The Desolation of Eyam The Emigrant, a Tale of the American Woods: and other poems. By William and Mary Howitt |
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THE RECORD OF POETRY. |
 | The Desolation of Eyam |  |
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THE RECORD OF POETRY.
“They of the lyre, whose unforgotten lays
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found,
Their echoes midst the mountains—and become
In man's deep heart as voices of his home.”
Mrs. Hemans.
On the morn's wing had sent their mighty sound,
And in all regions found,
Their echoes midst the mountains—and become
In man's deep heart as voices of his home.”
Mrs. Hemans.
Down Time's dim vista, from antiquity
Comes on mine ear a faint harp's distant swell.
Hark!—'tis old Jubal, seated by the sea,
Awakening music from his chorded shell.
Dim is the vision, as a twilight dream,
Yet the young world in unscathed beauty lies.—
But now, light bursts, as from the ascending beam
Of Indian day. Beneath the unclouded skies
I see how, on the unravaged earth, walks man
In his first might; unbowed by centuries.
Care silvers not his locks, his life's broad span
Rolls on, age after age, bright as it first began.
Comes on mine ear a faint harp's distant swell.
Hark!—'tis old Jubal, seated by the sea,
Awakening music from his chorded shell.
Dim is the vision, as a twilight dream,
Yet the young world in unscathed beauty lies.—
But now, light bursts, as from the ascending beam
Of Indian day. Beneath the unclouded skies
I see how, on the unravaged earth, walks man
In his first might; unbowed by centuries.
Care silvers not his locks, his life's broad span
Rolls on, age after age, bright as it first began.
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Huge creatures, in their majesty, have sway
O'er the earth's solitudes; whose bellowings shake,
Like thunder, the still world. Time speeds, and they
Are sepulchred in mountains. Yet did wake
Song, as a rosy vision, to illume
The darkness of those elder days, and cast
Beauty and light through the involving gloom
Of the primeval forest; o'er the vast
Plain, yet unbroken by the mountainous swell,
Her voice, like music at still midnight, passed;
And, 'mong the angel guests, she came to dwell,
A sojourner on earth, and primal woe dispel.
O'er the earth's solitudes; whose bellowings shake,
Like thunder, the still world. Time speeds, and they
Are sepulchred in mountains. Yet did wake
Song, as a rosy vision, to illume
The darkness of those elder days, and cast
Beauty and light through the involving gloom
Of the primeval forest; o'er the vast
Plain, yet unbroken by the mountainous swell,
Her voice, like music at still midnight, passed;
And, 'mong the angel guests, she came to dwell,
A sojourner on earth, and primal woe dispel.
And now o'er Jubal, with a mother's love,
She bends; he is the first-born of her spirit;
Wrapped in her robe of iris-light enwove,
Her energy the dower he doth inherit;
She leads him through the freshness of the world,
And feeds him from the treasury of her lore.—
Now, in her spiritual light, I see unfurled
Her record, as a scroll!—Oh yet! for more
Of that celestial fire, so I may trace
Her history, graven on the ruins hoar
Of pyramids sublime, amid the grace
Of columned shrines august, left by some nobler race.
She bends; he is the first-born of her spirit;
Wrapped in her robe of iris-light enwove,
Her energy the dower he doth inherit;
She leads him through the freshness of the world,
And feeds him from the treasury of her lore.—
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Her record, as a scroll!—Oh yet! for more
Of that celestial fire, so I may trace
Her history, graven on the ruins hoar
Of pyramids sublime, amid the grace
Of columned shrines august, left by some nobler race.
Brightens the beam!—In vision comes before
Mine eye a sinful race; and I behold
In wrath heaven opened; and the tempest pour
Deluging waters; ocean's flood uprolled,
Darkness and ruin; vengeance fallen on man;
Forest and plain o'erturned; and beast and bird,
Alike doomed by the desolating ban!
One general cry breaks forth—no more is heard
Amid the wreck, save the fierce water's roar.—
The waves have done their mission—now is reared
A sinless altar where the pure adore;
God's sign of promise shines; the floods shall rage no more.
