University of Virginia Library

GOLDAU:

OR THE MANIAC HARPER.

TO THE READER.

THIS story is not a fiction;—the principal circumstances stand on record. On the 3d of September, 1806, about sunset, the Spitzberg, a part of mount Rosburg, in the canton of Schweitz, Switzerland, slid from its base; and from a height of more than two thousand feet, overwhelmed three whole villages, and upward of fifteen hundred peasants; leaving the rocks all naked in its path, and transforming an extensive valley into a hill. Among the villages destroyed was Goldau, the most romantick and beautiful of the three.

UPON a tranquil—glorious night,
When all the western heaven was bright;
When, thronging down the far blue dome,
The sun in rolling clouds went home;—
There wandered to a goatherd's cot,
A youth—who sought to be forgot:
Who many a long and weary year
Had breathed his prayer and shed his tear.
Beneath his look of cloud was seen,
Somewhat, that told where fire had been;
For yet, a sorrowing beam was there:
A beam—in mockery of despair:
A beam that gave enough of light
To show his soul had set in night.
His step was slow—his form was bowed:
But yet his minstrel-air was proud:
Upon the mountain height he stood,
And looked abroad o'er wave and wood
Yet glowing with the blush of even,
And answering to the hues of heaven,
With such a melancholy grace,
He seemed as thus he stood alone,
Like some young prince upon his throne—
The genius of the lofty place!
He wore high plumes—a glittering vest—
And to his half uncovered breast,
An antique harp was strongly prest:
And, ever and anon, its strings
Gave musick to his wanderings:
While he would pause to see unrolled,
O'er heaven's blue arch, the crimson fold—
And purple plumes, and wings of fire—
And visions—'till his trembling lyre
Would shake a distant, thrilling note,
Like some sweet pipe in heaven afloat;
And then as calmly die away
As sunset hues in fading day—
As rose-tints on the quiet stream
Awakened by a passing beam:
As flashing wings that flit in play
Around the couch of infant day:
As songs that Evening hears, when all
Are listening to the quiet fall
Of airy melodies, that come,
From heaven, in one sweet murmuring hum.
And he would pause, and o'er it bend,
As if it were his only friend:
And he would send it trembling round—
With touch—so magical and free—
So full of sweet simplicity—
And tenderness—and ecstacy—
It seemed, indeed, no earthly sound.
And those who heard him as he leant
Upon its lonely wires, and sent
His agitated voice away,
In feeling's broken roundelay—
Would wonder—weep—and hold their breath,
As if they heard the hymn of death:
And when the spell was broken—gone—
Its sad enchantment all withdrawn—
Would smile to see the trembling tear
On other downcast lids appear—
Nor e'er suspect themselves had given
A tribute to these sounds of heaven!
And all who heard him then, believed
That he had loved—and been deceived:
Or seen the stooping willow wave
Its tresses o'er a loved one's grave:
For such his melancholy song,
That every listener's heart was weeping
Like youthful lovers, when they're sleeping
In sorrows that they would prolong.
But those who heard the voice he sent
When battle was his theme:
Who saw his gorgeous vestment rent—
His quenchless eye—the lights that went
Beneath his brow of gathered might,
Like meteors that go forth at night,
In one continual stream!
And those who heard his ardent cry,
And all his harp-strings pealing high:
Who saw his stern, uplifted brow—
His sweeping arm—his vestment flow—
The heaving of his youthful chest,
Beneath his mailed and glittering vest—
Who marked the martial belt that bound
His youthful form so closely round—
His attitude—so proud and high—
With look uplifted to the sky—
And outstretched arm, and waving hand,
As if it shook a conquering brand—
And high plumed bonnet—nodding low,
Whene'er he trod, as if it gave
To some young, supplicating foe,
A rescue o'er an opening grave!—
Yes! those who saw all this, would feel
Enthusiasm o'er them steal
So unexpectedly,—they stood,
Like men, who, 'mid a solitude,
Have heard a sudden trumpet-peal!
Their hearts would swell and they would rise—
And stand erect with flashing eyes—
And toss their arms unconsciously—
And join the shout of victory!
And when the summons died away,
Like battle at the close of day,
Would feel—as they had been in fight,
And wearied with their deeds of might:
Would stand entranced—or start, and seem
As bursting from a stormy dream:
Or gaze with troubled air around,
And wonder whence that trumpet sound!
And whither it had flown!—or hear
The tumult yet—distinct and clear—
Now pealing far—now ringing near,
And rattling on the startled ear!
As if a host had stooped from heaven
Upon the winds that blow at night;
And all their harps and trumps had given
A farewell to departing light!
And then, the glitter of each eye,
That kindled at his minstrelsy—
That lightened, when the echoing blast
Far o'er the hills in triumph past;
That varied with the varying note
Upon the eddying air afloat—
Would with that varying note decay
