No More Learning

Shelley did not expect sympathy and approbation from the
public; but the want of it took away a portion of the ardour that
ought to have sustained him while writing. He was thrown on his own
resources, and on the inspiration of his own soul; and wrote because
his mind overflowed, without the hope of being appreciated. I had not
the most distant wish that he should truckle in opinion, or submit his
lofty aspirations for the human race to the low ambition and pride of
the many; but I felt sure that, if his poems were more addressed to
the common feelings of men, his proper rank among the writers of the
day would be acknowledged, and that popularity as a poet would enable
his countrymen to do justice to his character and virtues, which in
those days it was the mode to attack with the most flagitious
calumnies and insulting abuse. That he felt these things deeply cannot
be doubted, though he armed himself with the consciousness of acting
from a lofty and heroic sense of right. The truth burst from his heart
sometimes in solitude, and he would writes few unfinished verses that
showed that he felt the sting; among such I find the following:--

'Alas! this is not what I thought Life was.
I knew that there were crimes and evil men,
Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass
Untouched by suffering through the rugged glen.
In mine own heart I saw as in a glass
The hearts of others. . . And, when
I went among my kind, with triple brass
Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed,
To bear scorn, fear, and hate--a woful mass! '

I believed that all this morbid feeling would vanish if the chord of
sympathy between him and his countrymen were touched. But my
persuasions were vain, the mind could not be bent from its natural
inclination. Shelley shrunk instinctively from portraying human
passion, with its mixture of good and evil, of disappointment and
disquiet. Such opened again the wounds of his own heart; and he loved
to shelter himself rather in the airiest flights of fancy, forgetting
love and hate, and regret and lost hope, in such imaginations as
borrowed their hues from sunrise or sunset, from the yellow moonshine
or paly twilight, from the aspect of the far ocean or the shadows of
the woods,--which celebrated the singing of the winds among the pines,
the flow of a murmuring stream, and the thousand harmonious sounds
which Nature creates in her solitudes.
These are the materials which
form the "Witch of Atlas": it is a brilliant congregation of ideas
such as his senses gathered, and his fancy coloured, during his
rambles in the sunny land he so much loved.

***


OEDIPUS TYRANNUS

OR

SWELLFOOT THE TYRANT.

A TRAGEDY IN TWO ACTS

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL DORIC.

'Choose Reform or Civil War,
When through thy streets, instead of hare with dogs,
A CONSORT-QUEEN shall hunt a king with hogs,
Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR. '

[Begun at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 24, 1819;
published anonymously by J. Johnston, Cheapside (imprint C. F.
Seyfang), 1820. On a threat of prosecution the publisher surrendered
the whole impression, seven copies--the total number sold--excepted.
"Oedipus" does not appear in the first edition of the "Poetical
Works", 1839, but it was included by Mrs. Shelley in the second
edition of that year. Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1820,
save in three places, where the reading of edition 1820 will be found
in the notes. ]

ADVERTISEMENT.

This Tragedy is one of a triad, or system of three Plays (an
arrangement according to which the Greeks were accustomed to connect
their dramatic representations), elucidating the wonderful and
appalling fortunes of the SWELLFOOT dynasty. It was evidently written
by some LEARNED THEBAN, and, from its characteristic dulness,
apparently before the duties on the importation of ATTIC SALT had been
repealed by the Boeotarchs. The tenderness with which he treats the
PIGS proves him to have been a sus Boeotiae; possibly Epicuri de grege
porcus; for, as the poet observes,

'A fellow feeling makes us wondrous kind.