« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
And sinks down in fear;
O Tyranny! beholdest now
Light around thee, and thou hearest
The loud flames ascend, and fearest.
Grovel on the earth! ay, hide
In the dust thy purple pride!
Noon descends around me now.
'Tis the noon of autumn's glow,
When a soft and purple mist,
Like a vaporous amethyst,
Or an air-dissolved star
Mingling light and fragrance, far
From the curved horizon's bound
To the point of heaven's profound
Fills the overflowing sky.
And the plains that silent lie
Underneath; the leaves unsodden
Where the infant frost has trodden
With his morning-winged feet,
Whose bright print is gleaming yet;
And the red and golden vines,
Piercing with their trellised lines
The rough, dark-skirted wilderness;
The dun and bladed grass no less,
Pointing from this hoary tower
In the windless air; the flower
Glimmering at my feet; the line
Of the olive-sandalled Apennine
In the south dimly islanded;
And the Alps, whose snows are spread
High between the clouds and sun ;
And of living things each one;
And my spirit, which so long Darkened this swift stream of song, – Interpenetrated lie
By the glory of the sky:
Be it love, light, harmony,
Odor, or the soul of all
Which from heaven like dew doth fall, Or the mind which feeds this verse Peopling the lone universe.
Noon descends, and after noon
Autumn's evening meets me soon,
Leading the infantine moon
And that one star, which to her
Almost seems to minister
Half the crimson light she brings
From the sunset's radiant springs;
And the soft dreams of the morn
(Which like winged winds had borne
To that silent isle, which lies
Mid remembered agonies,
The frail bark of this lone being)
Pass, to other sufferers fleeing,
And its ancient pilot, Pain,
Sits beside the helm again.
Other flowering isles must be
In the sea of life and agony;
Other spirits float and flee
O'er that gulf: even now, perhaps,
On some rock the wild wave wraps,
With folding wings they waiting sit
For my bark, to pilot it
To some calm and blooming cove,
Where for me, and those I love,
May a windless bower be built,
Far from passion, pain, and guilt,
In a dell mid lawny hills,
Which the wild sea-murmur fills,
And soft sunshine, and the sound
Of old forests echoing round,
And the light and smell divine
Of all flowers that breathe and shine.
We may live so happy there,
That the spirits of the air,
Envying us, may even entice
To our healing paradise
The polluting multitude ;
But their rage would be subdued
By that clime divine and calm,
And the winds whose wings rain balm
On the uplifted soul, and leaves
Under which the bright sea heaves;
While each breathless interval
In their whisperings musical
The inspired soul supplies
With its own deep melodies,
And the love which heals all strife,
Circling, like the breath of life,
All things in that sweet abode
With its own mild brotherhood.
They, not it, would change; and soon
Every sprite beneath the moon
Would repent its envy vain,
And the earth grow young again.
COME, be happy!- sit near me,
Coy, unwilling, silent bride,
Mourning in thy robe of pride,
Come, be happy!-sit near me.
Sad as I may seem to thee,
I am happier far than thou,
Lady, whose imperial brow
Is endiademed with woe.
Misery! we have known each other,
Like a sister and a brother
Living in the same lone home,
Many years we must live some
Hours or ages yet to come.
'Tis an evil lot, and yet
Let us make the best of it;
If love can live when pleasure dies,
Invocation to Misery, Medwin, 1832 || Misery, A Fragment, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. Published by Medwin, The Athenæum, September 8, 1832.
i. 1 near, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || by, Medwin, 1832.
iii. 5 Hours or, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || Years and, Medwin, 1832. iv. 2 best, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || most, Medwin, 1832.
We two will love, till in our eyes
This heart's Hell seem Paradise.
Come, be happy!-lie thee down
On the fresh grass newly mown,
Where the grasshopper doth sing
Merrily one joyous thing
In a world of sorrowing
There our tent shall be the willow,
And mine arm shall be thy pillow;
Sounds and odors, sorrowful
Because they once were sweet, shall lull
Us to slumber, deep and dull.
Ha! thy frozen pulses flutter
With a love thou darest not utter.
Thou art murmuring-thou art weeping
Is thine icy bosom leaping
While my burning heart lies sleeping?
Kiss me; -oh! thy lips are cold;
neck thine arms enfold
They are soft, but chill and dead;
Thou art murmuring, thou art weeping,
Whilst my burning bosom's leaping.
iv. 4 We two will, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || We will, Medwin, 1832. vi. 2 mine arm shall be thy, Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || thine arm shall be my, Medwin, 1832.
vii. 3 asterisks, Medwin, 1832.