And melt so peacefully away,
That each who saw his neighbour's cheek
The tumult of his soul bespeak—
And saw the maddening lustre die,
There reddening like an angry sky—
And saw each upright youthful form
Awake like genii of the storm,
With lifted brow and threatening air,
While pealed the battle anthem there—
And saw it, as that anthem died,
Lose all its stateliness and pride;
With yielding port and fading eye—
And heard his furious shouting die:—
Would wonder that himself had been
So undisturbed!—and so serene!
And this would be—while yet he stood
In that delicious solitude
When youthful hearts feel all alone—
Alone amid the world!
When Phrensy leaves her radiant throne,
And all her singing troops have flown:
And all their wings are furled!
And this would be while yet the fire
Enkindled by that wondrous lyre,
Was quivering on his downcast lash,
Just like the dying tempest-flash!
And those who felt their bosoms swell
Beneath the working of his spell:
Who felt that young enchanter's might,
Whose incantations woke the fight,
And taught to peasant-hearts the feeling
That mounts to hear the trumpet pealing,
Then—deemed the youthful minstrel there,
Familiar with the strife had been:
And that his sad, appealing air—
His darkened brow—his bosom bare—
His haughty port of calm despair—
Enthusiasm—genius were—
And never but in warriors seen!
But those who knew him, knew full well
That something terrible once fell
Upon his heart, and froze the source,
Whence comes enthusiasm's force—
Something of icy touch that chills
The heart drops of our youthful years:
Something of withering strength that kills
The flowers that Genius wets with tears—
Fetters the fountain in its flow:
Mildews the blossom in its blow:
And breathes o'er fancy's budding wreath
The clotting damps of early death:
That spreads before the opening light—
(The sunshine of the heart!)
A cloud that tells of coming night,
And chills the warblers in their flight,
That twinkling gaily to the skies,
With piping throats and diamond eyes,
In unfledged strength depart.
Something—but what was never known:
Something had pressed his pulses down:
Blasted the verdure of his spring:
Shorn the gay plumage of his wing:
Silenced his harp, and stilled his lyre:
Heaped snow upon his bosom's fire—
And caught away the wreath of flame,
That hovered o'er his youthful name;
Obscured his sun—and wrapped the throne
Where glory in her jewels shone,
For ever from his searching gaze:
And, on his brain, in lightning traced
The suffering of his youthful days:
Where Madness had with clouds erased
The characters, that Rapture placed
Upon his heart and soul in blaze!
'Tis true that there were those who saw—
And whispered what they said in awe—
That nought beneath the skies but guilt
Nought but the cry of blood that's spilt;—
Could so unman a form so young—
A heart so high and firmly strung:
But such—whene'er they saw his eye
Uplifted to the dark-blue sky
In such a generous confidence—
When night was forth—would feel a tear—
And in their virtue would appear—
More fearful of Omnipotence!
His faded plumes, and vestment torn,
Were less like those by minstrels worn,
Than like the garb of youthful knight:
Caparisoned for glorious fight;
Equipped beneath his lady's eye
To couch his lance for chivalry:—
To charge in tournament or strife—
For wreath or scarf—for death, or life—
And once, 'twas said, his full, black eye,
When a young war-horse bounded by—
Awoke at once!—and lightnings keen,
As on the falchion's point are seen—
When sudden dawn amid the fight,
Flashed forth!—then vanished from the sight,
And darkened into tears!
And dimly o'er his brow, there past
A shade of memory—'twas the last—
And first for many years.
Yes—something once had touched his brain—
With fire—but he would ne'er complain—
Had misery left him with the power
To tell the suffering of that hour:—
But—as it was, the fearful cause
Of all the scenes that madness draws—
That curse of Genius!—all that awes!—
That reft his heart—and bowed his pride,
To him was known—to none beside:
And all he knew, was but a dream
Of sleepless agony:—the beam,
That shone upon his maniac way,
Was but the melancholy ray,
That plays o'er churchyards, when the Night
Reveals her phantoms to the sight:
'Twas but the lurid, wandering beam:—
The troubled lightning of a stream;
Or stricken armour's hasty gleam;
'Twas but the light that meteors shed;
That faintly watches o'er the bed,
Where Desolation guards the dead:
The splendours of the storm, that show
Temples and monuments laid low;
And altars shattered by that God
Whose thunders roll but once—whose nod
But once in wrath, is ever given—
When temples fall—and spires are strone;
And Empire totters from her throne;
And prostrate Idols bow to heaven!
Such is the awful light that plays
Around his steps! the meteor blaze
That goes before Destruction's path!
That follows the Destroyer's wrath,
When o'er the blessed earth are seen,
Their footsteps in the blasted green:
And pyramids and statues thrown
In ruin o'er the earth—o'ergrown
With savage garlands—living wreaths
