Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | ||
In this delightful land of faery,
Are so exceeding spacious and wyde,
And sprinckled with such sweet variety
Of all that pleasant is to care or eye,
That I nigh ravisht with rare thoughts delight,
My tedious travell do forget thereby,
And when I gin to feel decay of might,
It strength to me supplies, and chears my dulled spright.
Spencer's Faerie Queene, Book VI.—Sir Caledore.
I. PART I. BALLADS OF THE NEW WORLD.
No. I. COLUMBUS.
[The great Christopher Columbus, who gave a new world to Spain, was the son of a Genoese wool-comber. He early evinced an uncontrollable passion for a maritime life; and, while yet a stripling, fought against the fleets of Venice. Visiting Portugal, he maintained himself by selling charts. Slowly he elaborated his great discovery, till it flashed upon him with the certainty of a secret disclosed from Heaven. After years of torturing suspense in the courts of princes, during which he must have suffered more sadness of the inmost soul than even his great countrymen, Dante and Tasso, or even our own Spenser, Columbus obtained the patronage he needed; furnished with scanty and tardily afforded aid, from the pious and warm-hearted Queen of Spain; tacitly encouraged by the cold and calculating Ferdinand, and zealously assisted by a speculative shipowner, he set forth one day in August from Palos, a small fishing town in Andalusia; and, with a desponding and superstitious crew, launched boldly into an unknown ocean, to discover an unknown world. Who is ignorant of the greatest triumph of genius? Within a month he landed on the shore of St. Salvador.]
Not for the orange-teeming south, not for the icy north;
No glittering sand from the naked chiefs of Afric's distant shore;
Not bound to the land of the myrtle-grove, where the heaven ever smiles.
Then he might say what unknown land they seek across the wave.
That sought some hut, some resting-place, they still might call a home.
Like staunch slot-hounds on a bleeding boar, flew fast those vessels three;
For their hopes had sunk with the sinking sun, ere the coming night grew dark:
And the ghastly forms of a fevered sleep rose up in each coward mind:
But worse than death it seemed to them, to sail—they knew not where.
When it shed its cheering golden light from the heavens flaming red;
Amidst those kneeling mariners, but one looked joyful there.
Came the solemn sound of the vesper-bell, so sad—so mournfully;
Came on the breeze of the evening, the sigh of the convent bell;
On one ear alone unheeded fell that mournful sobbing loud.
What pathless seas might intervene ere they saw the crowned khan;
Ere they traversed the leagues that sever Spain from the clime of the rich Cathay.
They kneel to the saint, whose triple fires on the mast in the tempest shine.
When the thunder bursts and rives the cloud, and shakes the earth and sea.
One eye shone bright as the heaven's arch when the summer's storm has waned.
One voice spoke hope and comfort, and bad the faint heart cheer.
Columbus' cheek was still unblenched as he joined in the parting prayer.
Who with a crew of cravens could win a deathless name?
Where mid a halo of golden light the sun had sunk to rest;
Like a crowned and mighty conqueror preparing him to die.
Down went the sun in the fiery west, with just such frantic glee.
Came holy night, without a star, untended and alone.
As the last faint smile of a martyr as beautiful to see;
“On, on to the promised land,” he cried, “to the sun's bright resting-place!
That an angel showed me in a dream the glories of that land—
Rose up to a sky unstained by cloud, the scent of a thousand flowers;
And the forests' floors were paved with fruit, dropped from a myriad stems.
Like the glimpse a suffering soul might catch of the blessed Paradise,
For toil and woe, and promises forgot as soon as made.”
In vain they gazed, for a gathering cloud hid the land from the aching sight;
But wife and child, and all that's dear, the ocean had bereft.
A desert track, where, since the Flood, no venturous keel had been.
Unstirred by wind, unheaved by storm—those silent waters lie.
A flaming star, like a fallen lamp, from the vault of heaven past.
His eye on the needle ever bent, as the ship o'er the still sea flew.
Looks up from out his ocean lair, to see those vessels pass.
A cross of flame to guide the bark, lit up the midnight air.
“Ye faithless men, take comfort—what further want ye now?”
Like a spendthrift son it joyed to fly from the land that the salt floods lave.
And sunk in the glory that it rose, on clouds and waves of flame.
For those weary men, each coming morn, less brightly shone its rays.
And the piled-up clouds seemed a distant land, framed for eternity.
High over head, from the watchman's nest, the listening sailor clung.
By night, the moon, on their gleaming track, showered down her silver rain.
That flames in the broad, unbroken sky, an aperture of hell.
Last link that binds the earth to sea, fled from them with the night.
As long as to foolish, ardent youth, seem the years of infancy.
And still, like a hideous fevered dream, greater their terror grew.
Had heeded not if the mighty God from the sky had spoken then.
By the wind's deep whisper of his name, they never had been awed.
Of ghastly things and changing forms that followed in their wake.
And his fiery eye, the sand-paved deeps lights with a ghastly glimmer.
In vain he points to the clouds that bar their view of the distant west,
To tear from the sea-god's hidden world, the veil of time away.
And gaze on the thousand leagues of sea their caravels have passed.
Seem idle thoughts of a summer's eve, a madman's fantasy.
And told by the bar on the silver'd plank, that the middle watch had past.
While the caravel, as it knew not toil, flies in the freshened gale.
And smiles as he points to the gathering weed that slowly drifteth by.
Whose robe is rich with the sparkling dyes, a rich-clad prince is he.
Who dives as deep as he can fly, beneath the white reef's brow.
They seem belated wanderers from some land in the distant west.
But such as follow the husbandman, that sows the golden grain.
Still seems the far horizon, all land, and sea, and sky.
For the ocean seems to gird the earth with its broad and crystal band.
As louder grew the muttered curse, and darker grew the frown.
And one half drew a dagger from out its hidden sheath.
When the needle once, as the dial true, points no longer to its star?
Hath, in an hour of dearest need, thus tampered with our guide.
And bar us from our homeward course, like a torrid blast from hell.”
Till the coal-black darkness melts away, at the sight of the dawning sun.
The first on the watch at the break of dawn, and the last to rest is he.
And many a hand, with a curse, was laid on the ready dagger-hilt.
As on the face of a shepherd falls the red morning's beam.
What does a madman, seeking gold, care for Castilian's life?
Still as the statue of a saint, with his high and thoughtful brow.
Why rush to death, while still there's hope, a madman's eye to please?
To seek, like a second Jonah, the groves of his golden shore.
We hie us home!” Columbus cried, “God's holy will be done!”
They could not choose but wonder. 'Twas God who gave that power.
When on his knees, in silent prayer, that mariner they saw.
With the sea-weed hung, with the sea-shell bossed, a swiftly drifting mast.
Then to the land of rich Seville they speed them home again.
Sad evening comes, and its cloudy pall blots daylight from the sky;
And the bark ploughs on its hopeless course through shoals of the uptorn weed.
But still no glimpse of purple coast, and all around is sky.
But the voice of an unseen Comforter forbad his heart to grieve.
And darkness broods with outstretched wings on the silent ocean's breast.
And it fanned Columbus' burning cheek at the closing of the day.
So, soft and mild, that gentle breeze braced on the idle sail.
Where first, as a child, he saw the barks of his own mountain land.
As through the shrouds, with a pleasant tune, it rustled up aloft.
When the one long-nourished hope of life must from the bosom part.
Though the cold dew fell on his burning cheek and on his fevered brow.
What means that gleam on the good ship's lee—that speck of fiery light?
'Tis the torch of a midnight wanderer on the long-expected strand.”
It seems a life, a thousand lives, ere the dawning of the day.
As o'er the land of promise it slowly 'gins to dawn.
He felt like a conquering Cæsar might when he mounted the Capitol.
On a land of boundless forests, of mountains, and of streams.
A thousand isles in the distant west may there all hidden be.
With wild amaze, and cries of joy, gazed then the rebel band.
Now strangely in their dazzled eyes shone the unexpected sight.
As when they sank to welcome sleep, so still he gazeth now.
And cried, “All hail, Columbus! St. George has blessed thee!”
Who has added a vast and unknown land to the monarchy of Spain.
Who has planted the cross on the Indian shore, in the region of the Khan!
Hail! to the land of the western sky, that catches the last red ray.
The spot where, since the world was young, the sun has sunk to sleep.”
A hymn to the Virgin sung by men whose cheeks are bathed in tears.
Waves high the blazon of Castille upon the new-found shore;
Waves high the sign of the holy cross, the cross of Calvary.
The seamen fall, for his calm pale face glows with a light divine.
As, when the western sky grows pale, flames up the eastern dawn.
No. II. COLUMBUS IN CHAINS.
[Bowed to the earth by the petty intrigues of a foreign court; disgusted with the cold gratitude of the sovereign who had benefited by the noble enterprise, which he had not aided; reviled by the envious; cursed by the disappointed; hated by the proud, whom his great soul disdained to court; as a climax to his sufferings he was thrown into prison by the illegal sentence of the governor, of the very island of which he himself had been ruler. His release was soon obtained. The good and the noble demanded it with a common voice. Poor and neglected he returned to Spain, to wait, as in his early days, an unheeded suitor at the doors of the great; and he died, after two years of misery and ineffectual prosecution of his claims, quite broken-hearted,— an example while the world lasts—of the extreme bounds of national ingratitude.]
Like an eastern king with sceptre broke, and from his proud throne hurled;
Though the sunbeam gilds the prison wall, he raiseth not his eyes.
When his eyes glared bright with a wild amaze at a new and wondrous land.
Are fetters meet for him who gave a new world to her reign?
But the felon's iron fetter the soul that eateth in—
Like the banded snake of the torrid zone, the tropic's monster birth—
Like a pinioned soul in hell below, the sleeping wretch is bound.
On the man who first on those Pagan shores planted the holy cross?
And I watered the bread that alms had bought, with the heaven dropping rain?
Let him who boasts of charity, weep o'er my wretched fate.
And bore unmoved the menial's mock, the scoff of the vassals' band.
I rose on the wings of the angels, and sought the golden west.
Rich as a ship of the Indian seas, my soul with peace was fraught.
The shaft of a churl flew soaring up, and pierced the eagle's breast.
Is nought to the sneer that brands the brow, to the curse that blasts the name.
I lie at peace, though at hour of prime my head were stricken off.
When the jeering face that mocks my grief, looks through the prison bars.
Still broods on the mind that's lulled to rest, the halcyon of peace.
From my early youth, but on that shore to plant the cross divine.
The thorny soil, that with bleeding feet, the blessed Jesu trod.
I would but drive the Infidel from holy Palestine.
The sacred spot where in fiendish rage blasphemes the desert child.”
And gentle thoughts of happier days blend with the coming dream.
