[Composed at the Baths of San Giuliano, near Pisa, August 14-16, 1820;]
published in Posthumous Poems, edition Mrs. Shelley, 1824. The
dedication To Mas-y first appeared in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st
edition Sources of the text are (1) the editio princeps, 1824; (2)
editions 1839 (which agree, and, save in two instances, follow edition
1824); (3) an early and incomplete manuscript in Shelley's handwriting
(now at the Bodleian, here, as throughout, cited as B.), carefully
collated by Mr. C.D. Locock, who printed the results in his
Examination of the Shelley manuscripts, etc., Oxford, Clarendon Press,
1903; (4) a later, yet intermediate, transcript by Mrs. Shelley, the
variations of which are noted by Mr. H. Buxton Forman. The original
text is modified in many places by variants from the manuscripts, but
the readings of edition 1824 are, in every instance, given in the
(ON HER OBJECTING TO THE FOLLOWING POEM, UPON THE
SCORE OF ITS CONTAINING NO HUMAN INTEREST).
How, my dear Mary,--are you critic-bitten
(For vipers kill, though dead) by some review,
That you condemn these verses I have written,
Because they tell no story, false or true?
What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten, _5
May it not leap and play as grown cats do,
Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time,
Content thee with a visionary rhyme.
What hand would crush the silken-winged fly,
The youngest of inconstant April's minions, _10
Because it cannot climb the purest sky,
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions?
Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die,
When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions
The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile, _15
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.
To thy fair feet a winged Vision came,
Whose date should have been longer than a day,
And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame,
And in thy sight its fading plumes display; _20
The watery bow burned in the evening flame.
But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way--
And that is dead.--O, let me not believe
That anything of mine is fit to live!
Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years _25
Considering and retouching Peter Bell;
Watering his laurels with the killing tears
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell
Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres
Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well _30
May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil
The over-busy gardener's blundering toil.
My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise
Clothes for our grandsons--but she matches Peter, _35
Though he took nineteen years, and she three days
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre
She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays,
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress
Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.' _40
If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow
Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate
Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow:
A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at;
In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello. _45
If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate
Can shrive you of that sin,--if sin there be
In love, when it becomes idolatry.