The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley (ed. Hutchinson, 1914)/Julian and Maddalo

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

JULIAN AND MADDALO

A CONVERSATION

[Composed at Este after Shelley's first visit to Venice, 1818 (Autumn); first published in the Posthumous Poems, London, 1824 (ed. Mrs. Shelley). Shelley's original intention had been to print the poem in Leigh Hunt's Examiner; but he changed his mind and, on August 15, 1819, sent the MS. to Hunt to be published anonymously by Ollier. This MS., found by Mr. Townshend Mayer, and by him placed in the hands of Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B., is described at length in Mr. Forman's Library Edition of the poems (vol. iii, p. 107). The date, 'May, 1819,' affixed to Julian and Maddalo in the P. P., 1824, indicates the time when the text was finally revised by Shelley. Sources of the text are (1) P. P., 1824; (2) the Hunt MS.; (3) a fair draft of the poem amongst the Boscombe MSS.; (4) Poetical Works, 1839, 1st and 2nd edd. (Mrs. Shelley). Our text is that of the Hunt MS., as printed in Forman's Library Edition of the Poems, 1876, vol. iii, pp. 103-30; variants of 1824 are indicated in the footnotes; questions of punctuation are dealt with in the notes at end of the volume.]

PREFACE

The meadows with fresh streams, the bees with thyme, The goats with the green leaves of budding Spring, Are saturated not—nor Love with tears.—Virgil's Gallus.

Count Maddalo is a Venetian nobleman of ancient family and of great fortune, who, without mixing much in the society of his countrymen, resides chiefly at his magnificent palace in that city. He is a person of the most consummate genius, and capable, if he would direct his energies to such an end, of becoming the redeemer of his degraded country. But it is his weakness to be proud: he derives, from a comparison of his own extraordinary mind with the dwarfish intellects that surround him, an intense apprehension of the nothingness of human life. His passions and his powers are incomparably greater than those of other men; and, instead of the latter having been employed in curbing the former, they have mutually lent each other strength. His ambition preys upon itself, for want of objects which it can consider worthy of exertion. I say that Maddalo is proud, because I can find no other word to express the concentered and impatient feelings which consume him; but it is on his own hopes and affections only that he seems to trample, for in social life no human being can be more gentle, patient, and unassuming than Maddalo. He is cheerful, frank, and witty. His more serious conversation is a sort of intoxication; men are held by it as by a spell. He has travelled much; and there is an inexpressible charm in his relation of his adventures in different countries.

Julian is an Englishman of good family, passionately attached to those philosophical notions which assert the power of man over his own mind, and the immense improvements of which, by the extinction of certain moral superstitions, human society may be yet susceptible. Without concealing the evil in the world, he is for ever speculating how good may be made superior. He is a complete infidel, and a scoffer at all things reputed holy; and Maddalo takes a wicked pleasure in drawing out his taunts against religion. What Maddalo thinks on these matters is not exactly known. Julian, in spite of his heterodox opinions, is conjectured by his friends to possess some good qualities. How far this is possible the pious reader will determine. Julian is rather serious.

Of the Maniac I can give no information. He seems, by his own account, to have been disappointed in love. He was evidently a very cultivated and amiable person when in his right senses. His story, told at length, might be like many other stories of the same kind: the unconnected exclamations of his agony will perhaps be found a sufficient comment for the text of every heart.

 

