The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley Part 78

THREE EARLY DRAFTS OF THE PREFACE.

(ADVERTIs.e.m.e.nT.)

PREFACE 1.

The following Poem was found amongst other papers in the Portfolio of a young Englishman with whom the Editor had contracted an intimacy at Florence, brief indeed, but sufficiently long to render the Catastrophe by which it terminated one of the most painful events of his life.--

The literary merit of the Poem in question may not be considerable; but worse verses are printed every day, &

He was an accomplished & amiable person but his error was, thuntos on un thunta phronein,--his fate is an additional proof that 'The tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.'--He had framed to himself certain opinions, founded no doubt upon the truth of things, but built up to a Babel height; they fell by their own weight, & the thoughts that were his architects, became unintelligible one to the other, as men upon whom confusion of tongues has fallen.

[These] verses seem to have been written as a sort of dedication of some work to have been presented to the person whom they address: but his papers afford no trace of such a work--The circ.u.mstances to which [they] the poem allude, may easily be understood by those to whom [the] spirit of the poem itself is [un]intelligible: a detail of facts, sufficiently romantic in [themselves but] their combinations

The melancholy [task] charge of consigning the body of my poor friend to the grave, was committed to me by his desolated family. I caused him to be buried in a spot selected by himself, & on the h

PREFACE 2.

[Epips] T. E. V. Epipsych Lines addressed to the n.o.ble Lady [Emilia] [E. V.]

Emilia

[The following Poem was found in the PF. of a young Englishman, who died on his pa.s.sage from Leghorn to the Levant. He had bought one of the Sporades] He was accompanied by a lady [who might have been]

supposed to be his wife, & an effeminate looking youth, to whom he shewed an [attachment] so [singular] excessive an attachment as to give rise to the suspicion, that she was a woman--At his death this suspicion was confirmed;...object speedily found a refuge both from the taunts of the brute mult.i.tude, and from the...of her grief in the same grave that contained her lover.--He had bought one of the Sporades, & fitted up a Saracenic castle which accident had preserved in some repair with simple elegance, & it was his intention to dedicate the remainder of his life to undisturbed intercourse with his companions

These verses apparently were intended as a dedication of a longer poem or series of poems

PREFACE 3.

The writer of these lines died at Florence in [January 1820] while he was preparing * * for one wildest of the of the Sporades, where he bought & fitted up the ruins of some old building--His life was singular, less on account of the romantic vicissitudes which diversified it, than the ideal tinge which they received from his own character & feelings--

The verses were apparently intended by the writer to accompany some longer poem or collection of poems, of which there* [are no remnants in his] * * * remains [in his] portfolio.--

The editor is induced to

The present poem, like the vita Nova of Dante, is sufficiently intelligible to a certain cla.s.s of readers without a matter of fact history of the circ.u.mstances to which it relate, & to a certain other cla.s.s, it must & ought ever to remain incomprehensible--It was evidently intended to be prefixed to a longer poem or series of poems--but among his papers there are no traces of such a collection.

Pa.s.sAGES OF THE POEM, OR CONNECTED THEREWITH.

Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you; I have already dedicated two To other friends, one female and one male,-- What you are, is a thing that I must veil; What can this be to those who praise or rail? _5 I never was attached to that great sect Whose doctrine is that each one should select Out of the world a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion--though 'tis in the code _10 Of modern morals, and the beaten road Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread Who travel to their home among the dead By the broad highway of the world--and so With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe, _15 The dreariest and the longest journey go.

Free love has this, different from gold and clay, That to divide is not to take away.

Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes _20 A mirror of the moon--like some great gla.s.s, Which did distort whatever form might pa.s.s, Dashed into fragments by a playful child, Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild; Giving for one, which it could ne'er express, _25 A thousand images of loveliness.

If I were one whom the loud world held wise, I should disdain to quote authorities In commendation of this kind of love:-- Why there is first the G.o.d in heaven above, _30 Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly; And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece, And Jesus Christ Himself, did never cease To urge all living things to love each other, _35 And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother The Devil of disunion in their souls.