Of creeping things—while poison breathes
From every chaplet—every crown—
And every wonder that is down—
As if in mockery of their power—
The dread immortals of an hour:
As in derision of their strength,
Thus prostrate—rent—and strown at length.
Such is that minstrel's memory yet;
The very page he should forget,
Of all the volume of his days,
Is ever opened in its blaze!
And all the rest is from his sight
Enveloped in eternal night!
The ruins of his hopes are seen,
And ruins only!—all the rest—
That in their days of light have been,
Are darkly shrouded in his breast.
His sufferings, and his home unknown;
A madman—and a minstrel—thrown
Upon the barren mountain, goes
Unharmed, amid his nature's foes:
Protected by the peasant's prayer,
He wanders through the dark woods, where
Abides the she-wolf in her lair:
Such prayers are his—are his for ever!
And ne'er will be refused—O, never!
For never yet, there shone the eye,
Could let him pass unheeded by:
And every heart—and every shed,
Gave welcome to that maniac's tread:
And peasant-babes would run to cheer
His footsteps, as he wandered near:
And every sunny infant eye,
Grew sunnier as his step came nigh:
And when he went at night alone,
Where mighty oaks in fragments strown,
Proclaimed the revels of the storm—
He went in safety:—o'er his form
There hung a mute, but strong appeal,
That those, who rend the clouds, might feel:
Unharmed, upon the cliff he'd stand,
And see the Thunderer stretch his wand,
And hear his chariots roll:
And clap his hands—and shout for joy!—
Thus would that glorious minstrel-boy:
When lightnings wrapped the pole!
And he would toss his arms on high,
In greeting as the arrows flew:
And bare his bosom to the sky;
And stand with an intrepid eye,
And gaze upon the clouds that past,
Uprolling o'er the mountain blast,
And wonder at their depth of blue:—
Then—wildly toss his arms again,
As if he saw the rolling main;
And heard some ocean-chant anew:
As if—upon each passing cloud,
He saw the Tempest harping loud
Amid her fiery-bannered crew.
The tempting precipice was hidden;
The angels of the storm forbidden
To strive upon his wasting frame—
The powers of air! enrobed in flame—
Whose thrones are everlasting hills,
Whose army all creation fills:
Who ride upon the roaring main;
And listen to the battle strain;
The thunders of the deep, and song
Of trumpets bursting all along,
When streamers flash, and banners blaze,
And tall plumes bow, and lightning strays
O'er Ocean's dull-blue billows;
And far amid the clouds are seen,
Young angels' hands, that twine the green
Of laurels dripping gallant blood,
With sea-weed from the stormy flood,
And thunder-blasted willows.
The sunset was his favourite hour:
His eye would light—his form would tower:
And kindle at departing day,
As if its last, and loveliest ray
Would win his very soul away;
And there were those, who, when he stood,
Sublime in airy solitude,
Upon his mountain's topmost height,
With arms outstretched, to meet the light—
With form bowed down, as if it were
In worship to the fiery air:
Who—had he been from eastern climes,
From sunnier hills—in earlier times—
When thus he bowed him to the sky—
Had charged him with idolatry:
For when he bowed he bowed in truth:
His adoration was the thought,
And worship, that from heaven is caught
When genius blossoms in its youth.
'Twas feeling all, and generous love—
The reaching of the soul above:—
The intellectual homage pure,
That is sincere, and will endure:
It was the offering of the heart,
The soul—and pulse—and every part,
That's noble in our frames, or given
To throb for suns, or stars, or heaven:
The spirit that is made of flame,
For ever mounting whence it came:
The pulse that counts the march of time,
Impatient for the call sublime,
When it may spring abroad—away—
And beat the march of endless day—
The heart, that by itself is nurst,
And heaves, and swells, 'till it hath burst:
That never yields—and ne'er complains—
And dies—but to conceal its pains,
And the bright, flashing, glorious eye
For ever open on the sky,
As if in that stupendous swell
It sought a spot, where he might dwell,
And pant for immortality.
That minstrel watched when others slept,
But when the day-light came—he wept
For tho' a maniac, he could see
That sunshine sports with misery:
He dwelt in caverns;—and alone—
Held no communion, but with one:
And that was but a peasant's child,
A young enthusiast;—a wild
And melancholy girl, whose heart
Was subject to his wondrous art—
She was a sad and lonely one,
And she too loved the evening sun:
The twilight mantle when its blue
Is dropped with light, and wet with dew:
When watery melodies find birth,
And heaven itself seems nearer earth:
She never led the mountain race;
She never joined the insect chase;
Or left her solitary place,
To join the dance, or trill the song:
Or o'er the cliffs, to bound along;
But all alone—in silence, where
The rocky cliff stood cloudless—bare—
With folded arms, and loosened hair—
And robe abroad upon the air—
And turbaned wreath and streaming feather,
Would stand for hours and hours together!
