Earth,
ocean, air, belovèd brotherhood!
If our
great Mother has imbued my soul
With aught
of natural piety to feel
Your love,
and recompense the boon with mine;
If dewy
morn, and odorous noon, and even,
With sunset
and its gorgeous ministers,
And solemn
midnight's tingling silentness;
If autumn's
hollow sighs in the sere wood,
And winter
robing with pure snow and crowns
Of starry
ice the grey grass and bare boughs;
If spring's
voluptuous pantings when she breathes
Her first
sweet kisses, have been dear to me;
If no
bright bird, insect, or gentle beast
I
consciously have injured, but still loved
And
cherished these my kindred; then forgive
This boast,
belovèd brethren, and withdraw
No portion
of your wonted favour now!
Mother
of this unfathomable world!
Favour my
solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever,
and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow,
and the darkness of thy steps,
And my
heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep
mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels
and on coffins, where black death
Keeps
record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to
still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and
thine, by forcing some lone ghost
Thy
messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we
are. In lone and silent hours,
When night
makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an
inspired and desperate alchymist
Staking his
very life on some dark hope,
Have I
mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my
most innocent love, until strange tears
Uniting
with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic
as compels the charmèd night
To render
up thy charge:...and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast
unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from
incommunicable dream,
And
twilight phantasms, and deep noon-day thought,
Has shone
within me, that serenely now
And
moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended
in the solitary dome
Of some
mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy
breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May
modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions
of the forests and the sea,
And voice
of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night
and day, and the deep heart of man.
There
was a Poet whose untimely tomb
No human
hands with pious reverence reared,
But the
charmed eddies of autumnal winds
Built o'er
his mouldering bones a pyramid
Of
mouldering leaves in the waste wilderness:—
A lovely
youth,—no mourning maiden decked
With
weeping flowers, or votive cypress wreath,
The lone
couch of his everlasting sleep:—
Gentle, and
brave, and generous,—no lorn bard
Breathed
o'er his dark fate one melodious sigh:
He lived,
he died, he sung, in solitude.
Strangers
have wept to hear his passionate notes,
And
virgins, as unknown he passed, have pined
And wasted
for fond love of his wild eyes.
The fire of
those soft orbs has ceased to burn,
And
Silence, too enamoured of that voice,
Locks its
mute music in her rugged cell.
By
solemn vision, and bright silver dream,
His infancy
was nurtured. Every sight
And sound
from the vast earth and ambient air,
Sent to his
heart its choicest impulses.
The
fountains of divine philosophy
Fled not
his thirsting lips, and all of great,
Or good, or
lovely, which the sacred past
In truth or
fable consecrates, he felt
And knew.
When early youth had past, he left
His cold
fireside and alienated home
To seek
strange truths in undiscovered lands.
Many a wide
waste and tangled wilderness
Has lured
his fearless steps; and he has bought
With his
sweet voice and eyes, from savage men,
His rest
and food. Nature's most secret steps
He like her
shadow has pursued, where'er
The red
volcano overcanopies
Its fields
of snow and pinnacles of ice
With
burning smoke, or where bitumen lakes
On black
bare pointed islets ever beat
With
sluggish surge, or where the secret caves
Rugged and
dark, winding among the springs
Of fire and
poison, inaccessible
To avarice
or pride, their starry domes
Of diamond
and of gold expand above
Numberless
and immeasurable halls,
Frequent
with crystal column, and clear shrines
Of pearl,
and thrones radiant with chrysolite.
Nor had
that scene of ampler majesty
Than gems
or gold, the varying roof of heaven
And the
green earth lost in his heart its claims
To love and
wonder; he would linger long
In lonesome
vales, making the wild his home,
Until the
doves and squirrels would partake
From his
innocuous hand his bloodless food,
Lured by
the gentle meaning of his looks,
And the
wild antelope, that starts whene'er
The dry
leaf rustles in the brake, suspend
Her timid
steps to gaze upon a form
More
graceful than her own.
His
wandering step
Obedient to
high thoughts, has visited
The awful
ruins of the days of old:
Athens, and
Tyre, and Balbec, and the waste
Where stood
Jerusalem, the fallen towers
Of Babylon,
the eternal pyramids,
Memphis and
Thebes, and whatsoe'er of strange
Sculptured
on alabaster obelisk,
Or jasper
tomb, or mutilated sphynx,
Dark
Æthiopia in her desert hills
Conceals.