A troop of dream-like visions came swiftly dreaming by.
And mused, as sank the setting sun, where the land of the dead may be.
A child among his playmates floating a paper bark.
With the cry of “St George for Genoa,” bear down on the Pisan fleet.
Again he bent o'er the well-worn chart, in the lone midnight hour.
As the stranger takes the proffered alms, his pallid cheek grows red.
Bends at the hour of twilight, seen but by God the while.
And hear the noble Genoese of his great project tell.
For the distant west, he saileth forth, without a thought of fear.
Till, with the day, the new found land dawns on his dazzled sight.
Where the riches of the Old World with the New World's treasures meet.
Are looking with awe and wonder on the Indians and their gold.
The shadows of still greater lands, is like a dial's cast.
Come the storms of a king's displeasure, and his bright hopes overwhelm.
And these fair and sea-girt islands that stud the broad green tide.
Unheeded by the basest there, unpitied, and alone.
His stripling son behind his mule, that slowly paces, ran.
That once through Barcelona came in Indian gold arrayed.
He saw a land more fair than earth—he woke, and felt the chain.
And ebbing reason to the mind comes slowly back with pain.
Then God on the wretch takes pity, and sends his blessed sleep.
'Tis the signal for the slave, whose axe to the pinioned men gives peace.”
What means that tread of hurried feet, that cry of the coming throng?
Does this galling iron fit the man who loved our Spain so well?”
'Mid the shouts of the veering multitude, he leaves the felon's hold.
For they felt that a spirit had left their land—gone, to return no more.
For they held him a being come to earth, sent by the gods on high.
What gift of golden ducats can heal a bruised heart?
Can stamp decay on the chalice lip of the richly dyed flower.
No. III. THE BATTLE OF TOBASCO.
[The Battle of Tobasco was the first conflict of Cortes with the natives of the newly discovered continent. Having by this victory secured a foot-hold, and having, in perhaps unconscious imitation of Cæsar, burned the few vessels which afforded him the only hope of escape, he commenced his victorious march into the interior in search of the great Mexican empire, of which he heard so much. The Aztec armies were gorgeous in their rich feather surcoats; their eagle banners, their golden helmets and breastplates, and their coronets of plumes.
Or than the evening glories which the sun
Slants o'er the moving many-coloured sea.”
—Southey.
With no jocund wild bird's notes;
'Tis the savage hum of the Indian drum,
On the troubled air that floats
On Tobasco's plain, thick as northern rain,
Or the sands on yon ocean's beach,
With a burning gleam, the spear heads beam
As far as the eye can reach.
Like some waving sea of flowers:
On their banners stream the hot sun's beam,
A golden splendour showers.
From the pathless height, where their Fire-gods might
From the mountain breathe the flame;
From where the sky wears ever a dye,
Those bright helmed chieftains came.
The war-cry loud and wild;
To the god they prize with the diamond eyes,
They would offer the sun's fair child.
“They hastened here from yon bright sphere,
On their blanched and woven sail:
Through the fleecy clouds the moon that shrouds
When the evening sky grew pale.”
No Paradise divine;
And their Sun-god gave, when they crossed the wave,
No love for his Indian shrine;
On this holy coast they value most,
The gold of the sun's own hue:
And I've seen them pore the metal o'er
As no other god they knew.”
No red stone sheds its light—
On their forms divine no feathers shine,
With a thousand colours bright.
From their limbs, as ours, the red blood showers,
When our stone knife cleaves the skin;
Their quivering hearts from the hot flesh part,
When the priest's hand gropes within.”
Came swiftly on their van;
With bare swords grasped, and our corslets clasped
To meet the foe we ran.
In a piercing shower the arrows pour
On the shouting bands of Spain,
But Castille's proud boast will hold his post,
Though the missiles fall like rain.
To hew their bleeding way,
In vain they rush with a surging crush,
On those whom they deem their prey.
For the cannon's breath is the voice of death,
And it roars like their war god's shout;
All the wide plain o'er they backward pour,
As they fly in a scattered rout.
On the Indians' breaking rank,
With a cry of fear that thrills the ear,
From that piercing charge they shrank.
For the steeds to them as the waves o'erwhelm
Those monsters of the sea:
For no javelin will pierce the skin
Of the forms of Eternity.
For the Indian king is down;
The cross waves high in the burning sky,
With the flag of the Spanish crown.
We'll end the fray of this plumed array,
With one charge of serried spears;
‘Santiago’ on, for the day is won,
Hark! how the vanguard cheers.”
Bent to avenge the dead;
While the holy sign of a faith divine,
Waves o'er each warrior's head.
As far above, o'er the cowering dove
Stoops the falcon on his prey—
Through the wood of spears came the thunder cheers,
From Spain's bright armed array.
Rough with the precious gem,
That was borne of yore, their chief before,
Is seized upon by them.
A Spanish shaft the blood has quafft
Of Tobasco's dearest lord:
As he wounded lies, his heart's blood dyes
The point of Vasco's sword.
Like some sorcerer's magic bird;
Their banner flies and seems to rise,
As if cheered by the shouts it heard.
Wield the war axe well, though the Indian shell
With the roar of the storm may vie—
Cleave the plumed head, with their own blood red
Their feathered robes we'll dye.
When the Moor bent low the knee;
And forswore each spell of their prophet of hell
For the Lord of Calvary.
One charge, one shout, from the host rang out,
On the plain they stand alone;
Let the forests ring while the mass we sing,
Ere the setting sun has flown.”
No. IV. THE TEARS OF CORTES.
[An old Spanish chronicler says, that Cortes was filled with grief when he looked down from the high mountains of Tacuba upon the great city of Mexico, which he was about to storm. Its rich valley, hemmed in by rocks of porphyry; its wide lakes, and below him rich groves of the cocoa and the sugar-cane, plantations of the aloe and the maize, productions of the tropics; and by his side the oak, the pine, and the cypress of Europe. The incident seems to have made a deep impression upon the minds of the rude soldiers of Cortes, not incapable of deep feeling, for some frag ments of a Spanish song, written at that time, are still preserved, and suggested the following ballad:—]
With palace and temple gleaming bright in the sun's fierce scorching ray,
With its thousand roofs that stretched afar, with grove and terrace wide,
Hemmed in by the granite mountains that rise on every side.
Tinting the hot and burning sky with a still more lurid ray,
And the broad still lakes calm gleaming, like a silver buckler bright,
Gazing up at the clouds like some spirit's eye, longing to see the night.
As an Indian king heaps the varied gem in the red and golden cup,
They seemed like the burning crater's mouth where mountain fiends of old
Fuse the melted ore to a thousand shapes, and sport with the changing gold.
Through their massive boughs the mountain breeze breathes sad and mournfully;
The sun sinks low, the swift pirogue no longer seeks the gale
With their countless oars, their gilded sides, and their broad, white, matted sail.
And folds its great dark wings from flight, that city sunk to rest;
And now, one diamond-lighted star peers through the clouded sky,
The lower sank the burning sun the brighter it shone on high.
And the mother weaves the feather robe, the princely robe, the while.
One pious prayer to the Aztec god, one cup to the gods they drink;
And then, on their gilt and plumed couch in holy sleep they sink.
Before the idol flaked with blood bent diadem and crown.
Before the god of the bleeding hearts the Indian king was kneeling,
And thoughts of the foe he deemed divine, o'er his troubled mind was stealing.
That seemed to burn in the rosy light of the sun's last parting glow,
And he wept as he thought of the varied joys of that wide and beauteous land,
And the broad fair realms a dying chief gave to his feeble hand.
Where the fire-fly and the flame-dyed flowers light up the trees and bowers,—
Realms, that a god he never knew is tearing from his sway—
As now behind the mountain chain sunk down the ebbing day.
Little thou thought of the coming plague that should blast the golden west.
No dark-winged dream, with scowling eye, hovered before thy sleep,
Thou laid'st thee down with smiles of joy, but rose, alas! to weep.
No thought of wrong, no thought of crime—no dream of ill-intent;
Came up the scent of the terrace flowers, fanned by the gentle south.
Not with the smile of a conqueror was Cortes looking down;
'Twas not with the forest serpent's eye, nor its fixed and cruel glare,
When he spies the helpless humming-bird, was that hero gazing there.
With no dark-lined sneer of cruel scorn, looked Cortes on the town;
Not as when woodman drives through the boar the keen and griding spear—
He gazed with no look of stern delight,—he saw it with a tear.
With the eye of a saint with pity filled, he beheld the stately town;
In slow round drops the tears stole down his seared and bronzed cheek,
He bowed his head in solemn thought, for he dared not to speak.
Since as a child, a sorrowing child, he wept o'er a grave alone,
And he grasps the hoary cypress stem—the tree of the dark green leaf,
And he thinks of the first-shed tear-drops that gave his heart relief.
And he veiled the sorrow that marks his face with his mailed hand;
But he gazed again, for o'er the plain came on the hot winds blast—
A maddened roar, which louder swells, ere the first wild shout has past.
Silent and still the temple lay, beneath the clouds all red:
'Twas fearful, but a moment since, when the blood-dyed sun went down,
And shed its last faint mellow light on the distant volcano's crown.
The last faint ray of sunset rests on the pine-clad hill;
But the city is all stirring and rousing for the strife,
From each hut and palace terrace the Aztecs wake to life.
Its thundering moans from yon pyramid o'er the city's roof resound;
Look! from each terrace now burst forth bright, dazzling jets of light,
And their mingled blaze with a dreadful glare, lights the newly-fallen night.
Of the gathering feast, when captives die with many a horrid rite;
Stands out the giant pyramid, as yon fire-fraught mountain high.
Their upturned countless faces are lighted by that glow,
And see, great God—now Jesu' help, O hear the deep-sighed prayer
That captive band that slowly mounts the lofty terrace there;
Now, thou, Great God of vengeance, draw thy avenging sword;
Hear us, O Christ, thou Son of God! in this our hour of need;
Kneel down, and pray St. Jago, so mercy be thy meed.
Goad up to the roar of the thunder-drum, the pale and trembling throng;
Those phantoms white seem like the fiends that torture the souls in hell,
Where in the region of fire and ice, the maddened sinners dwell.
To their eager ears its voice seemed then like a cruel laugh of scorn;
Look, Sandoval, look, Cortes! our poor companions there—
All Spaniards, no Tlascalans mount up the blood-stained stair.
Would that our arms might strike one blow against the Indian might;
No pain to die 'mid the shock of spears; no pang in parting breath;
But thus to die like a butchered wolf—this, this indeed is death.
In their dark serried phalanx we'd let the light of day;
See, there they come, in pomp arrayed, look at the fettered band
Gazing on sky and mountain, the doomed wretches stand.
