170
The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child,
With soul-sustaining songs of ancient lore
And philosophic wisdom, clear and mild.
And sweet and subtle talk they evermore,
The pupil and the master, shared; until,
175
Sharing that undiminishable store,
The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill
Outrun the winds that chase them, soon outran
His teacher, and did teach with native skill
Strange truths and new to that experienced man;
180
Still they were friends, as few have ever been
Who mark the extremes of life’s discordant span.
So in the caverns of the forest green,
Or on the rocks of echoing ocean hoar,
Zonoras and Prince Athanase were seen
185
By summer woodmen; and when winter’s roar
Sounded o’er earth and sea its blast of war,
The Balearic fisher, driven from shore,
Hanging upon the peakèd wave afar,
Then saw their lamp from Laian’s turret gleam,
190
Piercing the stormy darkness, like a star
Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam,
Whilst all the constellations of the sky
Seemed reeling through the storm … They did but seem—
For, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by,
195
And bright Arcturus through yon pines is glowing,
And far o’er southern waves, immovably
Belted Orion hangs—warm light is flowing
From the young moon into the sunset’s chasm.—
‘O, summer eve! with power divine, bestowing
200
‘On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm
Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness,
Filling the sky like light! How many a spasm
‘Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madness,
Were lulled by thee, delightful nightingale,—
205
And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness,—
‘And the far sighings of yon piny dale
Made vocal by some wind we feel not here.—
I bear alone what nothing may avail
‘To lighten—a strange load!’—No human ear
210
Heard this lament; but o’er the visage wan
Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere
Of dark emotion, a swift shadow, ran,
Like wind upon some forest-bosomed lake,
Glassy and dark.—And that divine old man
215
Beheld his mystic friend’s whole being shake,
Even where its inmost depths were gloomiest—
And with a calm and measured voice he spake,
And, with a soft and equal pressure, pressed
That cold lean hand:—‘Dost thou remember yet
220
When the curved moon then lingering in the west
‘Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet,
How in those beams we walked, half resting on the sea?
’Tis just one year—sure thou dost not forget—
‘Then Plato’s words of light in thee and me
225
Lingered like moonlight in the moonless east,
For we had just then read—thy memory
‘Is faithful now—the story of the feast;
And Agathon and Diotima seemed
From death and dark forgetfulness released..… ’
FRAGMENT III
230
AND when the old man saw that on the green
Leaves of his opening a blight had lighted
He said: ‘My friend, one grief alone can wean
A gentle mind from all that once delighted:—
Thou lovest, and thy secret heart is laden
235
With feelings which should not be unrequited.’
And Athanase … then smiled, as one o’erladen
With iron chains might smile to talk (?) of bands
Twined round her lover’s neck by some blithe maiden,
And said..…
FRAGMENT IV
240
’TWAS at the season when the Earth upsprings
From slumber, as a spherèd angel’s child,
Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings,
Stands up before its mother bright and mild,
Of whose soft voice the air expectant seems—
245
So stood before the sun, which shone and smiled
To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams,
The fresh and radiant Earth. The hoary grove
Waxed green—and flowers burst forth like starry beams;—
The grass in the warm sun did start and move,
250
And sea-buds burst under the waves serene:—
How many a one, though none be near to love,
Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen
In any mirror—or the spring’s young minions,
The wingèd leaves amid the copses green;—
255
How many a spirit then puts on the pinions
Of fancy, and outstrips the lagging blast,
And his own steps—and over wide dominions
Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast,
More fleet than storms—the wide world shrinks below,
260
When winter and despondency are past.
FRAGMENT V
’TWAS at this season that Prince Athanase
Passed the white Alps—those eagle-baffling mountains
Slept in their shrouds of snow;—beside the ways
The waterfalls were voiceless—for their fountains
265
Were changed to mines of sunless crystal now,
Or by the curdling winds—like brazen wings
Which clanged along the mountain’s marble brow—
Warped into adamantine fretwork, hung
And filled with frozen light the chasms below.
Vexed by the blast, the great pines groaned and swung
Under their load of [snow]— . . . . .
