivory inlaid With crimson silk—cressets from the serene Hung there, and on the water for her tread _470 A tapestry of fleece-like mist was strewn, Dyed in the beams of the ascending moon.

54. And on a throne o’erlaid with starlight, caught Upon those wandering isles of aery dew, Which highest shoals of mountain shipwreck not, _475 She sate, and heard all that had happened new Between the earth and moon, since they had brought The last intelligence—and now she grew Pale as that moon, lost in the watery night— And now she wept, and now she laughed outright. _480

55. These were tame pleasures; she would often climb The steepest ladder of the crudded rack Up to some beaked cape of cloud sublime, And like Arion on the dolphin’s back Ride singing through the shoreless air;—oft-time _485 Following the serpent lightning’s winding track, She ran upon the platforms of the wind, And laughed to hear the fire-balls roar behind.

56. And sometimes to those streams of upper air Which whirl the earth in its diurnal round, _490 She would ascend, and win the spirits there To let her join their chorus. Mortals found That on those days the sky was calm and fair, And mystic snatches of harmonious sound Wandered upon the earth where’er she passed, _495 And happy thoughts of hope, too sweet to last.

57. But her choice sport was, in the hours of sleep, To glide adown old Nilus, where he threads Egypt and Aethiopia, from the steep Of utmost Axume, until he spreads, _500 Like a calm flock of silver-fleeced sheep, His waters on the plain: and crested heads Of cities and proud temples gleam amid, And many a vapour-belted pyramid.

58. By Moeris and the Mareotid lakes, _505 Strewn with faint blooms like bridal chamber floors, Where naked boys bridling tame water-snakes, Or charioteering ghastly alligators, Had left on the sweet waters mighty wakes Of those huge forms—within the brazen doors _510 Of the great Labyrinth slept both boy and beast, Tired with the pomp of their Osirian feast.

59. And where within the surface of the river The shadows of the massy temples lie, And never are erased—but tremble ever _515 Like things which every cloud can doom to die, Through lotus-paven canals, and wheresoever The works of man pierced that serenest sky With tombs, and towers, and fanes, ’twas her delight To wander in the shadow of the night. _520

60. With motion like the spirit of that wind Whose soft step deepens slumber, her light feet Passed through the peopled haunts of humankind. Scattering sweet visions from her presence sweet, Through fane, and palace-court, and labyrinth mined _525 With many a dark and subterranean street Under the Nile, through chambers high and deep She passed, observing mortals in their sleep.

61. A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. _530 Here lay two sister twins in infancy; There, a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linked innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem;—and there lay calm _535 Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm.

62. But other troubled forms of sleep she saw, Not to be mirrored in a holy song— Distortions foul of supernatural awe, And pale imaginings of visioned wrong; _540 And all the code of Custom’s lawless law Written upon the brows of old and young: ‘This,’ said the wizard maiden, ‘is the strife Which stirs the liquid surface of man’s life.’

63. And little did the sight disturb her soul.— _545 We, the weak mariners of that wide lake Where’er its shores extend or billows roll, Our course unpiloted and starless make O’er its wild surface to an unknown goal:— But she in the calm depths her way could take, _550 Where in bright bowers immortal forms abide Beneath the weltering of the restless tide.

64. And she saw princes couched under the glow Of sunlike gems; and round each temple-court In dormitories ranged, row after row, _555 She saw the priests asleep—all of one sort— For all were educated to be so.— The peasants in their huts, and in the port The sailors she saw cradled on the waves, And the dead lulled within their dreamless graves. _560

65. And all the forms in which those spirits lay Were to her sight like the diaphanous Veils, in which those sweet ladies oft array Their delicate limbs, who would conceal from us Only their scorn of all concealment: they _565 Move in the light of their own beauty thus. But these and all now lay with sleep upon them, And little thought a Witch was looking on them.

66. She, all those human figures breathing there, Beheld as living spirits—to her eyes _570 The naked beauty of the soul lay bare, And often through a rude and worn disguise She saw the inner form most bright and fair— And then she had a charm of strange device, Which, murmured on mute lips with tender tone, _575 Could make that spirit mingle with her own.

67. Alas! Aurora, what wouldst thou have given For such a charm when Tithon became gray? Or how much, Venus, of thy silver heaven Wouldst thou have yielded, ere Proserpina _580 Had half (oh! why not all?) the debt forgiven Which dear Adonis had been doomed to pay, To any witch who would have taught you it? The Heliad doth not know its value yet.

68. ’Tis said in after times her spirit free _585 Knew what love was, and felt itself alone— But holy Dian could not chaster be Before she stooped to kiss Endymion, Than now this lady—like a sexless bee Tasting all blossoms, and confined to none, _590 Among those mortal forms, the wizard-maiden Passed with an eye serene and heart unladen.

