We don't often run two consecutive poems by the same poet, but after my commentary yestarday, Amulya was moved to offer this in defense of Shelley:
(Poem #1605) The Masque of Anarchy (extract) XXXVII. "Men of England, Heirs of Glory, Heroes of unwritten story, Nurslings of one mighty mother, Hopes of her, and one another, XXXVIII. "Rise, like lions after slumber, In unvanquishable number, Shake your chains to earth like dew, Which in sleep had fall'n on you. XXXIX. "What is Freedom? Ye can tell That which Slavery is too well, For its very name has grown To an echo of your own. XL. "'Tis to work, and have such pay, As just keeps life from day to day In your limbs, as in a cell For the tyrants' use to dwell: XLI. "So that ye for them are made, Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade; With or without your own will, bent To their defense and nourishment. XLII. "'Tis to see your children weak With their mothers pine and peak; When the winter winds are bleak: They are dying whilst I speak. XLIII. "'Tis to hunger for such diet, As the rich man in his riot Casts to the fat dogs that lie Surfeiting beneath his eye. XLIV. "'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold Take from toil a thousand fold, More than e'er its substance could In the tyrannies of old: XLV. "Paper coin--that forgery Of the title deeds, which ye Hold to something of the worth Of the inheritance of Earth. E XLVI. "'Tis to be a slave in Soul, And to bold no strong controul. Over your own wills, but be All that others make of ye. XLVII. "And at length when ye complain, With a murmur weak and vain, 'Tis to see the tyrant's crew Ride over your wives and you: Blood is on the grass like dew. XLVIII. "Then it is to feel revenge, Fiercely thirsting to exchange Blood for blood-and wrong for wrong: DO NOT THUS, WHEN YE ARE STRONG. XLIX. "Birds find rest in narrow nest, When-weary of the winged quest; Beasts find fare in woody lair, When storm and snow are in the air. E 2 L. "Asses, swine, have litter spread, And with fitting food are fed; All things have a home but one: Thou, oh Englishman, hast none! LI. "This is Slavery-savage men, Or wild beasts within a den, Would endure not as ye do: But such ills they never knew. LII. "What art thou, Freedom? Oh! could Slaves Answer from their living graves This demand, tyrants would flee Like a dream's dim imagery. LIII. Thou art not, as impostors say, A shadow soon to pass away, A superstition, and a name Echoing from the eaves of Fame. LIV. "For the labourer thou art bread, And a comely table spread, From his daily labour come, In a neat and happy home. LV. "Thou art clothes, and fire, and food For the trampled multitude: NO-in countries that are free Stich starvation cannot be, As in England now we see. LVI. "To the rich thou art. a check; When his foot is on the neck Of his victim; thou dost make That he treads upon a snake. LVII. "Thou art Justice--ne'er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold, As laws are in England:--thou Sheild'st alike the high and low. "Thou art Wisdom-Freedom never Dreams that God will damn for ever All who think those things untrue, Of which priests make such ado LIX. "Thou art Peace-never by thee Would blood and treasure wasted be, As tyrants wasted them, when all Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul, LX. "What if English toil and blood Was poured forth-, even as a flood! It availed,--oh Liberty! To dim --- but not extinguish thee. LXI. "Thou art Love--the rich have kist Thy feet, and like him following Christ, Give their substance to the free, And through the rough world follow thee. LXII. "Oh turn their wealth to arms, and make War for thy beloved sake, On wealth and war and fraud: whence they Drew the power which is their prey. LXIII. "Science, and Poetry, and Thought, Are thy lamps; they make the lot Of the dwellers in a cot So serene, they curse it not. LXIV. "Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, All that can adorn and bless, Art thou: let deeds, not words, express Thine exceeding loveliness. LXV. "Let a great assembly be Of the fearless, of the free, On some spot of English ground, Where the plains stretch wide around. LXVI. "Let the blue sky overhead, The green earth, on which ye tread, All that must eternal be, Witness the solemnity. LXVII. "From the corners uttermost Of the bounds of English coast; From every but, village, and town, Where those who live and suffer, moan For others' misery and their own: LXVIII. "From the workhouse and the prison, Where pale as corpses newly risen, Women, children, young, and old, Groan for pain, and weep for cold; LXIX. "From the haunts of daily life, Where is waged the daily strife With common wants and common cares, Which sow the human heart with tares; LXX. "Lastly, from the