Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE BURIAL OF SHELLEY, by JAMES LAVER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE BURIAL OF SHELLEY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: A peasant, where the wooded apennines
Last Line: And that demoniac ride.
Subject(s): Poetry & Poets; Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)


APEASANT, where the wooded Apennines
Nearest approach the sea, his burdened way
Pushed shoreward through the branches of the pines,
Then halted in dismay.

He saw the beach the recent storm had torn,
The broken toys of its mad revelry,
Saw the long arms of Spezzia and Leghorn
Encompassing the sea.

Saw, too, a little, sombre group of men
Who clustered where the shelving sand was drier;
They gathered wreckage of the storm, and then
Built them a solemn pyre.

What rite it was he knew not, what old law
Of worship they fulfilled of days long gone,
Around their shrine, he knew not; then he saw
A lifeless form thereon.

'Twas too far off the features to descry,
And he was old, his smoke-dimmed sight was weak,
But he could see against blue wave and sky,
The pallor of his cheek.

Then silence fell; he saw the sudden flame
Between the knotted drift-wood leap and shine;
And the dark watchers, calling thrice one name,
Poured frankincense and wine.

The smell of burning wood, and balsams old
Obscured the bitter savour of the sea;
And he ran from them, fearful to behold
Such antique obsequy.

Night fell behind him as he fled away
From the strange odour and the mournful sound;
And all the forest murmurs died with day,
And silence lapped him round.

But as along the winding track he passed
A tumult rose behind him, and a cry
As when some fiend his chariot drives, and fast
The leaves before him fly.

He turned, and shrank into a thicket near,
His limbs had lost their use, a dizzy flame
Dazzled his eyes, his lips were dry with fear,
While on the whirlwind came.

One glimpse he caught of faces wild with mirth,
In Dionysiac fury whirled away,
Like evil shapes at midnight, when the earth
Yields for a while its prey.

A drunken ditty in an unknown tongue
Smote on his ear, tearing the gathering night
In tatters, and the carriage rolled along
The track, and out of sight.

'Tis vanished, and the darkening forest sleeps,
Seeming to hold its breath, so still it is.
The old man mutters, lost in terror's deeps,
'What devil's rout is this?'

Though strange things it was given him to behold,
How should he half the mystic rite divine?
Or know the face of Shelley, blue with cold,
Or Byron's, flown with wine?

But there was horror he could not forget,
A shadow that pursued him till he died;
And we, we dream of that wild burial yet,
And that demoniac ride.





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