WRITTEN ON HEARING THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF
WHAT! alive and so bold, O Earth?
Art thou not over-bold?
What! leapest thou forth as of old
In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starry fold? Ha! leapest thou forth as of old?
Are not the limbs still when the ghost is fled, And canst thou more, Napoleon being dead?
How! is not thy quick heart cold?
What spark is alive on thy hearth? How is not his death-knel! knolled?
And livest thou still, Mother Earth! Thou wert warming thy fingers old O'er the embers covered and cold Of that most fiery spirit, when it fled- What, Mother, do you laugh now he is dead? "Who has known me of old," replied Earth, "Or who has my story told? It is thou who art over bold."
And the lightning of scorn laughed forth As she sung," To my bosom I fold All my sons when their knell is knolled, And so with living motion all are fed,
And the quick spring like weeds out of the dead.
WILD, pale, and wonder-stricken, even as one Who staggers forth into the air and sun From the dark chamber of a mortal fever, Bewildered, and incapable, and ever Fancying strange comments in her dizzy brain Of usual shapes, till the familiar train Of objects and of persons passed like things Strange as a dreamer's mad imaginings, Ginevra from the nuptial altar went;
The vows to which her lips had sworn assent Rung in her brain still with a jarring din, Deafening the lost intelligence within.
And so she moved under the bridal veil, Which made the paleness of her cheek more pale, And deepened the faint crimson of her mouth, And darkened her dark locks, as moonlight doth,- And of the gold and jewels glittering there She scarce felt conscious, but the weary glare Lay like a chaos of unwelcome light, Vexing the sense with gorgeous undelight. A moonbeam in the shadow of a cloud Was less heavenly fair-her face was bowed, And as she passed, the diamonds in her hair Were mirrored in the polished marble stair Which led from the cathedral to the street ; And even as she went her light fair feet Erased these images.
The bride-maidens who round her thronging came, Some with a sense of self-rebuke and shame, Envying the unenviable; and others Making the joy which should have been another's Their own by gentle sympathy; and some Sighing to think of an unhappy home; Some few admiring what can ever lure Maidens to leave the heaven serene and pure Of parents' smiles for life's great cheat; a thing Bitter to taste, sweet in imagining.
But they are all dispersed-and lo! she stands Looking in idle grief on her white hands, Alone within the garden now her own; And through the sunny air, with jangling tone, The music of the merry marriage-bells, Killing the azure silence, sinks and swells;- Absorbed like one within a dream who dreams That he is dreaming, until slumber seems A mockery of itself-when suddenly Antonio stood before her, pale as she. With agony, with sorrow, and with pride, He lifted his wan eyes upon the bride, And said "Is this thy faith?" and then as one Whose sleeping face is stricken by the sun With light like a harsh voice, which bids him rise And look upon his day of life with eyes Which weep in vain that they can dream no more, Ginevra saw her lover, and forbore
To shriek or faint, and checked the stifling blood Rushing upon her heart, and unsubdued Said-Friend, if earthly violence or ill, Suspicion, doubt, or the tyrannie will
*This fragment is part of a poem which Shelley intended to write, founded on a story to be found in the first volume of a book entitled "L'Osservatore Fiorentino."
Of parents, chance, or custom, time, or change, Or circumstance, or terror, or revenge, Or wildered looks, or words, or evil speech, With all their stings and venom, can impeach Our love, we love not:-if the grave, which hides The victim from the tyrant, and divides The cheek that whitens from the eyes that dart Imperious inquisition to the heart
That is another's, could dissever ours,
We love not."-"What! do not the silent hours Beckon thee to Gherardi's bridal bed?
