Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe, You the plainings faint and low, From misery's tortured soul that flow, Shall usher to your fate. Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land. You desolation's gory throng To that mysterious strand. 40 45 POEMS FROM ST. IRVYNE, OR THE ROSICRUCIAN.1 NUMBER 1. I. 'TWAS dead of the night, when I sat in my dwelling; One glimmering lamp was expiring and low; Around, the dark tide of the tempest was swelling, Along the wild mountains night-ravens were yelling,They bodingly presag'd destruction and woe. 1 These six productions are from the very juvenile volume, “St. Irvyne; or, the Rosicrucian: a Romance. By a Gentleman of the University of Oxford. London: Printed for J. J. Stockdale, 41, Pall Mall. 1811." Medwin says that some of these verses were written a year or two before the romance itself was composed; and Mr. Rossetti, on this authority, affixes the date 1808 to "those which have no direct connexion with the story of St. Irvyne," namely Numbers 1, 2, and 6. St. Irvyne was published in December, 1810, but, according to Shelley's own statement in a letter to Godwin, must have been written not later than 1809. It is very likely that this was the romance referred to in a letter in Mr. Frederick Locker's possession, addressed by Shelley to Messrs. Longman & Co: the letter is dated "May 7th, 1809," and opens with the words, "It is my intention to complete and publish a Romance, of which I have already written a large portion, before the end of July." I have numbered these Poems, 1 to 6, for convenience of reference, because they have no distinctive titles beyond the word Ballad prefixed to No. 3, and Song prefixed to Nos. 4, 5, and 6. I give them precisely according to Shelley's own edition. II. "Twas then that I started!-the wild storm was howling, Nought was seen, save the lightning, which dane'd in the sky; Above me, the crash of the thunder was rolling, III. My heart sank within me-unheeded the war Of the battling clouds, on the mountain-tops, broke ;Unheeded the thunder-peal crash'd in mine earThis heart, hard as iron, is stranger to fear; But conscience in low, noiseless whispering spoke. IV. 'Twas then that her form on the whirlwind upholding, The ghost of the murder'd Victoria strode; In her right hand, a shadowy shroud she was holding, I wildly then call'd on the tempest to bear me GHOSTS of the dead! have I not heard your yelling II. For oft have I stood on the dark height of Jura, III. And now, whilst the winds of the mountain are howling, IV. On the wing of the whirlwind which roars o'er the mountain Perhaps rides the ghost of my sire who is dead; On the mist of the tempest which hangs o'er the fountain, Whilst a wreath of dark vapour encircles his head. NUMBER 3.-BALLAD. I. THE death-bell beats !— The echoing sound of the knell ; Wraps the cowl round his brow, II. And the cold hand of death And they sing of the hour III. But that hour is past; And that hour was the last Of peace to the dark monk's brain. Bitter tears, from his eyes, gush'd silent and fast; And he strove to suppress them in vain. IV. Then his fair cross of gold he dash'd on the floor, When the death-knell struck on his ear. Delight is in store For her evermore; But for me is fate, horror, and fear. V. Then his eyes wildly roll'd, And he rag'd in terrific woe. But when ceas'd the sound, Tears again began to flow. VI. And the ice of despair Chill'd the wild throb of care, And he sate in mute agony still; Till the night-stars shone through the cloudless air, And the pale moon-beam slept on the hill. VII. Then he knelt in his cell: And the horrors of hell Were delights to his agoniz'd pain, And he pray'd to God to dissolve the spell, Which else must for ever remain. VIII. And in fervent pray'r he knelt on the ground, Till the abbey bell struck One: His feverish blood ran chill at the sound: A voice hollow and horrible murmur'd around"The term of thy penance is done!" Grew dark the night; IX. The moon-beam bright Wax'd faint on the mountain high And, from the black hill, Went a voice cold and still, "Monk! thou art free to die." X. Then he rose on his feet, And his heart loud did beat, And his limbs they were palsied with dread; Whilst the grave's clammy dew O'er his pale forehead grew; And he shudder'd to sleep with the dead. XI. And the wild midnight storm Rav'd around his tall form, As he sought the chapel's gloom : To the wind, bleak and high, As he search'd for the new-made tomb. XII. And forms, dark and high, Seem'd around him to fly, And mingle their yells with the blast: |