Selected Poetry and Prose - Percy Bysshe Shelley

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too like thee—tameless, and swift, and proud.

      V.

      Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:

      What if my leaves are falling like its own?

      The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

      Will take from both a deep autumnal tone,

      Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,

      My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

      Drive my dead thoughts over the universe,

      Like wither’d leaves, to quicken a new birth;

      And, by the incantation of this verse,

      Scatter, as from an unextinguish’d hearth

      Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!

      Be through my lips to unawaken’d earth

      The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,

      If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

      ON A FADED VIOLET

      I.

      The odour from the flower is gone

      Which like thy kisses breathed on me;

      The colour from the flower is flown

      Which glowed of thee and only thee!

      II.

      A shrivelled, lifeless, vacant form,

      It lies on my abandoned breast,

      And mocks the heart which yet is warm,

      With cold and silent rest.

      III.

      I weep,—my tears revive it not!

      I sigh,—it breathes no more on me;

      Its mute and uncomplaining lot

      Is such as mine should be.

      ON ROBERT EMMET’S TOMB

      VI.

      No trump tells thy virtues—the grave where they rest

      With thy dust shall remain unpolluted by fame,

      Till thy foes, by the world and by fortune caressed,

      Shall pass like a mist from the light of thy name.

      VII.

      When the storm-cloud that lowers o’er the day-beam is gone,

      Unchanged, unextinguished its life-spring will shine;

      When Erin has ceased with their memory to groan,

      She will smile through the tears of revival on thine.

      ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI, IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY

      I.

      It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,

      Upon the cloudy mountain peak supine;

      Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;

      Its horror and its beauty are divine.

      Upon its lips and eyelids seems to lie

      Loveliness like a shadow, from which shrine,

      Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,

      The agonies of anguish and of death.

      II.

      Yet it is less the horror than the grace

      Which turns the gazer’s spirit into stone;

      Whereon the lineaments of that dead face

      Are graven, till the characters be grown

      Into itself, and thought no more can trace;

      ’Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown

      Athwart the darkness and the glare of pain,

      Which humanize and harmonize the strain.

      III.

      And from its head as from one body grow,

      As [ ] grass out of a watery rock,

      Hairs which are vipers, and they curl and flow

      And their long tangles in each other lock,

      And with unending involutions shew

      Their mailed radiance, as it were to mock

      The torture and the death within, and saw

      The solid air with many a ragged jaw.

      IV.

      And from a stone beside, a poisonous eft

      Peeps idly into those Gorgonian eyes;

      Whilst in the air a ghastly bat, bereft

      Of sense, has flitted with a mad surprise

      Out of the cave this hideous light had cleft,

      And he comes hastening like a moth that hies

      After a taper; and the midnight sky

      Flares, a light more dread than obscurity.

      V.

      ’Tis the tempestuous loveliness of terror;

      For from the serpents gleams a brazen glare

      Kindled by that inextricable error,

      Which makes a thrilling vapour of the air

      Become a [ ] and ever-shifting mirror

      Of all the beauty and the terror there—

      A woman’s countenance, with serpent locks,

      Gazing in death on heaven from those wet rocks.

      OZYMANDIAS

      I met a traveller from an antique land,

      Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

      Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,

      Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

      And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

      Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

      Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

      The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

      And on the pedestal, these words appear:

      My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;

      Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!

      Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

      Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

      The lone and level sands stretch far away.”—

      PETER BELL THE THIRD

      By Miching Mallecho, Esq.

      “Is it a party in a parlour,

      Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,

      Some sipping punch—some sipping tea;

      But, as you by their faces see,

      All

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