And listen to the song that came
Tumultuous from a neighbouring height,
And watch that minstrel-boy in flame,
While harping to the god of light.
That wild one had a feeling heart!
And when the minstrel would depart,
To wander o'er the hills, and stray
Upon the beetling cliff—his way,
By morn and noon, in sun and shade,
Was lighted by that dark eyed maid:
And when he trod a dangerous height,
Her shout would lead the wanderer right:
And he would then submissive turn,
And smile as if he felt her care:
And when they met, his cheek would burn,
As if he knew what led her there.
No other voice could stay his course:
Her's was the only earthly force
To which he yielded, when he went
In worship towards the firmament.
She saw beneath that cloudy air
The heart of flame imprisoned there:
For every glance that left his eye,
When pealed his bursting minstrelsy;
And every shout he sent away,
When woke his stormy battle-lay;
And every sweeping of his hand,
Showed one accustomed to command:
And then—the sounds he always chose,
In tempest or in tears, were those
That only generous hearts can feel
And only generous hearts conceive:
For they were still the challenge-peal—
The charge that makes the young heart reel,
Or lordly spirits stoop, and grieve.
These were his everlasting themes:
And these the echo of his dreams:
The neigh of steeds, the bugle cry
Of battle or of victory,
The roar of wind—and rush of water:
The blaze of heaven—cry of slaughter—
The thunders of the rolling deep
Whose monarchs rousing from their sleep,
Outstretch their sceptres o'er the wave
And call their spirits from the grave:—
When every billow starts to life,
Contending in the foamy strife—
For diadem of dripping green,
Entwined by Ocean's stormy queen.
These were for aye, his chosen themes;
But he would sing full oft, it seems,
With tendered touch, and tenderer note
Such airs as o'er the waters float—
When symphonies of evening rise
In whisper to the listening skies—
And swell and die so soft away—
We think some minstrel of the day
Is piping on its airy way:
Or some sweet songstress of the night
Waves musick from her wings in flight:
A lulling—faint—uncertain song—
That but to spirits can belong:
To happy spirits too—and none,
But those, who in the setting sun,
Expand their thin bright wings, and darting,
Spin musick to their god in parting:
Who has not heard these quiet airs
Come like the sigh of heaven, that bears
A soothing to his toiling cares?
As if some murmuring angel guest,
Within his void and echoing breast,
Were fanning all his thoughts to rest?
Who has not felt when sounds like these,
Like prayers of lovers on the breeze—
Came warm and fragrant by her cheek,
Oh, more than mortal e'er may speak!
As if unto her heart she'd caught
Some instrument, that to her thought
Gave answering melody and song,
In murmurings like an airy tongue:
And echoing in its insect din,
To every pulse and hope within,
Had set her thoughts to fairy numbers!
Or if she ne'er has fancied this,
This doubtful and bewildering bliss—
Has she not dropped the lingering tear,
And fancied that some one was near—
Invisible indeed, but dear—
The guardian of her evening slumbers!
Such were the sounds that ye would hear
When that strange boy would call the tear:
A deep and low complaining tone—
Like lover's vows, when all alone,
Upon some budding green he kneels,
And listens to the sound that steals
From some fresh woodbine-lattice near,
When all that to his soul is dear,
Is at her grateful vesper hymn—
When bright eyes in their prayers grow dim:
Sounds faintly uttered—half suppressed—
Like fountains whispering to the blest:—
Or the subduing smothered tones
That sob upon the air like groans,
Of those who broken-hearted bend
Before some youthful—gallant friend:
Of those who kneel, and hold their breath,
By loved ones touched with sudden death:
Or sounds like chanting from a tomb,
When spirits sit amid the gloom
And melancholy garlands weave;
And twine the drooping lily wreath—
And withered wild-flowers from the heath,
To crown the maiden brow, that lies
Unkissed by Nature's mysteries:
To sprinkle o'er a virgin's bed
The blossoms that untimely shed—
Have budded—flourished to deceive.
That girl with rich dark hair, was wild
As Nature's youngest, freest child:
As artless—generous—and sincere—
As blushes when they first appear—
Or Rapture's unexpected tear:
Hers was the sudden crimson flush,
And hers the rich spontaneous gush
Of hearts, when first in youth they're prest,
And can't conceal that they are blest:
Her downcast eye, and pale smooth brow:
The heaving of her breast of snow:
The murmuring of her voice—and tread
That faultered in its youthful dread:—
Would ever to the eye reveal,
What all but mountain nymphs conceal:
And she, before that boy, would stand
With lifted brow and outstretched hand—
As if she felt a holy awe;—
And all her heart was in her eyes,
And all her soul would seem to rise—
While thus she stood for hours, and gazed
Upon that minstrel boy—amazed
At all she heard—and all she saw.
She knew the dreadful reason why
