The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 193

I thought it had been death's accents cold That bade me recline on the sh.o.r.e; _15 I laid mine hot head on the surge-beaten mould, And thought to breathe no more.

But a heavenly sleep That did suddenly steep In balm my bosom's pain, _20 Pervaded my soul, And free from control, Did mine intellect range again.

Methought enthroned upon a silvery cloud, Which floated mid a strange and brilliant light; _25 My form upborne by viewless aether rode, And spurned the lessening realms of earthly night.

What heavenly notes burst on my ravished ears, What beauteous spirits met my dazzled eye!

Hark! louder swells the music of the spheres, _30 More clear the forms of speechless bliss float by, And heavenly gestures suit aethereal melody.

But fairer than the spirits of the air, More graceful than the Sylph of symmetry, Than the enthusiast's fancied love more fair, _35 Were the bright forms that swept the azure sky.

Enthroned in roseate light, a heavenly band Strewed flowers of bliss that never fade away; They welcome virtue to its native land, And songs of triumph greet the joyous day _40 When endless bliss the woes of fleeting life repay.

Congenial minds will seek their kindred soul, E'en though the tide of time has rolled between; They mock weak matter's impotent control, And seek of endless life the eternal scene. _45 At death's vain summons THIS will never die, In Nature's chaos THIS will not decay-- These are the bands which closely, warmly, tie Thy soul, O Charlotte, 'yond this chain of clay, To him who thine must be till time shall fade away. _50

Yes, Francis! thine was the dear knife that tore A tyrant's heart-strings from his guilty breast, Thine was the daring at a tyrant's gore, To smile in triumph, to contemn the rest; And thine, loved glory of thy s.e.x! to tear _55 From its base shrine a despot's haughty soul, To laugh at sorrow in secure despair, To mock, with smiles, life's lingering control, And triumph mid the griefs that round thy fate did roll.

Yes! the fierce spirits of the avenging deep _60 With endless tortures goad their guilty shades.

I see the lank and ghastly spectres sweep Along the burning length of yon arcades; And I see Satan stalk athwart the plain; He hastes along the burning soil of h.e.l.l. _65 'Welcome, ye despots, to my dark domain, With maddening joy mine anguished senses swell To welcome to their home the friends I love so well.'

Hark! to those notes, how sweet, how thrilling sweet They echo to the sound of angels' feet. _70

Oh haste to the bower where roses are spread, For there is prepared thy nuptial bed.

Oh haste--hark! hark!--they're gone.

CHORUS OF SPIRITS: Stay, ye days of contentment and joy, Whilst love every care is erasing, _75 Stay ye pleasures that never can cloy, And ye spirits that can never cease pleasing.

And if any soft pa.s.sion be near, Which mortals, frail mortals, can know, Let love shed on the bosom a tear, _80 And dissolve the chill ice-drop of woe.

SYMPHONY.

FRANCIS: 'Soft, my dearest angel, stay, Oh! you suck my soul away; Suck on, suck on, I glow, I glow!

Tides of maddening pa.s.sion roll, _85 And streams of rapture drown my soul.

Now give me one more billing kiss, Let your lips now repeat the bliss, Endless kisses steal my breath, No life can equal such a death.' _90

CHARLOTTE: 'Oh! yes I will kiss thine eyes so fair, And I will clasp thy form; Serene is the breath of the balmy air, But I think, love, thou feelest me warm And I will recline on thy marble neck _95 Till I mingle into thee; And I will kiss the rose on thy cheek, And thou shalt give kisses to me.

For here is no morn to flout our delight, Oh! dost thou not joy at this? _100 And here we may lie an endless night, A long, long night of bliss.'

Spirits! when raptures move, Say what it is to love, When pa.s.sion's tear stands on the cheek, _105 When bursts the unconscious sigh; And the tremulous lips dare not speak What is told by the soul-felt eye.

But what is sweeter to revenge's ear Than the fell tyrant's last expiring yell? _110 Yes! than love's sweetest blisses 'tis more dear To drink the floatings of a despot's knell.

I wake--'tis done--'tis over.

NOTE: _66 ye]thou 1810.

DESPAIR.

And canst thou mock mine agony, thus calm In cloudless radiance, Queen of silver night?

Can you, ye flow'rets, spread your perfumed balm Mid pearly gems of dew that s.h.i.+ne so bright?

And you wild winds, thus can you sleep so still _5 Whilst throbs the tempest of my breast so high?

