At Shelley’s House At Lerici poem – Alfred Austin

Maiden, with English hair, and eyes

The colour of Italian skies,

What seek you by this shore?

“I seek, sir, for the latest home

Where Shelley dwelt, and, o’er the foam

Speeding, returned no more.”

Come, then, with me: I seek it, too.

Are you his kith? For strangely you

Resemble him in mien.

“No, save it be that all are kin

Who cherish the same thoughts within,

And gaze on things unseen.”

It should be easy, sure, to find.

Waves close in front, woods close behind,

Green shutters, whitewashed walls;

A little space of rocky ground,

Where climbs the wave, and, round and round

The seagull curves and calls.

Lo! there it stands. A quiet spot,

Untenanted, it seems forgot,

Like shrine from which the God

Hath vanished, and but left behind

A something in the air, the wind,

Recalling where he trod.

Upon this balcony how oft,

When waves were smooth and winds were soft,

As now, he must have stood,

And dreamed of days when men should be

Bondless as this unfettered sea,

And peaceful as that wood.

What would he find if came he now?

A phantom crown on kingly brow,

Veiled sceptre, trembling throne;

Pulpits where threat and curse have ceased,

And shrines whereat half-sceptic priest

Worships, too oft, alone.

With muffled psalm and whispered hymn,

At secret dawn or twilight dim,

A pious remnant pray;

For their maimed rites indulgence plead,

And, half uncertain of their creed,

Explain their God away.

Gone the conventions Shelley cursed:

The first are last, the last are first;

The lame, the halt, the blind,

Now in the seat of power, along

With the far-seeing and the strong,

Mould mandates for mankind.

No longer doth man’s will decide,

And woman’s feebler impulse guide;

He yields to her his might:

Duty hath grown an old-world tale,

And chaste Obedience rends her veil,

For epicene delight.

Where now do towering despots reign

Over lithe knee and servile brain,

The scared, the base, the bought?

Monarchs themselves now bend with awe

Before the kingliness of Law,

The majesty of Thought.

Yes, Kings have gone, or reign as slaves;

Religion mumbles round our graves,

But shapes our lives no more:

Tradition, thrice-spurned Sibyl, burns

The leaves mob Sovereignty spurns,

Contemptuous of her lore.

Fair Maiden with the sea-blue eyes,

With whom, beneath these sea-blue skies,

Shelley had loved to live,

Forgive me if his dream, unborn

Then, but now adult, moves my scorn:

Would He too not forgive?

For where both Crown and Cowl defied

Sue for the ruth they once denied,

What would he find instead?

A fiercer despot, fouler creed,

The Rule of Gold, the rites of Greed,

And a bitterer cry for bread.

Wake, poet! and retune your strings.

The earth now swarms with petty kings,

Seated on self-made thrones,

And altar-tables richly spread,

Where Roguery consecrates the bread,

And Opulence atones.

Here Shelley prayed that War might cease

From earth, and Pentecostal Peace

Descend with dovelike breath.

Look round this bay! each treeless gorge,

Each scarred ravine, incessant forge

The instruments of death.

From Salterbrand’s unfreezing peaks

To sunny Manfredonia’s creeks,

Have alien satraps gone;

But, guarding Italy the Free,

Her murderous mammoth-monsters, see,

Come grimly wallowing on.

Yes, here He dwelt and dreamed: and there,

Gleams Porto Venere the fair,

The mockery of a name.

Where fervent Venus once was Queen,

Hot Mars now ravishes the scene,

And fans a fiercer flame.

Fair Maiden with the English brow,

Although from me, who shortly now

Must tread life’s downward slope,

Illusions one by one depart,

Still foster in your virgin heart

The embryo of Hope.

The hills remain, the woods, the waves;

And they alone are dupes or slaves

Who, spurning Nature’s breast,

Too high would soar, too deep would sound,

And madden vainly round and round

The orbit of unrest.

Pity, too, lingers. As I speak,

The teardrops tremble on your cheek,

Too silent to deceive;

And with assuaging hand you show

How tenderness still tempers woe,

And none need singly grieve.

Yes! sweet it were, with you for guide,

To float across that dimpling tide,

And, on its farther shore,

To prove if Venus still holds sway,

And, wandering with you round the bay,

Tempt back one’s youth once more.

But, child! it is not Shelley’s world.

Fancy’s light sails had best be furled,

Before they surge and swell.

What helm can steer the heart? or who

Keep moored, inspired by such as You?

Heaven prosper you! Farewell.