He knew not of the grief within that burned, The cause of his disquietude; or shook To stir his secret pain without avail; For all who knew and loved him then perceived Between his heart and mind,--both unrelieved That memories of au antenatal life From God's displeasure, like a darkness, fell By mortal fear or supernatural awe; "But through the soul's abyss, like some dark stream "Of joy may rise, but it is quenched and drowned 'A lair of rest beneath thy spirit pure, So spake they idly of another's state Men held with one another; nor did he, Another, not himself, he to and fro Questioned and canvassed it with subtlest wit; And none but those who loved him best could know That which he knew not, how it galled and bit Upon his being; a snake which fold by fold hold;- *The Author was pursuing a fuller development of the ideal character of Athanase, when it struck him that in an attempt at extreme refinement and analysis, his coneptions might be betrayed into the assuming a morbid haracter. The reader will judge whether he is a loser or gainer by this difference.-Author's Note. FRAGMENTS OF PRINCE ATHANASE. PART II. FRAGMENT I. PRINCE Athanase had one beloved friend, Had spared in Greece - the blight that cramps and A fertile island in the barren sea, With soul-sustaining songs, and sweet debates And thus Zonoras, by for ever seeing A bloodier power than ruled thy ruins then, Was grass-grown-and the unremembered tears And blighting hope, who with the news of death An old man toiling up, a weary wight; The idea Shelley had formed of Prince Athanase was a good deal modelled on Alastor. In the first sketch of the Poem he named it Pandemos and Urania Athanase seeks through the world the One whom he may love. He meets, in the ship in which he is embarked, a lady, who appears to him to embody his ideal of love and beauty. But she proves to be Pandemos, or the earthly and unworthy Venus, who, after disappointing his cherished dreams and hopes, deserts him. Athanase, crushed by sorrow. pines and dies. "On his death-bed the lady, who can really reply to his soul, comes and kisses his lips."-The Death-bed of Athanase. The poet describes her Her hair was brown, her sphered eyes were brown, Yet when the spirit flashed beneath, there came This slender note is all we have to aid our imagination in M S. Of the wood fire, and round his shoulders fall, And his wan visage and his withered mien, Yet calm and gentle and majestical. And Athanase, her child, who must have been Then three years old, sate opposite and gazed In patient silence. FRAGMENT II. Such was Zonoras; and as daylight finds Thus through his age, dark, cold, and tempest-tust, The spirit of Prince Athanase, a child, And sweet and subtle talk now evermore, The youth, as shadows on a grassy hill Strange truths and new to that experienced man. So in the caverns of the forest green, By summer woodmen and when winter's roar Sounded o'er earth and sea its blast of war, The Balearic fisher, driven from shore, Hanging upon the peaked wave afar, Which pours beyond the sea one steadfast beam, seem Fer, lo! the wintry clouds are all gone by, Belted Orion hangs-warm light is flowing From the young moon into the sunset's chasm."O summer eve! with power divine, bestowing "On thine own bird the sweet enthusiasm Which overflows in notes of liquid gladness, Filling the sky like light! How many a spasin "Of fevered brains, oppressed with grief and madWere lulled by thee, delightful nightingale! [ness, And these soft waves, murmuring a gentle sadness, "And the far sighings of yon piny dale Made vocal by some wind, we feel not here.I bear alone what nothing may avail "To lighten a strange load!"-No human ear Heard this lament; but o'er the visage wan Of Athanase, a ruffling atmosphere Of dark emotion, a swift shadow ran, Beheld his mystic friend's whole being shake, Even where its inmost depths were gloomiestAnd with a calm and measured voice he spake, And, with a soft and equal pressure, prest "Paused, in yon waves her mighty horns to wet, How in those beams we walked,half resting on the sea? "Tis just one year-sure thou dost not forget "Then Plato's words of light in thee and me "Is faithful now-the story of the feast; FRAGMENT III. "Twas at the season when the Earth upsprings From slumber, as a sphered angel's child, Shadowing its eyes with green and golden wings, Stands up before its mother bright and mild, To see it rise thus joyous from its dreams, The grass in the warm sun did start and move, And sea-buds burst beneath the waves serene:How many a one, though none be near to love, Loves then the shade of his own soul, half seen In any mirror-or the spring's young minions, The winged leaves amid the copses green;— How many a spirit then puts on the pinions Sweeps in his dream-drawn chariot, far and fast, 'Twas at this season that Prince Athanase Pass'd the white Alps-those eagle-baffling moun. tains Slept in their shrouds of snow;-beside the ways And their lips moved; one seemed to speak, The dizzy flight of that phantom pale Of her dark eyes the dream did creep; TO CONSTANTIA SINGING. THUS to be lost and thus to sink and die, Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it And from thy touch like fire doth leap. [is yet, Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, A breathless awe, like the swift change Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Her voice is hovering o'er my soul-it lingers O'ershadowing it with soft and lulling wings, The blood and life within those snowy fingers Teach witchcraft to the instrumental strings. My brain is wild, my breath comes quickThe blood is listening in my frame, And thronging shadows, fast and thick, Fall on my overflowing eyes; My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Round western isles, with incense-blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. 1 MET a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal these words appear: "My name is Ozymandias, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!" Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away. LINES. THAT time is dead for ever, child, Drowned, frozen, dead for ever! We look on the past, And stare aghast At the spectres wailing, pale, and ghast, 203 |