POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818
565
SONNET
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. Our text is that of the Poetical Works, 1839.]
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave 5
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.[1]
I knew one who had lifted[2] it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve. 10
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave 5
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.[1]
I knew one who had lifted[2] it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve. 10
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
FRAGMENT: TO BYRON
[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862.]
O mighty mind, in whose deep stream this age
Shakes like a reed in the unheeding storm,
Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage?
Shakes like a reed in the unheeding storm,
Why dost thou curb not thine own sacred rage?
FRAGMENT: APOSTROPHE TO SILENCE
[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862. A transcript by Mrs. Shelley, given to Charles Cowden Clarke, presents one or two variants.]
Silence! Oh, well are Death and Sleep and Thou
Three brethren named, the guardians gloomy-winged
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, and joy
Are swallowed up—yet spare me, Spirit,[3] pity me,
Until the sounds I hear become my soul. 5
And it has left these faint and weary limbs,
To track along the lapses of the air
This wandering melody[4] until it rests
Among lone mountains in some . . .
Three brethren named, the guardians gloomy-winged
Of one abyss, where life, and truth, and joy
Are swallowed up—yet spare me, Spirit,[3] pity me,
Until the sounds I hear become my soul. 5
And it has left these faint and weary limbs,
To track along the lapses of the air
This wandering melody[4] until it rests
Among lone mountains in some . . .
FRAGMENT: THE LAKE'S MARGIN
[Published by W. M. Rossetti, 1870.]
The fierce beasts of the woods and wildernesses
Track not the steps of him who drinks of it;
For the light breezes, which for ever fleet
Around its margin, heap the sand thereon.
Track not the steps of him who drinks of it;
For the light breezes, which for ever fleet
Around its margin, heap the sand thereon.
