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Percy Bysshe Shelley - Rosalind and Helen: a Modern Eclogue
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      I know not how, but we were free;
      And Lionel sate alone with me,
      As the carriage drove through the streets apace;
      And we looked upon each other`s face;
      And the blood in our fingers intertwined      
      Ran like the thoughts of a single mind,
      As the swift emotions went and came
      Through the veins of each united frame.
      So through the long, long streets we passed
      Of the million-peopled City vast;
      Which is that desert, where each one
      Seeks his mate yet is alone,
      Beloved and sought and mourned of none;
      Until the clear blue sky was seen,
      And the grassy meadows bright and green.    
      And then I sunk in his embrace
      Enclosing there a mighty space
      Of love; and so we travelled on
      By woods, and fields of yellow flowers,
      And towns, and villages, and towers,
      Day after day of happy hours.
      It was the azure time of June,
      When the skies are deep in the stainless noon,
      And the warm and fitful breezes shake
      The fresh green leaves of the hedge-row briar; 
      And there were odors then to make
      The very breath we did respire
      A liquid element, whereon
      Our spirits, like delighted things
      That walk the air on subtle wings,
      Floated and mingled far away
      `Mid the warm winds of the sunny day.
      And when the evening star came forth
      Above the curve of the new bent moon,
      And light and sound ebbed from the earth,   
      Like the tide of the full and the weary sea
      To the depths of its own tranquillity,
      Our natures to its own repose
      Did the earth`s breathless sleep attune;
      Like flowers, which on each other close
      Their languid leaves when daylight`s gone,
      We lay, till new emotions came,
      Which seemed to make each mortal frame
      One soul of interwoven flame,
      A life in life, a second birth   
      In worlds diviner far than earth;—
      Which, like two strains of harmony
      That mingle in the silent sky,
      Then slowly disunite, passed by
      And left the tenderness of tears,
      A soft oblivion of all fears,
      A sweet sleep:—so we travelled on
      Till we came to the home of Lionel,
      Among the mountains wild and lone,
      Beside the hoary western sea,  
      Which near the verge of the echoing shore
      The massy forest shadowed o`er.

      The ancient steward with hair all hoar,
      As we alighted, wept to see
      His master changed so fearfully;
      And the old man`s sobs did waken me
      From my dream of unremaining gladness;
      The truth flashed o`er me like quick madness
      When I looked, and saw that there was death
      On Lionel. Yet day by day     
      He lived, till fear grew hope and faith,
      And in my soul I dared to say,
      Nothing so bright can pass away;
      Death is dark, and foul, and dull,
      But he is—oh, how beautiful!
      Yet day by day he grew more weak,
      And his sweet voice, when he might speak,
      Which ne`er was loud, became more low;
      And the light which flashed through his waxen cheek
      Grew faint, as the rose-like hues which flow  
      From sunset o`er the Alpine snow;
      And death seemed not like death in him,
      For the spirit of life o`er every limb
      Lingered, a mist of sense and thought.
      When the summer wind faint odors brought
      From mountain flowers, even as it passed,
      His cheek would change, as the noonday sea
      Which the dying breeze sweeps fitfully.
      If but a cloud the sky o`ercast,
      You might see his color come and go,    
      And the softest strain of music made
      Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade
      Amid the dew of his tender eyes;
      And the breath, with intermitting flow,
      Made his pale lips quiver and part.
      You might hear the beatings of his heart,
      Quick but not strong; and with my tresses
      When oft he playfully would bind
      In the bowers of mossy lonelinesses
      His neck, and win me so to mingle      
      In the sweet depth of woven caresses,
      And our faint limbs were intertwined,—
      Alas! the unquiet life did tingle
      From mine own heart through every vein,
      Like a captive in dreams of liberty,
      Who beats the walls of his stony cell.
      But his, it seemed already free,
      Like the shadow of fire surrounding me!
      On my faint eyes and limbs did dwell
      That spirit as it passed, till soon—    
      As a frail cloud wandering o`er the moon,
      Beneath its light invisible,
      Is seen when it folds its gray wings again
      To alight on midnight`s dusky plain—
      I lived and saw, and the gathering soul
      Passed from beneath that strong control,
      And I fell on a life which was sick with fear
      Of all the woe that now I bear.