Mine eye a sinful race; and I behold
In wrath heaven opened; and the tempest pour
Deluging waters; ocean's flood uprolled,
Darkness and ruin; vengeance fallen on man;
Forest and plain o'erturned; and beast and bird,
Alike doomed by the desolating ban!
One general cry breaks forth—no more is heard
Amid the wreck, save the fierce water's roar.—
The waves have done their mission—now is reared
A sinless altar where the pure adore;
God's sign of promise shines; the floods shall rage no more.
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Yonder the Hebrews stand upon the shore
Of the Red Sea, triumphing o'er their foes—
Years pass, and, pilgrims through the wilds no more,
In Zion's conquered city they repose.
Hark! from her courts glad sounds of harpings rise;
The prophet-monarch wakes the golden strings;
Visions of glory pass before his eyes,
And heaven seems opening as the poet sings.
Louder, and louder sings another voice;
'Tis Solomon; the cedar palace rings,
“How beautiful art thou, my love, my choice;
Wake from thy morning dream; Jerusalem rejoice!”
Of the Red Sea, triumphing o'er their foes—
Years pass, and, pilgrims through the wilds no more,
In Zion's conquered city they repose.
Hark! from her courts glad sounds of harpings rise;
The prophet-monarch wakes the golden strings;
Visions of glory pass before his eyes,
And heaven seems opening as the poet sings.
Louder, and louder sings another voice;
'Tis Solomon; the cedar palace rings,
“How beautiful art thou, my love, my choice;
Wake from thy morning dream; Jerusalem rejoice!”
Woe is upon the city, wrath and chains;
The enslaved people by Euphrates stand,
And 'mid the willows wake their mournful strains,
Sorrowing, in exile, for their native land.
And woe, woe, woe, amid the dungeon gloom;
Prophetic ruin, darkness and despair;
The fallen city; scattered Israel's doom;
And shrieks of anguish on the midnight air,
Before Hilkiah's fettered son arise.—
Hush! for Isaiah's seraph-visions bear
His spirit onward; and, with glad surprise,
Herald the Immortal Prince, and man's high destinies.
The enslaved people by Euphrates stand,
And 'mid the willows wake their mournful strains,
Sorrowing, in exile, for their native land.
And woe, woe, woe, amid the dungeon gloom;
Prophetic ruin, darkness and despair;
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And shrieks of anguish on the midnight air,
Before Hilkiah's fettered son arise.—
Hush! for Isaiah's seraph-visions bear
His spirit onward; and, with glad surprise,
Herald the Immortal Prince, and man's high destinies.
'Tis midnight—and, from Chaldea's moonlit plains,
Comes hymned sound; and, as the morning's ray
Brightens the pyramids, sweet welcoming strains
Pealed from the Theban harp salute the day.—
I see Prometheus strong in soul, subdue
His fate on Caucasus; and hear again
The wail for lost Eurydice; the blue,
Island of Colchis rises from the main;
And Neptune yields to the invading prow.—
He comes whose arm the Lernean beast has slain;—
And there young Bacchus roams, with vine-wreathed brow;—
And list, that sylvan pipe! 'tis Pan that warbles now.—
Comes hymned sound; and, as the morning's ray
Brightens the pyramids, sweet welcoming strains
Pealed from the Theban harp salute the day.—
I see Prometheus strong in soul, subdue
His fate on Caucasus; and hear again
The wail for lost Eurydice; the blue,
Island of Colchis rises from the main;
And Neptune yields to the invading prow.—
He comes whose arm the Lernean beast has slain;—
And there young Bacchus roams, with vine-wreathed brow;—
And list, that sylvan pipe! 'tis Pan that warbles now.—
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Seven cities strive for the immortal birth
Of one blind poet; who, as life, doth stir
Lands in remotest boundaries of the earth;
And Troy is known, though nought remains of her.
He bends, that old man, o'er his lyre, and gives
Life to Achilles' wrath, and Helen's charms;
Again the godlike Hector vainly strives;
And banded Grecians, in confederate arms,
Voyage the Egean sea:—in nightly lays,
Over her loom, her grief a matron calms;
Her warrior-sage returns; and love repays
Long years of mutual ill, and lights their waning days.
