The Retrospect: Cwm Elan, 1812 by Percy Bysshe Shelley

A scene, which 'wildered fancy viewedIn the soul's coldest solitude,With that same scene when peaceful loveFlings rapture's colour o'er the grove,When mountain, meadow, wood and streamWith unalloying glory gleam,And to the spirit's ear and eyeAre unison and harmony.The moonlight was my dearer day;Then would I wander far away,And, lingering on the wild brook's shoreTo hear its unremitting roar,Would lose in the ideal flowAll sense of overwhelming woe;Or at the noiseless noon of nightWould climb some heathy mountain's height,And listen to the mystic soundThat stole in fitful gasps around.I joyed to see the streaks of dayAbove the purple peaks decay,And watch the latest line of lightJust mingling with the shades of night;For day with me was time of woeWhen even tears refused to flow;Then would I stretch my languid frameBeneath the wild woods' gloomiest shade,And try to quench the ceaseless flameThat on my withered vitals preyed;Would close mine eyes and dream I wereOn some remote and friendless plain,And long to leave existence there,If with it I might leave the painThat with a finger cold and leanWrote madness on my withering mien.

It was not unrequited loveThat bade my 'wildered spirit rove;'Twas not the pride disdaining life,That with this mortal world at strifeWould yield to the soul's inward sense,Then groan in human impotence,And weep because it is not givenTo taste on Earth the peace of Heaven.'Twas not that in the narrow sphereWhere Nature fixed my wayward fateThere was no friend or kindred dearFormed to become that spirit's mate,Which, searching on tired pinion, foundBarren and cold repulse around;Oh, no! yet each one sorrow gaveNew graces to the narrow grave.For broken vows had early quelledThe stainless spirit's vestal flame;Yes! whilst the faithful bosom swelled,Then the envenomed arrow came,And Apathy's unaltering eyeBeamed coldness on the misery;And early I had learned to scornThe chains of clay that bound a soulPanting to seize the wings of morn,And where its vital fires were bornTo soar, and spur the cold controlWhich the vile slaves of earthly nightWould twine around its struggling flight.

Oh, many were the friends whom fameHad linked with the unmeaning name,Whose magic marked among mankindThe casket of my unknown mind,Which hidden from the vulgar glareImbibed no fleeting radiance there.My darksome spirit sought--it foundA friendless solitude around.For who that might undaunted stand,The saviour of a sinking land,Would crawl, its ruthless tyrant's slave,And fatten upon Freedom's grave,Though doomed with her to perish, whereThe captive clasps abhorred despair.

They could not share the bosom's feeling,Which, passion's every throb revealing,Dared force on the world's notice coldThoughts of unprofitable mould,Who bask in Custom's fickle ray,Fit sunshine of such wintry day!They could not in a twilight walkWeave an impassioned web of talk,Till mysteries the spirits pressIn wild yet tender awfulness,Then feel within our narrow sphereHow little yet how great we are!But they might shine in courtly glare,Attract the rabble's cheapest stare,And might command where'er they moveA thing that bears the name of love;They might be learned, witty, gay,Foremost in fashion's gilt array,On Fame's emblazoned pages shine,Be princes' friends, but never mine!

Ye jagged peaks that frown sublime,Mocking the blunted scythe of Time,Whence I would watch its lustre paleSteal from the moon o'er yonder valeThou rock, whose bosom black and vast,Bared to the stream's unceasing flow,Ever its giant shade doth castOn the tumultuous surge below:

Woods, to whose depths retires to dieThe wounded Echo's melody,And whither this lone spirit bentThe footstep of a wild intent:

Meadows! whose green and spangled breastThese fevered limbs have often pressed,Until the watchful fiend DespairSlept in the soothing coolness there!Have not your varied beauties seenThe sunken eye, the withering mien,Sad traces of the unuttered painThat froze my heart and burned my brain.How changed since Nature's summer formHad last the power my grief to charm,Since last ye soothed my spirit's sadness,Strange chaos of a mingled madness!Changed!--not the loathsome worm that fedIn the dark mansions of the dead,Now soaring through the fields of air,And gathering purest nectar there,A butterfly, whose million huesThe dazzled eye of wonder views,Long lingering on a work so strange,Has undergone so bright a change.How do I feel my happiness?I cannot tell, but they may guessWhose every gloomy feeling gone,Friendship and passion feel alone;Who see mortality's dull cloudsBefore affection's murmur fly,Whilst the mild glances of her eyePierce the thin veil of flesh that shroudsThe spirit's inmost sanctuary.O thou! whose virtues latest known,First in this heart yet claim'st a throne;Whose downy sceptre still shall shareThe gentle sway with virtue there;Thou fair in form, and pure in mind,Whose ardent friendship rivets fastThe flowery band our fates that bind,Which incorruptible shall lastWhen duty's hard and cold controlHas thawed around the burning soul,--The gloomiest retrospects that bindWith crowns of thorn the bleeding mind,The prospects of most doubtful hueThat rise on Fancy's shuddering view,--Are gilt by the reviving rayWhich thou hast flung upon my day.