He dwelt upon the sunset sky;
For once as they together stood
Above the torrent and the wood;
In breathless—sunny solitude—
To see the ruddy clouds of even
Go blushing o'er the vault of heaven:
The richest—warmest—loveliest scene
That had for many an autumn been:—
There came a sullen labouring sound,
As if an earthquake rose around:
The minstrel uttered one low cry
Of sudden—thrilling agony—
And clasped his hands with look of fire—
And threw away his antique lyre—
And caught the maiden to his heart,
And bore her down the hill!
Oh, who may now the strength impart
To check that madman's will!
Where is the arrow or the bow:—
The Thunderer's bolt—to lay him low,
Sent forth by heaven in wrath!
The lightning shaft, that fiercely thrown,
Hath brought the mountain spoiler down,
In ruins o'er his path!
Have mercy heaven!—his desperate course,
Is like the stormy torrent's force,
When forth from some high, cloudy steep,
In foaming light 'tis seen to leap:—
Now bursting on the eye!
Now flashing darkly on its way
And flinging now, its fiery spray—
In rainbows to the sky!
Thus—thus the ravisher went forth;
Like meteors o'er the cloudy north:
Thus—thus the desperate boy went down,
In splendour o'er the mountain's brown:
His vestment streaming far behind,
And glittering in the rushing wind:
His dancing plumage tipped with light,
Like eaglets in their loftiest flight—
As now he darted on the sight,
And met the sun's last rays:—
Now hidden in the forest shade—
Emerging now—and now betrayed
By plumes that in the sunset played;
And robe that seemed to blaze!
But once she caught his eye of flame;
But then!—O, how distracting came
Her self-reproach, for all that led
Her heart to watch a madman's tread!
Still—still he bounds from cliff to cliff—
Like some light vaulting, airy skiff—
Upon the stormy billows tost,
When all but hope and faith are lost:
Still—still he plunges on his course;
Still straining on with maniac force—
From rock to rock, as if he were
Some spirit sporting on the air:
Unconscious of the dying maid,
That on his naked breast is laid—
Her hair flows loose—her dark eyes close,
Fled is the faintly breathing rose,
That lately tinged her cheek:
Sudden her dread descent is staid—
One bound!—his lifeless charge is laid
Upon a bank, and he is near,
Half kneeling in his maniac fear:
And now she moves!—her head she raises—
She starts, and round in terror gazes—
With wild half-uttered shriek—
For lo! before her bows a form,
Like some young genius of the storm—
And while she gazes on his eye,
Uplifted in idolatry,
She hears a stranger speak!
Gone is the madman's savage air—
His pale denouncing look is gone—
His port of sullen, calm despair—
And gone, indeed, the madman's tone!
His cheek burns fresh—his eye is bright,
And all his soul breaks forth in light!
His steps is buoyant, and his hair
Is lightly lifted by the air;
And o'er his reddening cheek, and eye,
Upraised in feverish ecstacy,
Is blown so carelessly, he seems
Some youthful spirit sent from high,
Clad in the glories of the sky—
With locks of living shade, that flow
About a brow of driven snow;
Or like the forms that pass at night,
Arrayed in blushing robes of light,
In Fancy's sunniest dreams.
And but that still his well-known tears,
And faded vestment quelled her fears,
She had believed the form that knelt,
Whose maniac pressure yet she felt,
Was not the minstrel boy that went
In worship to the firmament:
She wondered—wept—and breathed one prayer—,
Then felt in more than safety there:
‘Ellen!’ he faintly said, and smiled,
As prostrate at her feet he knelt—
‘Ellen!’—again his eye looked wild—
Again he rose—as if he felt,
And would assuage, some sudden pain,
That darted through his rocking brain:
He paused—and o'er his throbbing brow—
His hand went doubtfully, and slow—
Indignant brushed a falling tear,
And saw that dark-eyed girl appear
In awful loveliness, and youth,
Enthusiasm—tears—and truth—
And then was bent that maniac's pride,
His arms dropped lifeless at his side—
In Nature's own supremacy—
And Youth's tumultuous feeling—
Already in his ecstacy,
The maniac boy was kneeling:
When once again—a lightning pain—
Went flashing through his clouded brain,
Where Reason was revealing:
It went, and then a deeper night
Succeeded to its blazing flight,
The maniac sprung erect from earth,
And tossed his arms abroad in air:
Like some young spirit, at its birth—
Some nursling of the fiend Despair:
Uttered one thrilling, dreadful cry,
And darted towards the darkening sky
One fierce reproachful look;
Gathered his mantle round his form,
And then, like those who rend the storm,
His upward course he took.
The strife was o'er!—he was again
The minstrel-boy, with maniac brain:
The strife was o'er!—the madman's air
Returned for ever—and Despair
Hath hung her cloud for ever there!
Again he climbs the mountain's height:
Again he hails departing light:
Again his soul is forth in strength:
Again his vestment flows at length;
Again the mountain-echoes ring:
Again his harp is wandering:
Again his chords are wildly strung—
And these the measures that he sung!