Than thus to die, without mass or prayer, for the cruel Pagan's mirth.
Great God! behold they strip them bare for the bloody sacrifice;
They will offer their hearts to the Aztec god before our very eyes.
Behind in prayer kneels Perez, who won the chieftain's crown;
And his eye is turned on Juan, whose keen Toledo's sway,
For the second rank of spearmen dug out a bleeding way.
When he fell from the blow the Aztec gave with the crystal-bladed knife;
And dragged him stunned from his dying horse o'er the mingled heaps of slain.
One hundred wretched Pagan lives could not redeem his loss.
Now round the flaming altar-fires, before their idol's fane,
The wounded dance; when they strive to rest, they goad them on again.
To teach the proudest Pagan host the power of a Christian spear;
Could human blood—could a dozen lives have saved that band from death,
No one that stood on that mountain top but had yielded up his breath.”
The monsters their hearts, the war-god's prey, from their throbbing corses tear.
The last is dead; and beneath the edge of the flint's sharp-cutting knife,
Has yielded up to the God who gave, his last faint gasp of life.
To plant on yon fane the holy cross—to tear from the king his crown.”
The rites are o'er, but the priests chant loud as the bloody torrents flow,
With a yelling laugh, and a cruel scoff, they hurl each corse below.
'Till our dying day, like a branded scar, its memory shall remain;
Deep was the vow that Cortes breathed, as again he gazeth down—
Not with the tear that pity sheds, but a dark and angry frown.
'Twas the bitter thought that wrung his heart of vengeance for the dead;
The tears shook Cortes fiercely off from his fierce and glaring eye,
And thrice he shook his falchion at the stars in the pale clear sky.
When you gave the flesh of their dusky prince to the loathsome vulture's maw.
Banners advance! wave high the cross against this doomed town,
Dark from the clouds the God of Hosts in anger looketh down.”
No. V. THE SORROWFUL NIGHT.
[The night on which the Spaniards retreated from Mexico, having in vain, after the death of Montezuma, endeavoured to preserve their footing in that great golden city of the west, is still called by the degenerated descendants of the first conquerors, the “Noche Triste,” or “the Sorrowful Night.” It was an awful shipwreck of Cortes' hopes, and one which the wonderful resources of his mind, his constancy, and his indomitable genius, could alone have retrieved. The day of vengeance came at last. What availed crystal blade against steel hauberk, or lasso against Spanish spear.
It was a day of terrible retribution—of “garments rolled in blood”—of confused sound of the battle, and the empire of Mexico fell like a Colossus—never to rise again.]
And the umber'd gleam, of their ruddy beam, lit the men who the night-watch kept.
And strove against sling of the Indian king, and the might of his dark array.
From many a land the flaming brand had summoned the distant chief.
No silver light of the stars once bright, shone through the clouds on high.
But the cross instead shall raise its head, as high as fair Seville's spire.
And save that chief, that died of grief, no friend had Spain beside.
No heart had borne the cruel scorn, of the chiefs at his changed lot.
Striving to read the Christian creed, the broken-hearted died.
Till he drives from the land the wounded band, the weary hours he counts.
And the wild storm wave, the rocks that lave, is less fierce than the Aztec host.
“We risked our life, when one to five, and we'll venture it again.
Nerve each iron heart for a warrior's part, we'll cast the die to-morrow.
Let no fear of ours, in the darkest hours, be ever known in Spain.
Botel for retreat, says the hour is meet, who reads the stars like a book.
Their varied light, as they glimmer bright, will guide us on our way.
Let no muttered prayer pierce the silent air, no war-cry of Castille.
We must onward far, ere the morning star tells of the coming light;
We rest at last, when the danger's past, ere comes the morning's glow.”
The serried host, with no trumpet's boast, o'er the narrow causeway haste.
They seem like a train of the ghosts of the slain, as they leave the leagured hold.
Rises the wall of the palace hall, where so many found a tomb.
He bends his ear, each sound to hear, he'll save if man can save.
And still more fleet, through the last long street they march, as comes the day.
Ere the thunder loud, bursts through the cloud, with all the earthquake's power.
That trumpet's clang, through the air that rang, was a signal from on high.
Like the volcan's flame, the brightness came, from a thousand springs of light.
The city seems to awake from dreams, and to shout with a monster's roar.
From the city borne, the sound of the horn o'er the darkened waters come.
Their robes of white, to the Spaniards' sight, seem to shroud no forms of earth.
But still the rear, with no thoughts of fear, kept the millions all at bay.
And the war storm sped, with a thunder tread, when they charged us at our backs.
On a charger white, in the heavens height, we saw St. Jago ride.”
In no woman's weed, on a barbed steed, in a trooper's mail arrayed.
And there's hope for life, in this lull of strife, for the last canal is near.
In a crowded mass they strove to pass, but a chasm gapeth there.
And the savage shout still ringeth out, above that fearful cry.
Through the horrid din they drag within the foe to the sacrifice.
But the ingot chest presses on his breast, and the red gold drags him down.
And the waters are strewn with the breastplates hewn, and the spoils of the host that fled.
And the waters' gloom, like a gorgeous tomb, grows dark above his head.
Through the fire-lit air comes the shriek and prayer to the cowards that were flying.
Through plated mail, through bright steel scale, drives fast the Indian arrow.
On the mangled slain, on the missiles' rain, beams forth the golden day;
On gashed form, with limbs still warm, that strewed the ghastly place;
Fanned the pale cheek of the soldier weak, who hails it with a cheer.
On the calm cool air came shriek and prayer, though still the battle roars.
The women groan as they mourn alone in horror's deepest gloom.
And his armour gleams through the dark red streams that onward fiercer pour.
That could ward the dart that to the heart flew on the restless wing.
And gems and ore that rude hands tore from the Indian monarch's hold;
And royal robes o'er-bedabbled with gore were wrapped round the dead.
It breaks the rank and it rends the plank of the warriors' black canoe.
The iron rain still sweeps the plain, still charge they with the pike.
Further than deer, though winged by fear, e'er leapt from sharp-fanged hound.
Like a man who breasts the foam-wave's crests, bold Cortes holds the pass.
To palace and hall of their capital they fly to mourn their dead.
With no trumpet's note, no banners float, they reach the friendly land.
With no dancing plume to hide their gloom,—blood dripped from their wounded side.
With bowed head they mourn the dead,—weary they march, and slow.
“Where do they ride I fought beside? Where are the absent? Where?”
Hid his bended head as he heard their tread: he mourneth there alone.
For the dead in vain, o'er the wide-spread plain, sounds the trumpet's shrill recal.
On the sighing gale came back the wail, blent with the shout of foes.
No. VI. THE MURDER OF PIZARRO.
[This stern adventurer possessed all the courage of Cortes, without any of his milder virtues. His bravery passed into ferocity; he was avaricious, coarse-minded, and cruel. Less decisive than his greater predecessor, and having a more peaceful people to subdue, he would have perhaps failed amongst the warlike nations of Mexico. Pizarro was assassinated in a chamber of his own palace at Lima, a city of his own erection, when in the plenitude of his power, by a band of Chili men, needy adventurers, friends of his former companion in arms, but then rival, Almagro, whose rebellion he had suppressed, but whom he had disdained to punish more severely. Uneducated, cruel, and despotic, he died regretted by none; a sword used by God and thrown aside. In the moment of death, he showed that intense and gloomy superstition which distinguishes the Spaniards, blended with much of the ancient hero. Exclaiming, “Jesu!” he traced a cross upon the floor with the blood that welled fast from his own life-streams, and was stooping to kiss it, when a blow, more deadly than its fellows, severed soul from body.]
As the viceroy in his pride of state, came riding through the town;
More fit for war's fierce tourney was that scarred and bronzed face,
Than for those mummings of a king, and courtiers' forced grimace.
Careless of that approving crowd, he spurs him proudly by;
One frown he gave to that starving crew, then turned away his eye.
That falls upon his doublet and its dark sable fold;
A cruel taunt is graven above his cold stern brow,
“For the men of Chili,” is that badge, that with the bright stones glow.
Sweep in the viceroy's retinue in their rich and lustrous pride;
But he who tore from the Inca's head the wreath he called a crown,
Cares not for the turning blind worm, that his arm'd heel tramples down.
When the Incas ruled the sun's fair land, in the glorious days of old;
But far unlike those rich clad men, was that famine pinched band,
No pearls, no gems, could rebels glean from the hasty conquered land.
That the sea of death hath swallowed up and yielded not again;
“No barbed spear, no Indian blade, his princely heart clove through—
They strangled him in a dungeon, as you might a cursed Jew.”
They slew him ere the sunset, as you'd stab a captive boor;
And they heaved a groan, that starving crew, when they thought of their murdered chief,
But hate soon followed sorrow, and chased the rising grief.
And fiercer grew their muttered words, and louder grew their cry:
“Shame, that a wretched swineherd's son should lord it o'er Peru—
Shame, that a bravo has the fame Almagro never knew.”
He better loved to stem the war, than rob the Indian's hall;
'Twas his broad gold piece, his well filled pouch, that gave Peru to Spain,
'Twas he that planted Jesu's Cross upon the Sun-god's fane.
Shame! that a murderer's mailed foot should spurn a starving band;
Though now he's decked with the yellow pearls, brought from the island coast,
We are of as pure and proud a blood as such as he can boast.
Or pine away when the revel's shout rings loudly in our ear;
Woe's me for the young Almagro, so fit to grace a throne,
Too young to sink to a peasant's grave, unpitied and alone.”
“In God and the blessed Virgin's name, let's cleave the villain down;
Wait for no white flag waving, for mass or holy tide,
But slay him now in the bloom of sin, in the hour of his fullest pride.
Who'll starve in the sight of plenty—poor when the flood runs gold?
I swear by hell's red prison, who will not follow me,
I'll stab him as a craven in this hour of jeopardy.”
To save his son he would have shed the life-blood from his veins;
“Better a blow from headsman's axe, than life to ebb away,
Better a blow from spear or sword than dying day by day.
For come what may, be fortune worst, we can but meet our fate;”
With flashing blade and blazing torch grim Reda rushes out.
Throw open now the barred door and follow me who will;
Long live the son of the murdered man, the gallant and the brave,
And a shroud for the grey old swineherd, let him reign within the grave.
When the viceroy, on the gibbet tree, like a strangled thief shall swing;
And he who jeered at starving men shall feed the vulture foul,
He shall give the bird what he grudged to man, and God receive his soul.”
For love had none for the iron chief, no love, but much of fear;
They hurry on through the broad paved square—alas! 'twere now too late,
One brave man, 'gainst a thousand foes, might have kept that palace gate.
“Arm! arm! my lord, for the Chili men are banded for thy death.”