Among the ruined temples there,
Stupendous
columns, and wild images
Of more
than man, where marble daemons watch
The
Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men
Hang their
mute thoughts on the mute walls around,
He
lingered, poring on memorials
Of the
world's youth, through the long burning day
Gazed on
those speechless shapes, nor, when the moon
Filled the
mysterious halls with floating shades
Suspended
he that task, but ever gazed
And gazed,
till meaning on his vacant mind
Flashed
like strong inspiration, and he saw
The
thrilling secrets of the birth of time.
Meanwhile
an Arab maiden brought his food,
Her daily
portion, from her father's tent,
And spread
her matting for his couch, and stole
From duties
and repose to tend his steps:—
Enamoured,
yet not daring for deep awe
To speak
her love:—and watched his nightly sleep,
Sleepless
herself, to gaze upon his lips
Parted in
slumber, whence the regular breath
Of innocent
dreams arose: then, when red morn
Made paler
the pale moon, to her cold home
Wildered,
and wan, and panting, she returned.
The
Poet wandering on, through Arabie
And Persia,
and the wild Carmanian waste,
And o'er
the aërial mountains which pour down
Indus and
Oxus from their icy caves,
In joy and
exultation held his way;
Till in the
vale of Cashmire, far within
Its
loneliest dell, where odorous plants entwine
Beneath the
hollow rocks a natural bower,
Beside a
sparkling rivulet he stretched
His languid
limbs. A vision on his sleep
There came,
a dream of hopes that never yet
Had flushed
his cheek. He dreamed a veilèd maid
Sate near
him, talking in low solemn tones.
Her voice
was like the voice of his own soul
Heard in
the calm of thought; its music long,
Like woven
sounds of streams and breezes, held
His inmost
sense suspended in its web
Of
many-coloured woof and shifting hues.
Knowledge
and truth and virtue were her theme,
And lofty
hopes of divine liberty,
Thoughts
the most dear to him, and poesy,
Herself a
poet. Soon the solemn mood
Of her pure
mind kindled through all her frame
A
permeating fire: wild numbers then
She raised,
with voice stifled in tremulous sobs
Subdued by
its own pathos: her fair hands
Were bare
alone, sweeping from some strange harp
Strange
symphony, and in their branching veins
The
eloquent blood told an ineffable tale.
The beating
of her heart was heard to fill
The pauses
of her music, and her breath
Tumultuously
accorded with those fits
Of
intermitted song. Sudden she rose,
As if her
heart impatiently endured
Its
bursting burthen: at the sound he turned,
And saw by
the warm light of their own life
Her glowing
limbs beneath the sinuous veil
Of woven
wind, her outspread arms now bare,
Her dark
locks floating in the breath of night,
Her beamy
bending eyes, her parted lips
Outstretched,
and pale, and quivering eagerly.
His strong
heart sunk and sickened with excess
Of love. He
reared his shuddering limbs and quelled
His gasping
breath, and spread his arms to meet
Her panting
bosom:...she drew back a while,
Then,
yielding to the irresistible joy,
With
frantic gesture and short breathless cry
Folded his
frame in her dissolving arms.
Now
blackness veiled his dizzy eyes, and night
Involved
and swallowed up the vision; sleep,
Like a dark
flood suspended in its course
Rolled back
its impulse on his vacant brain.
Roused
by the shock he started from his trance—
The cold
white light of morning, the blue moon
Low in the
west, the clear and garish hills,
The
distinct valley and the vacant woods,
Spread
round him where he stood. Whither have fled
The hues of
heaven that canopied his bower
Of
yesternight? The sounds that soothed his sleep,
The mystery
and the majesty of Earth,
The joy,
the exultation? His wan eyes
Gaze on the
empty scene as vacantly
As ocean's
moon looks on the moon in heaven.
The spirit
of sweet human love has sent
A vision to
the sleep of him who spurned
Her
choicest gifts. He eagerly pursues
Beyond the
realms of dream that fleeting shade;
He
overleaps the bounds. Alas! Alas!
Were limbs
and breath and being intertwined
Thus
treacherously? Lost, lost, for ever lost,
In the wide
pathless desert of dim sleep,
That
beautiful shape! Does the dark gate of death
Conduct to
thy mysterious paradise,
O Sleep?
