Shelley: lost poem published
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An early poem by Shelley, only discovered a few years ago, has been published:
It is, as to be expected, anti-Establishment and anti-war. I expect those who have made it available will be bullied by the media for publishing it on Remembrance (ie We Will Do it Again) Day as it contains the very apt lines:
Quote:Millions to fight compell’d, to fight or die / In mangled heaps on War’s red altar lie.Just as quotable as the "Ye are Many, They are Few" lines that we are fond of quoting.
Link to the digitised copy:http://poeticalessay.bodleian.ox.ac.uk/(Seems a bit overloaded at the minute, for some reason)….
Shelley wrote:May curses blast thee; and in thee the breedWhich forces, which compels, a world to bleed;May that destruction, which ’tis thine to spread,Descend with ten-fold fury on thy head.Oh! may the death, which marks thy fell career,In thine own heart’s blood bathe the empoisoned spear;May long remorse protract thy latest groan,Then shall Oppression tremble on its throne.Yet this alone were vain; Freedom requiresA torch more bright to light its fading fires;Man must assert his native rights, must sayWe take from Monarchs’ hand the granted swayOppressive law no more shall power retain,Peace, love, and concord, once shall rule again,And heal the anguish of a suffering world;Then, then shall things, which now confusedly hurled,Seem Chaos, be resolved to order’s sway,And errors night be turned to virtue’s day.Poetical Essay on The Existing State of Things
Percy Bysshe Shelley wrote:DESTRUCTION marks thee! o’er the blood-stain’d heathIs faintly borne the stifled wail of death;Millions to fight compell’d, to fight or dieIn mangled heaps on War's red altar lie.The sternly wise, the mildly good, have spedTo the unfruitful mansions of the dead.Whilst fell Ambition o’er the wasted plainTriumphant guides his car—the ensanguin’d reinGlory directs; fierce brooding o’er the scene,With hatred glance, with dire unbending mien,Fell Despotism sits by the red glareOf Discord’s torch, kindling the flames of war.For thee then does the Muse her sweetest layPour ’mid the shrieks of war, ’mid dire dismay;For thee does Fame’s obstrep’rous clarion rise,Does Praise’s voice raise meanness to the skies.Are we then sunk so deep in darkest gloom,That selfish pride can virtue’s garb assume?Does real greatness in false splendour live?When narrow views the futile mind deceive,When thirst of wealth, or frantic rage for fame,Lights for awhile self-interest’s little flame,When legal murders swell the lists of pride;When glory’s views the titled idiot guide,Then will oppression’s iron influence showThe great man’s comfort as the poor man’s woe.Is’t not enough that splendour’s useless glare,Real grandeur’s bane, must mock the poor man’s stare;Is’t not enough that luxury’s varied powerMust cheat the rich parader’s irksome hour,While what they want not, what they yet retain,Adds tenfold grief, more anguished throbs of painTo each unnumbered, unrecorded woe,Which bids the bitterest tear of want to flow;But that the comfort, which despotic swayHas yet allowed, stern War must tear away. Ye cold advisers of yet colder kings,To whose fell breast no passion virtue brings,Who scheme, regardless of the poor man’s pang,Who coolly sharpen misery’s sharpest fang,Yourselves secure. Your’s is the power to breatheO’er all the world the infectious blast of death,To snatch at fame, to reap red murder’s spoil,Receive the injured with a courtier’s smile,Make a tired nation bless the oppressor’s name,And for injustice snatch the meed of fame.Were fetters made for anguish, for despair?Must starving wretches torment, misery bear?Who, mad with grief, have snatched from grandeur’s store,What grandeur’s hand had snatched from them before.Yet shall the vices of the great pass on,Vices as glaring as the noon-day sun,Shall rank corruption pass unheeded by,Shall flattery’s voice ascend the wearied sky;And shall no patriot tear the veil awayWhich hides these vices from the face of day?Is public virtue dead?—is courage gone?Bows its fair form at fell oppression’s throne?Yes! it’s torn away—the crimes appear,Expiring Freedom asks a parting tear,A powerful hand unrolls the guilt-stain’d veil,A powerful voice floats on the tainted gale,Rising corruption’s error from beneath,A shape of glory checks the course of death;It spreads its shield o’er freedom’s prostrate form,Its glance disperses envy’s gathering storm;No trophied bust need tell thy sainted name,No herald blazon to the world thy fame,Nor scrolls essay an endless meed to give;In grateful memory still thy deeds must live.No sculptured marble shall be raised to thee,The hearts of England will thy memoirs be.To thee the Muse attunes no venal lyre,No thirsts of gold the vocal lays inspire;No interests plead, no fiery passions swell;Whilst to thy praise she wakes her feeble shell,She need not speak it, for the pen of fameOn every heart has written BURDETT’S name;For thou art he, who dared in tumult’s hour,Dauntless thy tide of eloquence to pour;Who, fearless, stemmed stern Despotism’s source,Who traced Oppression to its foulest course;Who bade Ambition tremble on its throne—How could I virtue name, how yet pass onThy name!