This is for those who haven’t read any Shelley since they were at school (if then) – an attempt to show you a little of what you are missing!
Shelley is a great poet, yet all too often what should have been appreciation of his poetry has degenerated into criticism of his way of life. “With all his genius [said Southey, soon after Shelley’s death] … he was a base, bad man.” To comments like that, Byron (who knew him well) responded: “You were all brutally mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, the best and least selfish man I ever knew.”
But Percy Bysshe Shelley was difficult to classify. For instance, he was sent down from Oxford for “atheism”, yet his mysticism, underlaid by his platonic vision of the universe, makes him one of the greatest of all religious poets. In an early poem [he was hardly more than a boy himself at the time], he writes that
While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped
Through many a listening chamber, cave and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed;
I was not heard – I saw them not –
When musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming –
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;
I shrieked and clasped my hands in ecstasy.
This is the mystic moment. Yet like all mystics, he suffered moments of depression, aggravated by the knowledge that though he was so idealistic, such a believer in the innate goodness of people, he was “one whom men love not”. Read these beautiful lines, from”Stanzas written in Dejection near Naples”:
Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.
Look at the opening lines of these sonnets:
Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life …
An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king …
Or read this, from “Ode to the West Wind” (Shelley was a master of the terza rima):
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
But if you read nothing else, read “Adonais”, Shelley’s lament on hearing of the death of John Keats. It is a long poem – 55 stanzas – and all I can do here is quote a couple of them.
The One remains, the many change and pass;
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!
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.
The breath whose might I have invoked in song
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;
The massy earth and spherèd 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.
Not long afterwards, Shelley’s boat capsized in a sudden tempest on the Adriatic and he was drowned. When his body was washed up days later, it was burnt there on the beach, but his heart and ashes were buried in the beautiful little cemetery in Rome where John Keats and Shelley’s own young son were buried.
He was only thirty, and was writing lines like:
Worlds on worlds are rolling ever
From creation to decay …
The world’s great age begins anew …
Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime …
Oh, cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Think what he might have written had he lived even a little longer!