“How pale his cheek!” cried the dauntless one, as he drained his cup of wine,
“'Tis some fool's dull tale—who dreams of fear, thou little page of mine!”
I deemed them but a villain's hopes told o'er a crucifix.”
In rushed a second serving man, still whiter was his cheek,
Chained was his tongue with very fear—“Speak, drunken varlet, speak!”
“Arm, good my lord, arm, nobles all, the traitors come apace;”
And he gazes at the chamber portal, and draws his ready sword,
And points with his finger to the page to arm their aged lord.
Through the wide bare rooms, in eager haste, rush in the furious rout;
And the jest that the idle laugher told, sinks to a whisper faint;
The talk of wine and lady's love, to prayer to Lima's saint.
They left the half-drained wine-cup, and hurried them away.
“Bar the door, good Garcia, bar out the rogues' array,
Like two chafed lions in our den, we'll keep the knaves at bay.”
And they tumble the bleeding body to the marble hall below.
As had greeted their ears from the viceroy's mouth, ay! but that very morn.
They stood like the eager hunters that would spear the foaming boar.
Then Pizarro rushed to aid the guard, in their face his helm he hurled:
“What, ho!” he cried, “ye stabbers, scum of the newfound world.”
No time for thoughts of anguish, no place for sorrow deep.
But still was left fair Pedro, the youngest of the three;
A thrust from the blade of a partisan has brought him to his knee.
Then fierce glared old Pizarro, and his fiery eye glared wild,
And his sword cleaved helm and corselet, and his sword cleaved mail and targe—
In vain on his breast the arrows splint, in vain the rebels charge.
As well as when in the pride of years he fought by the fair Adage.
And he struggled on, that grey haired man, though the blows fell thick as rain,
As well as he did when he bore the cross on Cuzco's golden plain.
Oh! that, indeed, for the Chili men, were a sharp and biting scoff.”
Then, with a howl of baffled rage, he grasps Alverrez round,
And hurls him at Pizarro, and brings him to the ground.
In vain, Pizarro strikes him down; in vain, the rebel dies.
“He dies too late,” cries Reda, and drives through his heart the sword,
Ere Pizarro sank a dozen blades drank the life-blood of their lord.
He bends to kiss the holy sign—one groan, and all is o'er.
“Shout, for the tyrant's fallen—Pizarro, the lord, is dead,
And now the viceroy's jewelled badge shall deck Almagro's head.”
At the body of him who's fallen, at the mighty one they've slain.
And now the robbers pillage the casket and the shrine,
And bear away the Inca's gold from many a treasure mine.
In a rich and gorgous cavalcade Almagro rides along.
Lowers the stiff and mangled body into an humble grave.
None prayed, “May God assoile him”—none mourned for the dead.
Was an Indian slave, who only knew, to curse, the name of Spain.
No. VII. THE DEATH OF OLD CARBAJAL.
[Francisco de Carbajal, a brave but cruel old warrior, 84 years of age, was executed at the same time with Gonzalo Pizarro, with whom he had conspired to change Peru from a viceroyalty to a monarchy independent of Spain. In the decline of their fortunes this stern, iron-hearted man, said nothing, but hummed the words of a Spanish song:—
The golden region of Peru to the old Castilian sway.
In spite of Carbajal's demon aid, and the proud Gonzalo's boast;
The brave old chief that, strong in age, conquered this broad fair realm.
Than he who tore Peru's great chief from his jewelled palanquin.
Little he thought that the son he left a traitor knave would be.
Will brand his name as he teareth now the sceptre from his hand.
Shall wake on the dismal morrow again to till the earth.
On his broad and fair dominions the sun goes never down.
The silver and gold, like a mighty sea, comes pouring in amain.
Hurled from the high war-saddle the monarch knight of France.
Such fate as Carbajal shall know ere the sun has ceased to shine.
Is served by an evil spirit—a demon sent from hell.
And thought that Peru was far from Spain, and girdled by the sea.
Of Spanish lance and arquebus the madman little recked.
With the dinted helm and the battered arms, a coal-black steed upon.
Say that the steed that no bolt could pierce was no creature of this earth.
They fled, as flies the thistle-beard before the Pampa's blast.
What steel can wound, what fire can sear, the man with a charmed life?
When Almagro's knights dashed on our spears with the earthquake's jarring shock.
Ah! well the men of Chili that dreadful hour may rue.
Such havoc he made as a grim wolf does in the wattled fold.
As when in Potosi's mines he tore the silver from its den.
With armed men he peopled the trees, dark Pulto's mountain round:
How like proud man, who rules the earth, to a devil in hell may be.
“No tales tell the dead,” said Carbajal, with a grim and cruel smile.
When Puelles buried his poniard deep in the wounded viceroy's breast.
The sword swept fast, the axe hewed on, amid the wood of spears.
To show that the cruel viceroy had gone to a bloody tomb.
With untiring foot, athirst for blood, he followed the chief Alberra.
So over steep and chasm the fierce Carbajal flew:
When high in the sky, o'er spear and axe, the rainbow banner's gleaming.
Far on the plain, in an endless wave, thick as stars on a summer night.
On the copper mail and sharp glass blade, shone red the hot sunbeam.
When waves of fire went surging up to the smoke beclouded sky.
Like vapour of costly sacrifice to the Sun-god of Peru.
The Inca came to the Indian town, but ne'er returned again.
And rolled like the broad deep gathering floods of some dark turbid sea.
And he had seen the plumed ranks with the mailed Spaniards meet.
Should brand the arms of the cavalier—should sully all his fame.
And tore down Spain's proud blazoned flag, and trod it to the earth.
As if, in this new and glorious world, a rebel could reign alone.
'Twas conscience half unarmed the hearts of the rebels of Peru.
Just as the monster vulture does the painted humming bird.”
That seems in the air to float along like a bright and living flower.)
O! who can count the rebel knights that lie amid the slain?
As thick as on the thrashing floor in autumn lies the grain.
'Tis Carbajal, the first who dared to charge us on the right.
For, on his track Corteno came, the bravest of the brave.
Carbajal mock'd the parting light, and curs'd the fall of day.
His jaded steed fell 'neath his load—we sprang upon him then.
We bound that bleeding warrior with the unyielding heart.
But his hands weighed down by the heavy load of sin and hidden guilt.
He seems like a new caught ocelot, as he shakes his firm-barred cage.
Then, with a grim and horrid smile, points to his white-seamed scars.
As a trooper of his golden spurs, or the jewelled star of knight.
And Francis yielded up his sword, amid the piles of dead.
Hewed out, 'mid heaps of dying, a deep and bloody tomb.
And such scenes of bygone glory as none again shall know.
Passed o'er the smoking frontier, to storm the Moorish town
And said its knights had the longest spears, and the surest biting steel.
And scared the red-capped cardinals, beneath the giant dome.
When he slew the rich fat herd of monks, as a wolf the sheep would slay.
What cared for death an iron heart, that never knew a fear.
At the trembling fool that held the axe, who could not choose but weep.
As he kneeled there, to bide the blow, and cursed the shaven crown.
And he flung ten-ducats to the crowd, who hail him with a cry.
He broke it in three shivers, with a blow of his pinioned hand.
To use thee as thou shouldst be used, when I am in the grave.”
And he bent him down, as he shouted forth, “Death is eternal sleep.”
With a dull faint sound, the knight's grey head, rolls on the sand below.
No. VIII. THE PROCESSION OF THE DEAD.
[“When an Inca died,” says Prescott, “or, as the Peruvians expressed it, ‘was called home to the mansions of his father, the sun,’ his body was embalmed, and placed with those of his ancestors in the great temple of the sun at Cuzco: there, clad in their royal robes, they sat in chairs of gold, the queens on one side and the kings on the other; their heads bent downwards, and their hands crossed on their bosoms. Several of these royal mummies, hidden by the Peruvians at the conquest, were found by a Spanish corregidor: they were perfect as life, without so much as a hair or an eyebrow wanting. As they were carried through the streets of Lima, decently covered with a mantle, the Indians threw themselves on their knees in sign of reverence, with many tears and groans, and were still more touched when they beheld some of the Spaniards doffing their hats in token of respect to departed royalty.”]
Such jewelled robes and costly plumes by the Incas once were worn,
There's no low chant of death
To show that a crowned conqueror has yielded up his breath.
But, save in the midnight dream, came never back the dead.
There's trampling of feet,
But no measured beat of muffled drum, no chanting in the street.
Not with the sun of other days grows now the cold earth warm;
The god so good, so mild,
Looks down with a frown of anger on his once favoured child.
Is feasting now with the spirit kings in the realms of purer light;
There's gone to a better clime
Many a bright-plumed emperor who ruled of olden time.
Blazed forth in a flood of ceaseless light, the orb of the god of day,
And the gem-encrusted wall
Shone with a light as rich, as fair, as the Inca's palace hall.
Then shone with a matchless radiancy the sun's bright, golden tears;
Alas! that the shining ore
Should have lured the cruel Spaniards to this unhappy shore.
With a rich and varied brilliancy, of a thousand colours shone,
On the golden cornice bright,
They glared, though clouds might veil the day, those triple showers of light.
The moon, embossed in silver, shone with her pallid beam;
And when arose the dawn,
The priests hailed with a gladsome shout the coming of the morn.
I've seen the holy Incas seated like monarchs there;
The priest through the temple crept,
As if his low, deep-chanted hymn could rouse the kings who slept.
Dark was their cheek, as it was in life, and bowed was their head;
Still calm, as if alone,
Sat Peru's once mighty monarchs, each on his golden throne.
On the silence of a mournful thought that stealeth in between,
Like music from without,
From Cuzco's gardens came the gushing fountain's laughing shout.
When the long green plume on each corpse-king's head was shaken by the wind;
Beneath the earth, in a small dark cave of the city of the West;
Such is the common doom,
Though for awhile the corpse embalmed be saved from the tomb.
Who bore the Rainbow banner far into Chili's wild;
O'er the Ande's peaks he swept,
Like a panther on his jungle prey upon the foe he leapt.
As if the weight of some heavy care still brooded on his brow,
And seated by his side
Is an Inca, whose dark raven hair tells still of youth and pride.
Who made the name of great Peru o'er the distant mountains ring,
Ere proud and cruel Spain
With the lust of gold and the thirst for blood ravaged the fertile plain.
Gazed at by the passing stranger, and borne through Lima's street
To the measured tread of multitudes,
To their resting-place, the lonely grave, pass on the royal dead.
In a gorgeous litter, flaming with costly gems and gold,
Upon the flying foes,
Like the sun in its fairest splendour, the monarch's litter goes.
The Indians greet, for the last sad time, those hallowed forms divine;
And as the bearers nearer drew
Themselves, like prostrate worshippers, before the dead they threw.
