67:— by Percy Bysshe Shelley: Summary, Meaning & Analysis
This piece is Shelley's translation of a fragment about Ahasuerus, the legendary "Wandering Jew," who is cursed by God to wander the earth forever for denying Jesus a moment's rest.
The poem
Ahasuerus, rise! ‘Ahasuerus the Jew crept forth from the dark cave of Mount Carmel. Near two thousand years have elapsed since he was first goaded by never-ending restlessness to rove the globe from pole to pole. When our Lord was wearied with the burthen of His ponderous cross, and wanted to rest before the door of Ahasuerus, the unfeeling wretch drove Him away with brutality. The Saviour of mankind staggered, sinking under the heavy load, but uttered no complaint. An angel of death appeared before Ahasuerus, and exclaimed indignantly, “Barbarian! thou hast denied rest to the Son of man: be it denied thee also, until He comes to judge the world.” ‘A black demon, let loose from hell upon Ahasuerus, goads him now from country to country; he is denied the consolation which death affords, and precluded from the rest of the peaceful grave. ‘Ahasuerus crept forth from the dark cave of Mount Carmel—he shook the dust from his beard—and taking up one of the skulls heaped there, hurled it down the eminence: it rebounded from the earth in shivered atoms. “This was my father!” roared Ahasuerus. Seven more skulls rolled down from rock to rock; while the infuriate Jew, following them with ghastly looks, exclaimed—“And these were my wives!” He still continued to hurl down skull after skull, roaring in dreadful accents—“And these, and these, and these were my children! They COULD DIE; but I! reprobate wretch! alas! I cannot die! Dreadful beyond conception is the judgement that hangs over me. Jerusalem fell—I crushed the sucking babe, and precipitated myself into the destructive flames. I cursed the Romans—but, alas! alas! the restless curse held me by the hair,—and I could not die! ‘“Rome the giantess fell—I placed myself before the falling statue—she fell and did not crush me. Nations sprang up and disappeared before me;—but I remained and did not die. From cloud-encircled cliffs did I precipitate myself into the ocean; but the foaming billows cast me upon the shore, and the burning arrow of existence pierced my cold heart again. I leaped into Etna’s flaming abyss, and roared with the giants for ten long months, polluting with my groans the Mount’s sulphureous mouth—ah! ten long months. The volcano fermented, and in a fiery stream of lava cast me up. I lay torn by the torture-snakes of hell amid the glowing cinders, and yet continued to exist.—A forest was on fire: I darted on wings of fury and despair into the crackling wood. Fire dropped upon me from the trees, but the flames only singed my limbs; alas! it could not consume them.—I now mixed with the butchers of mankind, and plunged in the tempest of the raging battle. I roared defiance to the infuriate Gaul, defiance to the victorious German; but arrows and spears rebounded in shivers from my body. The Saracen’s flaming sword broke upon my skull: balls in vain hissed upon me: the lightnings of battle glared harmless around my loins: in vain did the elephant trample on me, in vain the iron hoof of the wrathful steed! The mine, big with destructive power, burst upon me, and hurled me high in the air—I fell on heaps of smoking limbs, but was only singed. The giant’s steel club rebounded from my body; the executioner’s hand could not strangle me, the tiger’s tooth could not pierce me, nor would the hungry lion in the circus devour me. I cohabited with poisonous snakes, and pinched the red crest of the dragon.—The serpent stung, but could not destroy me. The dragon tormented, but dared not to devour me.—I now provoked the fury of tyrants: I said to Nero, ‘Thou art a bloodhound!’ I said to Christiern, ‘Thou art a bloodhound!, I said to Muley Ismail, ‘Thou art a bloodhound!’—The tyrants invented cruel torments, but did not kill me. Ha! not to be able to die—not to be able to die—not to be permitted to rest after the toils of life—to be doomed to be imprisoned for ever in the clay-formed dungeon—to be for ever clogged with this worthless body, its lead of diseases and infirmities—to be condemned to [be]hold for millenniums that yawning monster Sameness, and Time, that hungry hyaena, ever bearing children, and ever devouring again her offspring!—Ha! not to be permitted to die! Awful Avenger in Heaven, hast Thou in Thine armoury of wrath a punishment more dreadful? then let it thunder upon me, command a hurricane to sweep me down to the foot of Carmel, that I there may lie extended; may pant, and writhe, and die.!”’ This fragment is the translation of part of some German work, whose title I have vainly endeavoured to discover. I picked it up, dirty and torn, some years ago, in Lincoln’s-Inn Fields.
This piece is Shelley's translation of a fragment about Ahasuerus, the legendary "Wandering Jew," who is cursed by God to wander the earth forever for denying Jesus a moment's rest. Ahasuerus throws the skulls of his deceased family down a mountainside, recounting every method he's attempted to end his life — through volcanoes, oceans, wars, wild beasts, and tyrants — but none succeed. The narrative culminates in a profound, anguished cry: the inability to die is the ultimate punishment.
Line-by-line
Ahasuerus, rise!
'Ahasuerus the Jew crept forth from the dark cave of Mount Carmel...'
'A black demon, let loose from hell upon Ahasuerus, goads him now from country to country...'
'This was my father!' roared Ahasuerus. Seven more skulls rolled down from rock to rock...'
'Jerusalem fell—I crushed the sucking babe, and precipitated myself into the destructive flames...'
'Ha! not to be able to die—not to be able to die—not to be permitted to rest after the toils of life...'
