AN ALLEGORY

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]

I

A PORTAL as of shadowy adamant

Stands yawning on the highway of the life
Which we all tread, a cavern huge and gaunt;
Around it rages an unceasing strife

Of shadows, like the restless clouds that haunt
The gap of some cleft mountain, lifted high
Into the whirlwinds of the upper sky.

II

And many pass it by with careless tread,
Not knowing that a shadowy

Tracks every traveller even to where the dead
Wait peacefully for their companion new;
But others, by more curious humour led,
Pause to examine; these are very few,
And they learn little there, except to know
That shadows follow them where'er they go.

THE WORLD'S WANDERERS

[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]

[Published by Leigh Hunt, The Literary Pocket-Book, 1823.

There

is a transcript amongst the Ollier MSS., and another in the Harvard
MS. book.]

YE hasten to the grave! What seek ye there,
Ye restless thoughts and busy purposes

Of the idle brain, which the world's livery wear?
O thou quick heart, which pantest to possess
An Allegory.-8 pass Rossetti; passed edd. 1824, 1839.
Ollier MS.; dead Harvard MS., 1823, edd. 1824, 1839.

Sonnet. I grave

All that pale Expectation feigneth fair!

Thou vainly curious mind which wouldest guess
Whence thou didst come, and whither thou must go,
And all that never yet was known would know-
Oh, whither hasten ye, that thus ye press,

With such swift feet life's green and pleasant path,
Seeking, alike from happiness and woe,

A refuge in the cavern of gray death?

O heart, and mind, and thoughts! what thing do you
Hope to inherit in the grave below?

LINES TO A REVIEWER

[Published by Leigh Hunt, The Literary Pocket-Book, 1823. These lines, and the Sonnet immediately preceding, are signed & in the Literary Pocket-Book.]

ALAS, good friend, what profit can you see
In hating such a hateless thing as me?
There is no sport in hate where all the rage
Is on one side: in vain would you assuage
Your frowns upon an unresisting smile,
In which not even contempt lurks to beguile
Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate.
Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate!
For to your passion I am far more coy
Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy
In winter noon. Of your antipathy
If I am the Narcissus, you are free
To pine into a sound with hating me.

FRAGMENT OF A SATIRE ON SATIRE
[Published by Edward Dowden, Correspondence of Robert Southey
and Caroline Bowles, 1880.]

IF gibbets, axes, confiscations, chains,

And racks of subtle torture, if the pains

Of shame, of fiery Hell's tempestuous wave,

Seen through the caverns of the shadowy grave,

Hurling the damned into the murky air

While the meek blest sit smiling; if Despair

And Hate, the rapid bloodhounds with which Terror

Hunts through the world the homeless steps of Error,
Are the true secrets of the commonweal

To make men wise and just;

And not the sophisms of revenge and fear,

Bloodier than is revenge

...

Then send the priests to every hearth and home
To preach the burning wrath which is to come,

Sonnet.-5 pale Expectation Ollier MS.; anticipation Harvard MS., 1823,
cdd. 1824, 1839.
7 must Harvard MS., 1823; mayst 1824; mayest edd.
8 all that Harvard MS., 1823; that which edd. 1824, 1839.
would Harvard MS., 1823; wouldst edd. 1839. Lines to a Reviewer.-3 where
edd. 1824, 1839; when 1823.

1839.

5

10

5

10

5

ΤΟ

In words like flakes of sulphur, such as thaw

The frozen tears

If Satire's scourge could wake the slumbering hounds
Of Conscience, or erase the deeper wounds,

The leprous scars of callous Infamy;

If it could make the present not to be,
Or charm the dark past never to have been,
Or turn regret to hope; who that has seen
What Southey is and was, would not exclaim,
'Lash on!'
be the keen verse dipped in flame;
Follow his flight with winged words, and urge
The strokes of the inexorable scourge
Until the heart be naked, till his soul
See the contagion's spots

foul;

And from the mirror of Truth's sunlike shield,
From which his Parthian arrow.

Flash on his sight the spectres of the past,
Until his mind's eye paint thereon-

Let scorn like

yawn below,

And rain on him like flakes of fiery snow.
This cannot be, it ought not, evil still-
Suffering makes suffering, ill must follow ill.
Rough words beget sad thoughts,

and, beside,

Men take a sullen and a stupid pride

In being all they hate in others' shame,

By a perverse antipathy of fame.

