A Vision Of The Sea
'Tis
the
terror
of
tempest.
The
rags
of
the
sail
Are
flickering
in
ribbons
within
the
fierce
gale:
From
the
stark
night
of
vapours
the
dim
rain
is
driven,
And
when
lightning
is
loosed,
like
a
deluge
from
Heaven,
She
sees
the
black
trunks
of
the
waterspouts
spin
And
bend,
as
if
Heaven
was
ruining
in,
Which
they
seemed
to
sustain
with
their
terrible
mass
As
if
ocean
had
sunk
from
beneath
them:
they
pass
To
their
graves
in
the
deep
with
an
earthquake
of
sound,
And
the
waves
and
the
thunders,
made
silent
around,
Leave
the
wind
to
its
echo.
The
vessel,
now
tossed
Through
the
low-trailing
rack
of
the
tempest,
is
lost
In
the
skirts
of
the
thunder-cloud:
now
down
the
sweep
Of
the
wind-cloven
wave
to
the
chasm
of
the
deep
It
sinks,
and
the
walls
of
the
watery
vale
Whose
depths
of
dread
calm
are
unmoved
by
the
gale,
Dim
mirrors
of
ruin,
hang
gleaming
about;
While
the
surf,
like
a
chaos
of
stars,
like
a
rout
Of
death-flames,
like
whirlpools
of
fire-flowing
iron,
With
splendour
and
terror
the
black
ship
environ,
Or
like
sulphur-flakes
hurled
from
a
mine
of
pale
fire
In
fountains
spout
o’er
it.
In
many
a
spire
The
pyramid-billows
with
white
points
of
brine
In
the
cope
of
the
lightning
inconstantly
shine,
As
piercing
the
sky
from
the
floor
of
the
sea.
The
great
ship
seems
splitting!
it
cracks
as
a
tree,
While
an
earthquake
is
splintering
its
root,
ere
the
blast
Of
the
whirlwind
that
stripped
it
of
branches
has
passed.
The
intense
thunder-balls
which
are
raining
from
Heaven
Have
shattered
its
mast,
and
it
stands
black
and
riven.
The
chinks
suck
destruction.
The
heavy
dead
hulk
On
the
living
sea
rolls
an
inanimate
bulk,
Like
a
corpse
on
the
clay
which
is
hungering
to
fold
Its
corruption
around
it.
Meanwhile,
from
the
hold,
One
deck
is
burst
up
by
the
waters
below,
And
it
splits
like
the
ice
when
the
thaw-breezes
blow
O’er
the
lakes
of
the
desert!
Who
sit
on
the
other?
Is
that
all
the
crew
that
lie
burying
each
other,
Like
the
dead
in
a
breach,
round
the
foremast?
Are
those
Twin
tigers,
who
burst,
when
the
waters
arose,
In
the
agony
of
terror,
their
chains
in
the
hold;
(What
now
makes
them
tame,
is
what
then
made
them
bold);
Who
crouch,
side
by
side,
and
have
driven,
like
a
crank,
The
deep
grip
of
their
claws
through
the
vibrating
plank
Are
these
all?
Nine
weeks
the
tall
vessel
had
lain
On
the
windless
expanse
of
the
watery
plain,
Where
the
death-darting
sun
cast
no
shadow
at
noon,
And
there
seemed
to
be
fire
in
the
beams
of
the
moon,
Till
a
lead-coloured
fog
gathered
up
from
the
deep,
Whose
breath
was
quick
pestilence;
then,
the
cold
sleep
Crept,
like
blight
through
the
ears
of
a
thick
field
of
corn,
O’er
the
populous
vessel.
And
even
and
morn,
With
their
hammocks
for
coffins
the
seamen
aghast
Like
dead
men
the
dead
limbs
of
their
comrades
cast
Down
the
deep,
which
closed
on
them
above
and
around,
And
the
sharks
and
the
dogfish
their
grave-clothes
unbound,
And
were
glutted
like
Jews
with
this
manna
rained
down
From
God
on
their
wilderness.
One
after
one
The
mariners
died;
on
the
eve
of
this
day,
When
the
tempest
was
gathering
in
cloudy
array,
But
seven
remained.