—though fruitless thy divine essay,Though vain thy war against fell power’s array,Thou taintless emanation from the sky!Thou purest spark of fires which never die! Yet let me pause, yet turn aside to weepWhere virtue, genius, wit, with Franklin sleep;To bend in mute affliction o’er the graveWhere lies the great, the virtuous, and the brave;Still let us hope in Heaven (for Heaven there is)That sainted spirit tastes ethereal bliss,That sainted spirit the reward receives,Which endless goodness to its votary gives.Thine be the meed to purest virtue due—Alas! the prospect closes to the view.Visions of horror croud upon my sight,They shed around their forms substantial night.Oppressors’ venal minions! hence, avaunt!Think not the soul of Patriotism to daunt;Though hot with gore from India’s wasted plains,Some Chief, in triumph, guides the tightened reins;Though disembodied from this mortal coil,Pitt lends to each smooth rogue a courtier’s smile;Yet does not that severer frown withhold,Which, though impervious to the power of gold,Could daunt the injured wretch, could turn the poorUnheard, unnoticed, from the statesman’s doorThis is the spirit which can reckless tellThe fatal trump of useless war to swell;Can bid Fame’s loudest voice awake his praise,Can boldly snatch the honorary bays.Gifts to reward a ruthless, murderous deed,A crime for which some poorer rogue must bleed.Is this then justice?—stretch thy powerful arm,Patriot, dissolve the frigorific charm,Awake thy loudest thunder, dash the brandOf stern Oppression from the Tyrant’s hand;Let reason mount the Despot’s mouldering throne,And bid an injured nation cease to moan.Why then, since justice petty crimes can thrall,Should not its power extend to each, to all?If he who murders one to death is due,Should not the great destroyer perish too?The wretch beneath whose influence millions bleed?And yet encomium is the villain’s meed.His crime the smooth-tongued flatterers conquest name,Loud in his praises swell the notes of Fame.Oblivion marks the murdering poor man’s tomb,Brood o’er his memory contempt and gloom;His crimes are blazoned in deformed array,His virtues sink, they fade for aye away.Snatch then the sword from nerveless virtue’s hand,Boldly grasp native jurisdiction’s brand;For justice, poisoned at its source, must yieldThe power to each its shivered sword to wield,To dash oppression from the throne of vice,To nip the buds of slavery as they rise.Does jurisprudence slighter crimes restrain,And seek their vices to controul in vain?Kings are but men, if thirst of meanest swayHas not that title even snatched away.— The fainting Indian, on his native plains,Writhes to superior power’s unnumbered pains;The Asian, in the blushing face of day,His wife, his child, sees sternly torn away;Yet dares not to revenge, while war’s dread roarFloats, in long echoing, on the blood-stain’d shore.In Europe too wild ruin rushes fast:See! like a meteor on the midnight blast,Or evil spirit brooding over gore,Napoleon calm can war, can misery pour.May curses blast thee; and in thee the breedWhich forces, which compels, a world to bleed;May that destruction, which ’tis thine to spread,Descend with ten-fold fury on thy head.Oh! may the death, which marks thy fell career,In thine own heart’s blood bathe the empoisoned spear;May long remorse protract thy latest groan,Then shall Oppression tremble on its throne.Yet this alone were vain; Freedom requiresA torch more bright to light its fading fires;Man must assert his native rights, must sayWe take from Monarchs’ hand the granted sway;Oppressive law no more shall power retain,Peace, love, and concord, once shall rule again,And heal the anguish of a suffering world;Then, then shall things, which now confusedly hurled,Seem Chaos, be resolved to order’s sway,And errors night be turned to virtue’s day.Two letters from the poet Michael Rosen in his attempts to have the text disseminated online…22/07/2006You report the finding of a lost poem by Shelley (Review, July 14) and it seems as if the poem is explosive stuff, supporting the Irish in their attempts to get rid of British rule, while mentioning on the way the injustice of the British presence in India. People from many constituencies are interested – poets, poetry lovers, students of romanticism, students of leftwing and anti-colonial movements and many more besides. So why is it that we are not yet allowed to read the poem? When and where was it rediscovered? Who are the privileged people who so far have been permitted to read it? Why don't they spend the half-hour it would take to scan it and put it up on the web for all of us to read and enjoy? Presumably money is involved. The "owner" of the poem (past or future) will no doubt find a way of selling it, while the ghost of Shelley howls with contemptuous laughter.Michael RosenLondon11/07/2013John Mullan's commentary on The Masque of Anarchy was a welcome read and it's great that the poem itself is available online. If only this were the case for Shelley's Poetical Essay on the Existing State of Things, published in 1811. Having slipped out of sight for nearly 200 years, the poem was "discovered" in 2006, put up for sale and is now "in private hands". The effect of this bit of business is that the poem is not generally available, as making it so would lower the value of this unique copy. This reminds me that though we talk blithely about the "republic of letters" and the "free circulation of ideas", when it comes to the rules of property, we interested readers can go hang. Perhaps Amnesty could take on the injustice of the continuing imprisonment of Shelley's poem.Michael RosenLondon
And SPGB Head Office, in execrating my championing of Shelley re: fellow animals, retorted to me some years ago: "SHELLEY WASN`T A SOCIALIST!"