I love you!--Listen, O embodied Ray Of the great Brightness; I must pa.s.s away While you remain, and these light words must be _40 Tokens by which you may remember me.

Start not--the thing you are is unbetrayed, If you are human, and if but the shade Of some sublimer spirit...

And as to friend or mistress, 'tis a form; _45 Perhaps I wish you were one. Some declare You a familiar spirit, as you are; Others with a ... more inhuman Hint that, though not my wife, you are a woman; What is the colour of your eyes and hair? _50 Why, if you were a lady, it were fair The world should know--but, as I am afraid, The Quarterly would bait you if betrayed; And if, as it will be sport to see them stumble Over all sorts of scandals. hear them mumble _55 Their litany of curses--some guess right, And others swear you're a Hermaphrodite; Like that sweet marble monster of both s.e.xes, Which looks so sweet and gentle that it vexes The very soul that the soul is gone _60 Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone.

It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm, A happy and auspicious bird of calm, Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean; A G.o.d that broods o'er chaos in commotion; _65 A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are, Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air, And blooms most radiantly when others die, Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity; And with the light and odour of its bloom, _70 Shining within the dun eon and the tomb; Whose coming is as light and music are 'Mid dissonance and gloom--a star Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone-- A smile among dark frowns--a gentle tone _75 Among rude voices, a beloved light, A solitude, a refuge, a delight.

If I had but a friend! Why, I have three Even by my own confession; there may be Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind _80 To call my friends all who are wise and kind,- And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few; But none can ever be more dear than you.

Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings, Or like a dying swan who soars and sings, _85 I should describe you in heroic style, But as it is, are you not void of guile?

A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless: A well of sealed and secret happiness; A lute which those whom Love has taught to play _90 Make music on to cheer the roughest day, And enchant sadness till it sleeps?...

To the oblivion whither I and thou, All loving and all lovely, hasten now With steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet _95 In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!

If any should be curious to discover Whether to you I am a friend or lover, Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, taking thence A whetstone for their dull intelligence _100 That tears and will not cut, or let them guess How Diotima, the wise prophetess, Instructed the instructor, and why he Rebuked the infant spirit of melody On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke _105 Was as the lovely star when morn has broke The roof of darkness, in the golden dawn, Half-hidden, and yet beautiful.

I'll p.a.w.n My hopes of Heaven-you know what they are worth -- That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth, _110 If they could tell the riddle offered here Would scorn to be, or being to appear What now they seem and are--but let them chide, They have few pleasures in the world beside; Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden, _115 Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden.

Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.

Farewell, if it can be to say farewell To those who

I will not, as most dedicators do, _120 a.s.sure myself and all the world and you, That you are faultless--would to G.o.d they were Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear These heavy chains of life with a light spirit, And would to G.o.d I were, or even as near it _125 As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds Driven by the wind in warring mult.i.tudes, Which rain into the bosom of the earth, And rise again, and in our death and birth, And through our restless life, take as from heaven _130 Hues which are not our own, but which are given, And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance Flash from the spirit to the countenance.

There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a G.o.d Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode, _135 A Pythian exhalation, which inspires Love, only love--a wind which o'er the wires Of the soul's giant harp There is a mood which language faints beneath; You feel it striding, as Almighty Death _140 His bloodless steed...

And what is that most brief and bright delight Which rushes through the touch and through the sight, And stands before the spirit's inmost throne, A naked Seraph? None hath ever known. _145 Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire; Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire, Not to be touched but to be felt alone, It fills the world with glory-and is gone.

It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream _150 Of life, which flows, like a ... dream Into the light of morning, to the grave As to an ocean...

What is that joy which serene infancy Perceives not, as the hours content them by, _155 Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys The shapes of this new world, in giant toys Wrought by the busy ... ever new?

Remembrance borrows Fancy's gla.s.s, to show These forms more ... sincere _160 Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were.

When everything familiar seemed to be Wonderful, and the immortality Of this great world, which all things must inherit, Was felt as one with the awakening spirit, _165 Unconscious of itself, and of the strange Distinctions which in its proceeding change It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were A desolation...

Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily, _170 For all those exiles from the dull insane Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain, For all that band of sister-spirits known To one another by a voiceless tone?