The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 192

3.

Yon dark gray turret glimmers white, Upon it sits the mournful owl; _10 Along the stillness of the night, Her melancholy shriekings roll.

4.

But not alone on Irvyne's tower, The silver moonbeam pours her ray; It gleams upon the ivied bower, _15 It dances in the cascade's spray.

5.

'Ah! why do dark'ning shades conceal The hour, when man must cease to be?

Why may not human minds unveil The dim mists of futurity?-- _20

6.

'The keenness of the world hath torn The heart which opens to its blast; Despised, neglected, and forlorn, Sinks the wretch in death at last.'

NOTE: 4.--St. Irvyne's Tower: Song, 1810.

5.--BEREAVEMENT.

1.

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner, As he bends in still grief o'er the hallowed bier, As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner, And drops, to Perfection's remembrance, a tear; When floods of despair down his pale cheek are streaming, _5 When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming, Or, if lulled for awhile, soon he starts from his dreaming, And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.

2.

Ah! when shall day dawn on the night of the grave, Or summer succeed to the winter of death? _10 Rest awhile, hapless victim, and Heaven will save The spirit, that faded away with the breath.

Eternity points in its amaranth bower, Where no clouds of fate o'er the sweet prospect lower, Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower, _15 When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

NOTE: 5.--Bereavement: Song, 1811.

6.--THE DROWNED LOVER.

1.

Ah! faint are her limbs, and her footstep is weary, Yet far must the desolate wanderer roam; Though the tempest is stern, and the mountain is dreary, She must quit at deep midnight her pitiless home.

I see her swift foot dash the dew from the whortle, _5 As she rapidly hastes to the green grove of myrtle; And I hear, as she wraps round her figure the kirtle, 'Stay thy boat on the lake,--dearest Henry, I come.'

2.

High swelled in her bosom the throb of affection, As lightly her form bounded over the lea, _10 And arose in her mind every dear recollection; 'I come, dearest Henry, and wait but for thee.'

How sad, when dear hope every sorrow is soothing, When sympathy's swell the soft bosom is moving, And the mind the mild joys of affection is proving, _15 Is the stern voice of fate that bids happiness flee!

3.

Oh! dark lowered the clouds on that horrible eve, And the moon dimly gleamed through the tempested air; Oh! how could fond visions such softness deceive?

Oh! how could false hope rend, a bosom so fair? _20 Thy love's pallid corse the wild surges are laving, O'er his form the fierce swell of the tempest is raving; But, fear not, parting spirit; thy goodness is saving, In eternity's bowers, a seat for thee there.

6.--The Drowned Lover: Song. 1811; The Lake-Storm, Rossetti, 1870.

POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET MCHOLSON.

Being Poems found amongst the Papers of that noted Female who attempted the life of the King in 1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor.

[The "Posthumous Fragments", published at Oxford by Sh.e.l.ley, appeared in November, 1810. See "Bibliographical List".]

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The energy and native genius of these Fragments must be the only apology which the Editor can make for thus intruding them on the public notice.

The first I found with no t.i.tle, and have left it so. It is intimately connected with the dearest interests of universal happiness; and much as we may deplore the fatal and enthusiastic tendency which the ideas of this poor female had acquired, we cannot fail to pay the tribute of unequivocal regret to the departed memory of genius, which, had it been rightly organized, would have made that intellect, which has since become the victim of frenzy and despair, a most brilliant ornament to society.

In case the sale of these Fragments evinces that the public have any curiosity to be presented with a more copious collection of my unfortunate Aunt's poems, I have other papers in my possession which shall, in that case, be subjected to their notice. It may be supposed they require much arrangement; but I send the following to the press in the same state in which they came into my possession. J. F.

WAR.

Ambition, power, and avarice, now have hurled Death, fate, and ruin, on a bleeding world.

See! on yon heath what countless victims lie, Hark! what loud shrieks ascend through yonder sky; Tell then the cause, 'tis sure the avenger's rage _5 Has swept these myriads from life's crowded stage: Hark to that groan, an anguished hero dies, He shudders in death's latest agonies; Yet does a fleeting hectic flush his cheek, Yet does his parting breath essay to speak-- _10 'Oh G.o.d! my wife, my children--Monarch thou For whose support this fainting frame lies low; For whose support in distant lands I bleed, Let his friends' welfare be the warrior's meed.