· · · · · · · · · · · ·
· · · · · · · · · · · ·
Such as the eagle sees, when he dives down
275
From the gray deserts of wide air, [beheld]
[Prince] Athanase; and o’er his mien (?) was thrown
The shadow of that scene, field after field,
Purple and dim and wide..…
FRAGMENT VI
THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all
280
We can desire, O Love! and happy souls,
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
285
Investeth it; and when the heavens are blue
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
290
Among the towers of men, and as soft air
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
295
Alone kneel to thee, offering up the hearts
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 t
he everlasting snow that parts
300
The Alps from Heaven, pierce some traveller lost
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
305
Tears bitterer than the blood of agony
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
310
Them soothe from whose uplifted eyes they fall
But..…
ANOTHER FRAGMENT (B)
HER hair was brown, her spherèd eyes were brown,
And in their dark and liquid moisture swam,
Like the dim orb of the eclipsèd moon;
315
Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came
The light from them, as when tears of delight
Double the western planet’s serene flame.
* * *
1 The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase was a good deal modelled on Alastor. In the first sketch of the poem, he named it Pandemos and Urania. Athanase seeks through the world the One whom he may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is embarked, a lady who appears to him to embody his ideal of love and beauty. But she proves to be Pandemos, or the earthly and unworthy Venus; who, after disappointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Athanase, crushed by sorrow, pines and dies. ‘On his deathbed, the lady who can really reply to his soul comes and kisses his lips’ (The Deathbed of Athanase). The poet describes her [in the words of the final fragment, p. 185]. This slender note is all we have to aid our imagination in shaping out the form of the poem, such as its author imagined. [Mrs. Shelley’s Note.]
2 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 analysis, his conceptions might be betrayed into assuming a morbid character. The reader will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by the difference. [Shelley’s Note.]
ROSALIND AND HELEN
A MODERN ECLOGUE
ADVERTISEMENT
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 impulse 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,1 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, Dec. 20, 1818.
ROSALIND, HELEN AND HER CHILD
Scene, the Shore 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.
5
Come sit by me. I see thee stand
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
10
To the hues of yon fair heaven.
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
Will be but ill requited
If thou depart in scorn: oh! come,
And talk of our abandoned home.
Remember, this is Italy,
20
And we are exiles. Talk with me
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,
25
And the blue mountains, shapes which seem
Like wrecks of childhood’s sunny dream:
Which that we have abandoned now,
Weighs on the heart like that remorse
Which altered friendship leaves. I seek
No more our youthful intercourse.
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:
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 scornèd self who prayed to thee.
40
Rosalind. Is it a dream, or do I see
And hear frail Helen? I would flee
Thy tainting touch; but former years
Arise, and bring forbidden tears;
And my o’erburthened memory
45
Seeks yet its lost repose in thee.
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,
50
Though mourning o’er thy wickedness
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
55
Of one so lost as Helen. Now
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,
60
Till our mournful talk be done.
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
65
But in our native land, recurs,
Even here where now we meet. It stirs
Too much of suffocating sorrow!
In the dell of yon dark chestnut wood
Is a stone seat, a solitude
70
Less like our own. The ghost of Peace
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
75
Where you are going? This is not the way,
Mamma; it leads behind those trees that grow
Close to the little river.
Helen. Yes: I know:
&n
bsp; I was bewildered. Kiss me, and be gay,
Dear boy: why do you sob?
Henry. I do not know:
80
But it might break any one’s heart to see
You and the lady cry so bitterly.
Helen. It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home,
Henry, and play with Lilla till I come.
We only cried with joy to see each other;
We are quite merry now: Good-night.
85
The boy
Lifted a sudden look upon his mother,
And in the gleam of forced and hollow joy
Which lightened o’er her face, laughed with the glee
Of light and unsuspecting infancy,
90
And whispered in her ear, ‘Bring home with you
That sweet strange lady-friend.’ Then off he flew,
But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile,
Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while,
Hiding her face, stood weeping silently.
95
In silence then they took the way
Beneath the forest’s solitude.
It was a vast and antique wood,
Thro’ which they took their way;
And the gray shades of evening