The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Till St. Edmond’s bell hath tolled,—
‘Yet rest your wearied limbs to-night,
You’ve journeyed many a mile,
To-morrow lay the wailing sprite,
That shrieks in the moonlight aisle.
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’Oh! faint are my limbs and my bosom is cold,
Yet to-night must the sprite be laid,
Yet to-night when the hour of horror’s told,
Must I meet the wandering shade.
‘Nor food, nor rest may now delay,—
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For hark! the echoing pile,
A bell loud shakes!—Oh haste away,
O lead to the haunted aisle.’
The torches slowly move before,
The cross is raised on high,
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A smile of peace the Canon wore,
But horror dimmed his eye—
And now they climb the footworn stair,
The chapel gates unclose,
Now each breathed low a fervent prayer,
And fear each bosom froze—–
Now paused awhile the doubtful band
And viewed the solemn scene,—
Full dark the clustered columns stand,
The moon gleams pale between—
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‘Say father, say, what cloisters’ gloom
Conceals the unquiet shade,
Within what dark unhallowed tomb,
The corse unblessed was laid.’
‘Through yonder drear aisle alone it walks,
And murmurs a mournful plaint,
Of thee! Black Canon, it wildly talks,
And call on thy patron saint—
‘The pilgrim this night with wondering eyes,
As he prayed at St. Edmond’s shrine,
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From a black marble tomb hath seen it rise,
And under yon arch recline.’—
‘Oh! say upon that black marble tomb,
What memorial sad appears.’—
‘Undistinguished it lies in the chancel’s gloom,
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No memorial sad it bears’—
The Canon his paternoster reads,
His rosary hung by his side,
Now swift to the chancel doors he leads,
And untouched they open wide,
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Resistless, strange sounds his steps impel,
To approach to the black marble tomb,
‘Oh! enter, Black Canon,’ a whisper fell,
‘Oh! enter, thy hour is come.’
He paused, told his beads, and the threshold passed,
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Oh! horror, the chancel doors close,
A loud yell was borne on the rising blast,
And a deep, dying groan arose.
The Monks in amazement shuddering stand,
They burst through the chancel’s gloom,
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From St. Edmond’s shrine, lo! a skeleton’s hand,
Points to the black marble tomb.
Lo! deeply engraved, an inscription blood red,
In characters fresh and clear—
‘The guilty Black Canon of Elmham’s dead,
And his wife lies buried here!’
In Elmham’s tower he wedded a Nun,
To St. Edmond’s his bride he bore,
On this eve her noviciate here was begun,
And a Monk’s gray weeds she wore;—
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O! deep was her conscience dyed with guilt,
Remorse she full oft revealed,
Her blood by the ruthless Black Canon was spilt,
And in death her lips he sealed;
Her spirit to penance this night was doomed,
’Till the Canon atoned the deed,
Here together they now shall rest entombed,
’Till their bodies from dust are freed—
Hark! a loud peal of thunder shakes the roof,
Round the altar bright lightnings play,
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Speechless with horror the Monks stand aloof,
And the storm dies sudden away—
The inscription was gone! a cross on the ground,
And a rosary shone through the gloom,
But never again was the Canon there found,
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Or the Ghost on the black marble tomb.
XV. REVENGE
‘AH! quit me not yet, for the wind whistles shrill,
Its blast wanders mournfully over the hill,
The thunder’s wild voice rattles madly above,
You will not then, cannot then, leave me my love.—’
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I must dearest Agnes, the night is far gone—
I must wander this evening to Strasburg alone,
I must seek the drear tomb of my ancestors’ bones,
And must dig their remains from beneath the cold stones.
‘For the spirit of Conrad there meets me this night,
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And we quit not the tomb ‘till dawn of the light,
And Conrad’s been dead just a month and a day!
