Posted by saformo on 8 noviembre 2010

Percy Bysshe Shelley – The Mask of Anarchy

Written on the occasion of the massacre carried out by the British Government
at Peterloo, Manchester 1819


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.

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

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.

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.

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

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

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

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

And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone;
On his brow this mark I saw -

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

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

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

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.

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

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.

'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.'

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.' -

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

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

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

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

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:

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

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

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

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:

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,

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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

'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another;

'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.

'What is Freedom? - ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well -
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.

'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,

'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade,
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.

'Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak, -
They are dying whilst I speak.

'Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye;

'Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More that e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.

'Paper coin - that forgery
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.

'Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.

'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.

'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood - and wrong for wrong -
Do not thus when ye are strong.

'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their wingèd quest
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air.

'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one -
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!

'This is slavery - savage men
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do -
But such ills they never knew.

'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves
This demand - tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:

'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name
Echoing from the cave of Fame.

'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home.

'Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude -
No - in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see.

'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.

'Thou art Justice - ne'er for gold
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England - thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.

'Thou art Wisdom - Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.

'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.

'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee.

'Thou art Love - the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,

'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make
War for thy belovèd sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud - whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.

'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.

'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou - let deeds, not words, express
Thine exceeding loveliness.

'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around.

'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.

'From the corners uttermost
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan,

'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old
Groan for pain, and weep for cold -

'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares -

'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound
Of a wind alive around

'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale -

'Ye who suffer woes untold,
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold -

'Let a vast assembly be,
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free -

'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.

'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea,
Troops of armed emblazonry.

Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels.

'Let the fixèd bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.

'Let the horsemen's scimitars
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.

'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute,
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,

'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armèd steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade
Through your phalanx undismayed.

'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute,

'The old laws of England - they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo - Liberty!

'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.

'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.

'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise,
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.

'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.

'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand -
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street.

'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.

'And that slaughter to the Nation
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.

'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again - again - again -

'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.'

The speaker is sleaping in Italy when he is awoken by a voice from England who summons him back to his home nation to witness a masacre that has recently taken place.
It was characterized by anarchic murder rather than a true spirit of revolution. He personifies Murder, Fraud, Hypocrisy, various Destructions, and Anarchy.
Anarchy leads armed forces England, scaring the population. Soon ,the ´seven blood hounds´get to England, where they massacre the innocent public. They continue to butcher
 the innocent as they travel through the land, eventually reaching London, where the `dwellers´, who are by this time aware of the havoc these masked tyrants are running,
are `panic-stricken´ and attempt to run away.
Anarchy claims to be God, King and Law, rejecting all traditional sources of authority ans power. Somo choose to follow him. As his forces proceed with their destruction,
even Hope cries out of despair. Finally however, a mist of hope emerges, carrying thoughts. The revives Hope and kills Anarchy. The land of England seems to speak to the English,
asking them to rise and retake true freedom, since they really have been opressed and should fight back. Instead of trading `blood for blood´ and `wrong for wrong´the people should finally turn back to justice
, wisdom, peace, and love in order to achieve liberty. They should be guided by `Science, Poetry, ans Thought´ and quiet virtues. The true revolution should be `measured´and use words insteas of swords,
drawing on the `olds laws of England´ instead of the new laws of the opressors. When the tyrants fight back, the people should let their anger show itself until the tyrants fall back in shame. The people will then `Rise like lions after slumber/
In unvaquishable number´ to reform England.
On August 16, 1819, a large crowd gathered at St. Peter´s Square in Manchester, England, to demonstrate against famine, unemployement, and lack of suffrage in England. At the other local magistrate, a miliita force was ordered to disperse
the crowd. The young army, inexperienced and overzealous, began to brutally attack the innocent unarmed, leaving six dead and wouding several others. The incident was labeled Peterloo, a hybrid term to St. Peter´s and the famous defeat of Napoleon
at Waterloo. Shelley was in Italy at the time. When he received news of the incident, he was outraged.
The ´Seven bloodhounds´probably represent a seven-nation alliance that recently had been signed in Britain and sought to preserve slavery and postpone its aboliton. The leader of the masquerades is Robert Stewart, who was British Foreign Secretary.
`Eldon´at line 15 is John Scott, or Baron Eldon, the Lord Chancellor responsible for refusing to give Shelley custody of his children after their mother, Harriet Westbrook, comitted suicide. `Sidmouth´in line 23 is Henry Addington, Britain´s Home Secretary.
The poem is given in stanzas of four lines with aabb rhymes, plus some estanzas in five lines rhyming aabbb. Shelley personifies many of man´s sins (Fraud, Hypocrisy), who are led by the Spirit of Anarchy, all of them habing very ugly characteristics and attributes.
They also have primitive emotions and engage in brutish actions, feasting on raw human hearts and beating children. These beings are identifies in line 36 with `God´ (religious leaders) and King and Law, the various authorities holding power in England. At the same time
however, the sins are universally human and not limited to the rulling authorities. People too easily turn to anarchic violence in order to exert power rather than argument. If there is to be any real revolution, it cannot come by fighting ´anarchic´ rulers with a new anarchy
(as arguably happened at times during the French revolution)
Indeed, even the peace-loving people of England are dupes; the ´adoring multitude´ are fooled by disguises worn by state establishements. Shelley is pointing out that the institutions in which people are encouraged to place their trust and faith are the very ones that are out
to `trample´ them. While the people of England continue to worship their King, they are unable yo see the anarchist behind the mask.
While the group of `glorious triumphant´ masquerades continue to travel across England, intoxicated with their succesflully brutality and their power over their blind subjects, Shelley continues to refer to the wickedness of the ruling authorities being worsshipped in England
(such as at line 69-73). Anarchy, so the argument goes, has been made King and emplous his slaves to avertake the stablisments of London. It is here that the tone of the poem begins to change from utter despair to a glimmer of optimism. The character `Hope´, who is almost
completely defeated, lies down in the path of Anarchy, imploring natural spirits to rescue her before she, too, is `piled with the dust of death´. The Spirit that begins to rise comes from nature, a `mist´, and Shelley completely shifts the dark mood of the poem, to one with a
small light of possibility. The next five or six stanzas are full of this `image´ taking on the deeper power of nature as a source of greater power than that of man (´as flowers´, `as stars´, `as waves´).
The poet never leaves the specific situation of England, calling its situation `dim´but not entirely `expired´. The speaker arques that he only way to liberty is through reason, the salvation of science and intellect, not through made-up powers of religion and monarchy.
He calls for a justified `assembly´of rulers to watch over the English land, where the `workhouses´and `prisons´are treated just as `palaces´.
`Rise like lions´thus beckcons hope in the people to return to the more natural and fair `old laws of Englang´drawing on `science, poetry, and thought´. The poet is rejecting the false freedoms the people in England think they have (lines 156-59), calling on them to
embrace their `strong and simple´heritage of virtue. Freedom, says the poet, is reaping the benefits of your own labor, not having to be subject to some Lord or King ( freedom means `clothes, and fire and food for the trampled multitude´) Shelley is disgusted with
the fact that principles in law and democracy can be bought and sold at a price, and that men are not free anymore (see especially lines 229-237); the call is to recover the healthy order of social life, free to express virtue instead of suffering under temporal anarchic powers.

One Response to “THE MASK OF ANARCHY”

  1.   chris pfeiffer Says:

    Great content, looking forward to tomorrow’s update!