Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE BURIAL OF SHELLEY, by JAMES LAVER 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE GENERAL PUBLIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET SHELLEY'S ARETHUSA SET TO NEW MEASURES by ROBERT DUNCAN OZYMANDIAS REVISITED by MORRIS GILBERT BISHOP MEMORABILIA by ROBERT BROWNING ROME. AT THE PYRAMID OF CESTIUS NEAR THE GRAVES OF SHELLEY by THOMAS HARDY SHELLEY'S SKYLARK by THOMAS HARDY TO SHELLEY by JOHN BANISTER TABB THE JOBHOLDER by DAVID IGNATOW |
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