I rode one evening with Count MaddaloUpon the bank of land which breaks the flow Of Adria towards Venice: a bare strand Of hillocks, heaped from ever-shifting sand, Matted with thistles and amphibious weeds. 5Such as from earth's embrace the salt ooze breeds, Is this; an uninhabited sea-side, Which the lone fisher, when his nets are dried, Abandons; and no other object breaks The waste, but one dwarf tree and some few stakes 10Broken and unrepaired, and the tide makes A narrow space of level sand thereon. Where 'twas our wont to ride while day went down. This ride was my delight. I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste 15The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows; and yet more Than all, with a remembered friend I love 20To ride as then I rode;—for the winds drove The living spray along the sunny air Into our faces; the blue heavens were bare. Stripped to their depths by the awakening north; And, from the waves, sound like delight broke forth 25Harmonising with solitude, and sent Into our hearts aëreal merriment. So, as we rode, we talked; and the swift thought, Winging itself with laughter, lingered not, But flew from brain to brain,—such glee was ours, 30Charged with light memories of remembered hours, None slow enough for sadness: till we cameHomeward, which always makes the spirit tame.This day had been cheerful but cold, and nowThe sun was sinking, and the wind also. 35Our talk grew somewhat serious, as may beTalk interrupted with such railleryAs mocks itself, because it cannot scornThe thoughts it would extinguish:—'twas forlorn,Yet pleasing, such as once, so poets tell, 40The devils held within the dales of HellConcerning God, freewill and destiny:Of all that earth has been or yet may be,All that vain men imagine or believe,Or hope can paint or suffering may^[1] achieve, 45We descanted, and I (for ever stillIs it not wise to make the best of ill?)Argued against despondency, but prideMade my companion take the darker side.The sense that he was greater than his kind 50Had struck, methinks, his eagle spirit blindBy gazing on its own exceeding light.Meanwhile the sun paused ere it should alight,Over the horizon of the mountains;—Oh,How beautiful is sunset, when the glow 55Of Heaven descends upon a land like thee,Thou Paradise of exiles, Italy!Thy mountains, seas, and vineyards, and the towersOf cities they encircle !—it was oursTo stand on thee, beholding it: and then, 60Just where we had dismounted, the Count's menWere waiting for us with the gondola.—As those who pause on some delightful wayThough bent on pleasant pilgrimage, we stoodLooking upon the evening, and the flood 65Which lay between the city and the shore,Paved with the image of the sky . . . the hoarAnd aëry Alps towards the North appearedThrough mist, an heaven-sustaining bulwark rearedBetween the East and West; and half the sky 70Was roofed with clouds of rich emblazonryDark purple at the zenith, which still grewDown the steep West into a wondrous hueBrighter than burning gold, even to the rentWhere the swift sun yet paused in his descent 75Among the many-folded hills: they wereThose famous Euganean hills, which bear,As seen from Lido thro' the harbour piles,The likeness of a clump of peaked isles—And then—as if the Earth and Sea had been 80Dissolved into one lake of fire, were seen Those mountains towering as from waves of flameAround the vaporous sun, from which there cameThe inmost purple spirit of light, and madeTheir very peaks transparent. 'Ere it fade,' 85Said my companion, 'I will show you soonA better station'—so, o'er the laguneWe glided; and from that funereal barkI leaned, and saw the city, and could markHow from their many isles, in evening's gleam, 90Its temples and its palaces did seemLike fabrics of enchantment piled to Heaven.I was about to speak, when—'We are evenNow at the point I meant,' said Maddalo,And bade the gondolieri cease to row. 95'Look, Julian, on the west, and listen wellIf you hear not a deep and heavy bell.'I looked, and saw between us and the sunA building on an island; such a one^[2]As age to age might add, for uses vile, 100A windowless, deformed and dreary pile;And on the top an open tower, where hungA bell, which in the radiance swayed and swung;We could just hear its hoarse and iron tongue:The broad sun sunk^[3] behind it, and it tolled 105In strong and black relief.—'What we beholdShall be the madhouse and its belfry tower,'Said Maddalo, 'and ever^[4] at this hourThose who may cross the water, hear that bellWhich calls the maniacs, each one from his cell, 110To vespers.'—'As much skill as need to prayIn thanks or hope for their dark lot have theyTo their stern maker,' I replied. 'O ho!You talk as in years past,' said Maddalo."'Tis strange men change not. You were ever still 115Among Christ's flock a perilous infidel,A wolf for the meek lambs—if you can't swimBeware of Providence.' I looked on him,But the gay smile had faded in^[5] his eye.'And such,'—he cried, 'is our mortality, 120And this must be the emblem and the signOf what should be eternal and divine!—And like that black and dreary bell, the soul,Hung in a^[6] heaven-illumined tower, must tollOur thoughts and our desires to meet below 125Round the rent heart and pray—as madmen doFor what? they know not,—till the night of deathAs sunset that strange vision, severethOur memory from itself, and us from all We sought and yet were baffled.' I recall 130The sense of what he said, although I marThe force of his expressions. The broad starOf day meanwhile had sunk behind the hill,And the black bell became invisible,And the red tower looked gray, and all between 135The churches, ships and palaces were seenHuddled in gloom:—into the purple seaThe orange hues of heaven sunk silently.We hardly spoke, and soon the gondolaConveyed me to my lodging^[7] by the way. 140The following morn was rainy, cold and dim:Ere Maddalo arose, I called on him,And whilst I waited with his child I played;A lovelier toy sweet Nature never made,A serious, subtle, wild, yet gentle being, 145Graceful without design and unforeseeing,With eyes-Oh speak not of her eyes!