Percy Bysshe Shelley

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  (1792-1822)

  Contents

  The Poetry Collections

  ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE

  POSTHUMOUS FRAGMENTS OF MARGARET NICHOLSON

  POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN.

  THE DEVIL’S WALK: A BALLAD

  QUEEN MAB

  INDIVIDUAL POEMS

  ALASTOR

  THE REVOLT OF ISLAM

  ROSALIND AND HELEN

  JULIAN AND MADDALO: A CONVERSATION

  PETER BELL THE THIRD

  THE MASK OF ANARCHY

  THE WITCH OF ATLAS

  EPIPSYCHIDION

  ADONAIS

  THE DAEMON OF THE WORLD

  PRINCE ATHANASE

  LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE

  THE TRIUMPH OF LIFE

  TRANSLATIONS

  The Poems

  LIST OF POEMS IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER

  LIST OF POEMS IN ALPHABETICAL ORDER

  The Poetic Dramas

  THE CENCI

  PROMETHEUS UNBOUND

  OEDIPUS TYRANNUS

  HELLAS

  FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED DRAMA

  CHARLES THE FIRST

  The Novels

  ZASTROZZI

  ST IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN

  FRANKENSTEIN by Mary Shelley

  The Non-Fiction

  LIST OF ESSAYS

  The Biography

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY By John Addington Symonds

  © Delphi Classics 2012

  Version 1

  PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

  By Delphi Classics, 2012

  NOTE

  When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

  The Poetry Collections

  Field Place, Broadbridge Heath, West Sussex — Shelley’s birthplace

  Shelley, aged 12

  The poet’s father, Timothy Shelley — a Whig Member of Parliament

  ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE

  Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822) was born at Field Place, Warnham, near Horsham, being the eldest son of Sir Timothy Shelley and Elizabeth, daughter of Charles Pilfold. Shelley grew up to be a remarkably gentle and generous young man, who devoutly believed in non-violence and practised vegetarianism. However, he was often criticised for his lack of adherence to duty and responsibility, often seen as revolting against authority. While at Oxford University, Shelley was accused of Atheism following the publication of Queen Mab, which he had printed for private circulation. Although Shelley lived a short life, it was a very prolific one, which saw the creation of hundreds of individual poems, several plays, novels and a range of political essays.

  Published anonymously in 1810, the following collection was Shelley’s first printed volume of poetry. He wrote the poems in collaboration with his sister Elizabeth, while still officially studying at Oxford. The volume consists of sixteen poems, with Shelley contributing seven lyrical poems, four Gothic poems and the political poem The Irishman’s Song, while his sister contributed three lyrical poems and two verse epistles.

  Controversy surrounded the work due to one of the poems, Saint Edmond’s Eve, actually being written by Matthew Gregory Lewis, having previously appeared in Tales of Terror (1801). Shelley told his publisher that Elizabeth had included the Lewis poem and apologised, asking Stockdale to suppress the volume, but fourteen hundred and eighty copies had already been printed and one hundred copies had been circulated. Fearing a plagiarism lawsuit, Stockdale withdrew the work from publication at once. Copies of the collection became extremely rare and it soon fell into obscurity.

  The volume was advertised in the Morning Chronicle of September 18 as well as several other leading periodicals. However, the reviews were negative and highly critical, primarily focusing on Elizabeth’s poems. One critic dismissed the collection as examples of “nonsensical rhyme”, whilst the British Critic review described the collection as “filled up by songs of sentimental nonsense, and very absurd tales of horror.”

  The first edition’s title page

  CONTENTS

  UNTITLED.

  TO MISS —— (HARRIET GROVE) FROM MISS —— (ELIZABETH SHELLEY).

  SONG. COLD, COLD IS THE BLAST WHEN DECEMBER IS HOWLING

  SONG. COME (HARRIET)! SWEET IS THE HOUR

  SONG. DESPAIR.

  SONG. SORROW.

  SONG. HOPE.

  SONG. OH! WHAT IS THE GAIN OF RESTLESS CARE

  SONG. AH! GRASP THE DIRE DAGGER AND COUCH THE FELL SPEAR

  THE IRISHMAN’S SONG.

  SONG. FIERCE ROARS THE MIDNIGHT STORM

  SONG. TO (HARRIET).

  SONG. TO — (HARRIET).

  SAINT EDMOND’S EVE.

  REVENGE.

  GHASTA OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!

  FRAGMENT, OR THE TRIUMPH OF CONSCIENCE.

  UNTITLED.

  A Person complained that whenever he began to write, he never could arrange his ideas in grammatical order. Which occasion suggested the idea of the following lines:

  1.

