A Fragment.
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (uncredited).
Originally published in The Keepsake for 1828 (Hurst, Chance, and Co.; Nov 1827).
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He through storm and cloud has gone,
To the mountain's topmost stone;
He has climb'd, to tear the food
From the eagle's screaming brood;
By the turbid jungle tide,
For his meal the wolf has died;
He has brav'd the tiger's lair,
In his bleeding prey to share.
Hark! the wounded panther's yell,
Flying from the torn gazelle!
By the food, wild, weary, wan,
Stands a thing that once was man!
Look upon that wither'd brow,
See the glance that burns below!
See the lank and scatter'd hair!
See the limb, swart, wither'd, bare!
See the feet, that leave their mark
On the soil in bloodstains dark!
Who thus o'er the world doth roam,
With the desert for his home?
Hath he wander'd with the brand
Of the robber in his hand?
Hath his soul been steep'd in crime
That hath smote him in his prime?
Stainless as the newborn child,
Strays this wanderer through the wild;
Day by day, and year by year,
Must the pilgrim wander there;
Through the mountain's rocky pile,
Through the ocean, through the isle,
Through the sunshine, through the snow,
Still in weariness, and wo;
Pacing still the world's huge round,
Till the mystic Fount is found,
Till the waters of the Spring
Round the roofs their splendours fling,
Round the pearl-embroider'd path,
Where the tyrant, Amurath,
Leaves the haram for the throne:--
Then shall all his wo be done.
Onward, Sadak, to thy prize!
But what night has hid the skies?
Like a dying star the sun
Struggles on through cloud-wreaths dun;
From yon mountain's shelter'd brow
Bursts the lava's burning flow:
Warrior! wilt thou dare the tomb
In the red volcano's womb!
In he plunges: spire on spire
Round him shoots the living fire;
Rivers round his footstep pour,
Where the wave is molten ore;
Like the metal in the mould
Springs the cataract of gold;
O'er the warrior's scorching head
Sweeps the arch of burning lead;
O'er the warrior's dazzled glance
Eddying flames of silver dance;
By a thousand fountains fed
Roars the iron torrent red;
Still, beneath a mighty hand,
Treads he o'er the fiery land.
O'er his head thy purple wing,
Angel spirit of the Spring!
Through the flood, and through the field,
Long has been the warrior's shield.
Never fell the shepherd's tread
Softer on the blossom'd mead,
Than, thou man of anguish! thine,
Guided through this burning mine.
Hanging now upon the ledge,
That the precipice doth edge;
Warrior! take the fearful leap,
Though 't were as the ocean deep:
Through the realm of death and night
Shall that pinion scatter light,
Till the Fount before thee lies.
Onward, warrior, to the prize!
Till thy woes are all repaid:
Thine, all thine, young Kalasrade!