—which seemTwin mirrors of Italian Heaven, yet gleamWith such deep meaning, as we never seeBut in the human countenance: with me 150She was a special favourite: I had nursedHer fine and feeble limbs when she came firstTo this bleak world; and she yet seemed to knowOn second sight her ancient playfellow,Less changed than she was by six months or so; 155For after her first shyness was worn outWe sate there, rolling billiard balls about,When the Count entered. Salutations past—'The word you spoke last night might well have castA darkness on my spirit—if man be 160The passive thing you say, I should not seeMuch harm in the religions and old saws(Tho' I may never own such leaden laws)Which break a teachless nature to the yoke:Mine is another faith'—thus much I spoke 165And noting he replied not, added: 'SeeThis lovely child, blithe, innocent and free;She spends a happy time with little care.While we to such sick thoughts subjected areAs came on you last night—it is our will 170That^[8] thus enchains us to permitted ill—We might be otherwise—we might be allWe dream of happy, high, majestical.Where is the love, beauty, and truth we seekBut in our mind?^[9] and if we were not weak 175Should we be less in deed than in desire?''Ay, if we were not weak—and we aspireHow vainly to be strong!' said Maddalo: 'You talk Utopia.' 'It remains to know^[10],'I then rejoined, and those who try may find 180How strong the chains are which our spirit bind;Brittle perchance as straw . . . We are assuredMuch may be conquered, much may be endured,Of what degrades and crushes us. We knowThat we have power over ourselves to do 185And suffer—what, we know not till we try;But something nobler than to live and die—So taught those^[11] kings of old philosophyWho reigned, before Religion made men blind;And those who suffer with their suffering kind 190Yet feel their^[12] faith, religion.' 'My dear friend,'Said Maddalo, 'my judgement will not bendTo your opinion, though I think you mightMake such a system refutation-tightAs far as words go. I knew one like you 195Who to this city came some months ago,With whom I argued in this sort, and heIs now gone mad,—and so he answered me,—Poor fellow! but if you would like to goWe'll visit him, and his wild talk will show 200How vain are such aspiring theories.''I hope to prove the induction otherwise,And that a want of that true theory, still,Which seeks a "soul of goodness" in things illOr in himself or others, has thus bowed 205His being there are some by nature proud,Who patient in all else demand but this—To love and be beloved with gentlenessAnd being scorned, what wonder if they dieSome living death? this is not destiny 210But man's own wilful ill.'As thus I spokeServants announced the gondola, and weThrough the fast-falling rain and high-wrought seaSailed to the island where the madhouse stands.We disembarked. The clap of tortured hands, 215Fierce yells and howlings and lamentings keen,And laughter where complaint had merrier been,Moans, shrieks, and curses, and blaspheming prayers^[13]Accosted us. We climbed the oozy stairsInto an old courtyard. I heard on high, 220Then, fragments of most touching melody,But looking up saw not the singer there—Through the black bars in the tempestuous airI saw, like weeds on a wrecked palace growing,Long tangled locks flung wildly forth, and flowing, 225 Of those who on a sudden were beguiledInto strange silence, and looked forth and smiledHearing sweet sounds.—Then I: 'Methinks there wereA cure of these with patience and kind care,If music can thus move . . . but what is he 230Whom we seek here?' 'Of his sad historyI know but this,' said Maddalo: 'he cameTo Venice a dejected man, and fameSome thought the loss of fortune wrought him woe; 235But he was ever talking in such sortAs you do—far^[14] more sadly—he seemed hurt,Even as a man with his peculiar wrong,To hear but of the oppression of the strong,Or those absurd deceits (I think with you 240In some respects, you know) which carry throughThe excellent impostors of this earthWhen they outface detection—he had worth,Poor fellow! but a humourist in his way'—'Alas, what drove him mad?' 'I cannot say: 245A lady came with him from France, and whenShe left him and returned, he wandered thenAbout yon lonely isles of desert sandTill he grew wild—he had no cash or landRemaining, the police had brought him here— 250Some fancy took him and he would not bearRemoval; so I fitted up for himThose rooms beside the sea, to please his whim.And sent him busts and books and urns for flowers,Which had adorned his life in happier hours, 255And instruments of music—you may guessA stranger could do little more or lessFor one so gentle and unfortunate:And those are his sweet strains which charm the weightFrom madmen's chains, and make this Hell appear 260A heaven of sacred silence, hushed to hear.—'Nay, this was kind of you—he had no claim,As the world says'—'None—but the very sameWhich I on all mankind were I as heFallen to such deep reverse;—his melody 265Is interrupted—now we hear the dinOf madmen, shriek on shriek, again begin;Let us now visit him; after this strainHe ever communes with himself again,And sees nor^[15] hears not any.' Having said 270These words we called the keeper, and he ledTo an apartment opening on the sea—There the poor wretch was sitting mournfullyNear a piano, his pale fingers twinedOne with the other, and the ooze and wind 275 Bushed through an open casement, and did swayHis hair, and starred it with the brackish spray;His head was leaning on a music book,And he was muttering, and his lean limbs shook;His lips were pressed against a folded leaf 280In hue too beautiful for health, and griefSmiled in their motions as they lay apart—As one who wrought from his own fervid heartThe eloquence of passion, soon he raisedHis sad meek face and eyes lustrous and glazed 285And spoke—sometimes as one who wrote, and thoughtHis words might move some heart that heeded not,If sent to distant lands: and then as oneReproaching deeds never to be undoneWith wondering: self-compassion; then his speech 290Was lost in grief and then his words came eachUnmodulated, cold^[16], expressionless,—But that from one jarred accent you might guessIt was despair made them so uniform:And all the while the loud and gusty storm 295Hissed through the window, and we stood behindStealing his accents from the envious windUnseen. I yet remember what he saidDistinctly: such impression his words made.