Six
the
thunder
has
smitten,
And
they
lie
black
as
mummies
on
which
Time
has
written
His
scorn
of
the
embalmer;
the
seventh,
from
the
deck
An
oak-splinter
pierced
through
his
breast
and
his
back,
And
hung
out
to
the
tempest,
a
wreck
on
the
wreck.
No
more?
At
the
helm
sits
a
woman
more
fair
Than
Heaven,
when,
unbinding
its
star-braided
hair,
It
sinks
with
the
sun
on
the
earth
and
the
sea.
She
clasps
a
bright
child
on
her
upgathered
knee;
It
laughs
at
the
lightning,
it
mocks
the
mixed
thunder
Of
the
air
and
the
sea,
with
desire
and
with
wonder
It
is
beckoning
the
tigers
to
rise
and
come
near,
It
would
play
with
those
eyes
where
the
radiance
of
fear
Is
outshining
the
meteors;
its
bosom
beats
high,
The
heart-fire
of
pleasure
has
kindled
its
eye,
While
its
mother’s
is
lustreless.
‘Smile
not,
my
child,
But
sleep
deeply
and
sweetly,
and
so
be
beguiled
Of
the
pang
that
awaits
us,
whatever
that
be,
So
dreadful
since
thou
must
divide
it
with
me!
Dream,
sleep!
This
pale
bosom,
thy
cradle
and
bed,
Will
it
rock
thee
not,
infant?
’Tis
beating
with
dread!
Alas!
what
is
life,
what
is
death,
what
are
we,
That
when
the
ship
sinks
we
no
longer
may
be?
What!
to
see
thee
no
more,
and
to
feel
thee
no
more?
To
be
after
life
what
we
have
been
before?
Not
to
touch
those
sweet
hands?
Not
to
look
on
those
eyes,
Those
lips,
and
that
hair,—all
the
smiling
disguise
Thou
yet
wearest,
sweet
Spirit,
which
I,
day
by
day,
Have
so
long
called
my
child,
but
which
now
fades
away
Like
a
rainbow,
and
I
the
fallen
shower?’—Lo!
the
ship
Is
settling,
it
topples,
the
leeward
ports
dip;
The
tigers
leap
up
when
they
feel
the
slow
brine
Crawling
inch
by
inch
on
them;
hair,
ears,
limbs,
and
eyne,
Stand
rigid
with
horror;
a
loud,
long,
hoarse
cry
Bursts
at
once
from
their
vitals
tremendously,
And
’tis
borne
down
the
mountainous
vale
of
the
wave,
Rebounding,
like
thunder,
from
crag
to
cave,
Mixed
with
the
clash
of
the
lashing
rain,
Hurried
on
by
the
might
of
the
hurricane:
The
hurricane
came
from
the
west,
and
passed
on
By
the
path
of
the
gate
of
the
eastern
sun,
Transversely
dividing
the
stream
of
the
storm;
As
an
arrowy
serpent,
pursuing
the
form
Of
an
elephant,
bursts
through
the
brakes
of
the
waste.
Black
as
a
cormorant
the
screaming
blast,
Between
Ocean
and
Heaven,
like
an
ocean,
passed,
Till
it
came
to
the
clouds
on
the
verge
of
the
world
Which,
based
on
the
sea
and
to
Heaven
upcurled,
Like
columns
and
walls
did
surround
and
sustain
The
dome
of
the
tempest;
it
rent
them
in
twain,
As
a
flood
rends
its
barriers
of
mountainous
crag:
And
the
dense
clouds
in
many
a
ruin
and
rag,
Like
the
stones
of
a
temple
ere
earthquake
has
passed,
Like
the
dust
of
its
fall.
on
the
whirlwind
are
cast;
They
are
scattered
like
foam
on
the
torrent;
and
where
The
wind
has
burst
out
through
the
chasm,
from
the
air
Of
clear
morning
the
beams
of
the
sunrise
flow
in,
Unimpeded,
keen,
golden,
and
crystalline,
Banded
armies
of
light
and
of
air;
at
one
gate
They
encounter,
but
interpenetrate.
