Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

dog was dead. His child had now become

      A woman; such as it has been my doom

      To meet with few, a wonder of this earth,

      Where there is little of transcendent worth,

      Like one of Shakespeare’s women. Kindly she,

      And with a manner beyond courtesy,

      Received her father’s friend; and, when I asked

      Of the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked,

      And told, as she had heard, the mournful tale:

      ‘That the poor sufferer’s health began to fail

      Two years from my departure, but that then

      The lady, who had left him, came again.

      Her mien had been imperious, but she now

      Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought her low.

      Her coming made him better, and they stayed

      Together at my father’s—for I played

      As I remember with the lady’s shawl—

      I might be six years old—but after all

      She left him’…’Why, her heart must have been tough.

      How did it end?’ ‘And was not this enough?

      They met—they parted.’—‘Child, is there no more?’

      ‘Something within that interval which bore

      The stamp of why they parted, how they met;

      Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet

      Those wrinkled cheeks with youth’s remembered tears,

      Ask me no more, but let the silent years

      Be closed and ceared over their memory,

      As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.’

      I urged and questioned still; she told me how

      All happened—but the cold world shall not know.

      LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE

      LEGHORN, July 1, 1820.

      The spider spreads her webs, whether she be

      In poet’s tower, cellar, or barn, or tree;

      The silk-worm in the dark green mulberry leaves

      His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves;

      So I, a thing whom moralists call worm,

      Sit spinning still round this decaying form,

      From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought—

      No net of words in garish colours wrought

      To catch the idle buzzers of the day—

      But a soft cell, where when that fades away,

      Memory may clothe in wings my living name

      And feed it with the asphodels of fame,

      Which in those hearts which must remember me

      Grow, making love an immortality.

      Whoever should behold me now, I wist,

      Would think I were a mighty mechanist,

      Bent with sublime Archimedean art

      To breathe a soul into the iron heart

      Of some machine portentous, or strange gin,

      Which by the force of figured spells might win

      Its way over the sea, and sport therein;

      For round the walls are hung dread engines, such

      As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch

      Ixion or the Titan:—or the quick

      Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic,

      To convince Atheist, Turk, or Heretic,

      Or those in philanthropic council met,

      Who thought to pay some interest for the debt

      They owed to Jesus Christ for their salvation,

      By giving a faint foretaste of damnation

      To Shakespeare, Sidney, Spenser, and the rest

      Who made our land an island of the blest,

      When lamp-like Spain, who now relumes her fire

      On Freedom’s hearth, grew dim with Empire:—

      With thumbscrews, wheels, with tooth and spike and jag,

      Which fishers found under the utmost crag

      Of Cornwall and the storm-encompassed isles,

      Where to the sky the rude sea rarely smiles

      Unless in treacherous wrath, as on the morn

      When the exulting elements in scorn,

      Satiated with destroyed destruction, lay

      Sleeping in beauty on their mangled prey,

      As panthers sleep;—and other strange and dread

      Magical forms the brick floor overspread,—

      Proteus transformed to metal did not make

      More figures, or more strange; nor did he take

      Such shapes of unintelligible brass,

      Or heap himself in such a horrid mass

      Of tin and iron not to be understood;

      And forms of unimaginable wood,

      To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood:

      Great screws, and cones, and wheels, and grooved blocks,

      The elements of what will stand the shocks

      Of wave and wind and time.—Upon the table

      More knacks and quips there be than I am able

      To catalogize in this verse of mine:—

      A pretty bowl of wood—not full of wine,

      But quicksilver; that dew which the gnomes drink

      When at their subterranean toil they swink,

      Pledging the demons of the earthquake, who

      Reply to them in lava—cry halloo!

      And call out to the cities o’er their head,—

      Roofs, towers, and shrines, the dying and the dead,

      Crash through the chinks of earth—and then all quaff

      Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh.

      This quicksilver no gnome has drunk—within

      The walnut bowl it lies, veined and thin,

      In colour like the wake of light that stains

      The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains

      The inmost shower of its white fire—the breeze

      Is still—blue Heaven smiles over the pale seas.

      And in this bowl of quicksilver—for I

      Yield to the impulse of an infancy

      Outlasting manhood—I have made to float

      A rude idealism of a paper boat:—

      A hollow screw with cogs—Henry will know

      The