'Month after month,' he cried, 'to bear this load 300And as a jade urged by the whip and goadTo drag life on, which like a heavy chainLengthens behind with many a link of pain!—And not to speak my grief—O, not to dareTo give a human voice to my despair, 305But live and move, and, wretched thing! smile onAs if I never went aside to groan,And wear this mask of falsehood even to thoseWho are most dear—not for my own repose—Alas! no scorn or pain or hate could be 310So heavy as that falsehood is to me—But that I cannot bear more altered facesThan needs must be, more changed and cold embraces,More misery, disappointment, and mistrustTo own me for their father . . . Would the dust 315Were covered in upon my body now!That the life ceased to toil within my brow!And then these thoughts would at the least^[17] be fled;Let us not fear such pain can vex the dead.

'What Power delights to torture us? I know 320That to myself I do not wholly oweWhat now I suffer, though in part I may.Alas! none strewed sweet^[18] flowers upon the way Where wandering heedlessly, I met pale PainMy shadow, which will leave me not again— 325If I have erred, there was no joy in error,But pain and insult and unrest and terror;I have not as some do, bought penitenceWith pleasure, and a dark yet sweet offence,For then,—if love and tenderness and truth 330Had overlived hope's momentary youth,My creed should have redeemed me from repenting;But loathèd scorn and outrage unrelentingMet love excited by far other seemingUntil the end was gained . . . as one from dreaming 335Of sweetest peace, I woke, and found my stateSuch as it is.———'O Thou, my spirit's mateWho, for thou art compassionate and wise,Wouldst pity me from thy most gentle eyesIf this sad writing thou shouldst ever see— 340My secret groans must be unheard by thee,Thou wouldst weep tears bitter as blood to knowThy lost friend's incommunicable woe.

