Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

dim to see that charactered in vain

      On this unfeeling leaf, which burns the brain

      And eats into it…blotting all things fair

      And wise and good which time had written there.

      Those who inflict must suffer, for they see

      The work of their own hearts, and this must be

      Our chastisement or recompense—O child!

      I would that thine were like to be more mild

      For both our wretched sakes…for thine the most

      Who feelest already all that thou hast lost

      Without the power to wish it thine again;

      And as slow years pass, a funereal train,

      Each with the ghost of some lost hope or friend

      Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bend

      No thought on my dead memory?

      * * * * *

      ‘Alas, love!

      Fear me not…against thee I would not move

      A finger in despite. Do I not live

      That thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve?

      I give thee tears for scorn, and love for hate;

      And that thy lot may be less desolate

      Than his on whom thou tramplest, I refrain

      From that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.

      Then, when thou speakest of me, never say

      “He could forgive not.” Here I cast away

      All human passions, all revenge, all pride;

      I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hide

      Under these words, like embers, every spark

      Of that which has consumed me—quick and dark

      The grave is yawning…as its roof shall cover

      My limbs with dust and worms under and over,

      So let Oblivion hide this grief…the air

      Closes upon my accents as despair

      Upon my heart—let death upon despair!’

      He ceased, and overcome leant back awhile;

      Then rising, with a melancholy smile,

      Went to a sofa, and lay down, and slept

      A heavy sleep, and in his dreams he wept,

      And muttered some familiar name, and we

      Wept without shame in his society.

      I think I never was impressed so much;

      The man who were not must have lacked a touch

      Of human nature…Then we lingered not,

      Although our argument was quite forgot;

      But, calling the attendants, went to dine

      At Maddalo’s; yet neither cheer nor wine

      Could give us spirits, for we talked of him

      And nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;

      And we agreed his was some dreadful ill

      Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,

      By a dear friend; some deadly change in love

      Of one vowed deeply, which he dreamed not of;

      For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blot

      Of falsehood on his mind which flourished not

      But in the light of all-beholding truth;

      And having stamped this canker on his youth

      She had abandoned him—and how much more

      Might be his woe, we guessed not—he had store

      Of friends and fortune once, as we could guess

      From his nice habits and his gentleness;

      These were now lost…it were a grief indeed

      If he had changed one unsustaining reed

      For all that such a man might else adorn.

      The colors of his mind seemed yet unworn;

      For the wild language of his grief was high,

      Such as in measure were called poetry.

      And I remember one remark which then

      Maddalo made. He said: ‘Most wretched men

      Are cradled into poetry by wrong;

      They learn in suffering what they teach in song.’

      If I had been an unconnected man,

      I, from this moment, should have formed some plan

      Never to leave sweet Venice,—for to me

      It was delight to ride by the lone sea;

      And then the town is silent—one may write

      Or read in gondolas by day or night,

      Having the little brazen lamp alight,

      Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,

      Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair

      Which were twin-born with poetry, and all

      We seek in towns, with little to recall

      Regrets for the green country. I might sit

      In Maddalo’s great palace, and his wit

      And subtle talk would cheer the winter night

      And make me know myself, and the firelight

      Would flash upon our faces, till the day

      Might dawn and make me wonder at my stay.

      But I had friends in London too. The chief

      Attraction here was that I sought relief

      From the deep tenderness that maniac wrought

      Within me—’twas perhaps an idle thought,

      But I imagined that if day by day

      I watched him, and but seldom went away,

      And studied all the beatings of his heart

      With zeal, as men study some stubborn art

      For their own good, and could by patience find

      An entrance to the caverns of his mind,

      I might reclaim him from this dark estate.

      In friendships I had been most fortunate,

      Yet never saw I one whom I would call

      More willingly my friend; and this was all

      Accomplished not; such dreams of baseless good

      Oft come and go in crowds and solitude

      And leave no trace—but what I now designed

      Made, for long years, impression on my mind.

      The following morning, urged by my affairs,

      I left bright Venice.

      After many years,

      And many changes, I returned; the name

      Of Venice, and its aspect, was the same;

      But Maddalo was travelling far away