Tone & mood
The tone is operatic and furious—this grief has transformed into rage over two millennia. There are instances of dark, almost absurd humor (the volcano erupts and ejects him; the hungry lion in the circus won’t touch him), yet these moments deepen the sense of suffocating despair. By the end, the voice feels drained and accusatory, confronting God as an 'Awful Avenger'—not with respect, but with the bitterness of someone who has suffered far more than seems just.
Symbols & metaphors
- The skulls — The skulls of Ahasuerus's family are the most striking image in the piece. They embody everyone he has loved and lost over the centuries — not just abstract sorrow, but real, physical remnants. Throwing them down the mountain serves as both a way to mourn and a defiant stand against the harshness of his fate.
- Mount Carmel / the cave — The cave on Mount Carmel is where Ahasuerus seeks refuge during his wanderings. It serves as an anti-grave — a hiding place instead of a resting one, amidst the bones of the deceased. This highlights the central irony: he can find shelter among the dead but can never truly join them.
- The volcano (Etna) — Etna represents the most intense of his failed attempts at death, receiving the most attention—ten months filled with the roar of giants within it. In Romantic poetry, volcanoes frequently symbolize a sublime, uncontrollable natural force. Yet, even this force cannot destroy him, suggesting that the natural world is complicit in his punishment.
- Time as a hungry hyena — The image of Time as a hyena, "always bearing children and always devouring her offspring," vividly illustrates the terror of an endless cycle of existence. For mortals, time feels like a river leading to a destination. But for Ahasuerus, it's a beast that continually renews its own cruelty.
- The clay-formed dungeon — The body itself becomes a prison. This phrase turns the typical Romantic praise of physical existence upside down — flesh isn’t a gift but a cage, confining the soul within it against its wishes.
- The tyrants (Nero, Christiern, Muley Ismail) — By challenging history's most infamous tyrants and enduring their tortures, Ahasuerus reflects the dark side of human cruelty throughout different civilizations. The recurring phrase 'Thou art a bloodhound!' highlights how his immortality has removed all fear—he has nothing left to lose.
Historical context
Shelley included this piece in his early Gothic novel *St. Irvyne* (1811), which he wrote as a teenager. He frames it as a translation of an unknown German text—something often seen in Romantic-era Gothic literature to create a sense of mysterious authenticity. The legend of the Wandering Jew had been part of European literature since at least the 13th century and gained immense popularity during the Romantic period, with figures like Goethe, Matthew Lewis, and later Eugene Sue contributing to it. Shelley was fascinated by Ahasuerus throughout his career, with the character appearing in *Queen Mab* (1813) and *Hellas* (1822). For Shelley, the Wandering Jew represented more than just a religious cautionary tale; it served as a means to delve into radical thoughts about suffering, the oppression of God, and the dread of living without the relief of death. This piece stands at the crossroads of Gothic horror and Romantic philosophical protest.
FAQ
Ahasuerus is the name most often associated with the 'Wandering Jew' from medieval Christian legend. The story describes him as a Jewish man who either mocked or declined to assist Jesus on his way to crucifixion, resulting in a curse that condemned him to wander the earth until the Second Coming. This legend isn't found in the Bible — it originated in European folklore starting in the 13th century and has been retold countless times across various cultures.
It's a prose poem, or more accurately, a dramatic prose monologue. Shelley included it in his Gothic novel *St. Irvyne*, presenting it as a translated fragment. The opening line "Ahasuerus, rise!" is Shelley's own, while the rest is his translation of a German source he said he could never pinpoint. The piece conveys its poetic qualities through rhythm, repetition, and an accumulation of imagery instead of relying on line breaks or meter.
The central theme explores the horror of immortality — the notion that living forever, instead of being a blessing, is actually the harshest punishment. Ahasuerus has outlived all his loved ones, endured every disaster in human history, and sees no way out. The piece powerfully argues that the ability to die is what provides life with both meaning and mercy.
By the end of the monologue, Ahasuerus isn't praying in any traditional way — he's directly accusing God of going beyond justice and into the realm of cruelty. In Shelley's time, 'awful' had the older meaning of 'awe-inspiring' or 'terrifying,' but the bitterness in his tone is clear. This challenge to divine authority is a consistent theme in Shelley's work — as an atheist, he found the concept of an all-powerful God who causes suffering to be deeply unsettling.
The skull-throwing scene serves as the emotional heart of the piece. Ahasuerus has gathered the remains of his family over centuries. Throwing them down the mountain represents a grief that has nowhere to go — he cannot cry, cannot die, cannot move forward. This action creates a stark contrast: they could die, while he cannot. The word 'could' in 'They COULD DIE' carries the most profound pain in the entire piece.
This is a classic Gothic framing device — the 'found manuscript' trick. By suggesting that the text is a translation of an obscure German work he discovered by chance, Shelley adds an element of authenticity and intrigue. It also allows him to distance himself from the more extreme religious themes. Scholars haven't definitively pinpointed the German source, and some believe Shelley may have invented or significantly altered it himself.
The Wandering Jew captivated Shelley throughout his brief career. As a teenager, he penned an extensive poem titled *The Wandering Jew*, and Ahasuerus shows up as a character in both *Queen Mab* (1813) and *Hellas* (1822). This figure allowed Shelley to delve into recurring themes: the unfairness of divine punishment, the connection between suffering and time, and whether immortality is a blessing or a burden.
It views death as something almost sacred—a right, a mercy, a form of rest that all living beings deserve. By presenting a man who has been denied this, the piece conveys the value of mortality in a way that simple discussions about death seldom achieve. The grave is portrayed as 'peaceful,' and death is called a 'consolation.' For Shelley, the capacity to end life is what helps make existence bearable.