Does the bright arch of rainbow clouds,
And pendent
mountains seen in the calm lake,
Lead only
to a black and watery depth,
While
death's blue vault, with loathliest vapours hung,
Where every
shade which the foul grave exhales
Hides its
dead eye from the detested day,
Conduct, O
Sleep, to thy delightful realms?
This doubt
with sudden tide flowed on his heart,
The
insatiate hope which it awakened stung
His brain
even like despair.
While daylight held
The sky,
the Poet kept mute conference
With his
still soul. At night the passion came,
Like the
fierce fiend of a distempered dream,
And shook
him from his rest, and led him forth
Into the
darkness.—As an eagle grasped
In folds of
the green serpent, feels her breast
Burn with
the poison, and precipitates
Through
night and day, tempest, and calm, and cloud,
Frantic
with dizzying anguish, her blind flight
O'er the
wide aëry wilderness: thus driven
By the
bright shadow of that lovely dream,
Beneath the
cold glare of the desolate night,
Through
tangled swamps and deep precipitous dells,
Startling
with careless step the moonlight snake,
He fled.
Red morning dawned upon his flight,
Shedding
the mockery of its vital hues
Upon his
cheek of death. He wandered on
Till vast
Aornos, seen from Petra's steep,
Hung o'er
the low horizon like a cloud;
Through
Balk, and where the desolated tombs
Of Parthian
kings scatter to every wind
Their
wasting dust, wildly he wandered on,
Day after
day a weary waste of hours,
Bearing
within his life the brooding care
That ever
fed on its decaying flame.
And now his
limbs were lean; his scattered hair
Sered by
the autumn of strange suffering
Sung dirges
in the wind; his listless hand
Hung like
dead bone within its withered skin;
Life, and
the lustre that consumed it, shone
As in a
furnace burning secretly
From his
dark eyes alone. The cottagers,
Who
ministered with human charity
His human
wants, beheld with wondering awe
Their
fleeting visitant. The mountaineer,
Encountering
on some dizzy precipice
That spectral
form, deemed that the Spirit of wind
With
lightning eyes, and eager breath, and feet
Disturbing
not the drifted snow, had paused
In its
career: the infant would conceal
His
troubled visage in his mother's robe
In terror
at the glare of those wild eyes,
To remember
their strange light in many a dream
Of
after-times; but youthful maidens, taught
By nature,
would interpret half the woe
That wasted
him, would call him with false names
Brother,
and friend, would press his pallid hand
At parting,
and watch, dim through tears, the path
Of his
departure from their father's door.
At
length upon the lone Chorasmian shore
He paused,
a wide and melancholy waste
Of putrid
marshes. A strong impulse urged
His steps
to the sea-shore. A swan was there,
Beside a
sluggish stream among the reeds.
It rose as
he approached, and with strong wings
Scaling the
upward sky, bent its bright course
High over
the immeasurable main.
His eyes
pursued its flight.—"Thou hast a home,
Beautiful
bird; thou voyagest to thine home,
Where thy
sweet mate will twine her downy neck
With thine,
and welcome thy return with eyes
Bright in
the lustre of their own fond joy.
And what am
I that I should linger here,
With voice
far sweeter than thy dying notes,
Spirit more
vast than thine, frame more attuned
To beauty,
wasting these surpassing powers
In the deaf
air, to the blind earth, and heaven
That echoes
not my thoughts?" A gloomy smile
Of
desperate hope wrinkled his quivering lips.
For sleep,
he knew, kept most relentlessly
Its
precious charge, and silent death exposed,
Faithless
perhaps as sleep, a shadowy lure,
With
doubtful smile mocking its own strange charms.
Startled
by his own thoughts he looked around.
There was
no fair fiend near him, not a sight
Or sound of
awe but in his own deep mind.
A little
shallop floating near the shore
Caught the
impatient wandering of his gaze.
It had been
long abandoned, for its sides
Gaped wide
with many a rift, and its frail joints
Swayed with
the undulations of the tide.
A restless
impulse urged him to embark
And meet
lone Death on the drear ocean's waste;
For well he
knew that mighty Shadow loves
The slimy
caverns of the populous deep.
The
day was fair and sunny: sea and sky
Drank its
inspiring radiance, and the wind
Swept
strongly from the shore, blackening the waves.
Following
his eager soul, the wanderer
Leaped in
the boat, he spread his cloak aloft
On the bare
mast, and took his lonely seat,
And felt
the boat speed o'er the tranquil sea
Like a torn
cloud before the hurricane.