From every living heart which it possesses, Through seas and winds, cities and wildernesses, As if the future and the past were all Treasured i'the instant ;-so Gherardi's hall Laughed in the mirth of its lord's festival, Till some one asked-"Where is the Bride?" And A bride's-maid went, and ere she came again [then A silence fell upon the guests a pause
Of expectation, as when beauty awes All hearts with its approach, though unbeheld; Then wonder, and then fear that wonder quelled;-
Is not that ring"-a pledge, he would have said, For whispers passed from mouth to ear which drew
Of broken vows, but she with patient look The golden circle from her finger took, And said " Accept this token of my faith, The pledge of vows to be absolved by death; And I am dead or shall be soon-my knell Will mix its music with that merry bell; Does it not sound as if they sweetly said, We toll a corpse out of the marriage bed?' The flowers upon my bridal chamber strewn Will serve unfaded for my bier-so soon That even the dying violet will not die Before Ginevra." The strong fantasy Had made her accents weaker and more weak, And quenched the crimson life upon her check, And glazed her eyes, and spread an atmosphere Round her, which chilled the burning noon with fear,
Making her but an image of the thought,
Which, like a prophet or a shadow, brought News of the terrors of the coming time. Like an accuser branded with the crime He would have cast on a beloved friend, Whose dying eyes reproach not to the end The pale betrayer-he then with vain repentance Would share, he cannot now avert, the sentence- Antonio stood and would have spoken, when The compound voice of women and of men Was heard approaching; he retired, while she Was led amid the admiring company Back to the palace, and her maidens soon Changed her attire for the afternoon, And left her at her own request to keep An hour of quiet and rest :-like one asleep With open eyes and folded hands she lay, Pale in the light of the declining day.
Meanwhile the day sinks fast, the sun is set, And in the lighted hall the guests are met; The beautiful looked lovelier in the light Of love, and admiration, and delight, Reflected from a thousand hearts and eyes Kindling a momentary Paradise.
This crowd is safer than the silent wood, Where love's own doubts disturb the solitude; On frozen hearts the fiery rain of wine Falls, and the dew of music more divine Tempers the deep emotions of the time To spirits cradled in a sunny clime :- How many meet, who never yet have met, To part too soon, but never to forget? How many saw the beauty, power, and wit Of looks and words which ne'er enchanted yet! But life's familiar veil was now withdrawn, As the world leaps before an earthquake's dawn, And unprophetic of the coming hours, The matin winds from the expanded flowers Scatter their hoarded incense, and awaken The earth, until the dewy sleep is shaken
The colour from the hearer's cheeks, and flew Louder and swifter round the company; And then Gherardi entered with an eye Of ostentatious trouble, and a crowd Surrounded him, and some were weeping loud.
They found Ginevra dead! if it be death, To lie without motion, or pulse, or breath, With waxen cheeks, and limbs cold, stiff, and white, And open eyes, whose fixed and glassy light Mocked at the speculation they had owned. If it be death, when there is felt around A smell of clay, a pale and icy glare, And silence, and a sense that lifts the hair From the scalp to the ankles, as it were Corruption from the spirit passing forth, And giving all it shrouded to the earth, And leaving as swift lightning in its flight Ashes, and smoke, and darkness: in our night Of thought we know thus much of death,-no more Than the unborn dream of our life before Their barks are wrecked on its inhospitable shore. The marriage feast and its solemnity Was turned to funeral pomp-the company, With heavy hearts and looks, broke up; nor they Who loved the dead went weeping on their Alone, but sorrow mixed with sad surprise Loosened the springs of pity in all eyes, On which that form, whose fate they weep in vain, Will never, thought they, kindle smiles again. The lamps which, half extinguished in their haste, Gleamed few and faint o'er the abandoned feast, Showed as it were within the vaulted room A cloud of sorrow hanging, as if gloom Had passed out of men's minds into the air. Some few yet stood around Gherardi there, Friends and relations of the dead,—and he, A loveless man, accepted torpidly
The consolation that he wanted not, Awe in the place of grief within him wrought. Their whispers made the solemn silence seem More still some wept, [
Some melted into tears without a sob, And some with hearts that might be heard to throb Leant on the table, and at intervals Shuddered to hear through the deserted halls And corridors the thrilling shrieks which came Upon the breeze of night, that shook the flame Of every torch and taper as it swept From out the chamber where the women kept ;- Their tears fell on the dear companion cold Of pleasures now departed; then was knolled The bell of death, and soon the priests arrived, And finding death their penitent had shrived, Returned like ravens from a corpse whereon A vulture has just feasted to the bone. And then the mourning women came.—
SWIFTER far than summer's flight, Swifter far than youth's delight, Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone : As the earth when leaves are dead, As the night when sleep is sped, As the heart when joy is fled, I am left lone, alone.
The swallow Summer comes again, The owlet Night resumes her reign, But the wild swan Youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou. My heart each day desires the morrow, Sleep itself is turned to sorrow, Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.
