In the court of the fortress
Beside the pale portress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
The
bridegroom
stands, eaten
By shame; _50
On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit
Stands the gray tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame; _55
And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast,
The best, loveliest and last
Of his name!
Shelley
_5
The whirlwind is rolling,
The thunder is tolling,
The forest is swinging,
The minster bells ringing--
Come away! _10
The Earth is like Ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion:
Bird, beast, man and worm
Have crept out of the storm--
Come away! _15
2.
'Our boat has one sail
And the helmsman is pale;--
A bold pilot I trow,
Who should follow us now,'--
Shouted he-- _20
And she cried: 'Ply the oar!
Put off gaily from shore!'--
As she spoke, bolts of death
Mixed with hail, specked their path
O'er the sea. _25
And from isle, tower and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke,
And though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee. _30
3.
And 'Fear'st thou?' and 'Fear'st thou?'
And Seest thou?' and 'Hear'st thou?'
And 'Drive we not free
O'er the terrible sea,
I and thou?' _35
One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover--
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low;-- _40
While around the lashed Ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered and shifted
To and fro. _45
4.
In the court of the fortress
Beside the pale portress,
Like a bloodhound well beaten
The
bridegroom
stands, eaten
By shame; _50
On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit
Stands the gray tyrant father,
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame; _55
And with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast,
The best, loveliest and last
Of his name!
_60
NOTES:
_28 And though]Though editions 1839.
_57 clung]cling editions 1839.
***
TO --.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.]
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory--
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, _5
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.
***
SONG.
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.
There is a transcript in the Harvard manuscript book.]
1.
Rarely, rarely, comest thou,
Spirit of Delight!
Wherefore hast thou left me now
Many a day and night?
Many a weary night and day _5
'Tis since thou art fled away.