'Ye few by whom my nature has been weighedIn friendship, let me not that name degrade 345By placing on your hearts the secret loadWhich crushes mine to dust. There is one roadTo peace and that is truth, which follow ye!Love sometimes leads astray to misery.Yet think not though subdued—and I may well 350Say that I am subdued—that the full HellWithin me would infect the untainted breastOf sacred nature with its own unrest;As some perverted beings think to findIn scorn or hate a medicine for the mind 355Which scorn or hate have^[19] wounded—O how vain!The dagger heals not but may rend again . . .Believe that I am ever still the sameIn creed as in resolve, and what may tameMy heart, must leave the understanding free, 360Or all would sink in this keen^[20] agony—Nor dream that I will join the vulgar cry;^[21]Or with my silence sanction tyranny;Or seek a moment's shelter from my painIn any madness which the world calls gain, 365Ambition or revenge or thoughts as sternAs those which make me what I am; or turnTo avarice or misanthropy or lust . . .Heap on me soon, grave, thy welcome dust!Till then the dungeon may demand its prey, 370 And Poverty and Shame may meet and say—Halting beside me on^[22] the public way—"That love-devoted youth is ours-let's sitBeside him—he may live some six months yet."Or the red scaffold, as our country bends. 375May ask some willing victim, or ye friendsMay fall under some sorrow which this heartOr hand may share or vanquish or avert;I am prepared—in truth with no proud joy—To do or suffer aught, as when a boy 380I did devote to justice and to loveMy nature, worthless now! . . .'I must removeA veil from my pent mind. 'Tis torn aside!O, pallid as Death's dedicated bride,Thou mockery which art sitting by my side, 385Am I not wan like thee? at the grave's callI haste, invited to thy wedding-ballTo greet^[23] the ghastly paramour, for whomThou hast deserted me . . . and made the tombThy bridal bed . . . But I beside your^[24] feet 390Will lie and watch ye from my winding sheet—Thus . . . wide awake tho' dead . . . yet stay, O stay!Go not so soon—I know not what I say—Hear but my reasons . . I am mad, I fear,My fancy is o'erwrought . . thou art not here. . . 395Pale art thou, 'tis most true . . but thou art gone,Thy work is finished . . . I am left alone!—·······'Nay, was it I who wooed thee to this breastWhich, like a serpent, thou envenomestAs in repayment of the warmth it lent? 400Didst thou not seek me for thine own content?Did not thy love awaken mine? I thoughtThat thou wert she who said, "You kiss me notEver, I fear you do not love me now"—In truth I loved even to my overthrow 405Her, who would fain forget these words: but theyCling to her mind, and cannot pass away.·······'You say that I am proud—that when I speakMy lip is tortured with the wrongs which breakThe spirit it expresses . . . Never one 410Humbled himself before, as I have done!Even the instinctive worm on which we treadTurns, though it wound not—then with prostrate headSinks in the dusk and writhes like me—and dies?No: wears a living death of agonies! 415 As the slow shadows of the pointed grassMark the eternal periods, his^[25] pangs passSlow, ever-moving,—making moments beAs mine seem—each an immortality!·······'That you had never seen me—never heard 420My voice, and more than all had ne'er enduredThe deep pollution of my loathed embrace—That your eyes ne'er had lied love in my face—That, like some maniac monk, I had torn outThe nerves of manhood by their bleeding root 425With mine own quivering fingers, so that ne'erOur hearts had for a moment mingled thereTo disunite in horror—these were notWith thee, like some suppressed and hideous thoughtWhich flits athwart our musings, but can find 430No rest within a pure and gentle mind . . .Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad word,And searedst my memory o'er them,—for I heardAnd can forget not . . . they were ministeredOne after one, those curses. Mix them up 435Like self-destroying poisons in one cup.And they will make one blessing which thou ne'erDidst imprecate for, on me,—death.·······'It wereA cruel punishment for one most cruel,If such can love, to make that love the fuel 440Of the mind's hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair:But me—whose heart a stranger's tear might wearAs water-drops the sandy fountain-stone,Who loved and pitied all things, and could moanFor woes which others hear not, and could see 445The absent with the glance^[26] of phantasy,And with^[27] the poor and trampled sit and weep,Following the captive to his dungeon deep;Me—who am as a nerve o'er which do creepThe else unfelt oppressions of this earth, 450And was to thee the flame upon thy hearth,When all beside was cold—that thou on meShouldst rain these plagues of blistering agony—Such curses are from lips once eloquentWith love's too partial praise—let none relent 455Who intend deeds too dreadful for a nameHenceforth, if an example for the sameThey seek . . . for thou on me lookedst so, and so—And didst speak thus . . and thus . . . I live to showHow much men bear and die not! 460 "Thou wilt tell,With the grimace of hate, how horribleIt was to meet my love when thine grew less;Thou wilt admire how I could e'er addressSuch features to love's work . . . this taunt, though true,(For indeed Nature nor in form nor hue 465Bestowed on me her choicest workmanship)Shall not be thy defence . . . for since thy lip^[28].Met mine first, years long past, since thine eye kindledWith soft fire under mine, I have not dwindledNor changed in mind or body, or in aught 470But as love changes what it loveth notAfter long years and many trials.'How vainAre words! I thought never to speak again,Not even in secret, not to my own heart—But from my lips the unwilling accents start, 475And from my pen the words flow as I write,Dazzling my eyes with scalding tears . . . my sightIs dim to see that charactered in vainOn this unfeeling leaf which burns the brainAnd eats into it . . . blotting all things fair 480And wise and good which time had written there.