Can the fierce night-fiends rest on yonder hill, And, in the eternal mansions of the sky, Can the directors of the storm in powerless silence lie?

Hark! I hear music on the zephyr's wing, _10 Louder it floats along the unruffled sky; Some fairy sure has touched the viewless string-- Now faint in distant air the murmurs die.

Awhile it stills the tide of agony.

Now--now it loftier swells--again stern woe _15 Arises with the awakening melody.

Again fierce torments, such as demons know, In bitterer, feller tide, on this torn bosom flow.

Arise ye sightless spirits of the storm, Ye unseen minstrels of the aereal song, _20 Pour the fierce tide around this lonely form, And roll the tempest's wildest swell along.

Dart the red lightning, wing the forked flash, Pour from thy cloud-formed hills the thunder's roar; Arouse the whirlwind--and let ocean dash _25 In fiercest tumult on the rocking sh.o.r.e,-- Destroy this life or let earth's fabric be no more.

Yes! every tie that links me here is dead; Mysterious Fate, thy mandate I obey, Since hope and peace, and joy, for aye are fled, _30 I come, terrific power, I come away.

Then o'er this ruined soul let spirits of h.e.l.l, In triumph, laughing wildly, mock its pain; And though with direst pangs mine heart-strings swell, I'll echo back their deadly yells again, _35 Cursing the power that ne'er made aught in vain.

FRAGMENT.

Yes! all is past--swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay?

I'm dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.

Oh! powerful Fate, revoke thy deadly spell, _5 And yet that may not ever, ever be, Heaven will not smile upon the work of h.e.l.l; Ah! no, for Heaven cannot smile on me; Fate, envious Fate, has sealed my wayward destiny.

I sought the cold brink of the midnight surge, _10 I sighed beneath its wave to hide my woes, The rising tempest sung a funeral dirge, And on the blast a frightful yell arose.

Wild flew the meteors o'er the maddened main, Wilder did grief athwart my bosom glare; _15 Stilled was the unearthly howling, and a strain, Swelled mid the tumult of the battling air, 'Twas like a spirit's song, but yet more soft and fair.

I met a maniac--like he was to me, I said--'Poor victim, wherefore dost thou roam? _20 And canst thou not contend with agony, That thus at midnight thou dost quit thine home?'

'Ah there she sleeps: cold is her bloodless form, And I will go to slumber in her grave; And then our ghosts, whilst raves the maddened storm, _25 Will sweep at midnight o'er the wildered wave; Wilt thou our lowly beds with tears of pity lave?'

'Ah! no, I cannot shed the pitying tear, This breast is cold, this heart can feel no more-- But I can rest me on thy chilling bier, _30 Can shriek in horror to the tempest's roar.'

THE SPECTRAL HORSEMAN.

What was the shriek that struck Fancy's ear As it sate on the ruins of time that is past?

Hark! it floats on the fitful blast of the wind, And breathes to the pale moon a funeral sigh.

It is the Bens.h.i.+e's moan on the storm, _5 Or a s.h.i.+vering fiend that thirsting for sin, Seeks murder and guilt when virtue sleeps, Winged with the power of some ruthless king, And sweeps o'er the breast of the prostrate plain.

It was not a fiend from the regions of h.e.l.l _10 That poured its low moan on the stillness of night: It was not a ghost of the guilty dead, Nor a yelling vampire reeking with gore; But aye at the close of seven years' end, That voice is mixed with the swell of the storm, _15 And aye at the close of seven years' end, A shapeless shadow that sleeps on the hill Awakens and floats on the mist of the heath.

It is not the shade of a murdered man, Who has rushed uncalled to the throne of his G.o.d, _20 And howls in the pause of the eddying storm.

This voice is low, cold, hollow, and chill, 'Tis not heard by the ear, but is felt in the soul.

'Tis more frightful far than the death-daemon's scream, Or the laughter of fiends when they howl o'er the corpse _25 Of a man who has sold his soul to h.e.l.l.

It tells the approach of a mystic form, A white courser bears the shadowy sprite; More thin they are than the mists of the mountain, When the clear moonlight sleeps on the waveless lake. _30 More pale HIS cheek than the snows of Nithona, When winter rides on the northern blast, And howls in the midst of the leafless wood.

Yet when the fierce swell of the tempest is raving, And the whirlwinds howl in the caves of Inisfallen, _35 Still secure mid the wildest war of the sky, The phantom courser scours the waste, And his rider howls in the thunder's roar.