It was a stream of living beams, whose bank
On either side by the cloud's cleft was made;
And where its chasms that flood of glory drank,
Its waves gushed forth like fire, and as if swayed
By some mute tempest, rolled on her; the shade
Of her bright image floated on the river.
Of liquid light, which then did end and fade-
Her radiant shape upon its verge did shiver;
Aloft, her flowing hair like strings of flame did quiver.
I stood beside her, but she saw me not-
She looked upon the sea, and skies, and earth;
Rapture, and love, and admiration wrought
A passion deeper far than tears, or mirth,
Or speech, or gesture, or whate'er has birth
From common joy; which, with the speechless feeling
That led her there united, and shot forth
From her far eyes, a light of deep revealing,
All but her dearest self from my regard concealing.
Her lips were parted, and the measured breath
Was now heard there;-her dark and intricate eyes
Orb within orb, deeper than sleep or death,
Absorbed the glories of the burning skies,
Which, mingling with her heart's deep ecstasies,1
Burst from her looks and gestures;-and a light
Of liquid tenderness like love, did rise
From her whole frame, an atmosphere which quite Arrayed her in its beams, tremulous and soft and bright.
1 Spelt ecstacies in the original edition
She would have clasped me to her glowing frame;
Those warm and odorous lips might soon have shed
On mine the fragrance and the invisible flame
Which now the cold winds stole ;-she would have laid
Upon my languid heart her dearest head;
I might have heard her voice, tender and sweet;
Her eyes mingling with mine, might soon have fed
My soul with their own joy.-One moment yet
I gazed-we parted then, never again to meet !
Never but once to meet on Earth again!
She heard me as I fled-her eager tone
Sunk1 on my heart, and almost wove a chain
Around my will to link it with her own,
So that my stern resolve was almost gone.
"I cannot reach thee! whither dost thou fly?
"My steps are faint-Come back, thou dearest one"Return, ah me! return "-the wind past by
On which those accents died, faint, far, and lingeringly.
Woe! woe! that moonless midnight-Want and Pest
Were horrible, but one more fell doth rear,
As in a hydra's swarming lair, its crest
Eminent among those victims-even the Fear
Of Hell each girt by the hot atmosphere
Of his blind agony, like a scorpion stung
By his own rage upon his burning bier
Of circling coals of fire; but still there clung
One hope, like a keen sword on starting threads uphung:
1 Sank in Mrs. Shelley's and Mr. Rossetti's editions.
Not death-death was no more refuge or rest;
Not life-it was despair to be!—not sleep,
For fiends and chasms of fire had dispossest
All natural dreams: to wake was not to weep,
But to gaze mad and pallid, at the leap
To which the Future, like a snaky scourge,
Or like some tyrant's eye, which aye doth keep Its withering beam upon his slaves, did urge Their steps; they heard the roar of Hell's sulphureous surge.
Each of that multitude alone, and lost
To sense of outward things, one hope yet knew ;
As on a foam-girt crag some seaman tost,
Stares at the rising tide, or like the crew
Whilst now the ship is splitting thro' and thro';
Each, if the tramp of a far steed was heard,
Started from sick despair, or if there flew
One murmur on the wind, or if some word
Which none can gather yet, the distant crowd has stirred.
Why became cheeks wan with the kiss of death,
Paler from hope? they had sustained despair.
Why watched those myriads with suspended breath
Sleepless a second night? they are not here
The victims, and hour by hour, a vision drear,
Warm corpses fall upon the clay-cold1 dead;
And even in death their lips are wreathed with fear.— The crowd is mute and moveless-overhead
Silent Arcturus shines-ha! hear'st thou not the tread
1 Clay cold, without a hyphen, in Shelley's edition.
Of rushing feet? laughter? the shout, the scream,
Of triumph not to be contained? see! hark!
They come, they come, give way! alas, ye deem
Falsely 'tis but a crowd of maniacs stark
Driven, like a troop of spectres, thro' the dark,
From the choked well, whence a bright death-fire sprung,
A lurid earth-star, which dropped many a spark
From its blue train, and spreading widely, clung
To their wild hair, like mist the topmost pines among.
And many from the crowd collected there,
Joined that strange dance in fearful sympathies;
There was the silence of a long despair,
When the last echo of those terrible cries
Came from a distant street, like agonies
Stifled afar. Before the Tyrant's throne
All night his agèd Senate sate, their eyes
In stony expectation fixed; when one1
Sudden before them stood, a Stranger and alone.
Dark Priests and haughty Warriors gazed on him
With baffled wonder, for a hermit's vest
Concealed his face; but when he spake, his tone,
Ere yet the matter did their thoughts arrest,
Earnest, benignant, calm, as from a breast
Void of all hate or terror, made them start;
For as with gentle accents he addressed
His speech to them, on each unwilling heart
Unusual awe did fall-a spirit-quelling dart.
1 This transition into the third perperson is very curious: Laon, hitherto narrating his deeds in the first person, suddenly drops that method and starts in another. At stanza V of
the next Canto, Shelley seems to have awoke to the need of identifying Laon, the narrator, with the stranger: I, Laon, led by mutes, ascend my bier, etc.
"Ye Princes of the Earth, ye sit aghast
Amid the ruin which yourselves have made,
Yes, Desolation1 heard your trumpet's blast,
And sprang from sleep!-dark Terror has obeyed
Your bidding-0, that I whom ye have made
Your foe, could set my dearest enemy free
From pain and fear! but evil casts a shade,
Which cannot pass so soon, and Hate must be
The nurse and parent still of an ill progeny.
"Ye turn to God2 for aid in your distress;
Alas, that ye, the mighty and the wise,
Who, if ye dared, might not aspire to less
Than ye conceive of power, should fear the lies
Which thou, and thou, didst frame for mysteries
To blind your slaves-consider your own thought,
An empty and a cruel sacrifice
Ye now prepare, for a vain idol wrought
Out of the fears and hate which vain desires have brought.
"Ye seek for happiness-alas, the day!
Ye find it not in luxury nor in gold,
Nor in the fame, nor in the envied sway
For which, O willing slaves to Custom old,
Severe task-mistress !5 ye your hearts have sold.
Ye seek for peace, and when ye die, to dream
No evil dreams: all mortal things are cold
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