THE MINSTREL'S SONG.

Thus—thus he 'woke his harp again;
A strange enthusiastick strain;
And kneeling on the naked ground,
Filled all the mountain echoes round:
Then swept the chords, as if to raise
The spirit of departed days!
That harper had an audience there—
In heaven, and earth, and in the air!
Then, bending o'er the chords, he smote
A thronging—bold—exulting note—
And stood erect!—then flashed the wires!
Then came the stormy clash of lyres!
And had ye heard the rolling song,
So full—triumphant—and so strong—
Ye never had believed that one
Thro' such a boundless theme could run.
It was the noise of countless wings!
Of countless harps!—with countless strings;
Of distant fifes—and echoing drums—
Of soldier-hymning when it comes
Upon the shifting breeze of night,
In farewells to the dying light,
When steeds are forth, and banners blaze,
Unfolding in the sun's last rays—
And squadrons o'er the plain are dashing—
And martial helms are nodding free
In youth's bold-hearted revelry—
And woman goes before the sight,
In airy pageantry and light,
With shawl and high-plumed bonnet flashir
And then he filled the sunset sky
With lightly springing melody,
Then shook the wires! and all along
There went the huntsman's bugle-song:
And up, aloft its silvery cry
Ran clear and far, and cheerily!
And then the pipe! while o'er the sky—
Where laughing babes were heard to fly,
Sweet bells ran gingling merrily!
His song is heard—a full dark eye,
And cheek of health's own mountain dye,
Are brightening to his minstrelsy;
A heart is swelling, and the sigh
That lingers as it passes by,
Proclaims entrancing ecstacy!
And these are now the words he sings—
That leap so proudly from his strings:

