# The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Adonais

Adonais is an elegy written by Percy Bysshe Shelley for John Keats in 1821, and widely regarded as one of Shelley's best works. The poem, which is in 495 lines in 55 Spenserian stanzas, was composed in the spring of 1821 immediately after April 11, when Shelley heard of Keats' death some three months earlier. It is a pastoral elegy, in the English tradition of John Milton's Lycidas. Shelley had studied and translated classical elegies. The title of the poem is likely a merging of the Greek "Adonis" and the Hebrew "Adonai" (meaning "Lord"). Most critics suggest that Shelley used Virgil's tenth Eclogue, in praise of Gallus, as a model.
    — Excerpted from Adonais on Wikipedia, The Free Encyclopedia.
ADONAIS
AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF JOHN KEATS, AUTHOR OF ENDYMION, HYPERION, Etc.
Ἀστὴρ πρὶν μὲν ἔλαμπες ἐνὶ ζωοῑσιν Έῷος· νῡν δὲ θανὼν λάμπεις Ἕσπερος ἐν φθιμένοις.—Plato.
[Adonais was composed at Pisa during the early days of June, 1821, and printed, with the author's name, at Pisa, 'with the types of Didot,' by July 13, 1821. Part of the impression was sent to the brothers Ollier for sale in London. An exact reprint of this Pisa edition (a few typographical errors only being corrected) was issued in 1829 by Gee & Bridges, Cambridge, at the instance of Arthur Hallam and Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). The poem was included in Galignani's edition of Coleridge, Shelley and Keats, Paris, 1829, and by Mrs. Shelley in the Poetical Works of 1839. Mrs. Shelley's text presents three important variations from that of the ed. princeps. In 1876 an edition of the Adonais, with Introduction and Notes, was printed for private circulation by Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B. Ten years later a reprint 'in exact facsimile' of the Pisa edition was edited with a Bibliographical Introduction by Mr. T. J. Wise (Shelley Society Publications, 2nd Series, No. 1, Reeves & Turner, London, 1886). Our text is that of the ed. princeps, Pisa, 1821, modified by Mrs. Shelley's text of 1839. The readings of the ed. princeps, wherever superseded, are recorded in the footnotes. The Editor's Notes at the end of the volume should be consulted.]
PREFACE
Φάρμακον ἦλθε, Βίων, ποτὶ σὸν στόμα, φάρμακον εἶδες. πῶς τευ τοῑς χείλεσσι ποτέδραμε, κοὐκ ἐγλυκάνθη; τίς δὲ βροτὸς τοσσοῡτον ἀνἁμερος, ἢ κεράσαι τοι, ἢ δοῡναι λαλέοντι τὸ φάρμακον; ἔκφυγεν ᾠδάν. —Moschus, Epitaph. Bion.
It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled prove at least that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of Hyperion as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years.
John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the ——— of ——— 1821; and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.
​The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and where cankerworms abound, what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage criticism on his Endymion, which appeared in the Quarterly Review, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgements from more candid critics of the true greatness of his powers were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.
It may be well said that these wretched men know not what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows or one like Keats's oomposed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to Endymion, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, Paris, and Woman, and a Syrian Tale, and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the illustrious obscure? Are these the men who in their venal good nature presumed to draw a parallel between the Rev. Mr. Milman and Lord Byron? What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none. The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats's life were not made known to me until the Elegy was ready for the press. I am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of Endymion was exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, 'almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend.' Had I known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from 'such stuff as dreams are made of.' His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career—may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name!
ADONAIS
I
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head! And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,5 And teach them thine own sorrow, say: 'With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!'
II
When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies In darkness? where was lorn Urania When Adonais died? With veiled eyes, Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,15 Rekindled all the fading melodies With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of death.
III
Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!20 Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep; For he is gone, where all things wise and fair Descend;—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep25 Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.
IV
Lament anew, Urania!—He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,30 Blind, old, and lonely, when his country's pride, The priest, the slave, and the liberticide Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified, Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite35 Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.
V
Not all to that bright station dared to climb; And happier they their happiness who knew, Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time40 In which suns perished; others more sublime,
Struck by the envious wrath of man or god, Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime; And some yet live, treading the thorny road Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.45
VI
The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew, Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished, And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew; Most musical of mourners, weep anew!50 Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last, The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies-the storm is overpast.
VII
Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay, He came; and bought, with price of purest breath, A grave among the eternal.—Come away! Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still60 He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay; Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.
VIII
Within the twilight chamber spreads apace65 The shadow of white Death, and at the door Invisible Corruption waits to trace His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place; The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface70 So fair a prey, till darkness, and the law Of change, shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.
IX
The passion-winged Ministers of thought, Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams75 Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught The love which was its music, wander not,— Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain, But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,80 They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again.
