Minuscula Lyrics of Nature, Art and Love. By Francis William Bourdillon |
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The Shelley Memorial
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3
The Shelley Memorial
(in University College, Oxford)
Itaque testimonio estis vobismet ipsis: quod filii estis eorum qui prophetas occiderunt.
This is not Shelley—this dead mask of Death!
Here is no marble Immortality,
But fleshly petrifaction. Could the breath
Come back to this, yet nevermore should he,
The stately spirit of full stature, deign
In this small corpse to lodge, and live again.
Here is no marble Immortality,
But fleshly petrifaction. Could the breath
Come back to this, yet nevermore should he,
The stately spirit of full stature, deign
In this small corpse to lodge, and live again.
This is not Shelley! Have our eyes not seen
Shelley, the child of morning, with the light
Of Heaven about him, and a brow serene
As Orient noonday, smile on Death and Night,
As the unhappy sisters of man's sorrow,
That might not live to the bright human morrow?
Shelley, the child of morning, with the light
Of Heaven about him, and a brow serene
As Orient noonday, smile on Death and Night,
As the unhappy sisters of man's sorrow,
That might not live to the bright human morrow?
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This marble but records Death's victory
In Death's own lying language; who doth boast
That o'er all Being he hath empery,
And nothing liveth when the breath is lost.
So cold, so white, he cries, your Shelley lay!
Such lifeless limbs! Such heavy soul-less clay!
In Death's own lying language; who doth boast
That o'er all Being he hath empery,
And nothing liveth when the breath is lost.
So cold, so white, he cries, your Shelley lay!
Such lifeless limbs! Such heavy soul-less clay!
Where is his Immortality—ah, where?
Is this the sky of Shelley? These his stars?
This small blue dome, as low, as near, as bare
As infant man believed it, and these sparse
Gold spangles! Could ye mock our Shelley more
'Twixt him and Heav'n than draw this tinsel o'er?
Is this the sky of Shelley? These his stars?
This small blue dome, as low, as near, as bare
As infant man believed it, and these sparse
Gold spangles! Could ye mock our Shelley more
'Twixt him and Heav'n than draw this tinsel o'er?
Yet who here standing blames the sculptor's art?
So deftly moulded is each marble limb!
Such deathly languor lies on every part!
So like is this to what was left of him,
When the wave-wantons, tiring of a prey
Teased vainly, flung the emptied flesh away!
So deftly moulded is each marble limb!
Such deathly languor lies on every part!
So like is this to what was left of him,
When the wave-wantons, tiring of a prey
Teased vainly, flung the emptied flesh away!
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Not his the fault, the sculptor's! Is it ours,
Who leave no more to Art her old domain
Of Fancy, and though sky and sea she scours,
No more allow her to present us plain
Her aery visions, or to unseen things
Lend bodies visible and birdlike wings?
Who leave no more to Art her old domain
Of Fancy, and though sky and sea she scours,
No more allow her to present us plain
Her aery visions, or to unseen things
Lend bodies visible and birdlike wings?
She bears Egyptian bondage, set to make
No likeness but what workman souls may see
And test by finger-touch—the fowler's lake,
The fisher's river-side, the woodman's tree,
The face in soul-less hours of common life,
The body naked for the surgeon's knife.
No likeness but what workman souls may see
And test by finger-touch—the fowler's lake,
The fisher's river-side, the woodman's tree,
The face in soul-less hours of common life,
The body naked for the surgeon's knife.
Where are her ancient glories, when to man
She brought a revelation all divine,
And opened his dull eyes, and bade him scan
Shy Nature, to discern why she did shine,
For all her sorrows, with so calm a light;
And, through the outward, woke the inward sight?
She brought a revelation all divine,
And opened his dull eyes, and bade him scan
Shy Nature, to discern why she did shine,
For all her sorrows, with so calm a light;
And, through the outward, woke the inward sight?
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Here had the Greek made plain in mortal form
The seed of the Immortals, the half-god;
Here had the Florentine shewn flesh all warm
With mystic fire-tints from the Rose of God;
The rudest missal-scribe, his rough child-way,
Had drawn the soul-shape 'scaping from the clay.
The seed of the Immortals, the half-god;
Here had the Florentine shewn flesh all warm
With mystic fire-tints from the Rose of God;
The rudest missal-scribe, his rough child-way,
Had drawn the soul-shape 'scaping from the clay.
We only, lords of lightning and of light,
All Nature's magic working to our wand,
Are yet forbidden the most simple sight
Of the informing soul in sea or land,
In hills and clouds and the blue deeps above,
And woman's beauty, and the face we love.
All Nature's magic working to our wand,
Are yet forbidden the most simple sight
Of the informing soul in sea or land,
In hills and clouds and the blue deeps above,
And woman's beauty, and the face we love.
One was there, son of England, whom not yet
The dust of years hides deeply, who perchance
With visionary touch had made forget
This dead marred body, left but to enhance
The bright miraculous likeness upward drawn,
The unprisoned spirit springing to the Dawn.
The dust of years hides deeply, who perchance
With visionary touch had made forget
This dead marred body, left but to enhance
The bright miraculous likeness upward drawn,
The unprisoned spirit springing to the Dawn.
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But Blake, the last Prometheus, is no more,
And the dark Heaven has shut her gates again.
Turn to the sleeper here, if in the lore
He left us we may find some balm for pain,
May find him living, though this gray-hued Death
So grimly to his dying witnesseth.
And the dark Heaven has shut her gates again.
Turn to the sleeper here, if in the lore
He left us we may find some balm for pain,
May find him living, though this gray-hued Death
So grimly to his dying witnesseth.
There do we find him, with his young-god's face
For ever to the East—for ever sure
Of the delaying sunrise, and the grace
To dawn upon the dark earth, full and pure
And holy, though a hundred such as he
Should die in faith before that day shall be.
For ever to the East—for ever sure
Of the delaying sunrise, and the grace
To dawn upon the dark earth, full and pure
And holy, though a hundred such as he
Should die in faith before that day shall be.
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