'Those who inflict must suffer, for they seeThe work of their own hearts, and this^[29] must beOur chastisement or recompense—O child!I would that thine were like to be more mild 485For both our wretched sakes . . . for thine the mostWho feelest already all that thou hast lostWithout the power to wish it thine again;And as slow years pass, a funereal trainEach with the ghost of some lost hope or friend 490Following it like its shadow, wilt thou bendNo thought on my dead memory?·······'Alas, love!Fear me not . . . against thee I would^[30] not moveA finger in despite. Do I not liveThat thou mayst have less bitter cause to grieve? 495I give thee tears for scorn and love for hate;And that thy lot may be less desolateThan his on whom thou tramplest, I refrainFrom that sweet sleep which medicines all pain.Then, when thou speakest of me, never say 500"He could forgive not. Here I cast awayAll human passions, all revenge, all pride;I think, speak, act no ill; I do but hideUnder these words, like embers, every spark Of that which has consumed me—quick and dark 505The grave is yawning . . . as its roof shall coverMy limbs with dust and worms under and overSo let Oblivion hide this grief . . . the airCloses upon my accents, as despairUpon my heart—let death upon despair!'^[31] 510

He ceased, and overcome leant^[32] back awhile,Then rising, with a melancholy smileWent to a sofa, and lay down, and sleptA heavy sleep, and in his dreams he weptAnd muttered some familiar name, and we 515Wept without shame in his society.I think I never was impressed so much;The man who were^[33] not, must have lacked a touchOf human nature . . . then we lingered not,Although our argument was quite forgot, 520But calling the attendants, went to dineAt Maddalo's; yet neither cheer nor wineCould give us spirits, for we talked of himAnd nothing else, till daylight made stars dim;And we agreed his^[34] was some dreadful ill 525Wrought on him boldly, yet unspeakable,By a dear friend; some deadly change in loveOf one vowed deeply which he dreamed not of;For whose sake he, it seemed, had fixed a blotOf falsehood on^[35] his mind which flourished not 530But in the light of all-beholding truth;And having stamped this canker on his youthShe had abandoned him—and how much moreMight be his woe, we guessed not-he had storeOf friends and fortune once, as we could guess 535From his nice habits and his gentleness;These were now^[36] lost. it were a grief indeedIf he had changed one unsustaining reedFor all that such a man might else adorn.The colours of his mind seemed yet unworn; 540For the wild language of his grief was high,Such as in measure were called poetry;And I remember one remark which thenMaddalo made. He said: 'Most wretched menAre cradled into poetry by wrong, 545They learn in suffering what they teach in song.'

