Poems of James Clarence Mangan (Many hitherto uncollected): Centenary edition: Edited, with preface and notes by D. J. O'Donoghue: Introduction by John Mitchel |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| IV. |
|
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| V. |
GRABBE. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
 | Poems of James Clarence Mangan |  |
GRABBE.
There stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when the setting sun
Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars.
The booming of the Evening-gun
Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars
Shone out, like silverblank medallions
Paving a sapphire floor. Then flowed in unison the tones
Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones,
And fifes, from twenty-two battalions.
Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars.
The booming of the Evening-gun
Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars
Shone out, like silverblank medallions
Paving a sapphire floor. Then flowed in unison the tones
Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones,
And fifes, from twenty-two battalions.
They played, “Give glory unto God our Lord!”
A solemn strain of music and sublime,
That bade Imagination hail a coming time,
When universal Mind shall break the slaying sword,
And Sin and Wrong and Suffering shall depart
An Earth which Christian love shall turn to Heaven.
A dream!—yet still I listened, and my heart
Grew tranquil as that Summer-even.
A solemn strain of music and sublime,
That bade Imagination hail a coming time,
When universal Mind shall break the slaying sword,
255
An Earth which Christian love shall turn to Heaven.
A dream!—yet still I listened, and my heart
Grew tranquil as that Summer-even.
But soon uprose pale Hecate—she who trances
The skies with deathly light. Her beams fell wan, but mild,
On the long lines of tents, on swords and lances,
And on the pyramids of musquets piled
Around. Then sped from rank to rank
The signal-order, “Tzako ab!” The music ceased to play.
The stillness of the grave ensued. I turned away.
Again my memory's tablets showed a saddening blank!
The skies with deathly light. Her beams fell wan, but mild,
On the long lines of tents, on swords and lances,
And on the pyramids of musquets piled
Around. Then sped from rank to rank
The signal-order, “Tzako ab!” The music ceased to play.
The stillness of the grave ensued. I turned away.
Again my memory's tablets showed a saddening blank!
Meanwhile another sort of scene
Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I strolled,
In quest of certain faces, into the Canteen.
Here wine and brandy, hot or cold,
Passed round. At one long table Fredericks-d'or
Glittered à qui mieux mieux with epaulettes,
And, heedless of the constant call, “Who sets?”
Harpwomen played and sang old ballads by the score.
Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I strolled,
In quest of certain faces, into the Canteen.
Here wine and brandy, hot or cold,
Passed round. At one long table Fredericks-d'or
Glittered à qui mieux mieux with epaulettes,
And, heedless of the constant call, “Who sets?”
Harpwomen played and sang old ballads by the score.
I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some
Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or gambled,
Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum.
I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled.
Scarce even a passive listener or beholder,
I mused: “Give glory—” “Qui en veut?”—The sound
Came from the drum-head. I had half turned round
When some one touched me on the shoulder.
Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or gambled,
Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum.
I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled.
Scarce even a passive listener or beholder,
I mused: “Give glory—” “Qui en veut?”—The sound
Came from the drum-head. I had half turned round
When some one touched me on the shoulder.
“Ha!—is it you?” “None other.” “Well!—what news?
How goes it in Mulhausen?” Queries without end
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I chuse.
An hour flies by. “Now then, adieu, my friend!”
“Stay!—tell me—” “Quick! I am off to Rouge et Noir.”—
“Well—one short word, and then Good Night!—
Grabbe?”—“Grabbe? He is dead. Wait: let me see. Ay, right!
We buried him on Friday last. Bon soir!”
How goes it in Mulhausen?” Queries without end
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I chuse.
An hour flies by. “Now then, adieu, my friend!”
256
“Well—one short word, and then Good Night!—
Grabbe?”—“Grabbe? He is dead. Wait: let me see. Ay, right!
We buried him on Friday last. Bon soir!”
An icy thrill ran through my veins.
Dead! Buried! Friday last!—and here!—His grave
Profaned by vulgar feet! Oh, Noble, Gifted, Brave!
Bard of The Hundred Days—was this to be thy fate indeed?
I wept; yet not because Life's galling chains
No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth;
I wept to think of thy transcendent worth
And genius—and of what had been their meed!
Dead! Buried! Friday last!—and here!—His grave
Profaned by vulgar feet! Oh, Noble, Gifted, Brave!
Bard of The Hundred Days—was this to be thy fate indeed?
I wept; yet not because Life's galling chains
No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth;
I wept to think of thy transcendent worth
And genius—and of what had been their meed!
I wandered forth into the spacious Night,
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent
Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was an Uhlan tent
At hand. I entered. By the moon's blue light
I saw some arms and baggage and a heap
Of straw. Upon this last I threw
My weary limbs. In vain! The moanful night-winds blew
About my head and face, and Memory banished Sleep.
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent
Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was an Uhlan tent
At hand. I entered. By the moon's blue light
I saw some arms and baggage and a heap
Of straw. Upon this last I threw
My weary limbs. In vain! The moanful night-winds blew
About my head and face, and Memory banished Sleep.
All night he stood, as I had seen him last,
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken
The tomb? Or, did I dream, and should I waken?
My thoughts flowed like a river, dark and fast.
Again I gazed on that columnar brow:
“Deserted House! of late so bright with vividest flashes
Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that thou
Art now a mass of sparkless ashes?
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken
The tomb? Or, did I dream, and should I waken?
My thoughts flowed like a river, dark and fast.
Again I gazed on that columnar brow:
“Deserted House! of late so bright with vividest flashes
Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that thou
Art now a mass of sparkless ashes?
257
“Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose gleams
The glories of the Hohenstauffen race,
And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowed streams
Stood variously revealed—now, softly, as the face
Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp—
Now, burning with a deep and living lustre,
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this Camp,
Here, far apart,—there, in a circular cluster.
The glories of the Hohenstauffen race,
And Italy's shrines, and Greece's hallowed streams
Stood variously revealed—now, softly, as the face
Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp—
Now, burning with a deep and living lustre,
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this Camp,
Here, far apart,—there, in a circular cluster.
“This Camp! Ah, yes! methinks it images well
What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower!—
Moonbeams and lamplight mingled—the deep choral swell
Of Music in her peals of proudest power,
And then—the tavern dice-box rattle!
The Grand and the Familiar fought
Within thee for the mastery; and thy depth of thought
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle!
What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower!—
Moonbeams and lamplight mingled—the deep choral swell
Of Music in her peals of proudest power,
And then—the tavern dice-box rattle!
The Grand and the Familiar fought
Within thee for the mastery; and thy depth of thought
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle!
“And, oh! that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing
With ancient lore and modern phantasy,
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree
Of golden leaves when Autumn winds are blowing,
That such a mind, made to illume and glad
All minds, all hearts, should have itself become
Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home!—
This is in truth most marvellous and sad!
With ancient lore and modern phantasy,
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree
Of golden leaves when Autumn winds are blowing,
That such a mind, made to illume and glad
All minds, all hearts, should have itself become
Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home!—
This is in truth most marvellous and sad!
“Alone the Poet lives—alone he dies.
Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand
Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes
His is a darker crime than that of Cain,—
Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law!”
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams I saw
The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain.
Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand
Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes
His is a darker crime than that of Cain,—
Rebellion against Social Wrong and Law!”
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams I saw
The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain.
| Poems of James Clarence Mangan | |