X
And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries, 'Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead; See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,85 Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.' Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.90
XI
Washed his light limbs as if embalming them; Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw The wreath upon him, like an anadem, Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;95 Another in her wilful grief would break Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.
XII
That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit, And pass into the panting heart beneath With lightning and with music: the damp death Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;105 And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.
XIII
Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,110 Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies; And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs, And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,115 Came in slow pomp;—the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.
XIV
From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound, Lamented Adonais. Morning sought120 Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound, Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,
Dimm'd the aëreal eyes that kindle day; Afar the melancholy thunder moaned, Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,125 And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.
XV
And feeds her grief with his remembered lay, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,130 Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those for whose disdain she pined away Into a shadow of all sounds:—a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. 135
XVI
Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown, For whom should she have waked the sullen year? To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear 140 Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.
XVII
Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain; Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain, Soaring and screaming round her empty nest, 150 As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast, And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!
XVIII
But grief returns with the revolving year; 155 The airs and streams renew their joyous tone; The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear; Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; The amorous birds now pair in every brake, And build their mossy homes in field and brere; 160 And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.
XIX
A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst As it has ever done, with change and motion, 165 From the great morning of the world when first God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed, The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light; All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst; Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight 170 The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.
XX
Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath; Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death 175 And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath; Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows Be as a sword consumed before the sheath By sightless lightning?-the intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. 180
XXI
But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean 185 Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.
XXII
'Wake thou,' cried Misery, 'childless Mother, rise Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core, A wound more fierce than his with tears and sighs.' And all the Dreams that watched Urania's eyes, And all the Echoes whom their sister's song 195 Had held in holy silence, cried: 'Arise!' Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.
XXIII
Out of the East, and follows wild and drear 200 The golden Day, which, on eternal wings, Even as a ghost abandoning a bier, Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear
So struck, so roused, so rapt Urania; So saddened round her like an atmosphere 205 Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.
XXIV
Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, And human hearts, which to her aery tread 210 Yielding not, wounded the invisible Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they, Rent the soft Form they never could repel, Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, 215 Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.
XXV
Shamed by the presence of that living Might, Blushed to annihilation, and the breath Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light 220 Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. 'Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night! Leave me not!' cried Urania: her distress Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.
XXVI
Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live; And in my heartless breast and burning brain That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive, With food of saddest memory kept alive, 230 Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!
XXVII
Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart Dare the unpastured dragon in his den? Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear? 240 Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer.
XXVIII
The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead; 245 The vultures to the conqueror's banner true Who feed where Desolation first has fed, And whose wings rain contagion;—how they fled, When, like Apollo, from his golden bow The Pythian of the age one arrow sped 250 And smiled!—The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.
XXIX
He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gathered into death without a dawn, 255 And the immortal stars awake again; So is it in the world of living men: A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light 260 Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night.'
XXX
Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, 265 An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue. 270
XXXI
A phantom among men; companionless As the last cloud of an expiring storm Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, 275 Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.
XXXII
A Love in desolation masked;—a Power Girt round with weakness;—it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,
A breaking billow;—even whilst we speak 285 Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.
XXXIII
And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue; 290 And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew 295 He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart.
XXXIV
Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band Who in another's fate now wept his own, 300 As in the accents of an unknown land He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned The Stranger's mien, and murmured: 'Who art thou?' He answered not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, 305 Which was like Cain's or Christ's—oh! that it should be so!
XXXV
Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed, In mockery of monumental stone, 310 The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one, Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. 315
XXXVI
What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe? The nameless worm would now itself disown: It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone 320 Whose prelude held all envy, hate, and wrong, But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.
XXXVII
Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me, Thou noteless blot on a remembered name! But be thyself, and know thyself to be! And ever at thy season be thou free To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow: 330 Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee; Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.
XXXVIII
Far from these carrion kites that scream below; 335 He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead; Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now— Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow Back to the burning fountain whence it came, A portion of the Eternal, which must glow 340 Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.
XXXIX
He hath awakened from the dream of life— 'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep 345 With phantoms an unprofitable strife, And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife Invulnerable nothings.—We decay Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief Convulse us and consume us day by day, 350 And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.
XL
Envy and calumny and hate and pain, And that unrest which men miscall delight, Can touch him not and torture not again; 355 From the contagion of the world's slow stain He is secure, and now can never mourn A heart grown cold, a head grown grey in vain; Nor, when the spirit's self has ceased to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. 360
XLI
Mourn not for Adonais.—Thou young Dawn, Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan! 365 Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!
XLII
His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone, Spreading itself where'er that Power may move 375 Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.
XLIII
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear 380 His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear; Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight To its own likeness, as each mass may bear; 385 And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light.
XLIV
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not; Like stars to their appointed height they climb, 390 And death is a low mist which cannot blot The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair, And love and life contend in it, for what Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there 395 And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.