      Amid a bloomless myrtle wood,
      On a green and sea-girt promontory     
      Not far from where we dwelt, there stood,
      In record of a sweet sad story,
      An altar and a temple bright
      Circled by steps, and o`er the gate
      Was sculptured, `To Fidelity;`
      And in the shrine an image sate
      All veiled; but there was seen the light
      Of smiles which faintly could express
      A mingled pain and tenderness
      Through that ethereal drapery.     
      The left hand held the head, the right—
      Beyond the veil, beneath the skin,
      You might see the nerves quivering within—
      Was forcing the point of a barbèd dart
      Into its side-convulsing heart.
      An unskilled hand, yet one informed
      With genius, had the marble warmed
      With that pathetic life. This tale
      It told: A dog had from the sea,
      When the tide was raging fearfully,      
      Dragged Lionel`s mother, weak and pale,
      Then died beside her on the sand,
      And she that temple thence had planned;
      But it was Lionel`s own hand
      Had wrought the image. Each new moon
      That lady did, in this lone fane,
      The rites of a religion sweet
      Whose god was in her heart and brain.
      The seasons` loveliest flowers were strewn
      On the marble floor beneath her feet,   
      And she brought crowns of sea-buds white
      Whose odor is so sweet and faint,
      And weeds, like branching chrysolite,
      Woven in devices fine and quaint;
      And tears from her brown eyes did stain
      The altar; need but look upon
      That dying statue, fair and wan,
      If tears should cease, to weep again;
      And rare Arabian odors came,
      Through the myrtle copses, steaming thence    
      From the hissing frankincense,
      Whose smoke, wool-white as ocean foam,
      Hung in dense flocks beneath the dome—
      That ivory dome, whose azure night
      With golden stars, like heaven, was bright
      O`er the split cedar`s pointed flame;
      And the lady`s harp would kindle there
      The melody of an old air,
      Softer than sleep; the villagers
      Mixed their religion up with hers,     
      And, as they listened round, shed tears.

      One eve he led me to this fane.
      Daylight on its last purple cloud
      Was lingering gray, and soon her strain
      The nightingale began; now loud,
      Climbing in circles the windless sky,
      Now dying music; suddenly
      `T is scattered in a thousand notes;
      And now to the hushed ear it floats
      Like field-smells known in infancy,   
      Then, failing, soothes the air again.
      We sate within that temple lone,
      Pavilioned round with Parian stone;
      His mother`s harp stood near, and oft
      I had awakened music soft
      Amid its wires; the nightingale
      Was pausing in her heaven-taught tale.
      `Now drain the cup,` said Lionel,
      `Which the poet-bird has crowned so well
      With the wine of her bright and liquid song!  
      Heard`st thou not sweet words among
      That heaven-resounding minstrelsy?
      Heard`st thou not that those who die
      Awake in a world of ecstasy?
      That love, when limbs are interwoven,
      And sleep, when the night of life is cloven,
      And thought, to the world`s dim boundaries clinging,
      And music, when one beloved is singing,
      Is death? Let us drain right joyously
      The cup which the sweet bird fills for me.`    
      He paused, and to my lips he bent
      His own; like spirit his words went
      Through all my limbs with the speed of fire;
      And his keen eyes, glittering through mine,
      Filled me with the flame divine
      Which in their orbs was burning far,
      Like the light of an unmeasured star
      In the sky of midnight dark and deep;
      Yes, `t was his soul that did inspire
      Sounds which my skill could ne`er awaken;     
      And first, I felt my fingers sweep
      The harp, and a long quivering cry
      Burst from my lips in symphony;
      The dusk and solid air was shaken,
      As swift and swifter the notes came
      From my touch, that wandered like quick flame,
      And from my bosom, laboring
      With some unutterable thing.
      The awful sound of my own voice made
      My faint lips tremble; in some mood       
      Of wordless thought Lionel stood
      So pale, that even beside his cheek
      The snowy column from its shade
      Caught whiteness; yet his countenance,
      Raised upward, burned with radiance
      Of spirit-piercing joy whose light,
      Like the moon struggling through the night
      Of whirlwind-rifted clouds, did break
      With beams that might not be confined.
      I paused, but soon his gestures kindled  
      New power, as by the moving wind
      The waves are lifted; and my song
      To low soft notes now changed and dwindled,
      And, from the twinkling wires among,
      My languid fingers drew and flung
      Circles of life-dissolving sound,
      Yet faint; in aëry rings they bound
      My Lionel, who, as every strain
      Grew fainter but more sweet, his mien
      Sunk with the sound relaxedly;       
      And slowly now he turned to me,
      As slowly faded from his face
      That awful joy; with look serene
      He was soon drawn to my embrace,
      And my wild song then died away
      In murmurs; words I dare not say
      We mixed, and on his lips mine fed
      Till they methought felt still and cold.
      `What is it with thee, love?` I said;
      No word, no look, no motion! yes,     
      There was a change, but spare to guess,
      Nor let that moment`s hope be told.
      I looked,—and knew that he was dead;
      And fell, as the eagle on the plain
      Falls when life deserts her brain,
      And the mortal lightning is veiled again.

      Oh, that I were now dead! but such—
      Did they not, love, demand too much,
      Those dying murmurs?—he forbade.
      Oh, that I once again were mad! 
      And yet, dear Rosalind, not so,
      For I would live to share thy woe.
      Sweet boy! did I forget thee too?
      Alas, we know not what we do
      When we speak words.