Lilies for a bridal bed, Roses for a matron's head, Violets for a maiden dead,
Pansies let my flowers be: On the living grave I bear, Scatter them without a tear, Let no friend, however dear,
Waste one hope, one fear for me.
OUR boat is asleep on Serchio's stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm sways idly, hither and thither; Dominic, the boat-man, has brought the mast, And the oars and the sails; but 'tis sleeping fast, Like a beast, unconscious of its tether.
The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the thin white moon lay withering there, To tower, and cavern, and rift, and tree, The owl and the bat fled drowsily. Day had kindled the dewy woods
And the rocks above and the stream below, And the vapours in their multitudes, And the Apennines' shroud of summer snow, And clothed with light of aery gold The mists in their eastern caves uprolled.
Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free;
And the milkmaid's song and the mower's scythe,
And the matin-bell and the mountain bee: Fire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn, Glow-worms went out on the river's brim, Like lamps which a student forgets to trim: The beetle forgot to wind his horn,
The crickets were still in the meadow and hill: Like a flock of rooks at a farmer's gun, Night's dreams and terrors, every one, Fled from the brains which are their prey, From the lamp's death to the morning ray.
List, my dear fellow, the breeze blows fair; How it scatters Dominic's long black hair! Singing of us, and our lazy motions, If I can guess a boat's emotions."_
The chain is loosed, the sails are spread, The living breath is fresh behind, As, with dews and sunrise fed, Comes the laughing morning wind ;- The sails are full, the boat makes head Against the Serchio's torrent fierce, Then flags with intermitting course, And hangs upon the wave,
Which fervid from its mountain source Shallow, smooth, and strong, doth come,— Swift as fire, tempestuously
It sweeps into the affrighted sea; In morning's smile its eddies coil, Its billows sparkle, toss, and boil, Torturing all its quiet light Into columns fierce and bright.
The Serchio, twisting forth Between the marble barriers which it clove At Ripafratta, leads through the dread chasm The wave that died the death which lovers love, Living in what it sought; as if this spasm Had not yet past, the toppling mountains cling, But the clear stream in full enthusiasm Pours itself on the plain, until wandering, Down one clear path of effluence crystalline Sends its clear waves, that they may fling At Arno's feet tribute of corn and wine: Then, through the pestilential deserts wild Of tangled marsh and woods of stunted fir, It rushes to the Ocean.
THEY were two cousins, almost like two twins, Except that from the catalogue of sins Nature had razed their love—which could not be But by dissevering their nativity.
And so they grew together, like two flowers Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers Lull or awaken in their purple prime,
Which the same hand will gather-the same clime Shake with decay. This fair day smiles to see All those who love, and who e'er loved like thee, Fiordispina? Scarcely Cosimo,
Within whose bosom and whose brain now glow The ardours of a vision which obscure
The very idol of its portraiture;
He faints, dissolved into a sense of love;
But thou art as a planet sphered above,
But thou art Love itself-ruling the motion
Of his subjected spirit: such emotion
Must end in sin or sorrow, if sweet May
Had not brought forth this morn-your weddingday.
ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it. One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And Pity from thee more dear Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not: The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill Which severs those it should unite ; Let us remain together still,
Then it will be good night.
How can I call the lone night good, Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight? Be it not said, thought, understood, That it will be good night.
To hearts which near each other move From evening close to morning light, The night is good; because, my love, They never say good-night.
I ARISE from dreams of thee In the first sweet sleep of night, When the winds are breathing low, And the stars are shining bright. I arise from dreams of thee, And a spirit in my feet
Has led me who knows how? To thy chamber window, sweet!
The wandering airs they faint On the dark, the silent stream- The champak odours fail Like sweet thoughts in a dream; The nightingale's complaint, It dies upon her heart, As I must die on thine, O beloved as thou art!
O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas! My heart beats loud and fast, Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last.
I PANT for the music which is divine, My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine. Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain, I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound, More, O more!-I am thirsting yet,
It loosens the serpent which care has bound Upon my heart, to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein, Passes into my heart and brain.
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake, When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, And mist there was none its thirst to slake And the violet lay dead while the odour flew On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue
As one who drinks from a charmed cup
Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up, Invites to love with her kiss divine.
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