And
that
breach
in
the
tempest
is
widening
away,
And
the
caverns
of
cloud
are
torn
up
by
the
day,
And
the
fierce
winds
are
sinking
with
weary
wings,
Lulled
by
the
motion
and
murmurings
And
the
long
glassy
heave
of
the
rocking
sea,
And
overhead
glorious,
but
dreadful
to
see,
The
wrecks
of
the
tempest,
like
vapours
of
gold,
Are
consuming
in
sunrise.
The
heaped
waves
behold
The
deep
calm
of
blue
Heaven
dilating
above,
And,
like
passions
made
still
by
the
presence
of
Love,
Beneath
the
clear
surface
reflecting
it
slide
Tremulous
with
soft
influence;
extending
its
tide
From
the
Andes
to
Atlas,
round
mountain
and
isle,
Round
sea-birds
and
wrecks,
paved
with
Heaven’s
azure
smile,
The
wide
world
of
waters
is
vibrating.
Where
Is
the
ship?
On
the
verge
of
the
wave
where
it
lay
One
tiger
is
mingled
in
ghastly
affray
With
a
sea-snake.
The
foam
and
the
smoke
of
the
battle
Stain
the
clear
air
with
sunbows;
the
jar,
and
the
rattle
Of
solid
bones
crushed
by
the
infinite
stress
Of
the
snake’s
adamantine
voluminousness;
And
the
hum
of
the
hot
blood
that
spouts
and
rains
Where
the
gripe
of
the
tiger
has
wounded
the
veins
Swollen
with
rage,
strength,
and
effort;
the
whirl
and
the
splash
As
of
some
hideous
engine
whose
brazen
teeth
smash
The
thin
winds
and
soft
waves
into
thunder;
the
screams
And
hissings
crawl
fast
o'er
the
smooth
ocean-streams,
Each
sound
like
a
centipede.
Near
this
commotion,
A
blue
shark
is
hanging
within
the
blue
ocean,
The
fin-winged
tomb
of
the
victor.
The
other
Is
winning
his
way
from
the
fate
of
his
brother
To
his
own
with
the
speed
of
despair.
Lo!
a
boat
Advances;
twelve
rowers
with
the
impulse
of
thought
Urge
on
the
keen
keel,—the
brine
foams.
At
the
stern
Three
marksmen
stand
levelling.
Hot
bullets
burn
In
the
breast
of
the
tiger,
which
yet
bears
him
on
To
his
refuge
and
ruin.
One
fragment
alone,--
’Tis
dwindling
and
sinking,
’tis
now
almost
gone,--
Of
the
wreck
of
the
vessel
peers
out
of
the
sea.
With
her
left
hand
she
grasps
it
impetuously.
With
her
right
she
sustains
her
fair
infant.
Death,
Fear,
Love,
Beauty,
are
mixed
in
the
atmosphere,
Which
trembles
and
burns
with
the
fervour
of
dread
Around
her
wild
eyes,
her
bright
hand,
and
her
head,
Like
a
meteor
of
light
o’er
the
waters!
her
child
Is
yet
smiling,
and
playing,
and
murmuring;
so
smiled
The
false
deep
ere
the
storm.
Like
a
sister
and
brother
The
child
and
the
ocean
still
smile
on
each
other,
Whilst—
Percy Bysshe Shelley
Known for his lyrical and long-form verse, Percy Bysshe Shelley was a prominent English Romantic poet and was one of the most highly regarded and influential poets of the 19th century. Born on August 4, 1792—the year of the Terror in France—Percy Bysshe Shelley (the “Bysshe” from his grandfather, a peer of the realm) was the son of Timothy and Elizabeth Shelley. As the elder son among one brother, John, and four sisters, Elizabeth, Mary, Margaret, and Hellen, Percy stood in line not only to inherit his grandfather’s considerable estate but also to sit in Parliament one day. In his position as oldest male child, young Percy was beloved and admired by his sisters, his parents, and even the servants in his early reign as young lord of Field Place, the family home near Horsham, Sussex. Playful and imaginative, he devised games to play with his sisters and told ghost stories to an enrapt and willing-to-be-thrilled audience.