The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 25

Thou art the wine whose drunkenness is all We can desire, O Love! and happy souls, _280 Ere from thy vine the leaves of autumn fall,

Catch thee, and feed from their o'erflowing bowls Thousands who thirst for thine ambrosial dew;-- Thou art the radiance which where ocean rolls

Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue _285 Thou fillest them; and when the earth is fair The shadow of thy moving wings imbue

Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear Beauty like some light robe;--thou ever soarest Among the towers of men, and as soft air _290

In spring, which moves the unawakened forest, Clothing with leaves its branches bare and bleak, Thou floatest among men; and aye implorest

That which from thee they should implore:--the weak Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts _295 The strong have broken--yet where shall any seek

A garment whom thou clothest not? the darts Of the keen winter storm, barbed with frost, Which, from the everlasting snow that parts

The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost _300 In the wide waved interminable snow Ungarmented,...

ANOTHER FRAGMENT (A)

Yes, often when the eyes are cold and dry, And the lips calm, the Spirit weeps within Tears bitterer than the blood of agony _305

Trembling in drops on the discoloured skin Of those who love their kind and therefore perish In ghastly torture--a sweet medicine

Of peace and sleep are tears, and quietly Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall _310 But...

ANOTHER FRAGMENT (B)

Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were brown, And in their dark and liquid moisture swam, Like the dim orb of the eclipsed moon;

Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came _315 The light from them, as when tears of delight Double the western planet's serene flame.

NOTES: _19 strange edition 1839; deep edition 1824.

_74 feed an Bodleian ma.n.u.script; feed on editions 1824, 1839.

_124 [1. The Author was pursuing a fuller development of the ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him that in an attempt at extreme refinement and a.n.a.lysis, his conceptions might be betrayed into the a.s.suming a morbid character. The reader will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by this diffidence. [Sh.e.l.ley's Note.]

Footnote diffidence cj. Rossetti (1878); difference editions 1824, 1839.]

_154 beneath editions 1824, 1839; between Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_165 One Bodleian ma.n.u.script edition 1839; An edition 1824.

_167 Thus thro' Bodleian ma.n.u.script (?) edition 1839; Thus had edition 1824.

_173 talk they edition 1824, Bodleian ma.n.u.script; talk now edition 1839.

_175 that edition 1839; the edition 1824.

_182 So edition 1839; And edition 1824.

_183 Or on Bodleian ma.n.u.script; Or by editions 1824, 1839.

_199 eve Bodleian ma.n.u.script edition 1839; night edition 1824.

_212 emotion, a swift editions 1824, 1839; emotion with swift Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_250 under edition 1824, Bodleian ma.n.u.script; beneath edition 1839.

_256 outstrips editions 1824, 1839; outrides Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_259 Exulting, while the wide Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_262 mountains editions 1824, 1839; crags Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_264 fountains editions 1824, 1839; springs Bodleian ma.n.u.script.

_269 chasms Bodleian ma.n.u.script; chasm editions 1824, 1839.

_283 thine Bodleian ma.n.u.script; thy editions 1824, 1839.

_285 Investeth Bodleian ma.n.u.script; Investest editions 1824, 1839.

_289 light Bodleian ma.n.u.script; bright editions 1824, 1839.

ROSALIND AND HELEN.

A MODERN ECLOGUE.

[Begun at Marlow, 1817 (summer); already in the press, March, 1818; finished at the Baths of Lucca, August, 1818; published with other poems, as the t.i.tle-piece of a slender volume, by C. & J. Ollier, London, 1819 (spring). See "Biographical List". Sources of the text are (1) editio princeps, 1819; (2) "Poetical Works", edition Mrs.

Sh.e.l.ley, 1839, editions 1st and 2nd. A fragment of the text is amongst the Bos...o...b.. ma.n.u.scripts. The poem is reprinted here from the editio princeps; verbal alterations are recorded in the footnotes, punctual in the Editor's Notes at the end of Volume 3.]

ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.

The story of "Rosalind and Helen" is, undoubtedly, not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awakens a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulses of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story; and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure, which only pretends to be regular inasmuch as it corresponds with, and expresses, the irregularity of the imaginations which inspired it.

I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One ("Lines written among the Euganean Hills".--Editor.), which I sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse, that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend, with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain, that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness.

Naples, December 20, 1818.

ROSALIND, HELEN, AND HER CHILD.

SCENE. THE Sh.o.r.e OF THE LAKE OF COMO.

HELEN: Come hither, my sweet Rosalind.

'Tis long since thou and I have met; And yet methinks it were unkind Those moments to forget.

Come, sit by me. I see thee stand _5 By this lone lake, in this far land, Thy loose hair in the light wind flying, Thy sweet voice to each tone of even United, and thine eyes replying To the hues of yon fair heaven. _10 Come, gentle friend: wilt sit by me?

And be as thou wert wont to be Ere we were disunited?

None doth behold us now; the power That led us forth at this lone hour _15 Will be but ill requited If thou depart in scorn: oh! come, And talk of our abandoned home.

Remember, this is Italy, And we are exiles. Talk with me _20 Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Barren and dark although they be, Were dearer than these chestnut woods: Those heathy paths, that inland stream, And the blue mountains, shapes which seem _25 Like wrecks of childhood's sunny dream: Which that we have abandoned now, Weighs on the heart like that remorse Which altered friends.h.i.+p leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse. _30 That cannot be! Rosalind, speak.

Speak to me. Leave me not.--When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted,--do not frown: I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken: _35 But turn to me. Oh! by this cherished token, Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, Turn, as 'twere but the memory of me, And not my scorned self who prayed to thee.

ROSALIND: Is it a dream, or do I see _40 And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years Arise, and bring forbidden tears; And my o'erburthened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. _45 I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee: mine own strange grief But seldom stoops to such relief: Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness _50 Even with a sister's woe. I knew What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse To link me with the infamy Of one so lost as Helen. Now _55 Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush, and weep that thou Should'st love me still,--thou only!--There, Let us sit on that gray stone Till our mournful talk be done. _60

HELEN: Alas! not there; I cannot bear The murmur of this lake to hear.

A sound from there, Rosalind dear, Which never yet I heard elsewhere But in our native land, recurs, _65 Even here where now we meet. It stirs Too much of suffocating sorrow!

In the dell of yon dark chestnutwood Is a stone seat, a solitude Less like our own. The ghost of Peace _70 Will not desert this spot. To-morrow, If thy kind feelings should not cease, We may sit here.

ROSALIND: Thou lead, my sweet, And I will follow.

HENRY: 'Tis Fenici's seat Where you are going? This is not the way, _75 Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow Close to the little river.

HELEN: Yes: I know; I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay, Dear boy: why do you sob?