As
one that in a silver vision floats
Obedient to
the sweep of odorous winds
Upon
resplendent clouds, so rapidly
Along the
dark and ruffled waters fled
The
straining boat.—A whirlwind swept it on,
With fierce
gusts and precipitating force,
Through the
white ridges of the chafèd sea.
The waves
arose. Higher and higher still
Their
fierce necks writhed beneath the tempest's scourge
Like
serpents struggling in a vulture's grasp.
Calm and
rejoicing in the fearful war
Of wave
ruining on wave, and blast on blast
Descending,
and black flood on whirlpool driven
With dark
obliterating course, he sate:
As if their
genii were the ministers
Appointed
to conduct him to the light
Of those
belovèd eyes, the Poet sate
Holding the
steady helm. Evening came on,
The beams
of sunset hung their rainbow hues
High 'mid
the shifting domes of sheeted spray
That
canopied his path o'er the waste deep;
Twilight,
ascending slowly from the east,
Entwined in
duskier wreaths her braided locks
O'er the
fair front and radiant eyes of day;
Night
followed, clad with stars. On every side
More horribly
the multitudinous streams
Of ocean's
mountainous waste to mutual war
Rushed in
dark tumult thundering, as to mock
The calm
and spangled sky. The little boat
Still fled
before the storm; still fled, like foam
Down the
steep cataract of a wintry river;
Now pausing
on the edge of the riven wave;
Now leaving
far behind the bursting mass
That fell,
convulsing ocean. Safely fled—
As if that
frail and wasted human form,
Had been an
elemental god.
At midnight
The moon
arose: and lo! the ethereal cliffs
Of
Caucasus, whose icy summits shone
Among the
stars like sunlight, and around
Whose
caverned base the whirlpools and the waves
Bursting
and eddying irresistibly
Rage and
resound for ever.—Who shall save?—
The boat
fled on,—the boiling torrent drove,—
The crags
closed round with black and jaggèd arms,
The
shattered mountain overhung the sea,
And faster
still, beyond all human speed,
Suspended
on the sweep of the smooth wave,
The little
boat was driven. A cavern there
Yawned, and
amid its slant and winding depths
Ingulfed
the rushing sea. The boat fled on
With
unrelaxing speed.—"Vision and Love!"
The Poet
cried aloud, "I have beheld
The path of
thy departure. Sleep and death
Shall not
divide us long!"
The boat pursued
The
windings of the cavern. Daylight shone
At length
upon that gloomy river's flow;
Now, where
the fiercest war among the waves
Is calm, on
the unfathomable stream
The boat
moved slowly. Where the mountain, riven,
Exposed
those black depths to the azure sky,
Ere yet the
flood's enormous volume fell
Even to the
base of Caucasus, with sound
That shook
the everlasting rocks, the mass
Filled with
one whirlpool all that ample chasm;
Stair above
stair the eddying waters rose,
Circling
immeasurably fast, and laved
With
alternating dash the gnarlèd roots
Of mighty
trees, that stretched their giant arms
In darkness
over it. I' the midst was left,
Reflecting,
yet distorting every cloud,
A pool of
treacherous and tremendous calm.
Seized by
the sway of the ascending stream,
With dizzy
swiftness, round, and round, and round,
Ridge after
ridge the straining boat arose,
Till on the
verge of the extremest curve,
Where,
through an opening of the rocky bank,
The waters
overflow, and a smooth spot
Of glassy
quiet mid those battling tides
Is left,
the boat paused shuddering.—Shall it sink
Down the
abyss? Shall the reverting stress
Of that
resistless gulf embosom it?
Now shall
it fall?—A wandering stream of wind,
Breathed
from the west, has caught the expanded sail,
And, lo!
with gentle motion, between banks
Of mossy
slope, and on a placid stream,
Beneath a
woven grove it sails, and, hark!
The ghastly
torrent mingles its far roar,
With the
breeze murmuring in the musical woods.
Where the
embowering trees recede, and leave
A little
space of green expanse, the cove
Is closed
by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers
For ever
gaze on their own drooping eyes,
Reflected
in the crystal calm. The wave
Of the
boat's motion marred their pensive task,
Which
nought but vagrant bird, or wanton wind,
Or falling
spear-grass, or their own decay
Had e'er
disturbed before. The Poet longed
To deck
with their bright hues his withered hair,
But on his
heart its solitude returned,
And he
forbore. Not the strong impulse hid
In those
flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame
Had yet
performed its ministry: it hung
Upon his
life, as lightning in a cloud
Gleams,
hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods
Of night
close over it.
