Ballads for the Times (Now first collected,) Geraldine, A Modern Pyramid, Bartenus, A Thousand Lines, and other poems. By Martin F. Tupper. A new Edition, enlarged and revised |
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The Cromlech du Tus, Guernsey.
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 | Ballads for the Times |  |
The Cromlech du Tus, Guernsey.
Hoary relic, stern and old,—
Heaving huge above the mould
Like some mammoth, lull'd to sleep
By the magic-murmuring deep
Till those grey gigantic bones
Gorgon-time hath frown'd to stones,—
Who shall tell thine awful tale,
Massy Cromlech, at “The Vale?”
Ruthless altar, hungry tomb!
Superstition's throne of gloom,
Where in black sepulchral state
High the hooded Spectre sate
Terrible and throng'd by fears
Brooding for a thousand years
As a thunder-cloud above
All that wretched men may love,—
Is there no grim witness near
That shall whisper words of fear,
Every brother's heart to thrill,
Every brother's blood to chill,
While thy records are reveal'd
And thy mysteries unseal'd?—
Lift, with Titan toil and pain,
Lift the lid by might and main,—
Lift the lid and look within
On—this charnel-house of Sin!
O twin brethren, how and when
Dwelt ye in this rocky den?
Rise, dread martyrs! for your bones
Chronicle these Cromlech-stones;
Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair,
—Skeletons! how came ye there—
Kneeling starkly side by side
More like life than those who died?
More like life?—O what a spell
Of horror cowers in that cell!
More like life!—Alive they went
Into that stone tenement,
Bound as in religious ease
Meekly kneeling on their knees,
And the cruel thongs confined
All but the distracted mind
That with terror raved to see
Woe! how slow such death would be:
Woe! how slow and full of dread:
Pining, dying, but not dead,—
Pining, dying in the tomb,
Drown'd in gulfs of starving gloom,
With corruption, hideous fear,
Creeping noiselessly more near,
While the victims slowly died
Link'd together side by side
Till in manacled mad strife
Both had struggled out of life!
Heaving huge above the mould
Like some mammoth, lull'd to sleep
By the magic-murmuring deep
Till those grey gigantic bones
Gorgon-time hath frown'd to stones,—
Who shall tell thine awful tale,
Massy Cromlech, at “The Vale?”
Ruthless altar, hungry tomb!
Superstition's throne of gloom,
Where in black sepulchral state
High the hooded Spectre sate
Terrible and throng'd by fears
Brooding for a thousand years
As a thunder-cloud above
All that wretched men may love,—
Is there no grim witness near
That shall whisper words of fear,
Every brother's heart to thrill,
Every brother's blood to chill,
While thy records are reveal'd
And thy mysteries unseal'd?—
238
Lift the lid by might and main,—
Lift the lid and look within
On—this charnel-house of Sin!
O twin brethren, how and when
Dwelt ye in this rocky den?
Rise, dread martyrs! for your bones
Chronicle these Cromlech-stones;
Rise, ye grisly, ghastly pair,
—Skeletons! how came ye there—
Kneeling starkly side by side
More like life than those who died?
More like life?—O what a spell
Of horror cowers in that cell!
More like life!—Alive they went
Into that stone tenement,
Bound as in religious ease
Meekly kneeling on their knees,
And the cruel thongs confined
All but the distracted mind
That with terror raved to see
Woe! how slow such death would be:
Woe! how slow and full of dread:
Pining, dying, but not dead,—
Pining, dying in the tomb,
Drown'd in gulfs of starving gloom,
With corruption, hideous fear,
Creeping noiselessly more near,
While the victims slowly died
Link'd together side by side
Till in manacled mad strife
Both had struggled out of life!
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Yea: some idol claim'd the price
Of this living sacrifice;
Some grim demon's dark high priest
Bound these slaves for Odin's feast,
Offering up with rites of hell
Human pangs to Thor or Bel!—
Of this living sacrifice;
Some grim demon's dark high priest
Bound these slaves for Odin's feast,
Offering up with rites of hell
Human pangs to Thor or Bel!—
Christians, ponder on these bones;
Kneel around the Cromlech-stones:
Kneel and thank our God above
That His name, His heart is Love:
That His thirst is—not for blood
But—for joy and gratitude;
That He bids no soul be sad
But is glad to make us glad;
That He loves not man's despair,
But delights to bless his prayer!
Kneel around the Cromlech-stones:
Kneel and thank our God above
That His name, His heart is Love:
That His thirst is—not for blood
But—for joy and gratitude;
That He bids no soul be sad
But is glad to make us glad;
That He loves not man's despair,
But delights to bless his prayer!
| Ballads for the Times | |