As on their way to their resting-place, pass by the royal dead;
The setting sun above,
Smiled on the sad procession with the last fond smile of love.
No. IX. THE DESCENT OF THE VOLCANO.
[One of the most chivalrous acts of heroism perhaps ever performed by man, was the descent of Francisco Montano, a noble cavalier in the army of Cortes, into the crater of the great volcano, Topocatepall, which towers above the chain of snowcovered mountains that separate Mexico from Puebla. Lowered in a basket 400 feet down the ghastly depths of the flaming abyss, he gathered sulphur sufficient to manufacture a supply of powder for the use of Cortes' army. What could resist men who made even the most fearful of nature's prodigies thus supply their wants?]
From where o'er the plain of the five broad lakes the snowy volcans tower;
And in the court of the temple, stretched on the paved ground,
Lay groups of friendly Tlascalans the blazing watch-fires round;
And the jests flew fast, and the biting scoff, and the burst of the Indian song,
And many a tale the Spaniards told, to speed the night along.
The cacique fell, by an unknown hand, caught in the hunter's snare;
When through the clouds of sulphurous smoke, that friend and foe had hid,
Cortes sprang up the blazing stairs of the giant pyramid;
On the spot where the blood-stained idol in scorn of God had stood.
And burnt the fleet to ashes, as they leapt upon the strand;
And they mocked the senseless humming-bird that to its flower-built nest
Bade the blood-bestained vulture as a great and favoured guest.
But the wildest tale they heard that night was one Montano told,
Just at the dawn of morning, when the night damp's falling cold.
For sulphur in the crater of the volcan's snowy peak,
Where the Indians think, in a deep abyss, lies an entrance to hell;
For they say in the copper mountains the howling spirits dwell;
And with Pedro, and with Guzman, long ere the dawn of day,
Through the dark pine forest toiling, we slowly made our way;
Till moss and short thick yellow grass alone met anxious gaze;
And soon we left beneath our feet of man all pleasant trace;
Nothing but stunted bushes grew in that dreary place;
Upheaved in stormy billows,—boundless they seemed to be.
Pierced chill through cotton doublet, and through the metal mail.
Long since the sunny land of flowers, and the hot clime, we lost,—
Now slowly dawned before us the land of eternal frost;
And still on helm the sleet and snow the mountain spirit hurled.
While the forest, with its spreading shade, seemed to hide us from the world;
Strange awful spot from whence to see the dawning of the day.
From such a peak gazed Jesus, with Satan by his side,
O'er city, isle and continent, and all the great world's pride.
On such a mount in glory stood He who from heaven came,
When there shone a light in the sky above, and angels breathed His name.
And gazing on the crowded tents he poured his blessing forth.
And above us lie the mountains, the kings of the granite chain,
Who, with the fiery volcans, are guardians of the plain,
Said that the snowy mountain was the granite monster's bride;
In rival pride of greatness,—some Titan reared them high.
And now we brace us to the task, and mount the flaming tower,
So bare the track, no yellow bee hums o'er the aloe's flower.
And the splintered crags of porphyry are seared and thunder-rent,
O'er chasms deep as a mountain, the foaming torrents went.
Unmelted, save where o'er the ice the lava burns a way.
Sweet is the night-dew's fragrance on the wide-spread Aztec plain,
To the scorching showers of ashes, and the lava's fiery rain.
Beneath our feet the lightning for itself a passage wore,
And the trembling throb of the earthquake gave out a sullen roar;
As if to rouse the demons from their centuries of sleep.
That though we turned and slew them, they would not mount up higher.
‘None but a madman,’ muttered they, ‘would thus defile the shrine,
Where the fire-god, clothed in his pomp, shows like a king divine.’
Crept up, by dint of eager foot, and ever grasping hand.
And the lava lay a molten sea, congealed by frozen air.
In a thousand forms of wonder; its course was stayed there;
And now before our aching sight lay a wide and icy tract,
Bright seemed the lustre of its glare beside the lava black.
And above us shone the ceaseless fire, whose blaze lit each paled face;
And the Indians deemed us sorcerers, whose toil and livelong strife
Would tear from the hostile demon, eternity of life.
And rarer still and colder grew the chill mountain air,
Scarce can the overburdened breast the weight of the doublet bear.
Its lava waves were seething with a dull and ruddy ray;
The spark-lit smoke is rising, and the lava torrents flow;
And high on that untrod mountain's top, on that high and scathed cone,
Wrapped in a black and lurid cloud a spirit sits alone.
We offered a prayer to the God of peace, bethinking us of death;
But even there, in that desert wild, and on that lofty peak,
God with an eye of pity looked down upon the weak;
He heard,—for the wind, with a scornful blast, drove the lava river back,
And left to the smoking crater's mouth a bare and withered track.
Few would have ventured footstep there,—no! not to win a crown.
Hung over hot boiling tide of fire, and fusing wave of gold,
I sought the sulphur drops that clung to the side of the demon hold;
Like serpents that strive to reach a bird, the veins of metal twined
On the calcined sides of that furnace, cracked with the chilling wind.
As I felt of the ebbing tide of fire the hot returning glow.
I swooned when I reached the crater's brink, safe from that burning wave,
And saw fond faces gaze on me as risen from the grave;
As again I felt the mountain breeze upon my heated cheek.
And I kissed the cross-hilt of my sword, upon the mountain side,
As back my load to the cheering camp I bore with a victor's pride.”
II. PART II. LAYS AND LEGENDS.
MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS, TRANSLATIONS, AND OCCASIONAL POEMS.
HASTINGS.
[Suggested by the monkish chronicle of William of Malmesbury, who was personally intimate with the Conqueror and his cruel son, and who mentions many picturesque incidents connected with the battle, that handed over England from one usurper of her throne to another, that are omitted by better historians.]
As he dashed his wine-cup down,
And darker grew his furrowed brow,
And blacker grew his frown.
“By the glory of the Lord,”
Till he'd hurled the nithering from his throne,
He'd never sheathe his sword.
And laid his mantle down,
And donned his dinted hauberk,
And doffed his father's crown.
He paces on the sand,
At the white rock walls of Britain
He shakes his mailed hand.
His ship with the crimson sail,
Like a falcon on its quarry,
Flies fast before the gale.
Shine bright upon the deep,
Like some dream's gorgeous pageant
Across a poet's sleep.
The realm of England lay;
The doomed upon the morrow,
Are banqueting to-day.
His gem-bossed robe gleams bright;
Though a shroud shall wrap that monarch
Before the morrow's light.
There's blood on every hand,
And viewless forms of terror
Move silent 'mid the band.
Weary of foeman's slaughter,
Of press, and throng, and battle,
Down by dark Humber's water.
“The Norman's come,” he cries;
“Begone,” said the jeering nobles,
“The Saxon villain lies.”
Of shaven priests in arms;”
“They're pilgrims,” said a vavasour,
“Poor chanters of the psalms.”
“No woman's priests are these;
Arm for the shock of battle,
This is no time for ease.”
Into the midnight air;
From the other, to the silent stars
Arose the pious prayer.
Was heard by God on high;
The curse of the drunken jesters
Drew vengeance from the sky.
Red morning dawned again;
With an eagle's glance the Bastard
Swept the broad level plain.
The Norman host came on;
From his cloudy home of darkness
Came forth the golden sun.
The gonfanels flew past;
The war shouts 'mid that forest
Moved like a tempest blast.
Shone fair with banded mail;
Like the ruddy flame from Heaven
That gleams on shattered sail.
To leave the trenched camp;
High shone the sacred banner
Above their measured tramp.
Drove fast the arrow sleet;
Ne'er upon gilded gambazon
Did such a tempest beat.
And the Norman shafts they flew;
And 'mid the Kentish chosen van
A bloody lane, they hew.
Cleaves through bright painted shield;
And shouts, and yells, and shrieks, and groans,
Go up from gory field.
And Gurth is by his side;
Like two strong, lusty swimmers,
They stem the battle tide.
Of him who wears the crown;
Like a monarch to his slumber
He lapseth slowly down.
The sun sinks to his rest;
Like a gore-bestained conqueror
Far in the crimson west.
Where reddest was the sod,
Where Harold fell, the Bastard kneels,
And thanks his gracious God.
THE ARRAIGNMENT OF THE DEAD.
[At the funeral of William the Conqueror, in the Abbey of St. Stephen's, at Caen, a burgher advanced from amongst the crowd, and appealing, by right of an ancient law, to Rollo, the great leader of the Norsemen, and using the set form of invocation, “Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince,” claimed the ground in which the tyrant's grave was sunk, as that on which his own father's house had stood, and of which he had been unjustly deprived by the fierce bastard prince. Henry dared not neglect his demand, and for so many hundred marks the brave citizen parted with his birth-right.]
Where the yellow tapers stood,
And the light was deep and solemn
As the dim light of a wood;
'Twas when all silent stood the crowd,
That one clear voice rang deep and loud,—
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro à l'aide, mon prince.”
Stepped one who boldly said,
“I claim this narrow resting-place,
Prepared for the dead;
No prince of royal name
Should glory in his shame.
Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
But he showed no sign of fear,
As he stood beside the crowned dead—
Beside a monarch's bier.
The crypt returned the sound
Back from its deeps profound.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
Where that jewelled altar stands;
This stately abbey's reared
Upon my father's land;
Yon tyrant's brow is stained with sin,
His name shall be cursed by his own proud kin.
Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
This costly shrine to God;
Already the grim oppressor
Is smitten with his rod.”
Still on the bier, as he spoke, the light
Of the rainbow pane fell fair and bright.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
The pale cheek of the dead;
To a whisper died the solemn chant,
The monks hung down their head;
And the mourning warriors, gathered round,
Shuddered to hear that boding sound,—
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.
Before God's fearful face,
Before his bright-faced angel
I'll claim this holy place;
When the blast of the dreadful trump has blown,
And he stands before his Judge alone.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
And his father's haughty frown,
And paid the price that the burgher claimed
Of him that wore the crown,—
Won for himself the Saxon's land.
'Twas in the days when truth and right
Full seldom conquered power and might.
“Ha! Ro, à l'aide,
Ha! Ro, à l'aide, mon prince.”
THE REBEL EARL.
[The civil wars of the time of Henry III. are, perhaps, the most barbarous that we find recorded in our history. Father fighting against son, and son against father. Among the group of rebellious nobles, Simon de Montford, Earl of Leicester, stands conspicuous in savage majesty. “Simon, je vous défie,” was the cry of the young prince, not, it must be confessed, at the sanguinary battle of Evesham, but at an earlier conflict, when his aged father was placed in the van of his enemies.]
The aged monarch's gazing;
Red as the boding comet
The dragon banner 's blazing.