palaces, Where the murmur of distress Echoes, like the distant sound Of a wind alive around; LXXI. "Those prison-halls of wealth and fashion, Where some few feel such compassion For those who groan, and toil, and wait, As must make their brethren pale; LXXII. "Ye who suffer woes untold, Or to feel, or to behold Your lost country bought and sold With a price of blood and gold; LXXIII. "Let a vast assembly be, And with great solemnity Declare with measured words, that ye Are, as God has made ye, free! LXXIV. "Be your strong and simple words Keen to wound as sharpened swords, And wide as targes let them be, With their shade to cover ye. LXXV. Let the tyrants pour around With a quick and startling sound, Like the loosening of a sea, Troops of armed emblazonry. LXXVI. "Let the charged artillery drive, Till the dead air seems alive With the clash of clanging wheels, And the tramp of horses' heels. LXXVII. "Let the fixed bayonet Gleam with sharp desire to wet Its bright point in English blood, Looking keen as one for food. F LXXVIII. "Let the horsemen's scimitars Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars, Thirsting to eclipse their burning In a sea of death and mourning. LXXIX. "Stand ye calm and resolute, Like a forest close and mute, With folded arms, and looks which are Weapons of an unvanquished war. LXXX. "And let Panic, who outspeeds The career of armed steeds, Pass, a disregarded shade, Thro' your phalanx indismay'd. [The next three stanzas are italicised] LXXXI. "Let the laws of your own land, Good or ill, between ye stand, Hand to hand, and foot to foot, Arbiters of the dispute. LXXXII. "The old laws of England--they Whose reverend heads with age are grey, Children of a wiser day; And whose solemn voice must be Thine own echo--Liberty! LXXXIII. "On those who first should violate Such sacred heralds in their state, Rest the blood that must ensue, And it will not rest on you. LXXXIV. "And if then the tyrants dare, Let them ride among you there; Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew; What they like, that let them do. LXXXV. "With folded arms and steady eyes, And little fear and less surprise, Look upon them as they stay Till their rage hasdied away: LXXXVI. "Then they will return with shame, To the place from which they came, And the blood thus shed will speak In hot blushes on their cheek, LXXXVII. "Every woman in the land Will point at them as they stand They will hardly dare to greet Their acquaintance in the street: LXXXVIII. "And the bold, true warriors, Who have hugged Danger in wars, Will turn to those who would be free Ashamed of such base company: LXXXIX. "And that slaughter to the nation Shall steam up like inspiration, Eloquent, oracular, A volcano heard afar: XC. "And these words shall then become Like Oppressions thundered doom, Ringing through each heart and brain, Heard again--again--again. XCI. Rise like lions after slumber In unvanquishable NUMBER! Shake your chains to earth, like dew Which in sleep had fall'n on you: YE ARE MANY-THEY ARE FEW. THE END |
This is an extract from The Masque of Anarchy, Percy Bysshe Shelley's
response to the Peterloo massacre of English workers. Just offering the
obvious balance to the fey Shelley stuff so far [1] - because I think it's
rather unfair to a poet who (along with Blake), exemplified the defiant,
incendiary spirit of the Romantics. A poet who 'erred on the side of the
profane'[2] , an aristocrat who dreamt of a day when people would be 'equal,
unclassed, tribeless, and nationless' [3], a writer who saw art as a hammer
to legislate change. As Richard Holmes writes, Shelley possessed 'a sense
of greater design, an acute feeling for the historical moment and an
overwhelming consciousness of his duty as an artist...' Hard finding a poem
of comparable moral weight (Pablo Neruda's The People?).
I agree that his work is extremely erratic, like many other writers whose
reach exceeds their grasp. He's produced some highly sappy,
self-dramatizing stuff... 'I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!'[4] .
But sometimes he is the poetic equivalent of lightning.
Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number.
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you:
Ye are many -- they are few.
Is that not truly tremendous?
-Amulya
[1] In Matthew Arnold's withering, and ass-backwards assessment - 'a
beautiful and ineffectual angel, beating in the void his luminous
wings in vain'.
[2] Borrowing Rushdie's wonderful phrase
[3] From Prometheus Unbound.
[4] A bit of fine frenzy from Ode To The West Wind
[Links]
The entire poem is available, complete with historical notes, at
[broken link] http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/terrace/adw03/c-eight/distress/masque.htm
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