 | Rural sketches and poems |  |
269
THE LAST OF THE PHOENICEANS.
[It is well known that a colony of Phœniceans, long ago, trafficked
in Tin, to the mines of Cornwall. Tradition states that the
last of this remarkable race of men, was observed wandering on
the sea coast, apparently without any object or aim, and was never
seen more—he was an aged man of singular dress and manner,
and spoke in a language totally unknown to the inhabitants of the
country. The following brief and imperfect sketch was composed
on hearing the narrative.]
Like the sand of the ocean, his brow's furrow'd o'er,
And his tresses were white as the turf-beaten shore,
Yet, the dark eastern glow flashes quick in his eyes,
And a throng of home-memories heaves in his sighs.—
Those low wilder'd mutterings, oh, what do they mean?
'Tis a language more strange than his garments and mien,
He's the last of a race of the mighty and brave,
Who have found in these deserts a home and a grave!
And his tresses were white as the turf-beaten shore,
Yet, the dark eastern glow flashes quick in his eyes,
And a throng of home-memories heaves in his sighs.—
Those low wilder'd mutterings, oh, what do they mean?
'Tis a language more strange than his garments and mien,
He's the last of a race of the mighty and brave,
Who have found in these deserts a home and a grave!
Phœnicea's proud princes, young heroes, fair daughters,
In triumph and gladness swept over the waters;
A barbarous people, unletter'd they found,
A realm of bleak mountains, and verdureless ground,
They taught a sweet language and harmony's sound;
The science of ages, themes lofty and high,
O wondrous religion, the lore of the sky
In triumph and gladness swept over the waters;
A barbarous people, unletter'd they found,
A realm of bleak mountains, and verdureless ground,
They taught a sweet language and harmony's sound;
The science of ages, themes lofty and high,
O wondrous religion, the lore of the sky
270
Lone, lone are his vigils!—oh, what doth he see?
Phœnicea's fair gardens glow bright o'er the sea:
He beholds the broad palm-groves in beauty ascend,
The tall, graceful date-trees luxuriantly bend;
Rich blooms of the East, in that sunlight appear,
And the songs of its nightingales float on his ear,
And the murmur of breezes, the music of streams—
'Tis the home of his childhood illumines his dreams.
Phœnicea's fair gardens glow bright o'er the sea:
He beholds the broad palm-groves in beauty ascend,
The tall, graceful date-trees luxuriantly bend;
Rich blooms of the East, in that sunlight appear,
And the songs of its nightingales float on his ear,
And the murmur of breezes, the music of streams—
'Tis the home of his childhood illumines his dreams.
Eleutherus, Adonis, and Biblus glow bright,
Mount Carmel, and Libanus gleam on his sight,
The terraces, temples, and marbles of Tyre,
The splendours of Sidon, the altars of fire,
Moloch, Ashteroth, Thammuz (whose orgies they hail
All frantic and wild) and the worship of Baal,—
This, orb'd in his vision, like sunset appears,
The phantoms of boyhood, the glory of years,
Mount Carmel, and Libanus gleam on his sight,
The terraces, temples, and marbles of Tyre,
The splendours of Sidon, the altars of fire,
Moloch, Ashteroth, Thammuz (whose orgies they hail
All frantic and wild) and the worship of Baal,—
This, orb'd in his vision, like sunset appears,
The phantoms of boyhood, the glory of years,
No more, O, no more, can these eyeballs behold—
The sun is descending, pavilion'd in gold!
He hears the soft waters, the rippling of waves,
The dash of the sea-birds, the echo of caves,
And, again high-uplifting his eyes to the sun
He dreams of the land which his fathers had won;
Oh glory immortal!—what splendours on high—
Tis Baal,—'tis Baal himself in the sky!—
Exhausted, entranced, lo, he sinks him to die.
The sun is descending, pavilion'd in gold!
He hears the soft waters, the rippling of waves,
The dash of the sea-birds, the echo of caves,
And, again high-uplifting his eyes to the sun
He dreams of the land which his fathers had won;
Oh glory immortal!—what splendours on high—
Tis Baal,—'tis Baal himself in the sky!—
Exhausted, entranced, lo, he sinks him to die.
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