"The Masque of Anarchy"

Written by Percy Bysshe Shelley in 1819, following the Peterloo Massacre; published (posthumously) 1832.

I

As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over
   the Sea
And with great power it forth
   led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.

II

I met Murder on the way –
He had a mask like Castlereagh –
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:

III

All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight,
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed the human hearts to    
   chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.

IV

Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown;
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.

V

And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem,
Had their brains knocked out by    
   them.

VI

Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by.

VII

And many more Destructions    
   played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or    
   spies.

VIII

Last came Anarchy: he rode
On a white horse, splashed with    
   blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.

IX

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw –
‘I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW!’

X

With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood
The adoring multitude,

XI

And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the    
   ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord.

XII

And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and    
   gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.

XIII

O’er fields and towns, from sea to    
   sea,
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.

XIV

And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.

XV

For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and    
   flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing
‘Thou art God, and Law, and King.

XVI

‘We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords    
   are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold.’

XVII

Lawyers and priests, a motley    
   crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud
Whispering – ‘Thou art Law and    
   God.’ –

XVIII

Then all cried with one accord,
‘Thou art King, and God and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now!’

XIX

And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one,
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.

XX

For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown and globe,
And the gold-inwoven robe.

XXI

So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament

XXII

When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:

XXIII

‘My father Time is weak and gray
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!

XXIV

‘He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled
Over every one but me –
Misery, oh, Misery!’

XXV

Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses’ feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye,
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.

XXVI

When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak and frail
Like the vapour of a vale:

XXVII

Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding    
   fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky

XXVIII

It grew – a Shape arrayed in mail
Brighter than the viper’s scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.

XXIX

On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning’s, lay;
And those plumes its light rained    
   through
Like a shower of crimson dew.

XXX

With step as soft as wind it passed,
O’er the heads of men – so fast
That they knew the presence there,
And looked, – but all was empty air.

XXXI

As flowers beneath May’s footstep    
   waken,
As stars from Night’s loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds    
   call,
Thoughts sprung where’er that step did    
   fall.

XXXII

And the prostrate multitude
Looked – and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:

XXXIII

And Anarchy, the ghastly birth,
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as    
    wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged    
   behind.

XXXIV

A rushing light of clouds and    
    splendour,
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt – and at its    
   close
These words of joy and fear arose

XXXV

As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England    
    birth
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother’s    
    throe

XXXVI

Had turnèd every drop of blood
By which her face had been    
   bedewed
To an accent unwithstood, –
As if her heart had cried aloud:

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 slumberIn unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you –
Ye are many – they are few.’