He hears me not--ah! no--kings cannot hear, _15 For pa.s.sion's voice has dulled their listless ear.

To thee, then, mighty G.o.d, I lift my moan, Thou wilt not scorn a suppliant's anguished groan.

Oh! now I die--but still is death's fierce pain-- G.o.d hears my prayer--we meet, we meet again.' _20 He spake, reclined him on death's b.l.o.o.d.y bed, And with a parting groan his spirit fled.

Oppressors of mankind to YOU we owe The baleful streams from whence these miseries flow; For you how many a mother weeps her son, _25 s.n.a.t.c.hed from life's course ere half his race was run!

For you how many a widow drops a tear, In silent anguish, on her husband's bier!

'Is it then Thine, Almighty Power,' she cries, 'Whence tears of endless sorrow dim these eyes? _30 Is this the system which Thy powerful sway, Which else in shapeless chaos sleeping lay, Formed and approved?--it cannot be--but oh!

Forgive me, Heaven, my brain is warped by woe.'

'Tis not--He never bade the war-note swell, _35 He never triumphed in the work of h.e.l.l-- Monarchs of earth! thine is the baleful deed, Thine are the crimes for which thy subjects bleed.

Ah! when will come the sacred fated time, When man unsullied by his leaders' crime, _40 Despising wealth, ambition, pomp, and pride, Will stretch him fearless by his foe-men's side?

Ah! when will come the time, when o'er the plain No more shall death and desolation reign?

When will the sun smile on the bloodless field, _45 And the stern warrior's arm the sickle wield?

Not whilst some King, in cold ambition's dreams, Plans for the field of death his plodding schemes; Not whilst for private pique the public fall, And one frail mortal's mandate governs all. _50 Swelled with command and mad with dizzying sway; Who sees unmoved his myriads fade away.

Careless who lives or dies--so that he gains Some trivial point for which he took the pains.

What then are Kings?--I see the trembling crowd, _55 I hear their fulsome clamours echoed loud; Their stern oppressor pleased appears awhile, But April's suns.h.i.+ne is a Monarch's smile-- Kings are but dust--the last eventful day Will level all and make them lose their sway; _60 Will dash the sceptre from the Monarch's hand, And from the warrior's grasp wrest the ensanguined brand.

Oh! Peace, soft Peace, art thou for ever gone, Is thy fair form indeed for ever flown?

And love and concord hast thou swept away, _65 As if incongruous with thy parted sway?

Alas, I fear thou hast, for none appear.

Now o'er the palsied earth stalks giant Fear, With War, and Woe, and Terror, in his train;-- List'ning he pauses on the embattled plain, _70 Then speeding swiftly o'er the ensanguined heath, Has left the frightful work to h.e.l.l and Death.

See! gory Ruin yokes his blood-stained car, He scents the battle's carnage from afar; h.e.l.l and Destruction mark his mad career, _75 He tracks the rapid step of hurrying Fear; Whilst ruined towns and smoking cities tell, That thy work, Monarch, is the work of h.e.l.l.

'It is thy work!' I hear a voice repeat, Shakes the broad basis of thy bloodstained seat; _80 And at the orphan's sigh, the widow's moan, Totters the fabric of thy guilt-stained throne-- 'It is thy work, O Monarch;' now the sound Fainter and fainter, yet is borne around, Yet to enthusiast ears the murmurs tell _85 That Heaven, indignant at the work of h.e.l.l, Will soon the cause, the hated cause remove, Which tears from earth peace, innocence, and love.

NOTE: War: the t.i.tle is Woodberry's, 1893; no t.i.tle, 1810.

FRAGMENT: SUPPOSED TO BE AN EPITHALAMIUM OF FRANCIS RAVAILLAC AND CHARLOTTE CORDAY.

'Tis midnight now--athwart the murky air, Dank lurid meteors shoot a livid gleam; From the dark storm-clouds flashes a fearful glare, It shows the bending oak, the roaring stream.

I pondered on the woes of lost mankind, _5 I pondered on the ceaseless rage of Kings; My rapt soul dwelt upon the ties that bind The mazy volume of commingling things, When fell and wild misrule to man stern sorrow brings.

I heard a yell--it was not the knell, _10 When the blasts on the wild lake sleep, That floats on the pause of the summer gale's swell, O'er the breast of the waveless deep.