THE MINSTREL.

Oh waken, my Harp! to the marching of song!
Oh scatter the clouds that are brooding around thee;
Look forth in thy might, while the tempest is strong,
Nor reel in thy strength, as thou movest along,
Sublime on the winds, where my young spirit found thee!
O, loosen thy numbers in pride,
Let them triumph along on the tide,
That bears the last links of the fetters that bound thee!
Away with the pall that envelops thy form!
Abroad o'er the hills let thy genius storm:
O burst the bright garlands that shrine thee:
O scatter thy jessamine blossoms in air!
And the Tempest herself shall twine thee,
Of the long wild grass, and the mountain's rank hair—
A wreath that is worthy the brow of Despair!
Such chaplets at night, in the wind, I have seen,
On the rock-rooted fir, and the blasted green,
That tell where the anger of heaven hath been:
When a thick blue light on their barrenness hung;
When the thunders pealed, and the cliff-tops rung,
And the bending oak in the cold rain swung.
The Harper paused—the clouds went past
In pomp upon the rising blast:
The Harper's eye to heaven is raised,
And all the lustres that had blazed,
In triumph o'er his pallid brow,
Have with the sunset faded now:
And now his eye returns to earth,
And solemn melodies have birth;
And ah, a distant mournful sound,
Goes wandering thro' the caverns round:
Such symphonies are sometimes heard
From some sweet melancholy bird,
That sings her twilight song alone,
As if her heart sent forth a tone:—
In summer dreaming, ye may hear
Such singing gently pass the ear,
And hold your breath 'till it hath gone—
Then wonder, as the song is done,
That ye can be so soon alone:—
Or start to find the glittering tear
Upon the mossy turf appear:—
Or in your visions, when ye see
Some angel-harp, in ecstacy,
Awakened by an angel wing,
When every plume of glittering light,
Unfolding to the dazzled sight,
Goes faintly o'er some quiet string!
Wild sounds but sweet! the silky tune
Of fairies playing to the moon;
The sprightly flourish of the horn,
That underneath the blooming thorn,
Pipes sharply to the freshening morn;
The threaded melodies that sing
From blossomed harps of cobweb string:
The busy chirping minstrelsy,
Of Evening's myriads in their glee;
When every bright musician sings
With voice, and instrument and wings:
When all at once the concert breaks—
A multitude of tingling shakes!—
When glittering, miniature guitars,
And harps, embossed with diamond stars,
Equipped with fiery wings, take flight
In musick past the ear of Night:
When all around,
Ye hear the sound
Of windy bugles, plucked while blowing,
Strown loose upon the stream, and going,
In sweet farewells,
Like living shells,
Or fountains singing while they're flowing.
Of golden straws—and slippery shells;
Of sounding pebbles—coral shells—
And flow'ret trumps with dewy rims,
Where one perpetual murmur swims;
As if some swiftly passing sound,
Were caught within its airy round;—
And droppings like the tinkling rain
Upon the crisped leaf—and strain
Of dainty wheat-stalks, split and singing;
And insect-armour sharply ringing;
And chirp of fairy birds in flight,—
One endless tune, like some young spright,
That's twittering on from morn 'till night.
With living drums, and many a fife,—
Of martial littleness and life,
And fine thin whistling tunes from grass,
Turning its edge to winds that pass;
And all the sweet fantastick sounds,
That linger on enchanted grounds:
When elfins, prisoned in a flower,
Are listening to the twilight shower,
And mock its sounds, and shout, and play
Full many a fairy-minstrel lay—
To pass their dreary time away.
Now heaves the lyre as if oppressed—
And panting now, subsides to rest,
Like rapture on a maiden's breast;
Or like the struggling sounds that rove,
When boyhood tells its earliest love:
Or like those strange unearthly lyres,
Whose hearts are strung with unseen wires,
That wake but to the winds of heaven—
The breezes of the morn and even;
That mounting to the rosy skies,
Like sky-larks on their freshest wing,
For ever mount, for ever sing,
Louder, and louder as they rise.
Now rudely comes the song again,
A thronging and impatient strain.