Rang out the prince's cry,
Loud o'er war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
There was hewing of the mail;
There was driving of the hammer
Through iron ring and scale.
Still ran the fierce war cry,
Loud 'mid the din on high,
Shrill o'er the tempest glee,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
The winged arrow sped,
Through barred helm and target
With the foeman's heart-blood red.
Shrill through the sunny sky
Rang out the prince's cry,
Loud o'er war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
Grew crimson with the dye;
Fast o'er his mangled body
The cowering rebels fly.
Still rang the fierce war-cry,
Loud 'mid the din on high,
Shrill o'er the tempest glee,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
Is driving with his brand,
Till, weary of the slaughter,
He stays his blooded hand.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
As bridegroom might a bride;
Red stained with blood of rebel
The Severn flows beside.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
On the red field are strewn;
Their wearers' helms are cloven,
Their blazoned garb is hewn.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie.”
Upon the bloody field;
His heart's best blood is welling
Upon his battered shield.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
Than traitor knight or earl,—
Better the lowest varlet
Than such a rebel churl.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
Of Evesham's bloody fight;
There's food for hawk or falcon,
For raven and for kite.
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
Tear the knight's silken vest;
Shreds of the bloody raiment
Will “theek” their rock-built nest.
No longer through the sky
Rang out the fierce war-cry,
Above war's revelry,
“Simon, je vous défie!”
KING EDMUND.
[This Saxon king was stabbed by a robber, whom he attempted to turn out of his palace hall, at a banquet, where the daring villain had bearded his monarch.]
Gleam bright on cup and bowl;
The pride of a crowned conqueror,
Filled the Saxon monarch's soul.
Not upon spear and sword;
But on the noisy revellers,
Seated around the board.
Hail to that flag of thine;
Which struck a fear to the burghers five,
To the men of the Mercian Tyne.
Bind round the Danish thane;
Instead of the golden bracelet,
Let them wear the iron chain.
That waved on the old gray wall;
Hail to the sword that made the Dane,
Before the rood cross fall.”
Do homage to their lord;
The seven chiefs of England,
Are sitting round his board.
Thus an abbot chode his pride:
“'Twas no mass of thine that shook their ranks,”
The angry monarch cried.
'Tis these, and such as these,
Who beard their king, and 'fore his throne,
Refuse to bend their knees.”
The God thou hast defied;
The God who smites the tyrant,
Rebuke thee for thy pride.
Struck terror to the Dane;
St. Cuthbert's Cross was thy standard,
On Mercia's battle plain.
That smote the rebel crew;
An angel form led on the van,
When the battle trumpet blew.
His vengeance thou shalt see;
On the brow that bears the Saviour's cross,
Is the brand of infamy.”
Come the deep groans within;
It rose above the song and shout,
And all the stormy din.
“With biting cords he's bound;
Stripes are the fat monk's penance,
With stripes we lash the hound.”
Like a fiend that mocking laughs;
With eyes like a wild beast glaring,
A cup the stranger quaffs.
He gazes on the king;
And his restless eyes are like a snake's,
Before it makes its spring.
In that dark face have reign;
His hair is black and matted,
Like a wild creature's mane.
Leapt fierce upon his prey;
“Shall a man whose hands are bloody,
Be seen in the light of day?”
They struggle with the sword;
Ere those savage men are parted,
Slain is the Saxon lord.
Upon the fallen chief;
Then sheathed his knife and went to death,
Without one thought of grief.
DECIUS.
[In the great battle between the Romans and the Latins, b.c. 339, the omens being unfavourable to his country, the consul, Decius, determined to devote himself to death, to save the armies of the seven-hilled city. “Putting on his white robe,” says Livy, “he covered his head, and, placing his foot on the blade of a javelin, repeated a prayer to the nine gods.” Then, mounting a charger, this lion-heart hewed himself a grave in the squadrons of the foes that strove to overpower the infant Hercules.]
There's sound of battle clang,
Far o'er the distant ocean
The brazen clangour rang.
Shines upon helm and blade;
On broad spear head, and banner,
And men for death arrayed.
In the troubled sky above,
The flame, as it strove in passion,
Glared like the eye of Jove.
Cleave the proud Samnite's shield;
In vain, their serried phalanx
Drives o'er the trampled field.
The rebel Latin smites;
To save the sacred capitol,
In vain the consul fights.
The volcan casts a glow;
Red as the waves of Phlegethon,
In the dark realms below.
Red as Jove's arrowy leven,
Seeming to strive to reach the sun,
And blot it from the heaven.
Amid the weapon's jar;
On unbroke ranks the grim god's wolf
Shines like a silver star.
Could break their bristling rank;
Would their black steeds were plunging
In Pontus' marshes dank.
'Twas shuddered at in hell,
When, in the pride of conquest,
Titus, the hero, fell.”
“I swear by the gods above,
No victim ever offered,
So pleased the mighty Jove.
On, with thy betters, on;
We'll drive them in the ocean
Before the setting sun.”
Poor beggars! for a life”—
Cry the sneering Latin spearmen,
As nearer swells the strife.”
We heed no jeers from thee;
We bend to the God of the Trident,
Who ruleth yonder sea.”
They hurry firm and fast;
As vain as on yon mountain
Beats ever the sea blast.
I vow this hoary head—
Come, Pontifex!” he shouted—
“Prepare me for the dead.”
He wrapped him around,
Then veiled his old and scarred brow,
And leapt upon the ground.
He stood awhile in prayer,
And looked on the foe with a glance of fire,
And a wild and fixed stare.
That rule in hell below,
Prosper the Roman armies,
And blast this vaunting foe.
Dark prison of the slave!
Grant that red throngs of foemen
May 'tend me to the grave.
Warms my pale, aged cheek:
Great Jove! great Jove! thou crowned one!
Speak to thy servant—speak!”
Poured up a jet of fire,
The consul bowed his hoary head,
And hailed great Heaven's sire.
How an aged warrior died—
That he went, like a youthful bridegroom,
To meet a happy bride—
I won in the days of yore,
Clad with a priest's white vestments,
Soon to be red with gore.”
One look at the coming night,
He dashed on his sable charger
Into the thickest fight.
The dark ranks closed him in;
They see his white robes waving
Amid the battle din.
Fluttering against a cloud,
When the rain-winds cover the darkened earth
With vapours like a shroud.
Up in the crimson skies,
The shouts of joy and triumph
From Roman warriors rise.
CURTIUS.
[Livy, that delightful reciter of old wives' fables, tells us that, a.u.c. 391, a wide chasm suddenly opened in the forum of Rome, which the augurs pronounced would never close until Rome had thrown in that which she valued most. M. Curtius, a brave young patrician, on hearing the oracle, clothed himself in complete steel, exclaimed that arms and valour were the dearest treasure of the Romans, and, praying to the gods, leaped into the abyss, which closed over his head.]
No more the human tide,
Low murmuring like the ocean,
Pours through its portals wide.
The hum of men is mute,—
Hushed is the mummer's jesting,
Hushed is the Oscan flute.
No traders hurry there;
Nought breaks the mournful silence,
But some poor trembler's prayer.
By Romulus divine;
High o'er the seven-hilled city
The rock-built temples shine.
The twin son of the god,
Fell on the fresh raised rampart,
And crimsoned all the sod.
Flows through the silent plain,
Silent as when in senate-house
The aged men lay slain.
So boding augurs say;
On a chasm in the forum
Looks down the god of day.
'Twas his globe-shaking hunder
That furrowed up that chasm,
And tore the earth asunder.
Were but a heap of sand;
In vain the sacred offerings
Thrown by the pontiff's hand.
The holy augur cries,
“Alone will fill that yawning gulf,
Black as the tempest skies.”
A bride, new wedded, came,
Blushing 'mid glad array of friends,
That shout her bridegroom's name.
Of Rome's fair sons the pride;
Down through the trembling multitude
The youthful warriors ride.
“A heart for every fate
Is Rome's best pride and treasure,
The bulwark of her state.”
By Allia's hoary mount,—
In vain with gore we stained
The river's bubbling fount,—
In wrath's hot fiery hour,
Hath smote the sacred forum,
And shattered Tyber's tower.”
On capitol and hill,
Beside the sun-lighted Tyber
A moment standeth still.
One glance at her who wept,
Then with a bound the goaded steed
Into the chasm leapt.
Of joy unstained by tear,
With a gaze of awe and wonder,
Of terror and of fear,
The home of the noble dead,
Silent and slowly closing
Above that victim's head.
Who kings from their proud thrones hurled;
'Twas such as these that Cæsar led
To conquer half the world.
THE HYMN OF THE SALIAN PRIESTS.
I.
Great son of Jove, no pæans please thy ear,No song of hunters 'mid the forest drear;
No chant of shepherd, when they slay the lamb,
No hymn of maidens when they lead the ram,
Bound round with flower-wreaths, to the mystic shrine
Of mighty Pan, or the wood-nymphs divine;
No praise delighteth thee, no whispered prayer,
Breathed by a kneeler to the midnight air.
If costly offering, in palace or in den,
Alike displease thee, god, what lov'st thou, then?
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.
II.
Thy temple is some blasted battle plain,Strewn with the mossy skulls of ancient slain;
Thy priests, the howling wolf, the mountain-fox,
That roam at daybreak from the caverned rocks;
Thy song of praise, the savage eagle's scream,
Soaring above the lightning's lurid gleam.
Thy votaries, the raven and that hooded bird,
Whose croak, by night, amid the dead is heard;
Who thatches, with the hair of those that rest,
The bloody chamber of his lonely nest.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.
III.
The din of arms delights thee, and the sound is sweet,When warring millions on the broad plain meet,
When Roman falchion cleaves the gilded mail,
When the fierce spear drives through the pliant scale,
And pours wild panic from its brazen throat;
When the wolf standard summons from afar,
The armed Latin, hurrying to the war;
When the red beacon glares with baleful light,
And glaring, like a comet, through the troubled night;
Then, when the savage Tuscan shouteth loud,
Thy brazen chariot thunders through the cloud.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.
IV.
No blood of gentle lamb is shed for thee,Mailed son of Jove, thou lovest more to see
The living turf, around thy shrine bedewed
With gore, dripped from the beak of vulture; when the rude
Scythian herdsman, the libation pours
The while, with battered targe, and savage roars,
He thee invokes, by sword thy right hand wields,
By reddened lances, and by flaming shields,
To thee, whose glaring eye rejects the sacrifice,
Mocks at the incense wreathing to the skies;
Whose victims are the warriors slain, whose altar is the grave,
Thy best libation blood that stains the wave.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile, from heaven thou lookest down.
V.
All worship thee,—from Italy's rich plains,To where the dusky King of Egypt reigns.