69. To those she saw most beautiful, she gave Strange panacea in a crystal bowl:— They drank in their deep sleep of that sweet wave, _595 And lived thenceforward as if some control, Mightier than life, were in them; and the grave Of such, when death oppressed the weary soul, Was as a green and overarching bower Lit by the gems of many a starry flower. _600

70. For on the night when they were buried, she Restored the embalmers’ ruining, and shook The light out of the funeral lamps, to be A mimic day within that deathy nook; And she unwound the woven imagery _605 Of second childhood’s swaddling bands, and took The coffin, its last cradle, from its niche, And threw it with contempt into a ditch.

71. And there the body lay, age after age. Mute, breathing, beating, warm, and undecaying, _610 Like one asleep in a green hermitage, With gentle smiles about its eyelids playing, And living in its dreams beyond the rage Of death or life; while they were still arraying In liveries ever new, the rapid, blind _615 And fleeting generations of mankind.

72. And she would write strange dreams upon the brain Of those who were less beautiful, and make All harsh and crooked purposes more vain Than in the desert is the serpent’s wake _620 Which the sand covers—all his evil gain The miser in such dreams would rise and shake Into a beggar’s lap;—the lying scribe Would his own lies betray without a bribe.

73. The priests would write an explanation full, _625 Translating hieroglyphics into Greek, How the God Apis really was a bull, And nothing more; and bid the herald stick The same against the temple doors, and pull The old cant down; they licensed all to speak _630 Whate’er they thought of hawks, and cats, and geese, By pastoral letters to each diocese.

74. The king would dress an ape up in his crown And robes, and seat him on his glorious seat, And on the right hand of the sunlike throne _635 Would place a gaudy mock-bird to repeat The chatterings of the monkey.—Every one Of the prone courtiers crawled to kiss the feet Of their great Emperor, when the morning came, And kissed—alas, how many kiss the same! _640

75. The soldiers dreamed that they were blacksmiths, and Walked out of quarters in somnambulism; Round the red anvils you might see them stand Like Cyclopses in Vulcan’s sooty abysm, Beating their swords to ploughshares;—in a band _645 The gaolers sent those of the liberal schism Free through the streets of Memphis, much, I wis, To the annoyance of king Amasis.

76. And timid lovers who had been so coy, They hardly knew whether they loved or not, _650 Would rise out of their rest, and take sweet joy, To the fulfilment of their inmost thought; And when next day the maiden and the boy Met one another, both, like sinners caught, Blushed at the thing which each believed was done _655 Only in fancy—till the tenth moon shone;

77. And then the Witch would let them take no ill: Of many thousand schemes which lovers find, The Witch found one,—and so they took their fill Of happiness in marriage warm and kind. _660 Friends who, by practice of some envious skill, Were torn apart—a wide wound, mind from mind!— She did unite again with visions clear Of deep affection and of truth sincere.

80. These were the pranks she played among the cities _665 Of mortal men, and what she did to Sprites And Gods, entangling them in her sweet ditties To do her will, and show their subtle sleights, I will declare another time; for it is A tale more fit for the weird winter nights _670 Than for these garish summer days, when we Scarcely believe much more than we can see.

NOTES: _2 dead]deaf cj. A.C. Bradley, who cps. “Adonais” 317. _65 first was transcript, B.; was first edition 1824. _84 Temple’s transcript, B.; tempest’s edition 1824. _165 was its transcript, B.; is its edition 1824. _184 envied so all manuscripts and editions; envious cj. James Thomson (‘B. V.’). _262 upon so all manuscripts and editions: thereon cj. Rossetti. _333 swelled lightly edition 1824, B.; lightly swelled editions 1839; swelling lightly with its full growth transcript. _339 lightenings B., editions 1839; lightnings edition 1824, transcript. _422 Its transcript; His edition 1824, B. _424 Thamondocana transcript, B.; Thamondocona edition 1824. _442 wind’s transcript, B.; winds’ edition 1834. _493 where transcript, B.; when edition 1824. _596 thenceforward B.; thence forth edition 1824; henceforward transcript. _599 Was as a B.; Was a edition 1824. _601 night when transcript; night that edition 1824, B. _612 smiles transcript, B.; sleep edition 1824.

NOTE ON THE WITCH OF ATLAS, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino—a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lassitude and weakness on his return. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the “Witch of Atlas”. This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes—wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.