THE MINSTREL.

He paused—and then imploringly,
There went in lustre from his eye
A mute petition to the sky:
He turned and saw the dark-eyed maid;
And saw her drop a trembling tear—
Then on her breast his hand he laid,
As listening if its pulse betrayed
One added throb of doubt or fear.
Then—gazing on her downcast eye,
He shook his head reproachfully—
Put back her flowing raven hair,
And wiped the tear-drop glittering there,
And shook his own imperial brow,
And thanked her with his eye—
Then dropt her yielding hand—and now
His harp is pealing high!
And now a murmuring comes again,
A mournful—faint—and languid strain.

MINSTREL.

Nay—nay sweet girl—thou shalt not weep!
I'll wake my Ellen's summer sleep:
This is the strain she bid me sing,
When I would hear her angel wing.
A low—sweet symphony then fell
From each calm wire, as if a spell
In musick might be spoken!
'Twas like the breath of evening's shell
When faintly comes its faintest swell—
Or fairy note from flow'ret bell,
When some young insect's golden cell
By careless touch is broken!
And then was heard like singing air
This adjuration trembling there.

ADJURATION.

In the pause of the storm, I could hear
Her sweet-toned voice, so wild and clear!
That—suddenly—I'd turn around—
Believing she was near!—
And then!—I'd shed the bitter tear—
As if I'd come too late!—and found—
That—disappointed—she had gone;
As if she had—that moment flown
And left me—left me!—all alone—
And then again I'd hear the tone
Of her own lute—as 'twere to cheer—
The pilgrim on his journey here:
Like the dew of heaven—a pearly light—
That falls where the touch of the storm hath been,
In the silent night—
Refreshing the air—and stirring the breeze
With the flourishing green
Of branching trees:
And often—when the sun went down—
In battle—blood—and flame—
As, o'er against the sky I stood,
Away, by yonder blueish wood,
Whence, often, on the winds she came,
I've heard her—gently—sing my name—
And seen two shadows—faintly thrown,
Upon the water—far below,
And I—great God!—was all alone!
And one of them had wings—and stooping
Amid her lovely hair,
Whose vapoury flow,
Was all around—seemed weeping, where
The other—seemed in madness, drooping—
That other!—who was he?—he strove
In vain—in vain!—to touch her hand—
As one that—overwhelmed with love—
Within the awful presence of
The creature of his heart doth stand!
And often—often have I heard—
Two voices mingling in the wood—
Chiding and weeping—and they seemed—
Like some of which I've often dreamed—
I know not where—I know not why—
I love but one—and she is gone—
Yet still I often hear the tone—
Of children—in the air—and sky,
As they were drowning—and a third—
Such as I've heard in solitude—
Like some sweet-toned pronouncing bird,
Would say my name aloud,
As if some lovely infant there,
Encradled in a golden cloud—
Where all was yellowish vapour—dim—
Were faintly calling me to him!
Hark!—there is musick in the hollow sky!
Something mysterious parading by—
'Tis the loud march—the echoing band of heaven
Marshalled aloft—in revelation given
To all, who when, sublimely, up the air
Great midnight moves in dim magnificence;
Are out upon the hills; and, kneeling there,
In the dread feeling of Omnipotence—
Breathe to the awful symphonies that go
Around the vaulted sky, and penetrate
Each gloomy spot—where secret waters flow—
And nature sits alone and desolate,
Upon her Rocky throne—and see, away
The dread machinery of air in play—
The tracking meteors, as they pour along
All luminous with fiery hair, and sweep
Athwart the grand, illuminated deep—
Like a descending firmament—but stay!—
O, listen! listen!—that awakening song!
That awful burst! so windy—far and strong
With loud, ungovernable melody—
And now—'tis gone—'tis melted in the sky—
And all the world is silent—how like death—
All gone—for ever!—like some passing breath!—
The Harper paused: his numbers died:—
The mountain-nymph was by his side:
Unconscious that the mighty spell,
Which drew her to his lonely cell,
Was strengthening as she heard this song,
Go so complainingly along;
For let him sing of what he might,
Of heaven or sunshine—storms or night—
The battle—earthquake—or the bed
Of honour—rapture—or the dead—
Her swelling heart—her glistening lash—
The sudden breath—the sudden flash—
Proclaimed how well the charm was wrought,
How surely was her young heart caught.
Again he smote his sounding lyre,
Again his arm to heaven was raised;
His robe was forth! and prouder—higher
He rang his trumpet notes of fire;
Until his very spirit blazed!
And from his eye of lustrous night,
There went—uninterrupted light!
And thus he chanted to the rude
Omnipotence of Solitude.
Switzerland of Hills! Thou muse of Storms,
Where the cloud-spirit reins the bursting forms
Of airy steeds—whose meteor-manes float far
In lightning tresses o'er the midnight car
That bears thine angels to their mountain war!
Home of the earthquake! land where Tell
Bared his great bosom to his God, and fell,
Like his own Alpine-torrent, on his country's foe;
Land of the unerring shaft and warrior-bow;
The upward Eagle—and the bounding Doe:—
The shaggy wolf—and the eternal flow
Of cloud-nursed streams, and everlasting snow.
Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thee,
I rock my harp in agony:—
My country! nurse of Liberty,
Home of the gallant, great and free,
My sullen harp I rock to thee.
O, I have lost ye all!
Parents—and home—and friends:
Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall;
A mountain-plumage o'er ye bends.
The cliff-yew in funereal gloom,
Is now the only mourning plume,
That nods above a peoples' tomb.
Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake,
And deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake;
And repeat thy young huntsman's cry:
That clatter and laugh, when the goatherds take
Their browsing flocks at the morning's break,
Far over the hills—not one is awake
In the swell of thy peaceable sky.
They sit on that wave with a motionless wing;
And their cymbals are mute and the desert birds sing
Their unanswered notes to the wave and the sky—
One startling, and sudden—unchangeable cry,
As they stoop their broad wing and go sluggishly by:
For deep in that blue-bosomed water is laid,
As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid
As ever in cheerfulness carolled her song,
In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along:
The heavens are all blue, and the billows bright verge
Is frothily laved by a whispering surge,
That heaves incessant, a tranquil dirge,
To lull the pale forms that sleep below:
Forms—that rock as the waters flow.
That bright lake is still as a liquid sky,
And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly,
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye!
The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds,
Is as light as the cloud that is borne by the winds;
While over its bosom the dim vapours hover,
And flutterless skims the snowy-winged plover:
Swiftly passing away—like a hunted wing;
With a drooping plume—that may not fling
One sound of life—or a rustling note—
O'er that sleepless tomb—where my loved ones float.
Oh cool and fresh is that bright blue lake,
While over its stillness no sounds awake:
No sights—but those of the hill-top fountain
That swims on the height of a cloud-wrapped mountain—
The basin of the rainbow-stream,
The sunset gush—the morning gleam—
The picture of the poet's dream.
Land of proud hearts! where Freedom broods
Amid her home of echoing woods,
The mother of the mountain floods—
Dark Goldau is thy vale;
The spirits of Rigi shall wail
On their cloud-bosomed deep, as they sail
In mist where thy children are lying—
As their thunders once paused in their headlong descent,
And delayed their discharge—while thy desert was rent
With the cries of thy sons who were dying.
No chariots of fire on the clouds careered:
No warrior-arm, with its falchion reared:—
No death-angle's trump o'er the ocean was blown;
No mantle of wrath o'er the heaven was thrown;
No armies of light—with their banners of flame—
On neighing steeds—thro' the sunset came,
Or leaping from space appeared!
No earthquakes reeled—no Thunderer stormed;
No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarmed;
No voices in heaven were heard!
But the hour when the sun in his pride went down
While his parting hung rich o'er the world:
While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown,
And his red-rushing streamers unfurled:—
An everlasting hill was torn
From its eternal base—and borne—
In gold and crimson vapours drest
To where—a people are at rest!
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath,
And the forests vanished before its path:
And the rude cliffs bowed—and the waters fled—
And the living were buried, while over their head
They heard the full march of their foe as he sped—
And the valley of life—was the tomb of the dead!
The clouds were all bright: no lightnings flew:
And over that valley no death-blast blew:
No storm passed by on his cloudy wing:
No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string—
But the dark, dim hill in its strength came down,
While the shedding of day on its summit was thrown
A glory all light, like a wind-wreathed crown—
While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest,
And the vulture forbore in that hour to molest—
The mountain sepulchre of all I loved!
The village sank—and the monarch trees
Leaned back from the encountering breeze—
While this tremendous pageant moved!
The mountain forsook his perpetual throne—
Came down from his rock—and his path is shown—
In barrenness and ruin—where
The secret of his power lies bare—
His rocks in nakedness arise:
His desolation mock the skies.
Sweet vale—Goldau! farewell—
An Alpine monument may dwell
Upon thy bosom, oh! my home!
But when the last dread trump shall sound
I'll tread again thy hallowed ground—
Sleep thee, my loved one, sleep thee!
While yet I live, I'll weep thee—
Of thy blue dwelling dream, wherever I roam,
And wish myself wrapped in its peaceful foam.
Sweet vale—Goldau—farewell!
My cold harp, cease thy swell—
'Till tuned where my loved ones dwell
My home!—Goldau!—farewell!