THE POETICAL WORKS OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. ROSALIND AND HELEN, A MODERN ECLOGUE. ADVERTISEMENT TO ROSALIND AND HELEN, &c. NAPLES, Dec. 20, 1818. THE story of Rosalind and Helen is undoubtedly not an attempt in the highest style of poetry. It is in no degree calculated to excite profound meditation; and if, by interesting the affections and amusing the imagination, it awaken a certain ideal melancholy favourable to the reception of more important impressions, it will produce in the reader all that the writer experienced in the composition. I resigned myself, as I wrote, to the impulse of the feelings which moulded the conception of the story; and this impulse determined the pauses of a measure which only pretends to be regular inasmuch as it corresponds with and expresses the irregularity of the imaginations which inspired it. I do not know which of the few scattered poems I left in England will be selected by my bookseller to add to this collection. One, which I sent from Italy, was written after a day's excursion among those lovely mountains which surround what was once the retreat, and where is now the sepulchre, of Petrarch. If any one is inclined to condemn the insertion of the introductory lines, which image forth the sudden relief of a state of deep despondency by the radiant visions disclosed by the sudden burst of an Italian sunrise in autumn, on the highest peak of those delightful mountains, I can only offer as my excuse that they were not erased at the request of a dear friend with whom added years of intercourse only add to my apprehension of its value, and who would have had more right than any one to complain that she has not been able to extinguish in me the very power of delineating sadness. SCENE.-The Shore of the Lake of Como. HELEN. COME hither, my sweet Rosalind. 'Tis long since thou and I have met: Come, sit by me. I see thee stand To the hues of yon fair heaven. None doth behold us now: the power If thou depart in scorn: oh come, And we are exiles. Talk with me Of that our land, whose wilds and floods, Were dearer than these chesnut-woods; Which altered friendship leaves. I seek No more our youthful intercourse : That cannot be. Rosalind, speak, Speak to me! Leave me not !-When morn did come, When evening fell upon our common home, When for one hour we parted-Do not frown ; I would not chide thee, though thy faith is broken. But turn to me. Oh by this cherished token Of woven hair, which thou wilt not disown, And not my scornèd self, who prayed to thee! ROSALIND. Is it a dream, or do I see And hear frail Helen? I would flee Thy tainting touch; but former years And my o'erburdened memory Seeks yet its lost repose in thee. I share thy crime. I cannot choose But weep for thee; mine own strange grief Nor ever did I love thee less, Though mourning o'er thy wickedness What to the evil world is due, And therefore sternly did refuse Of one so lost as Helen. Now, Bewildered by my dire despair, Wondering I blush and weep that thou Shouldst love me still-thou only !—There, Let us sit on that grey stone, Till our mournful talk be done. HELEN. Alas! not there; I cannot bear The murmur of this lake to hear. Even here where now we meet. It stirs In the dell of yon dark chesnut-wood Less like our own :-The ghost of Peace And I will follow. ROSALIND. Thou lead, my sweet, HENRY. 'Tis Fenici's seat Where you are going?-This is not the way, HELEN. Yes, I know; I was bewildered. Kiss me and be gay, HENRY. I do not know: But it might break any one's heart to see HELEN. It is a gentle child, my friend. Go home, The boy Lifted a sudden look upon his mother; And whispered in her ear, “Bring home with you That sweet strange lady-friend." Then off he flew ; But stopped, and beckoned with a meaning smile, Where the road turned. Pale Rosalind the while, Hiding her face, stood weeping silently. In silence then they took the way It was a vast and antique wood Through which they took their way; And the grey shades of evening Pursuing still the path that wound Through which slow shades were wandering, To a stone seat beside a spring; O'er which the columned wood did frame A roofless temple, like the fane Where, ere new creeds could faith obtain, The overhanging deity. The snake, O'er this fair fountain hung the sky, Creeps here his noontide thirst to slake, When he floats on that dark and lucid flood The chirping of the grasshopper In all that dwells at noontide here: A maze of life and light and motion Only the glow-worm is gleaming; But she is mute, for her false mate |