So farewell dearest Agnes for I must away,—
‘He bid me bring with me what most I held dear,
Or a month from that time should I lie on my bier,
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And I’d sooner resign this false fluttering breath,
Than my Agnes should dread either danger or death,
And I love you to madness my Agnes I love,
My constant affection this night will I prove,
This night will I go to the sepulchre’s jaw,
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Alone will I glut its all conquering maw’—
‘No! no loved Adolphus thy Agnes will share,
In the tomb all the dangers that wait for you there,
I fear not the spirit,—I fear not the grave,
My dearest Adolphus I’d perish to save’—
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‘Nay seek not to say that thy love shall not go,
But spare me those ages of horror and woe,
For I swear to thee here that I’ll perish ere day,
If you go unattended by Agnes away’—
The night it was bleak the fierce storm raged around,
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The lightning’s blue fire-light flashed on the ground,
Strange forms seemed to flit,—and howl tidings of fate,
As Agnes advanced to the sepulchre gate.—
The youth struck the portal,—the echoing sound
Was fearfully rolled midst the tombstones around,
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The blue lightning gleamed o’er the dark chapel spire,
And tinged were the storm clouds with sulphurous fire.
Still they gazed on the tombstone where Conrad reclined,
Yet they shrank at the cold chilling blast of the wind,
When a strange silver brilliance pervaded the scene,
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And a figure advanced—tall in form—fierce in mien.
A mantle encircled his shadowy form,
As light as a gossamer borne on the storm,
Celestial terror sat throned in his gaze,
Like the midnight pestiferous meteor’s blaze.—
Spirit.
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Thy father, Adolphus! was false, false as hell,
And Conrad has cause to remember it well
He ruined my Mother, despised me his son,
I quitted the world ere my vengeance was done.
I was nearly expiring—’twas close; of the day,—
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A demon advanced to the bed where I lay,
He gave me the power from whence I was hurled,
To return to revenge, to return to the world,—
Now Adolphus I’ll seize thy best loved in my arms,
I’ll drag her to Hades all blooming in charms,
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On the black whirlwind’s thundering pinion I’ll ride,
And fierce yelling fiends shall exult o’er thy bride—
He spoke, and extending his ghastly arms wide,
Majestic advanced with a swift noiseless stride,
He clasped the fair Agnes—he raised her on high,
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And cleaving the roof sped his way to the sky—
All was now silent,—and over the tomb,
Thicker, deeper, was swiftly extended a gloom,
Adolphus in horror sank down on the stone,
And his fleeting soul fled with a harrowing groan.
DECEMBER, 1809.
XVI. GHASTA
OR, THE AVENGING DEMON!!!
The idea of the following tale was taken from a few unconnected German Stanzas.—The principal Character is evidently the Wandering Jew, and although not mentioned by name, the burning Cross on his forehead undoubtedly alludes to that superstition, so prevalent in the part of Germany called the Black Forest, where this scene is supposed to lie.
HARK! the owlet flaps her wing,
In the pathless dell beneath,
Hark! night ravens loudly sing,
Tidings of despair and death.—
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Horror covers all the sky,
Clouds of darkness blot the moon,
Prepare! for mortal thou must die,
Prepare to yield thy soul up soon—
Fierce the tempest raves around,
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Fierce the volleyed lightnings fly,
Crashing thunder shakes the ground,
Fire and tumult fill the sky.—
Hark! the tolling village bell,
Tells the hour of midnight come,
Now can blast the powers of Hell,
Fiend-like goblins now can roam—
See! his crest all stained with rain,
A warrior hastening speeds his way,
He starts, looks round him, starts again,
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And sighs for the approach of day.
See! his frantic steed he reins,
See! he lifts his hands on high,
Implores a respite to his pains,
From the powers of the sky.—
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He seeks an Inn, for faint from toil,
Fatigue had bent his lofty form,
To rest his wearied limbs awhile,
Fatigued with wandering and the storm.
· · · · · · ·
· · · · · · ·
Slow the door is opened wide—
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With trackless tread a stranger came,
His form Majestic, slow his stride,
He sate, nor spake,—nor told his name—
Terror blanched the warrior’s cheek,
Cold sweat from his forehead ran,
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In vain his tongue essayed to speak,—
At last the stranger thus began:
‘Mortal! thou that saw’st the sprite,
Tell me what I wish to know,
Or come with me before ’tis light,
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Where cypress trees and mandrakes grow.
‘Fierce the avenging Demon’s ire,
Fiercer than the wintry blast,
Fiercer than the lightning’s fire,
When the hour of twilight’s past’—
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The warrior raised his sunken eye,
It met the stranger’s sullen scowl,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die,’
In burning letters chilled his soul.
