The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 186

EYES: A FRAGMENT.

[Published by Rossetti, "Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.", 1870; dated 1810. Included (four unpublished eight-line stanzas) in the Esdaile ma.n.u.script book.)]

How eloquent are eyes!

Not the rapt poet's frenzied lay When the soul's wildest feelings stray Can speak so well as they.

How eloquent are eyes! _5 Not music's most impa.s.sioned note On which Love's warmest fervours float Like them bids rapture rise.

Love, look thus again,-- That your look may light a waste of years, _10 Darting the beam that conquers cares Through the cold shower of tears.

Love, look thus again!

ORIGINAL POETRY BY VICTOR AND CAZIRE.

[Published by Sh.e.l.ley, 1810. A Reprint, edited by Richard Garnett, C.B., LL.D., was issued by John Lane, in 1898. The punctuation of the original edition is here retained.]

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 pa.s.ses 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 a.s.sistance--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 complains, 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 Sat.u.r.day night.

And now my good friends--who come after I mean, As I ne'er wore a ca.s.sock, 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.

2.

TO MISS -- -- [HARRIET GROVE] FROM MISS -- -- [ELIZABETH Sh.e.l.lEY].

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 compa.s.sion 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, G.o.d 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.

NOTE: _19 mischievous]mischevious 1810.

3. SONG.

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 dest.i.tute 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 deliriously 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.

4. SONG.

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.

5. 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, With silent grief his bosom beats,-- Now fixed, as in a deathlike trance.

Who looks around with fearful eye, And shuns all converse with man kind, _10 As though some one his griefs might spy, And soothe them with a kindred mind.

A friend or foe to him the same, He looks on each with equal eye; The difference lies but in the name, _15 To none for comfort can he fly.--

'Twas deep despair, and sorrow's trace, To him too keenly given, Whose memory, time could not efface-- His peace was lodged in Heaven.-- _20

He looks on all this world bestows, The pride and pomp of power, As trifles best for pageant shows Which vanish in an hour.