The surpassing excellence of “The Cenci” had made me greatly desire that Shelley should increase his popularity by adopting subjects that would more suit the popular taste than a poem conceived in the abstract and dreamy spirit of the “Witch of Atlas”. It was not only that I wished him to acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that he would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours. The few stanzas that precede the poem were addressed to me on my representing these ideas to him. Even now I believe that I was in the right. Shelley did not expect sympathy and approbation from the public; but the want of it took away a portion of the ardour that ought to have sustained him while writing. He was thrown on his own resources, and on the inspiration of his own soul; and wrote because his mind overflowed, without the hope of being appreciated. I had not the most distant wish that he should truckle in opinion, or submit his lofty aspirations for the human race to the low ambition and pride of the many; but I felt sure that, if his poems were more addressed to the common feelings of men, his proper rank among the writers of the day would be acknowledged, and that popularity as a poet would enable his countrymen to do justice to his character and virtues, which in those days it was the mode to attack with the most flagitious calumnies and insulting abuse. That he felt these things deeply cannot be doubted, though he armed himself with the consciousness of acting from a lofty and heroic sense of right. The truth burst from his heart sometimes in solitude, and he would writes few unfinished verses that showed that he felt the sting; among such I find the following:—

‘Alas! this is not what I thought Life was. I knew that there were crimes and evil men, Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering through the rugged glen. In mine own heart I saw as in a glass The hearts of others...And, when I went among my kind, with triple brass Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, To bear scorn, fear, and hate—a woful mass!’

I believed that all this morbid feeling would vanish if the chord of sympathy between him and his countrymen were touched. But my persuasions were vain, the mind could not be bent from its natural inclination. Shelley shrunk instinctively from portraying human passion, with its mixture of good and evil, of disappointment and disquiet. Such opened again the wounds of his own heart; and he loved to shelter himself rather in the airiest flights of fancy, forgetting love and hate, and regret and lost hope, in such imaginations as borrowed their hues from sunrise or sunset, from the yellow moonshine or paly twilight, from the aspect of the far ocean or the shadows of the woods,—which celebrated the singing of the winds among the pines, the flow of a murmuring stream, and the thousand harmonious sounds which Nature creates in her solitudes. These are the materials which form the “Witch of Atlas”: it is a brilliant congregation of ideas such as his senses gathered, and his fancy coloured, during his rambles in the sunny land he so much loved.

***

OEDIPUS TYRANNUS

OR

SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT.

A TRAGEDY IN TWO ACTS

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DORIC.

‘Choose Reform or Civil War, When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, A CONSORT-QUEEN shall hunt a king with hogs, Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR.’

[Begun at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 24, 1819; published anonymously by J. Johnston, Cheapside (imprint C.F. Seyfang), 1820. On a threat of prosecution the publisher surrendered the whole impression, seven copies—the total number sold—excepted. “Oedipus” does not appear in the first edition of the “Poetical Works”, 1839, but it was included by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of that year. Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1820, save in three places, where the reading of edition 1820 will be found in the notes.]

ADVERTISEMENT.

This Tragedy is one of a triad, or system of three Plays (an arrangement according to which the Greeks were accustomed to connect their dramatic representations), elucidating the wonderful and appalling fortunes of the SWELLFOOT dynasty. It was evidently written by some LEARNED THEBAN, and, from its characteristic dulness, apparently before the duties on the importation of ATTIC SALT had been repealed by the Boeotarchs. The tenderness with which he treats the PIGS proves him to have been a sus Boeotiae; possibly Epicuri de grege porcus; for, as the poet observes,

‘A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.’

No liberty has been taken with the translation of this remarkable piece of antiquity, except the suppressing a seditious and blasphemous Chorus of the Pigs and Bulls at the last Act. The work Hoydipouse (or more properly Oedipus) has been rendered literally SWELLFOOT, without its having been conceived necessary to determine whether a swelling of the hind or the fore feet of the Swinish Monarch is particularly indicated.

Should the remaining portions of this Tragedy be found, entitled, “Swellfoot in Angaria”, and “Charite”, the Translator might be tempted to give them to the reading Public.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

TYRANT SWELLFOOT, KING OF THEBES. IONA TAURINA, HIS QUEEN. MAMMON, ARCH-PRIEST OF FAMINE. PURGANAX, DAKRY, LAOCTONOS—WIZARDS, MINISTERS OF SWELLFOOT. THE GADFLY. THE LEECH. THE RAT. MOSES, THE SOW-GELDER. SOLOMON, THE PORKMAN. ZEPHANIAH, PIG-BUTCHER. THE MINOTAUR. CHORUS OF THE SWINISH MULTITUDE. GUARDS, ATTENDANTS, PRIESTS, ETC., ETC.

SCENE.—THEBES.