The thousand islands of the Grecian sea,
The quiver-bearing Gauls shout praise to thee.
The Syrian, kneeling to the sun's bright ray,
Hails thee more potent than the god of day.
Man poureth forth, and will pour forth again.
Many a peasant, many a king his life
Hath yielded to the sword, thy sacrificial knife.
O, when despair's wild shriek goes up from burning town,
Then, with a smile from heaven, thou lookest down.
THE PILGRIM'S DEPARTURE.
[The long robe, the bourdon, or staff, to which the bottle was fastened, the scrip, and the cockled hat of the pilgrim, were consecrated by the village priest on the eve of his departure. The novice, having confessed his sins, threw himself before the altar. Prayers were then said over him; he was invested in his robes, and conducted in procession to the limits of his native village; the cross and holy water borne before him. What a beautiful scene the pilgrim's parting would make for the pencil!]
Sank down behind the hill;
Its rays grew faint on mountain-top,
On river and on rill,
When down before a holy shrine
Knelt one who's bound for Palestine.
That dyes the sun-light red,
Like a saint's bright crown of glory,
It glowed upon his head;
And many a peasant gathered there,
Joined in the solemn parting prayer.
In chasuble arrayed;
The sun burnt red and fiery,
Amid the forest's glade;
Mother and sire together stood,
With youth and maiden, beside the rood.
The priest repeats the charm;
That whether in Ind or Araby,
Shall keep the soul from harm;
'Twas a touching sight the priest to see
Sign o'er the robe the crosses three.
O'er boiling desert sand;
God guard the shoon that clothe thy feet,
In many a savage land;
This cockle hat, remember thee,
Proclaims one bound for Galilee.
Christ's mother shield thee well
From spear, and shaft, and crescent sword,
From Moor and Infidel.
Wherever, pilgrim, thou shalt be,
Christ's holy benison on thee.”
The moon shone faint on high,
Though scarce the flame-crowned monarch
Had left the summer sky,
That sin-soiled pilgrim of the West,
Crossed his hands on his guilty breast.
As from the ground he leapt;
No sound, save one deep heart-sob,
The cry of one that wept;
He filled his bottle at the rill,
Then hied him o'er the Eastern hill.
And the old tower on high,
As still its cross stood dark and clear
Against the western sky.
His father's home the darkness shrouds,
As o'er the moon steal dusky clouds.
Of that dear father land;
His bone shall parch and whiten
Upon the desert sand;
His last faint gaze was turned on ye,
Ye deep, dark waves of Galilee.
THE MILLER'S SONG.
Ho! for the whirling sail,
When the old mill shakes in every plank
Like a vessel in the gale.
The ponderous mill-wheel round,
When of the snow-storm showering,
We hear the mellow sound.
When it never bloweth ill;
In the idle breeze of summer,
The miller sitteth still.
From the dark rain-fraught cloud,
At the corn's bright golden billows
The miller laugheth loud.
In valley and on hill,
When the weary reaper's toiling,
Then faster drives the mill.
When the frost is on the earth,
A weary man's the miller,
As he sitteth by his hearth.
That tears the forest tree,
For the savage din of tempest
Is the miller's melody.
The whole chill night along,
O'er the buzz within, and the roar without,
Is heard the miller's song.
All white beneath the moon,
The north wind roars a thunder bass
To the burly miller's tune.
Like a spirit's arms on high,
Like the arms of one beseeching
Help from the calm, blue sky.
Of the wind that flies above,—
The wind that the blanched millers—
The gray old millers love.
That rattles the cottage pane,
The wind is the miller's vassal,
For it grinds his yellow grain.
It may roar across the hill,
It may speed along the barren moor,
But first it drives the mill.
Dull is the sunny earth;
'Mid the cold, gray rain of winter
Is the time for the miller's mirth.
To her that waits to hear,
Than the trumpet shout of the tempest
Unto the miller's ear.
Though he's pale as a frightened maid,
His cheeks are red as the first spring-rose,
In its robe of snow arrayed.
Is roaring loud without,
From the bars of the old mill window
At the stars he looked out.
THE WOODMAN'S SONG.
The axe he layeth by;
When the birds sing gay the livelong day,
To hail the summer nigh;
But the woods ring out to his merry shout
When the leaf is off the tree,
When the tempest clouds the forests shroud,
A merry man is he.
To the axe's echoing sound,—
When, as thunder loud, the oak has bowed
And crashed to the ground.
Like an armed knight, in the press of fight,
He hews with his axe away,
Through the wood's dark rank, on the marsh reed dank,
Flows in the flood of day.
Spareth this sturdy wight;
The oak's rough stem his blows o'erwhelm,
And the beech with its red leaf bright;
For a hoary bole, this rugged soul
Cares not though it be of oak;
What the lightning's spear could never sear,
Is felled with his mighty stroke.
Beneath his crushing blow;
Thro' the beech' smooth side and the cedar's pride,
His broad keen blade will go.
Were each wood and glade in its pride arrayed,
With bud, and flower, and leaf,
To his blunted soul some pang had stole,
Some gentle thought of grief.
When the wild winds whistle loud;
If the woodman spare, that tree they'll tear,
And dash it to the ground;
And they sigh and moan, with a thunder groan,
As mourning for their fate,
As a spirit had past on the winged blast,
But mercy were too late.
You hear the night winds surge,
As the wood sprites there, for their forest care,
Were muttering a dirge.
He's a crowned king in the mild sweet spring,
For he marks his victims then;
Of his broad axe blade he a sceptre made,
Forged in a forest den.
Heap up the crackling fire;
With a cruel smile they watch the while
The blazing of the fire.
Of the wolf that waits without;
But what care they then, those merry men,
As they push the stoup about.
WRITTEN IN AN OLD TOWER IN NORTH WALES.
The sky is kindling in the glow,
The light upon the mountain shed,
Is mirrored in the lakes below.
Falls evening's red and mellow light,
Again, as in days of splendour,
Its chamber walls grow bright.
That decks a chieftain's halls,
With the gleam of ancient revelry,
The fitful splendour falls.
As when, from the spicy east,
The palmer brought the perfume rare,
For the giver of the feast.
Looks down upon the earth,
On the old gray rock that the night-winds mar,
On the place of the wild storm's birth.
In this home of the wandering blast,
Sad thoughts of the great and mighty,
Who from the earth have past.
THE WAR SONG OF THE WELSH BORDERERS.
Is waving on each tower,
Awake! ye men of the mountain land,
For now is the vengeance hour.
Awake! ye men of the torrent's land,
For red are the clouds that lour.
Upon great Snowdon's height,
It is to chase the bloody men,
And battle for the right.
Arm! arm! ye men of the lake and stream,
Against proud England's might.
Like a shepherd a thievish hound,
We'll leap old Chester's river wall,
All armed, at a bound;
Not an English boor, in all wide Wales,
Shall anywhere be found.
Ye men that guard the fold,
Think of the leaguered cities,
In the glorious days of old.
Awake! ye men of the horny hand,
And the lion heart and bold.
THE GATHERING SONG OF THE KINGS OF HARLECH.
Come, as the torrent fast;
Swift on the foemen stoop,
With the dun eagle's swoop,
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.
Come with the thunder's shock;
Down from each crag and hill,
Fast from each mountain rill.
Come, chiefs with the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.
Roar as the torrents roar;
Spur on your chargers fast,
Swift as the tempest blast.
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.
Scare the dull clouded night
Round grey old Chester's wall,
We shall be gathered all.
Come, chiefs of the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.
Dark as the thunder cloud;
Let the bright spear-heads beam,
Like the blue lightning's gleam.
Come, chiefs with the amber wreath, and the gold 'bossed shield.
THE DEMON OAK.
A WELSH LEGEND.
“In the reign of Henry IV.,” says Bingley, in his book on North Wales, “Nannau, now the estate of the Vaughan family, situated on an eminence near Dolgelly, belonged to Howel Sele, who, though the first cousin of Owen Glendower, sided with the Lancastrian party. Upon one occasion, whilst these cousins were hunting together, Howel bent his bow, and pretending to take aim at a doe, suddenly turned round and shot at Owen, but the armour which he wore prevented any injury from the arrow. Owen immediately seized his kinsman (“a little more than kin, and less than kind,”) who was never heard of afterwards alive; but after forty years had elapsed, a skeleton, supposed to be his, was found in the hollow of a large oak, where he had probably been hidden by Owen.
This oak was named “Darwen Ceubren yr Ellyll, the hollow oak of the demons,” and was, to the day of its destruction in 1813, the terror of the superstitious.”]
The hounds and chargers swept along,
When leaves were sere and brown;
And foremost of the cavalcade,
That poured through thicket and through glade,
Rode one that wore a crown.
His baldrick glow'd with many a stone,
Of dark and veering light.
His bright hair on the oak leaves cast
A lustre, as the gallant past,—
He was a goodly knight.
Than bay of hound, or blast of horn,
'Bove neigh of fiery horse;
O'er the deep sighing of the breeze,
Through rustling woods and rocking trees,
Foamed on the torrent's course.
The lightnings from their dark homes leapt,
Far flash their blinding blaze:
From mountain, den, and antre vast,
Flew forth the fiercely shrieking blast,
Unseen to mortal gaze.
Through forest dark, with sudden night,
The huntsmen fled away.
The sound of distant bay is heard,
Faint as the warbling of a bird,
At breaking of the day.
Crouched down behind a mossy stone,
Some wreck of Druid times;
Where men poured out the human gore,
In cups of rock, in days of yore,
So say the Runic rhymes.
By glimpse of that tempestuous light;
A sun-like ruby on his breast,
Gleamed, flickering with its prison'd fire,
The heir-loom of a royal sire,
It bound his snowy vest.
The ramparts of an ancient hold,
They crouch them from the storm.
Again, like phantoms of the blast,
The frightened deer and hound fled past,
The hare cowed in her form.
His royal brother's blood had quaffed,
Alas! for Cambria's weal!
But the false arrow glanced aside,
For, 'neath the robe of royal pride,
Lay plate of Milan steel.
When, on the eve of winter day,
A skeleton was found,
(Hid in the hollow of an oak,
Half riven by the thunder-stroke,)
With rusty fetter bound.
'Mid winter winds fierce revelry,
Loud as the distant wave;
It tore the seared and blasted bole,
Then, like a charger to the goal,
Swept o'er the haunted grave.
Glendower seized the traitor foe,
And chained him to the oak.
When years went by, a swineherd found,
The bleach'd bones to the old stem bound,
Well may the raven croak.
When ways grow dim, and grey the light,
They pray, and hurry past;
And cross their brow, if, through the heaven,
Comes driving fast the lurid leven,
Or louder groans the blast.
THE WYE.