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"Tis not worth while to prove, as I could, how

From the sweet fountains of our Nature flow

These bitter waters; I will only say,

If any friend would take Southey some day,

And tell him, in a country walk alone,

45

Softening harsh words with friendship's gentle tone,

How incorrect his public conduct is,

And what men think of it, 'twere not amiss.

Far better than to make innocent ink

GOOD-NIGHT

[Published by Leigh Hunt over the signature Σ, The Literary PocketBook, 1822. It is included in the Harvard MS. book, and there is a transcript by Shelley in a copy of The Literary Pocket-Book, 1819, presented by him to Miss Sophia Stacey, Dec. 29, 1820. (See Love's Philosophy and Time Long Past.) Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1822, with which the Harvard MS. and P. P., 1824, agree. The variants of the Stacey MS., 1820, are given in the footnotes.]

I

GOOD-NIGHT? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;
Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

1 Good-night? no, love! the night is ill Stacey MS.

II

How can I call the lone night good,
Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?
Be it not said, thought, understood-
Then it will be-good night.

III

To hearts which near each other move
From evening close to morning light,
The night is good; because, my love,
They never say good-night.

BUONA NOTTE

[Published by Medwin, The Angler in Wales, or Days and Nights of Sportsmen, 1834. The text is revised by Rossetti from the Boscombe MS.]

'BUONA notte, buona notte!'-Come mai

La notte sarà buona senza te?
Non dirmi buona notte,-chè tu sai,
La notte sà star buona da per sè.

II

Solinga, scura, cupa, senza speme,
La notte quando Lilla m'abbandona ;
Pei cuori chi si batton insieme

Ogni notte, senza dirla, sarà buona.

III

Come male buona notte si suona
Con sospiri e parole interrotte!-
Il modo di aver la notte buona

E mai non di dir la buona notte.

ORPHEUS

[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862; revised and
enlarged by Rossetti, Complete P. W. of P. B. S., 1870.]
A. Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,
Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold
A dark and barren field, through which there flows,
Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream,
Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon
Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there.

Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook
Until you pause beside a darksome pond,
The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush
Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night

Good-night-5 How were the night without thee good Stacey MS.

9 The

hearts that on each other beat Stacey MS. II Have nights as good as 12 But never say good night Stacey MS.

they are sweet Stacey MS.

5

ΤΟ

5

10

5

ΤΟ

Buona Notte-2 sarà] sia 1834.

4 buona] bene 1831.

9 Come] Quanto 1834.

That lives beneath the overhanging rock
That shades the pool-an endless spring of gloom,
Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,
Trembling to mingle with its paramour,-
But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day,
Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.
On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill
There is a cave, from which there eddies up
A pale mist, like aëreal gossamer,
Whose breath destroys all life-awhile it veils
The rock-then, scattered by the wind, it flies
Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts,
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.
Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life,
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,
Whose branches the air plays among, but not
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace ;
But blasted and all wearily they stand,
One to another clinging; their weak boughs
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake
Beneath its blasts-a weatherbeaten crew!

Chorus. What wondrous sound is that, mournful and faint,

35

But more melodious than the murmuring wind

Which through the columns of a temple glides?
A. It is the wandering voice of Orpheus' lyre,
Borne by the winds, who sigh that their rude king
Hurries them fast from these air-feeding notes;
But in their speed they bear along with them
The waning sound, scattering it like dew
Upon the startled sense.

Chorus.
Does he still sing?
Methought he rashly cast away his harp
When he had lost Eurydice.

Ah, no!

A.
Awhile he paused. As a poor hunted stag

A moment shudders on the fearful brink

Of a swift stream-the cruel hounds press on

With deafening yell, the arrows glance and wound,

He plunges in: so Orpheus, seized and torn

By the sharp fangs of an insatiate grief,

Maenad-like waved his lyre in the bright air,

And wildly shrieked Where she is, it is dark!'

And then he struck from forth the strings a sound

Of deep and fearful melody. Alas!

In times long past, when fair Eurydice

With her bright eyes sat listening by his side,

He gently sang of high and heavenly themes.

16, 17, 24 1870 only. 45-55 Ah, no! . . . melody 1870 only.

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