Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

to them fair!—

      We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek;

      And ask one week to make another week

      As like his father, as I’m unlike mine,

      Which is not his fault, as you may divine.

      Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,

      Yet let’s be merry: we’ll have tea and toast;

      Custards for supper, and an endless host

      Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,

      And other such lady-like luxuries,—

      Feasting on which we will philosophize!

      And we’ll have fires out of the Grand Duke’s wood,

      To thaw the six weeks’ winter in our blood.

      And then we’ll talk;—what shall we talk about?

      Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout

      Of thought-entangled descant;—as to nerves—

      With cones and parallelograms and curves

      I’ve sworn to strangle them if once they dare

      To bother me—when you are with me there.

      And they shall never more sip laudanum,

      From Helicon or Himeros;—well, come,

      And in despite of God and of the devil,

      We’ll make our friendly philosophic revel

      Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers

      Warn the obscure inevitable hours,

      Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;—

      ‘To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

      LINES: ‘FAR, FAR AWAY, O YE’

      I.

      Far, far away, O ye

      Halcyons of Memory,

      Seek some far calmer nest

      Than this abandoned breast!

      No news of your false spring

      To my heart’s winter bring,

      Once having gone, in vain

      Ye come again.

      II.

      Vultures, who build your bowers

      High in the Future’s towers,

      Withered hopes on hopes are spread!

      Dying joys, choked by the dead,

      Will serve your beaks for prey

      Many a day.

      LINES TO A CRITIC

      I.

      Honey from silkworms who can gather,

      Or silk from the yellow bee?

      The grass may grow in winter weather

      As soon as hate in me.

      II.

      Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

      And men who rail like thee;

      An equal passion to repay

      They are not coy like me.

      III.

      Or seek some slave of power and gold

      To be thy dear heart’s mate;

      Thy love will move that bigot cold

      Sooner than me, thy hate.

      IV.

      A passion like the one I prove

      Cannot divided be;

      I hate thy want of truth and love—

      How should I then hate thee?

      LINES TO A REVIEWER

      Alas, good friend, what profit can you see

      In hating such a hateless thing as me?

      There is no sport in hate where all the rage

      Is on one side: in vain would you assuage

      Your frowns upon an unresisting smile,

      In which not even contempt lurks to beguile

      Your heart, by some faint sympathy of hate.

      Oh, conquer what you cannot satiate!

      For to your passion I am far more coy

      Than ever yet was coldest maid or boy

      In winter noon. Of your antipathy

      If I am the Narcissus, you are free

      To pine into a sound with hating me.

      LINES: (‘WHEN THE LAMP IS SHATTERED’)

      I.

      When the lamp is shattered

      The light in dust lies dead—

      When the cloud is scattered

      The rainbow’s glory is shed.

      When the lute is broken,

      Sweet tones are remembered not;

      When the lips have spoken,

      Loved accents are soon forgot.

      II.

      As music and splendour

      Survive not the lamp and the lute,

      The heart’s echoes render

      No song when the spirit is mute:—

      No song but sad dirges,

      Like the wind through a ruined cell,

      Or the mournful surges

      That ring the dead seaman’s knell.

      III.

      When hearts have once mingled

      Love first leaves the well-built nest

      The weak one is singled

      To endure what it once possessed.

      O Love! who bewailest

      The frailty of all things here,

      Why choose you the frailest

      For your cradle, your home, and your bier?

      IV.

      Its passions rock thee

      As the storms rock the ravens on high;

      Bright reason will mock thee,

      Like the sun from a wintry sky.

      From thy nest every rafter

      Will rot, and thine eagle home

      Leave thee naked to laughter,

      When leaves fall and cold winds come.

      LINES WRITTEN AMONG THE EUGANEAN HILLS

      October, 1818.

      Many a green isle needs must be

      In