[It was on the banks of this beautiful river that Caractacus defeated the Romans. Old half crumbled towers and druidical stones are still to be seen, here and there, upon its banks.]
Past many an ancient tower, long since the scene
Of battle 'tween the stern dwellers of the land,
And they, the eagle-bannered, who, with flaming brand,
Swept o'er the world like some dread hurricane,
Levelling the stately palace and the massive fane.
This old druid's stone, so grey and mossed with age,
The lifelong labour of some early sage,
In its rock cup has held libations of their blood;
Grim children of the Roman robber brood,
Nursed by the wolf, fed in a forest den,
With yet warm morsels of the flesh of men—
Men who great shrines to demon spirits raised,
And clanged their shields to the dread gods they praised.
Our mountain ramparts, heard of yore the din,
When blenched the legions from the British spear;
What time the cowering eagle, at the savage cheer,
Fled to his rocky nest, his ancient home,
Back to great Tyber's city, crowned Rome.
Sweet stream! whose ripple's whimpering tone
More cheers my ear than dying Roman's groan,
The Briton, leaning on his bronze axe shaft,
The while, all weary with the war, he quaff'd
Rich goblet of sweet mead or hydromel;
Such are the scenes thy voice, as by a spell,
Calls up, and fills the woods that, gathered high,
Seem like a silent multitude that gaze into the sky.
THE EAGLE TOWER OF CAERNARVON CASTLE.
Like some old crazed monarch, crowned with weeds,And blossoms gathered from the wild field flowers,
Art thou; above thy ramparts and thy riven towers.
On the lone turret, where the stock dove breeds,
A lone flower sheds its perfume in the air,
Whether the sky above is bright and fair,
Or fiery billow clouds herald the storm that lowers:
Sweet type of love that to the wreck will cling,
And what it loveth once will love for ever,
Nor joy, nor grief, nor weal, nor woe, can sever,—
As faithful in the winter as in spring,—
Constant unto the death, faithful for now and aye,
Like beauty bending o'er the couch of one prepared to die.
MARCH.
With hotter glow the brown sands parch;
But not the storm of the Hellespont
Drives fiercer than the winds of March.
How hushed the earth when it has past;
Fiercest of all the giant winds—
Is thy unresting blast.
ON AN OLD COIN OF VESPASIAN'S,
DUG UP NEAR THE RUINS OF A PALACE.
With cunning art and fine,
Who stamped this coin's surface
With letter and with sign?
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Dug metal from the mine.
Dropped thee from mailed hand,
'Gainst Greek or swarthy Egyptian,
Had drawn the battle brand.
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Hath clutched thee in his hand.
Or the maddened Jew have slain,
When from the burning temple
Showered down the fiery rain.
Yes! he that grasped the pilum,
Trod many a bloody plain.
Might have torn the veil away
That hid Jehovah's brightness
From the sullying light of day.
Ah! he that grasped the pilum,
Was no sluggard in the fray.
FEBRUARY.
Though still the robin whistles loud
In the bare garden croft,
The catkin, on the hazel tree,
Mistakes for summer flower the bee,
And round it hovers oft.
Withers the flower that ventures forth;
And there is wanting still
The unseen warmth, the mellow note
Of the wild bird with dappled coat,
Though faster flows the rill.
Creeps stealthy through the withered brake,
And thoughtless of the past,
The young leaves open over head,
Though still their fathers, sere and dead,
Are hurried by the blast.
The buds break forth, a merry band
In every meadow hedge;
The lark sings up amid the cloud;
The happy streamlet ripples loud
Past the long flowering sedge.
Creep up to hear the thrush's song,
Or notes from blackbird's bill;
And with a gushing voice of pleasure,
Its little store of silver treasure
Pours forth each little rill.
THE PIMPERNEL.
Little scarlet Pimpernel!None but thou canst tell so well
What the weather change may be;
None can tell so well as thee
What the roving sun can see;
None so wisely half as thee;
When the welkin vapours shroud,
Telleth thee, the passing cloud,
When in east the pallid dawn
Heralds coming of the morn;—
Then with joy thou spreadest out
All thy little flowers about,
Where, in holt or upon wold,
Smiles thy little eye of gold.
When with clouds the heavens frown,
Then thy head thou bendest down.
Little weather-prophet, say,
Fair or foul, the coming day?
For thy eye, on sun above,
Dwells like lover on his love;
Like a courtier on his lord;
Or Parsee on his god adored;
Like kneeling Carib on the sun,
Thou gazest till his course is run—
Ever, ever gazing on,
Never musing but of one.
Come what seasons there may be,
Still unchanged thy flower we see,
Like a pennon in the wind,
Fickle as a maiden's mind,
Ever veereth round thy head,
Till in western waves of red,
Then, too, sinks thy tiny crown.
In thy humble flower we see
Type of fixed mobility.
Winds may blow as they blow now,
Still for winds what carest thou?
Though with fury raging free,
They should shake the giant tree,
Whatsoever be their power,
They will spare thy little flower;
E'en the bud that gems the sod,
Overshadowed is by God.
Little Persian; songs of praise
Do thy flowerets ever raise;
To thy God thou offerest up
Drops of dew in ruby cup;
And when sinks the king of light,
Thy violet eyes with tears grow bright,
Till the stars, whose softer beam,
Like the sun's fair children seem,
Shine upon the meadow-ground,
Where thy blossoms most abound;
Or, where trailing through the grass,
All thy snake-like sprays do pass.
Little scarlet Pimpernel!
None can tell us half so well
What the weather change may be—
None so wisely half as thee!
FLOWERS.
That strew your leaves upon the young spring's paths
In May's sweet hours.
That tesselate with many a varied gem
Earth's greenest bowers.
Fed by the silver dew, and canopied by cloud,
Nurtured by showers.
That hang your fearful heads like timid beauty
When tempest lowers.
That with such varied loveliness
Kind Nature dowers.
Your life is far more happy, but as brief,
As short as ours.
THE NORSEMAN'S WAR-SONG.
Of the waves that burst in on an iron-bound shore,
With the pride and the might of the surf o'er a reef,
To the sword-dance, with clamour, let's follow the chief.
Who will tarry at home by the smouldering brand?
As the blast of the tempest, the reed of the lake,
The war-axe and lance in our stout grasp shall shake.
Neither sword-blade nor spear-point feel sorrow or ruth.
Pierce lance, and drink deep of the heart-blood within;
Come, cleave, thou good war-axe, the bone and the skin.
We are coming, soon coming, in pomp and in pride.
What careth the storm for the withering tree!
God pity ye, cravens! no mercy have we.
The banquet we'll share, with loud jest and fierce mirth;
Already the smoke-wreaths mount up to the sky,—
Already hot flames are up blazing on high.
The hounds have long bayed round the wide empty toil.
We ate our last morsel in sorrow alone,
Till nothing was left but the white rattling bone.
Ye shall feast on the herds that we win in the fray;
The hot flames are mounting the heavens again—
On together, ye sons of the warrior men!
[The Bersekers, mentioned in the first verse of this song, were a class of men known among the northern nations, who, making a vow at the altar of some sea god, stripped themselves to their tunic, and then, swallowing a cup of some intoxicating beverage, rushed almost naked into the army of the enemy. The deeds of these frantic men, as related in the Sagas, are quite herculean. They formed, in reality, a rude order of knighthood.]
MAY.
Of perfumes, and sweet sounds, and eyes' delight,
Mild showers, and blooming boughs, a pleasure neverending,
A gentle coming on of calm, cool night,—
These, these are blessings scattered in our way,
In happy May.
Seeks his ice caverns; his spies work summer grief
The canker blasts the bud; the ivy creeping binds
The oak in galling chains; the chill rain spots the leaf,
They plot by night, they plot the live-long day
In mournful May.
OLD LETTERS.
Whose every leaf
Is stamped with mystic characters
Of joy and grief.
Past hope, past fear,
Past love, past scorn, past hate,
Are graven here.
That men outlast,
'Though from eternity, from whence he came,
The scribe be past.
That speak as Autumns do;
They cry of death and sorrow,
To me—to you.
Of some old tomb to raise,
And on the mouldering dead within
Silent to gaze.
Tells of days past,
Of leaves swept from an aneient tree,
And withered in the blast.
Whose silent spell
Invokes so potently the aged deed,
Farewell—farewell!
A WARNINGE WORDE.
TO MY LOVINGE FRIENDE, LAUNCELOT BURBAGE, 1610.
Trust not in star and broider'd vest;
Beware, dark eye and arched brow,
Beware of gently-pouting breast,
For thy good hand, and thy good brain
Are worth the four—and four again.
Can speed thee in the ways of life,
Nought but the strivings of thyself;
Nor friend can aid, nor child, nor wife,
Then give, my friend, thy utmost heed
To what may serve thee at thy need.
Against the desert lion's might,
As well go hew with blunted spade,
At golden targe of wizard knight.
And never breathe a word of love,
I pray thee by the gods above.
To leave thee at thy utmost need;
In leaky pinnace face a gale,
Go, rather brave the ice winds' host.
When age needs care and gentler smiles,
Pray where are then Love's pretty wiles?
Thou'dst better build on Goodwin's Sand—
The tide of Time sweeps o'er the place,
And now 'tis water, now 'tis land.
Than thus to peril heart of thine,
Thou'dst better drown thyself in wine.
Or ask why drivelling man was born;
The world's a place, I whisper thee,
Where hearts with toiling are outworn.
And ere we've ventured half way through it,
We seldom fail full well to rue it.
Then chained in a murky vault;
We half obtain to wisdom's sight,
When Death to best of us cries “halt.”
We just begin to look around,
When we are all clapp'd under ground.
The sexton lays us one by one;
Noble and churl with crowned boys,
(Say royal Philip's god-like son.)
And in the box, a coffin call'd,
Together by grim Death we're haul'd.
Ere half our scanty taper's done;
This man that put five kings to rout,
And this man's sire and that man's son.
A few quick cycles and no more,
The world is as it was before.
This bully stabs another sot;
That stamps a penny with his name,
The difference is in Nature's lot.
The world's a masquerade—how strange,
We wear a crown an hour—then change.
Or wears to-day a purple vest;
That fool is called to-night a lord,
And pins a star upon his breast.
To-morrow's eve in death they meet,
A white shroud wraps their head and feet.
Is richer for his coffin worm;
Ere well the death-bell they do ring,
Death stamps with livid brand his form.
Then what is Pride? the strutting stalk,
The aping of a stage ape's walk.
One wears a cap and one a crown;
The kaiser in his graveclothes drest,
Lays sceptre, ball, and signet down.
Do coffins of a curious wood,
Bar out the earth-worm's hungry brood?
Lays and Legends or Ballads of the New World | ||