The noonday sun
Now shone
upon the forest, one vast mass
Of mingling
shade, whose brown magnificence
A narrow
vale embosoms. There, huge caves
Scooped in
the dark base of their aëry rocks
Mocking its
moans, respond and roar for ever.
The meeting
boughs and implicated leaves
Wove
twilight o'er the Poet's path, as led
By love, or
dream, or god, or mightier Death,
He sought
in Nature's dearest haunt, some bank
Her cradle,
and his sepulchre. More dark
And dark
the shades accumulate. The oak,
Expanding
its immense and knotty arms,
Embraces
the light beech. The pyramids
Of the tall
cedar overarching, frame
Most solemn
domes within, and far below,
Like clouds
suspended in an emerald sky,
The ash and
the acacia floating hang
Tremulous
and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed
In rainbow
and in fire, the parasites,
Starred
with ten thousand blossoms, flow around
The grey
trunks, and, as gamesome infants' eyes,
With gentle
meanings, and most innocent wiles,
Fold their
beams round the hearts of those that love,
These twine
their tendrils with the wedded boughs
Uniting
their close union; the woven leaves
Make
net-work of the dark blue light of day,
And the
night's noontide clearness, mutable
As shapes
in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns
Beneath
these canopies extend their swells,
Fragrant
with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms
Minute yet
beautiful. One darkest glen
Sends from
its woods of musk-rose, twined with jasmine,
A
soul-dissolving odour, to invite
To some
more lovely mystery. Through the dell,
Silence and
Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep
Their
noonday watch, and sail among the shades,
Like
vaporous shapes half seen; beyond, a well,
Dark,
gleaming, and of most translucent wave,
Images all
the woven boughs above,
And each
depending leaf, and every speck
Of azure
sky, darting between their chasms;
Nor aught
else in the liquid mirror laves
Its
portraiture, but some inconstant star
Between one
foliaged lattice twinkling fair,
Or painted
bird, sleeping beneath the moon,
Or gorgeous
insect floating motionless,
Unconscious
of the day, ere yet his wings
Have spread
their glories to the gaze of noon.
Hither
the Poet came. His eyes beheld
Their own
wan light through the reflected lines
Of his thin
hair, distinct in the dark depth
Of that
still fountain; as the human heart,
Gazing in
dreams over the gloomy grave,
Sees its
own treacherous likeness there. He heard
The motion
of the leaves, the grass that sprung
Startled
and glanced and trembled even to feel
An
unaccustomed presence, and the sound
Of the
sweet brook that from the secret springs
Of that
dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed
To stand
beside him—clothed in no bright robes
Of shadowy
silver or enshrining light,
Borrowed
from aught the visible world affords
Of grace,
or majesty, or mystery;—
But,
undulating woods, and silent well,
And leaping
rivulet, and evening gloom
Now
deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,
Held
commune with him, as if he and it
Were all
that was,—only... when his regard
Was raised
by intense pensiveness,... two eyes,
Two starry
eyes, hung in the gloom of thought,
And seemed
with their serene and azure smiles
To beckon
him.
Obedient to the light
That shone
within his soul, he went, pursuing
The
windings of the dell.—The rivulet
Wanton and
wild, through many a green ravine
Beneath the
forest flowed. Sometimes it fell
Among the
moss, with hollow harmony
Dark and
profound. Now on the polished stones
It danced;
like childhood laughing as it went:
Then,
through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept,
Reflecting
every herb and drooping bud
That
overhung its quietness.—"O stream!
Whose
source is inaccessibly profound,
Whither do
thy mysterious waters tend?
Thou
imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,
Thy
dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,
Thy
searchless fountain, and invisible course
Have each
their type in me: and the wide sky,
And
measureless ocean may declare as soon
What oozy
cavern or what wandering cloud
Contains
thy waters, as the universe
Tell where
these living thoughts reside, when stretched
Upon thy
flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste
I' the
passing wind!"
Beside the grassy shore
Of the
small stream he went; he did impress
On the
green moss his tremulous step, that caught
Strong
shuddering from his burning limbs. As one
Roused by
some joyous madness from the couch
Of fever,
he did move; yet, not like him,
Forgetful
of the grave, where, when the flame
Of his
frail exultation shall be spent,
He must
descend. With rapid steps he went
Beneath the
shade of trees, beside the flow
Of the wild
babbling rivulet; and now
The
forest's solemn canopies were changed
For the
uniform and lightsome evening sky.