XLV
Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought, Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton Rose pale,—his solemn agony had not 400 Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought And as he fell and as he lived and loved Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot, Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved: Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved. 405
XLVI
But whose transmitted effluence cannot die So long as fire outlives the parent spark, Rose, robed in dazzling immortality. 'Thou art become as one of us,' they cry, 410 'It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long Swung blind in unascended majesty, Silent alone amid an Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!'
XLVII
Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright. Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth; As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference: then shrink 420 Even to a point within our day and night; And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink.
XLVIII
Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought 425 That ages, empires, and religions there Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought; For such as he can lend,—they borrow not Glory from those who made the world their prey; And he is gathered to the kings of thought 430 Who waged contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away.
XLIX
The grave, the city, and the wilderness; And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise, 435 And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress The bones of Desolation's nakedness Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead Thy footsteps to a slope of green access Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead 440 A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;
L
Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned 445 This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. 450
LI
To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned Its charge to each; and if the seal is set, Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind, Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find 455 Thine own well full, if thou returnest home, Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become?
LII
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly; Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass, Stains the white radiance of Eternity, Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die, If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek! 465 Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky, Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.
LIII
Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here 470 They have departed; thou shouldst now depart! A light is passed from the revolving year, And man, and woman; and what still is dear Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither. The soft sky smiles,—the low wind whispers near: 475 'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together.
LIV
That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse 480 Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me, 485 Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.
LV
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; 490
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.495
CANCELLED PASSAGES OF ADONAIS
[Published by Dr. Garnett, Relics of Shelley, 1862.]
Passages of the Preface
. . . the expression of my indignation and sympathy. I will allow myself a first and last word on the subject of calumny as it relates to me. As an author I have dared and invited censure. If I understand myself, I have written neither for profit nor for fame. I have employed my poetical compositions and publications simply as the instruments of that sympathy between myself and others which the ardent and unbounded love I cherished for my kind incited me to acquire. I expected all sorts of stupidity and insolent contempt from those . . .
. . . These compositions (excepting the tragedy of The Cenci, which was written rather to try my powers than to unburthen my full heart) are insufficiently . . . commendation than perhaps they deserve, even from their bitterest enemies; but they have not attained any corresponding popularity. As a man, I shrink from notice and regard; the ebb and flow of the world vexes me; I desire to be left in peace. Persecution, contumely, and calumny have been heaped upon me in profuse measure; and domestic conspiracy and legal oppression have violated in my person the most sacred rights of nature and humanity. The bigot will say it was the recompense of my errors; the man of the world will call it the result of my imprudence; but never upon one head . . .
. . . Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thieftaker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame, doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations, is ill qualified to assign its true value to the sneer of this world. He knows not that such stuff as this is of the abortive and monstrous births which time consumes as fast as it produces. Ho sees the truth and falsehood, the merits and demerits, of his case inextricably entangled . . . No personal offence should have drawn from me this public comment upon such stuff . . .
. . . The offence of this poor victim seems to have consisted solely in his intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, and some other enemies of despotism and superstition. My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to crack, and will take a deal of killing. I do not know much of Mr. Hazlitt, but . . .
. . . I knew personally but little of Keats; but on the news of his situation I wrote to him, suggesting the propriety of trying the Italian climate, and inviting him to join me. Unfortunately he did not allow me . . .
Passages of the Poem
And ever as he went he swept a lyre Of unaccustomed shape, andstrings Now like theof impetuous fire, Which shakes the forest with its murmurings, Now like the rush of the aëreal wings 5 Of the enamoured wind among the treen, Whispering unimaginable things, And dying on the streams of dew serene, Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during green. *******And the green Paradise which western waves 10 Embosom in their ever-wailing sweep, Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves, Or to the spirits which within them keep A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep, Die not, but dream of retribution, heard 15 His hymns, and echoing them from steep to steep, Kept——*******And then came one of sweet and earnest looks, Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes Were as the clear and ever-living brooks 20 Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise, Showing how pure they are: a Paradise Of happy truth upon his forehead low Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow 25 Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below.
His song, though very sweet, was low and faint, A simple strain ——*******A mighty Phantasm, half concealed In darkness of his own exceeding light, 30 Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed, Charioted on thenight Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite.
And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips The splendour-wingèd chariot of the sun, 35 eclipse The armies of the golden stars, each one Pavilioned in its tent of light—all strewn Over the chasms of blue night——
* ↑ true-love] true love edd. 1821, 1839.
* ↑ Of change, &c. so edd. 1829 (Galignani), 1839; Of mortal change, shall fill the grave which is her maw ed. 1821.
* ↑ or ed. 1821; nor ed. 1839.
* ↑ his ed. 1821; its ed. 1839.
* ↑ round ed. 1821; around ed. 1839.
* ↑ faint companions ed. 1839; drooping comrades ed. 1821.
* ↑ See Editor's Note.
* ↑ lying low ed. 1839; as they go ed. 1821.