                            No memory more
      Is in my mind of that sea-shore.
      Madness came on me, and a troop
      Of misty shapes did seem to sit
      Beside me, on a vessel`s poop,
      And the clear north wind was driving it.   
      Then I heard strange tongues, and saw strange flowers,
      And the stars methought grew unlike ours,
      And the azure sky and the stormless sea
      Made me believe that I had died
      And waked in a world which was to me
      Drear hell, though heaven to all beside.
      Then a dead sleep fell on my mind,
      Whilst animal life many long years
      Had rescued from a chasm of tears;
      And, when I woke, I wept to find             
      That the same lady, bright and wise,
      With silver locks and quick brown eyes,
      The mother of my Lionel,
      Had tended me in my distress,
      And died some months before. Nor less
      Wonder, but far more peace and joy,
      Brought in that hour my lovely boy.
      For through that trance my soul had well
      The impress of thy being kept;
      And if I waked or if I slept,  
      No doubt, though memory faithless be,
      Thy image ever dwelt on me;
      And thus, O Lionel, like thee
      Is our sweet child. `T is sure most strange
      I knew not of so great a change
      As that which gave him birth, who now
      Is all the solace of my woe.

      That Lionel great wealth had left
      By will to me, and that of all
      The ready lies of law bereft           
      My child and me,—might well befall.
      But let me think not of the scorn
      Which from the meanest I have borne,
      When, for my child`s belovèd sake,
      I mixed with slaves, to vindicate
      The very laws themselves do make;
      Let me not say scorn is my fate,
      Lest I be proud, suffering the same
      With those who live in deathless fame.

      She ceased.—`Lo, where red morning through the woods 
      Is burning o`er the dew!` said Rosalind.
      And with these words they rose, and towards the flood
      Of the blue lake, beneath the leaves, now wind
      With equal steps and fingers intertwined.
      Thence to a lonely dwelling, where the shore
      Is shadowed with steep rocks, and cypresses
      Cleave with their dark green cones the silent skies
      And with their shadows the clear depths below,

      And where a little terrace from its bowers
      Of blooming myrtle and faint lemon flowers  
      Scatters its sense-dissolving fragrance o`er
      The liquid marble of the windless lake;
      And where the aged forest`s limbs look hoar
      Under the leaves which their green garments make,
      They come. `T is Helen`s home, and clean and white,
      Like one which tyrants spare on our own land
      In some such solitude; its casements bright
      Shone through their vine-leaves in the morning sun,
      And even within `t was scarce like Italy.
      And when she saw how all things there were planned    
      As in an English home, dim memory
      Disturbed poor Rosalind; she stood as one
      Whose mind is where his body cannot be,
      Till Helen led her where her child yet slept,
      And said, `Observe, that brow was Lionel`s,
      Those lips were his, and so he ever kept
      One arm in sleep, pillowing his head with it.
      You cannot see his eyes—they are two wells
      Of liquid love. Let us not wake him yet.`
      But Rosalind could bear no more, and wept  
      A shower of burning tears which fell upon
      His face, and so his opening lashes shone
      With tears unlike his own, as he did leap
      In sudden wonder from his innocent sleep.

      So Rosalind and Helen lived together
      Thenceforth—changed in all else, yet friends again,
      Such as they were, when o`er the mountain heather
      They wandered in their youth through sun and rain.
      And after many years, for human things
      Change even like the ocean and the wind,    
      Her daughter was restored to Rosalind,
      And in their circle thence some visitings
      Of joy `mid their new calm would intervene.
      A lovely child she was, of looks serene,
      And motions which o`er things indifferent shed
      The grace and gentleness from whence they came.
      And Helen`s boy grew with her, and they fed
      From the same flowers of thought, until each mind
      Like springs which mingle in one flood became;
      And in their union soon their parents saw  
      The shadow of the peace denied to them.
      And Rosalind—for when the living stem
      Is cankered in its heart, the tree must fall—
      Died ere her time; and with deep grief and awe
      The pale survivors followed her remains
      Beyond the region of dissolving rains,
      Up the cold mountain she was wont to call
      Her tomb; and on Chiavenna`s precipice
      They raised a pyramid of lasting ice,
      Whose polished sides, ere day had yet begun,    
      Caught the first glow of the unrisen sun,
      The last, when it had sunk; and through the night
      The charioteers of Arctos wheelèd round
      Its glittering point, as seen from Helen`s home,
      Whose sad inhabitants each year would come,
      With willing steps climbing that rugged height,
      And hang long locks of hair, and garlands bound
      With amaranth flowers, which, in the clime`s despite,
      Filled the frore air with unaccustomed light;
      Such flowers as in the wintry memory bloom  
      Of one friend left adorned that frozen tomb.

      Helen, whose spirit was of softer mould,
      Whose sufferings too were less, death slowlier led
      Into the peace of his dominion cold.
      She died among her kindred, being old.
      And know, that if love die not in the dead
      As in the living, none of mortal kind
      Are blessed as now Helen and Rosalind.
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