Grey rocks
did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed
The
struggling brook: tall spires of windlestrae
Threw their
thin shadows down the rugged slope,
And nought
but gnarlèd roots of ancient pines
Branchless
and blasted, clenched with grasping roots
The
unwilling soil. A gradual change was here,
Yet
ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,
The smooth
brow gathers, and the hair grows thin
And white,
and where irradiate dewy eyes
Had shone,
gleam stony orbs:—so from his steps
Bright
flowers departed, and the beautiful shade
Of the
green groves, with all their odorous winds
And musical
motions. Calm, he still pursued
The stream,
that with a larger volume now
Rolled
through the labyrinthine dell; and there
Fretted a
path through its descending curves
With its
wintry speed. On every side now rose
Rocks,
which, in unimaginable forms,
Lifted
their black and barren pinnacles
In the
light of evening, and its precipice
Obscuring
the ravine, disclosed above,
Mid
toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves,
Whose
windings gave ten thousand various tongues
To the loud
stream. Lo! where the pass expands
Its stony
jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,
And seems,
with its accumulated crags,
To overhang
the world: for wide expand
Beneath the
wan stars and descending moon
Islanded
seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,
Dim tracts
and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom
Of
leaden-coloured even, and fiery hills
Mingling
their flames with twilight, on the verge
Of the
remote horizon. The near scene,
In naked
and severe simplicity,
Made
contrast with the universe. A pine,
Rock-rooted,
stretched athwart the vacancy
Its
swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast
Yielding
one only response, at each pause,
In most
familiar cadence, with the howl
The thunder
and the hiss of homeless streams
Mingling
its solemn song, whilst the broad river,
Foaming and
hurrying o'er its rugged path,
Fell into
that immeasurable void,
Scattering
its waters to the passing winds.
Yet
the grey precipice and solemn pine
And
torrent, were not all;—one silent nook
Was there.
Even on the edge of that vast mountain,
Upheld by
knotty roots and fallen rocks,
It
overlooked in its serenity
The dark
earth, and the bending vault of stars.
It was a
tranquil spot, that seemed to smile
Even in the
lap of horror. Ivy clasped
The
fissured stones with its entwining arms,
And did
embower with leaves for ever green,
And berries
dark, the smooth and even space
Of its
inviolated floor, and here
The
children of the autumnal whirlwind bore,
In wanton
sport, those bright leaves, whose decay,
Red,
yellow, or ethereally pale,
Rivals the
pride of summer. 'Tis the haunt
Of every
gentle wind, whose breath can teach
The wilds
to love tranquillity. One step,
One human
step alone, has ever broken
The
stillness of its solitude:—one voice
Alone
inspired its echoes;—even that voice
Which
hither came, floating among the winds,
And led the
loveliest among human forms
To make
their wild haunts the depository
Of all the
grace and beauty that endued
Its
motions, render up its majesty,
Scatter its
music on the unfeeling storm,
And to the
damp leaves and blue cavern mould,
Nurses of
rainbow flowers and branching moss,
Commit the
colours of that varying cheek,
That snowy
breast, those dark and drooping eyes.
The
dim and hornèd moon hung low, and poured
A sea of
lustre on the horizon's verge
That
overflowed its mountains. Yellow mist
Filled the
unbounded atmosphere, and drank
Wan
moonlight even to fulness: not a star
Shone, not
a sound was heard; the very winds,
Danger's
grim playmates, on that precipice
Slept,
clasped in his embrace.—O, storm of death!
Whose
sightless speed divides this sullen night:
And thou,
colossal Skeleton, that, still
Guiding its
irresistible career
In thy
devastating omnipotence,
Art king of
this frail world, from the red field
Of
slaughter, from the reeking hospital,
The patriot's
sacred couch, the snowy bed
Of
innocence, the scaffold and the throne,
A mighty
voice invokes thee. Ruin calls
His brother
Death. A rare and regal prey
He hath
prepared, prowling around the world;
Glutted
with which thou mayst repose, and men
Go to their
graves like flowers or creeping worms,
Nor ever
more offer at thy dark shrine
The
unheeded tribute of a broken heart.
When
on the threshold of the green recess
The
wanderer's footsteps fell, he knew that death
Was on him.