Well, he wasn't (though had a Socialist movement been around, he may have joined).; but, this fragment is worth reading: Fragment: ‘What Men Gain Fairly’.(Perhaps connected with that immediately preceding (Forman). — ED.)What men gain fairly — that they should possess,And children may inherit idleness,From him who earns it — This is understood;Private injustice may be general good.But he who gains by base and armed wrong,Or guilty fraud, or base compliances,May be despoiled; even as a stolen dressIs stripped from a convicted thief; and heLeft in the nakedness of infamy.https://ebooks.adelaide.edu.au/s/shelley/percy_bysshe/s54cp/volume24.html#section165 He was a radical, a democrat, a republican, but the above indicates he wasn't a socialist.
When and who did you speak to at Head Office? Shelley has always been highly regarded in the socialist movement. This article quotes his attack on "commerce" in Queen Mab which he sees as a product of selfishness in the sense of people wanting to sell their surplus for money rather than give it to others to satisfy their needs:
Quote:Hence commerce springs, the venal interchangeOf all that human art or nature yield;Which wealth should purchase not, but want demand,And natural kindness hasten to supplyFrom the full fountain of its boundless love,For ever stifled, drained, and tainted now.Commerce! Beneath whose poison-breathing shadeNo solitary virtue dares to spring,But Poverty and Wealth with equal handScatter their withering curses, and unfoldThe doors of premature and violent death,To pining famine and full-fed disease,To all that shares the lot of human life,Which poisoned, body and soul, scarce drags the chain,That lengthens as it goes and clanks behind,Commerce has set the mark of selfishness,The signet of its all-enslaving powerUpon a shining ore, and called it gold:Before whose image bow the vulgar great,The vainly rich, the miserable proud,The mob of peasants, nobles, priests and kings,And with blind feelings reverence the powerThat grinds them to the dust of misery.But in the temple of their hireling heartsGold is a living god, and rules in scornAll earthly things but virtue.and
Quote:All things are sold: the very light of HeavenIs venal; earth's unsparing gifts of love,The smallest and most despicable of thingsThat lurk in the abysses of the deep,All objects of our life, even life itself,And the poor pittance which the laws allowOf liberty, the fellowship of man,Those duties which his heart of human loveShould urge him to perform instinctively,Are bought and sold as in a public martOf undisguising selfishness, that setsOn each its price, the stamp-mark of her reign,Even love is sold; the solace of all woeIs turned to deadliest agony, old ageShivers in selfish beauty's loathing arms,And youth's corrupted impulses prepareA life of horror from the blighting baneOf commerce; whilst the pestilence that springsFrom unenjoying sensualism, has filledAll human life with hydra-headed woes.I think this makes him at least a "proto-socialist".
I know Shelley is highly regarded, but the H.O. assistant at the time said Shelley wasn`t a socialist because I challenged him about fellow animals, and, as you know, Shelley was a vegetarian.Ashley Montagu is also respected by us, but not by the assistant, who sneeringly said, "Bet he left everything to the cats!"Vivisection was also defended by him, except for "the great apes, `cos they`re too much like us!" He said the killing of animals (fellow animals) is good and fine and that socialists need to be anthropocentrist.
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