Warrior.
Stranger! whoso’er you are,
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I feel impelled my tale to tell—
Horrors stranger shalt thou hear,
Horrors drear as those of Hell.
O’er my Castle silence reigned,
Late the night and drear the hour,
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When on the terrace I observed,
A fleeting shadowy mist to lower.—
Light the cloud as summer fog,
Which transient shuns the morning beam;
Fleeting as the cloud on bog,
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That hangs or on the mountain stream.—
Horror seized my shuddering brain,
Horror dimmed my starting eye,
In vain I tried to speak,—In vain
My limbs essayed the spot to fly-
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At last the thin and shadowy form,
With noiseless, trackless footsteps came,—
Its light robe floated on the storm,
Its head was bound with lambent flame.
In chilling voice drear as the breeze
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Which sweeps along th’ autumnal ground,
Which wanders through the leafless trees,
Or the mandrake’s groan which floats around.
‘Thou art mine and I am thine,
’Till the sinking of the world,
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I am thine and thou art mine,
’Till in ruin death is hurled—–
‘Strong the power and dire the fate,
Which drags me from the depths of Hell,
Breaks the tomb’s eternal gate,
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Where fiendish shapes and dead men yell,
‘Haply I might ne’er have shrank
From flames that rack the guilty dead,
Haply I might; ne’er have sank
On pleasure’s flow’ry, thorny bed—
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—‘But stay! no more I dare disclose,
Of the tale I wish to tell,
On Earth relentless were my woes,
But fiercer are my pangs in Hell—
‘Now I claim thee as my love,
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Lay aside all chilling fear,
My affection will I prove,
Where sheeted ghosts and spectres are!
‘For thou art mine, and I am thine,
’Till the dreaded judgement day,
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I am thine, and thou art mine—
Night is past—I must away.’
Still I gazed, and still the form
Pressed upon my aching sight,
Still I braved the howling storm,
When the ghost dissolved in night.—
Restless, sleepless fled the night,
Sleepless as a sick man’s bed,
When he sighs for morning light,
When he turns his aching head,—
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Slow and painful passed the day,
Melancholy seized my brain,
Lingering fled the hours away,
Lingering to a wretch in pain.—
At last came night, ah! horrid hour,
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Ah! chilling time that wakes the dead,
When demons ride the clouds that lower,
—The phantom sat upon my bed.
In hollow voice, low as the sound
Which in some charnel makes its moan,
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What floats along the burying ground,
The phantom claimed me as her own.
Her chilling finger on my head,
With coldest touch congealed my soul—
Cold as the finger of the dead,
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Or damps which round a tomb stone roll—
Months are passed in lingering round,
Every night the spectre comes,
With thrilling step it shakes the ground,
With thrilling step it round me roams—
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Stranger! I have told to thee,
All the tale I have to tell—
Stranger! canst thou tell to me,
How to ’scape the powers of Hell?—
Stranger.
Warrior! I can ease thy woes,
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Wilt thou, wilt thou, come with me—
Warrior! I can all disclose,
Follow, follow, follow me.
Yet the tempest’s duskiest wing,
<
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Yet the midnight ravens sing,
‘Mortal! Mortal! thou must die.’
At last they saw a river clear,
That crossed the heathy path they trod,
The Stranger’s look was wild and drear,
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The firm Earth shook beneath his nod—
He raised a wand above his head,
He traced a circle on the plain,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead with silent footsteps came.
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A burning brilliance on his head,
Flaming filled the stormy air,
In a wild verse he called the dead,
The dead in motley crowd were there.—
‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come along,
Bring thy fiendish crowd with thee,
Quickly raise th’ avenging Song,
Ghasta! Ghasta! come to me.’
Horrid shapes in mantles gray,
Flit athwart the stormy night,
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‘Ghasta! Ghasta! come away,
Come away before ’tis light.’
See! the sheeted Ghost they bring,
Yelling dreadful o’er the heath,
Hark! the deadly verse they sing,
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Tidings of despair and death!
The yelling Ghost before him stands,
See! she rolls her eyes around,