  Here I sit with my paper, my pen and my ink,

  First of this thing, and that thing, and t’other thing think;

  Then my thoughts come so pell-mell all into my mind,

  That the sense or the subject I never can find:

  This word is wrong placed, — no regard to the sense,

  The present and future, instead of past tense,

  Then my grammar I want; O dear! what a bore,

  I think I shall never attempt to write more,

  With patience I then my thoughts must arraign,

  Have them all in due order like mutes in a train, 10

  Like them too must wait in due patience and thought,

  Or else my fine works will all come to nought.

  My wit too’s so copious, it flows like a river,

  But disperses its waters on black and white never;

  Like smoke it appears independent and free, 15

  But ah luckless smoke! it all passes like thee —

  Then at length all my patience entirely lost,

  My paper and pens in the fire are tossed;

  But come, try again — you must never despair,

  Our Murray’s or Entick’s are not all so rare, 20

  Implore their assistance — they’ll come to your aid,

  Perform all your business without being paid,

  They’ll tell you the present tense, future and past,

  Which should come first, and which should come last,

  This Murray will do — then to Entick repair, 25

  To find out the meaning of any word rare.

  This they friendly will tell, and ne’er make you blush,

  With a jeering look, taunt, or an O fie! tush!

  Then straight all your thoughts in black and white put,

  Not minding the if’s, the be’s, and the but, 30

  Then read it all over, see how it will run,

  How answers the wit, the retort, and the pun,

  Your writings may then with old Socrates vie,

  May on the same shelf with Demosthenes lie,

  May as Junius be sharp, or as Plato be sage. 35

  The pattern or satire to all of the age;

  But stop — a mad author I mean not to turn,

  Nor with thirst of applause does my heated brain burn,

  Sufficient that sense, wit, and grammar combined,

  My letters may make some slight food for the mind; 40

  That my thoughts to my friends I may freely impart,

  In all the warm language that flows from the heart.

  Hark! futurity calls! it loudly comp
lains,

  It bids me step forward and just hold the reins,

  My excuse shall be humble, and faithful, and true, 45

  Such as I fear can be made but by few —

  Of writers this age has abundance and plenty,

  Three score and a thousand, two millions and twenty,

  Three score of them wits who all sharply vie,

  To try what odd creature they best can belie, 50

  A thousand are prudes who for CHARITY write,

  And fill up their sheets with spleen, envy, and spite(,)

  One million are bards, who to Heaven aspire,

  And stuff their works full of bombast, rant, and fire,

  T’other million are wags who in Grubstreet attend, 55

  And just like a cobbler the old writings mend,

  The twenty are those who for pulpits indite,

  And pore over sermons all Saturday night.

  And now my good friends — who come after I mean,

  As I ne’er wore a cassock, or dined with a dean. 60

  Or like cobblers at mending I never did try,

  Nor with poets in lyrics attempted to vie;

  As for prudes these good souls I both hate and detest,

  So here I believe the matter must rest. —

  I’ve heard your complaint — my answer I’ve made, 65

  And since to your calls all the tribute I’ve paid,

  Adieu my good friend; pray never despair,

  But grammar and sense and everything dare,

  Attempt but to write dashing, easy, and free,

  Then take out your grammar and pay him his fee, 70

  Be not a coward, shrink not to a tense,

  But read it all over and make it out sense.

  What a tiresome girl! — pray soon make an end,

  Else my limited patience you’ll quickly expend.

  Well adieu, I no longer your patience will try — 75

  So swift to the post now the letter shall fly.

  JANUARY, 1810.

  TO MISS —— (HARRIET GROVE) FROM MISS —— (ELIZABETH SHELLEY).

  For your letter, dear — (Hattie), accept my best thanks,

  Rendered long and amusing by virtue of franks,

  Though concise they would please, yet the longer the better,

  The more news that’s crammed in, more amusing the letter,

  All excuses of etiquette nonsense I hate, 5

  Which only are fit for the tardy and late,

  As when converse grows flat, of the weather they talk,

  How fair the sun shines — a fine day for a walk,

  Then to politics turn, of Burdett’s reformation,

  One declares it would hurt, t’other better the nation, 10

  Will ministers keep? sure they’ve acted quite wrong,

  The burden this is of each morning-call song.

  So — is going to — you say,

  I hope that success her great efforts will pay ( — )

  That (the Colonel) will see her, be dazzled outright, 15

  And declare he can’t bear to be out of her sight.