If I had been an unconnected manI, from this moment, should have formed some planNever to leave sweet Venice,—for to meIt was delight to ride by the lone sea; 550And then, the town is silent—one may write Or read in gondolas by day or night,Having the little brazen lamp alight,Unseen, uninterrupted; books are there,Pictures, and casts from all those statues fair 555Which were twin-born with poetry, and allWe seek in towns, with little to recallRegrets^[37] for the green country. I might sitIn Maddalo's great palace, and his witAnd subtle talk would cheer the winter night 560And make me know myself, and the firelightWould flash upon our faces, till the dayMight dawn and make me wonder at my stay:But I had friends in London too: the chiefAttraction here, was that I sought relief 565From the deep tenderness that maniac wroughtWithin me—'twas perhaps an idle thought—But I imagined that if day by dayI watched him, and but^[38] seldom went away,And studied all the beatings of his heart 570With zeal, as men study some stubborn artFor their own good, and could by patience findAn entrance to the caverns of his mind,I might reclaim him from his^[39] dark estate:In friendships I had been most fortunate— 575Yet never saw I one whom I would callMore willingly my friend; and this was allAccomplished not; such dreams of baseless goodOft come and go in crowds or solitudeAnd leave no trace—but what I now designed 580Made for long years impression on my mind.The following morning, urged by my affairs,I left bright Venice.After many yearsAnd many changes I returned; the nameOf Venice, and its aspect, was the same; 585But Maddalo was travelling far awayAmong the mountains of Armenia.His dog was dead. His child had now becomeA woman; such as it has been my doomTo meet with few,—a wonder of this earth, 590Where there is little of transcendent worth,—Like one of Shakespeare's women: kindly she,And, with a manner beyond courtesy,Received her father's friend; and when I askedOf the lorn maniac, she her memory tasked, 595And told as she had heard the mournful tale:'That the poor sufferer's health began to failTwo years from my departure, but that thenThe lady who had left him, came again. Her mien had been imperious, but she now 600 Looked meek—perhaps remorse had brought her low. Her coming made him better, and they stayed Together at my father's—for I played, As I remember, with the lady's shawl— I might be six years old—but after all 605 She left him' . . . 'Why, her heart must have been tough: How did it end?' 'And was not this enough? They met—they parted'—'Child, is there no more?' 'Something within that interval which bore The stamp of why they parted, how they met: 610 Yet if thine aged eyes disdain to wet Those wrinkled cheeks with youth's remembered tears, Ask me no more, but let the silent years Be closed and cered over their memory As yon mute marble where their corpses lie.' 615 I urged and questioned still, she told me how All happened—but the cold world shall not know.

CANCELLED FRAGMENTS OF JULIAN AND MADDALO'What think you the dead are?' 'Why, dust and clay, What should they be?' ''Tis the last hour of day. Look on the west, how beautiful it is 620 Vaulted with radiant vapours! The deep bliss Of that unutterable light has made The edges of that cloudfade Into a hue, like some harmonious thought. Wasting itself on that which it had wrought. 625 Till it diesandbetween The light hues of the tender, pure, serene, And infinite tranquillity of heaven. Ay, beautiful! but when not. . . . '·······'Perhaps the only comfort which remains 630Is the unheeded clanking of my chains, The which I make, and call it melody.'

 

1. 45 may Hunt MS.; can 1824.
2. 99 a one Hunt MS.; an one 1824.
3. 105 sunk Hunt MS.; sank 1824.
4. 108 ever Hunt MS.; even 1824.
5. 119 in Hunt MS.; from 1824.
6. 124 a Hunt MS.; an 1824.
7. 140 lodging 1824; lodgings Hunt MS.
8. 171 That Hunt MS.; Which 1824.
9. 175 mind Hunt MS.; minds 1824.
10. 179 know 1824; see Hunt MS.
11. 188 those Hunt MS.; the 1824.
12. 191 their Hunt MS.; this 1824.
13. 218 Moans, &c., Hunt MS. The line is wanting in edd. 1824 and 1839.
14. 237 far Hunt MS.; but 1824.
15. 270 nor Hunt MS.; and 1824.
16. 292 cold Hunt MS.; and 1824.
17. 318 least Hunt MS.; last 1824.
18. 323 sweet Hunt MS.; fresh 1824.
19. 356 have Hunt MS.; hath 1824.
20. 361 in this keen Hunt MS.; under this 1824.
21. 362 cry Hunt MS.; eye 1824.
22. 372 on Hunt MS.; in 1824.
23. 388 greet Hunt MS.; meet 1824.
24. 390 your Hunt MS.; thy 1824.
25. 417 his Hunt MS.; its 1824.
26. 446 glance Hunt MS. glass 1824.
27. 447 with Hunt MS. ; near 1824.
28. 467 lip Hunt MS.; life 1824
29. 483 this Hunt MS.; that 1824.
30. 493 I would Hunt MS.; I'd 1824.
31. 510 despair Hunt MS., 1824; my care 1839.
32. 511 leant] See Editor's Note.
33. 518 were Hunt MS., 1824; was 1839.
34. 525 his Hunt MS.; it 1824.
35. 530 on Hunt MS.; in 1824.
36. 537 were now Hunt MS.; now were 1824.
37. 558 regrets Hunt MS.; regret 1824.
38. 569 but Hunt MS.; wanting in edd. 1824 and 1839.
39. 574 his 1824; this [?] Hunt MS.