Yet a little, ere it fled,
Did he
resign his high and holy soul
To images
of the majestic past,
That paused
within his passive being now,
Like winds
that bear sweet music, when they breathe
Through
some dim latticed chamber. He did place
His pale
lean hand upon the rugged trunk
Of the old
pine. Upon an ivied stone
Reclined
his languid head, his limbs did rest,
Diffused
and motionless, on the smooth brink
Of that
obscurest chasm;—and thus he lay,
Surrendering
to their final impulses
The
hovering powers of life. Hope and despair,
The
torturers, slept; no mortal pain or fear
Marred his
repose, the influxes of sense,
And his own
being unalloyed by pain,
Yet feebler
and more feeble, calmly fed
The stream
of thought, till he lay breathing there
At peace,
and faintly smiling:—his last sight
Was the
great moon, which o'er the western line
Of the wide
world her mighty horn suspended,
With whose
dun beams inwoven darkness seemed
To mingle.
Now upon the jaggèd hills
It rests,
and still as the divided frame
Of the vast
meteor sunk, the Poet's blood,
That ever
beat in mystic sympathy
With
nature's ebb and flow, grew feebler still:
And when
two lessening points of light alone
Gleamed
through the darkness, the alternate gasp
Of his faint
respiration scarce did stir
The
stagnate night:—till the minutest ray
Was
quenched, the pulse yet lingered in his heart.
It
paused—it fluttered. But when heaven remained
Utterly
black, the murky shades involved
An image,
silent, cold, and motionless,
As their
own voiceless earth and vacant air.
Even as a
vapour fed with golden beams
That
ministered on sunlight, ere the west
Eclipses
it, was now that wondrous frame—
No sense,
no motion, no divinity—
A fragile
lute, on whose harmonious strings
The breath
of heaven did wander—a bright stream
Once fed
with many-voicèd waves—a dream
Of youth,
which night and time have quenched for ever,
Still,
dark, and dry, and unremembered now.
O,
for Medea's wondrous alchemy,
Which
wheresoe'er it fell made the earth gleam
With bright
flowers, and the wintry boughs exhale
From vernal
blooms fresh fragrance! O, that God,
Profuse of
poisons, would concede the chalice
Which but
one living man has drained, who now,
Vessel of
deathless wrath, a slave that feels
No proud
exemption in the blighting curse
He bears,
over the world wanders for ever,
Lone as
incarnate death! O, that the dream
Of dark
magician in his visioned cave,
Raking the
cinders of a crucible
For life
and power, even when his feeble hand
Shakes in
its last decay, were the true law
Of this so
lovely world! But thou art fled
Like some
frail exhalation; which the dawn
Robes in
its golden beams,—ah! thou hast fled!
The brave,
the gentle, and the beautiful,
The child
of grace and genius. Heartless things
Are done
and said i' the world, and many worms
And beasts
and men live on, and mighty Earth
From sea
and mountain, city and wilderness,
In vesper
low or joyous orison,
Lifts still
its solemn voice:—but thou art fled—
Thou canst
no longer know or love the shapes
Of this
phantasmal scene, who have to thee
Been purest
ministers, who are, alas!
Now thou
art not. Upon those pallid lips
So sweet
even in their silence, on those eyes
That image
sleep in death, upon that form
Yet safe
from the worm's outrage, let no tear
Be shed—not
even in thought. Nor, when those hues
Are gone,
and those divinest lineaments,
Worn by the
senseless wind, shall live alone
In the frail
pauses of this simple strain,
Let not
high verse, mourning the memory
Of that
which is no more, or painting's woe
Or
sculpture, speak in feeble imagery
Their own
cold powers. Art and eloquence,
And all the
shows o' the world are frail and vain
To weep a
loss that turns their lights to shade.
It is a woe
too "deep for tears," when all
Is reft at
once, when some surpassing Spirit,
Whose light
adorned the world around it, leaves
Those who
remain behind, not sobs or groans,
The
passionate tumult of a clinging hope;
But pale
despair and cold tranquillity,
Nature's
vast frame, the web of human things,
Birth and
the grave, that are not as they were.
2.
Write a note on Shelley's use of imagery in Alastor. December, 2012/June, 2013
3. Comment on Shelley's
treatment of the theme of love in 'Alastor'. December, 2014/June, 2015
4.
Write a critical note on Shelley's view of the poet, as it is
projected in "Alastor". June, 2018
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