  Write flaming epistles with love’s pointed dart,

  Whose sharp little arrow struck right on his heart,

  Scold poor innocent Cupid for mischievous ways,

  He knows not how much to laud forth her praise, 20

  That he neither eats, drinks or sleeps for her sake,

  And hopes her hard heart some compassion will take,

  A refusal would kill him, so desperate his flame,

  But he fears, for he knows she is not common game,

  Then praises her sense, wit, discernment and grace, 25

  He’s not one that’s caught by a sly looking face,

  Yet that’s TOO divine — such a black sparkling eye,

  At the bare glance of which near a thousand will die;

  Thus runs he on meaning but one word in ten,

  More than is meant by most such kind of men, 30

  For they’re all alike, take them one with another,

  Begging pardon — with the exception of my brother.

  Of the drawings you mention much praise I have heard,

  Most opinion’s the same, with the difference of word,

  Some get a good name by the voice of the crowd, 35

  Whilst to poor humble merit small praise is allowed,

  As in parliament votes, so in pictures a name,

  Oft determines a fate at the altar of fame. —

  So on Friday this City’s gay vortex you quit,

  And no longer with Doctors and Johnny cats sit — 40

  Now your parcel’s arrived — (Bysshe’s) letter shall go,

  I hope all your joy mayn’t be turned into woe,

  Experience will tell you that pleasure is vain,

  When it promises sunshine how often comes rain.

  So when to fond hope every blessing is nigh, 45

  How oft when we smile it is checked with a sigh,

  When Hope, gay deceiver, in pleasure is dressed,

  How oft comes a stroke that may rob us of rest.

  When we think ourselves safe, and the goal near at hand,

  Like a vessel just landing, we’re wrecked near the strand, 50

  And though memory forever the sharp pang must feel,

  ‘Tis our duty to bear, and our hardship to steel —

  May misfortunes dear Girl, ne’er thy happiness cloy,

  May thy days glide in peace, love, comfort and joy,

  May thy tears with soft pity for other woes flow, 55

  Woes, which thy tender heart never may know,

  For hardships our own, God has taught us to bear,

  Though sympathy’s soul to a friend drops a tear.

  Oh dear! what sentimental stuff have I written,

  Only fit to tear up and play with a kitten. 60

  What sober reflections in the midst of this letter!

  Jocularity sure would have suited much better;

  But there are exceptions to all common rules,

  For this is a truth by all boys learned at schools.

  Now adieu my dear — (Hattie) I’m sure I must tire, 65

  For if I do, you may throw it into the fire,

  So accept the best love of your cousin and friend,

  Which brings this nonsensical rhyme to an end.

  APRIL 30, 1810.

  SONG. COLD, COLD IS THE BLAST WHEN DECEMBER IS HOWLING

  Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling,

  Cold are the damps on a dying man’s brow, —

  Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling,

  And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low;

  But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, 5

  More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee,

  More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee,

  Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow —

  And ah! poor — has felt all this horror,

  Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: 10

  ‘Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow,

  She sought her babe’s food at her ruiner’s gate —

  Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer,

  He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer,

  She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, 15

  Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late.

  ‘Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr,

  That the form of the wasted — reclined;

  She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar,

  And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind. — 20

  I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle,

  I call not yon clouds where the elements battle,

  But thee, cruel — I call thee unkind!’ —

  Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain,

  And de
liriously laughing, a garland entwined, 25

  She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o’er the fountain,

  And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind.

  ‘Ah! go,’ she exclaimed, ‘when the tempest is yelling,

  ‘Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling,

  But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, 30

  My garments are torn, so they say is my mind—’

  Not long lived — , but over her grave

  Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew,

  Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave,

  But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. 35

  Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather,

  Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather,

  For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her,

  Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due. —

  JULY, 1810.

  SONG. COME (HARRIET)! SWEET IS THE HOUR

  Come (Harriet)! sweet is the hour,

  Soft Zephyrs breathe gently around,

  The anemone’s night-boding flower,

  Has sunk its pale head on the ground.

  ‘Tis thus the world’s keenness hath torn, 5

  Some mild heart that expands to its blast,

  ‘Tis thus that the wretched forlorn,

  Sinks poor and neglected at last. —

  The world with its keenness and woe,

  Has no charms or attraction for me, 10

  Its unkindness with grief has laid low,

  The heart which is faithful to thee.

  The high trees that wave past the moon,

  As I walk in their umbrage with you,

  All declare I must part with you soon, 15

  All bid you a tender adieu! —

  Then (Harriet)! dearest farewell,

  You and I love, may ne’er meet again;

  These woods and these meadows can tell

  How soft and how sweet was the strain. — 20

  APRIL, 1810.

  SONG. DESPAIR.

  Ask not the pallid stranger’s woe,

  With beating heart and throbbing breast,

  Whose step is faltering, weak, and slow,

  As though the body needed rest. —

  Whose ‘wildered eye no object meets, 5

  Nor cares to ken a friendly glance,