Of one blind poet; who, as life, doth stir
Lands in remotest boundaries of the earth;
And Troy is known, though nought remains of her.
He bends, that old man, o'er his lyre, and gives
Life to Achilles' wrath, and Helen's charms;
Again the godlike Hector vainly strives;
And banded Grecians, in confederate arms,
Voyage the Egean sea:—in nightly lays,
Over her loom, her grief a matron calms;
Her warrior-sage returns; and love repays
Long years of mutual ill, and lights their waning days.
Greece is not doomed to death. That beautiful land
Shall live, though wearing chains; wherefore must she
Crouch, as a slave, with fettered soul and hand,
Who fostered beauty, song and liberty?
A fallen, deserted queen! Was it for this
That Codrus was a sacrifice? Are none
Worthy to stand on wreck-strewn Salamis?
Died she upon her field of Marathon?
Was liberty a flame Harmodius fanned
To perish with his breath?—Had she but one
Leonidas to plant his foot, and stand
Firm as the girding rocks, a bulwark to the land?
Shall live, though wearing chains; wherefore must she
Crouch, as a slave, with fettered soul and hand,
Who fostered beauty, song and liberty?
A fallen, deserted queen! Was it for this
That Codrus was a sacrifice? Are none
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Died she upon her field of Marathon?
Was liberty a flame Harmodius fanned
To perish with his breath?—Had she but one
Leonidas to plant his foot, and stand
Firm as the girding rocks, a bulwark to the land?
I see her in her fall, the desolate,
The widowed, childless bride of former glory!
I see her when in crowned strength she sate,
Free 'mong her hundred isles. Delightful story
Beams, like a halo, round each sacred hill:
Groves rise, and mountains; each one is a shrine:
Celestial forms the radiant vallies fill:
Man communes with the gods; and dreams divine
Warm marble into life: grace springs to light,
And gives the acanthus scroll and curved line:
From columned fane, green isle, and breezy height
Comes forth a voice of song, wild breathings of delight.
The widowed, childless bride of former glory!
I see her when in crowned strength she sate,
Free 'mong her hundred isles. Delightful story
Beams, like a halo, round each sacred hill:
Groves rise, and mountains; each one is a shrine:
Celestial forms the radiant vallies fill:
Man communes with the gods; and dreams divine
Warm marble into life: grace springs to light,
And gives the acanthus scroll and curved line:
From columned fane, green isle, and breezy height
Comes forth a voice of song, wild breathings of delight.
180
Yet, in the youth of Time, ere o'er the earth
Passed, like a dimming cloud, decaying eld,
When ruin was not, beauty had her birth;
And man, in his immortal mind, beheld
Her first in Greece. Beside the sounding sea
She built her glorious temple, and did reign
Sublime in Athens. A divinity,
Heroic Valour, on the Spartan plain
Was worshipped when rose Tyrtæus in his power,
And, like the god of battles, raised a strain
Which gave birth unto heroes—from that hour
Firm stood the unwalled town, her sons her wall and tower.
Passed, like a dimming cloud, decaying eld,
When ruin was not, beauty had her birth;
And man, in his immortal mind, beheld
Her first in Greece. Beside the sounding sea
She built her glorious temple, and did reign
Sublime in Athens. A divinity,
Heroic Valour, on the Spartan plain
Was worshipped when rose Tyrtæus in his power,
And, like the god of battles, raised a strain
Which gave birth unto heroes—from that hour
Firm stood the unwalled town, her sons her wall and tower.
Music is in the woods like song of birds;—
'Tis Alcæus wandering in the myrtle shade;
Blent with the murmuring sea come passionate words
From dark-browed Sappho bending o'er Leucade.
Æschylus ponders on the sullen hate
Of destiny. From the Achaian vales
Wakes a rich melody, and tones elate
Of choral triumph swell the Isthmian gales.
Now sings Anacreon o'er the bowl he drains;
And now in Syracuse a captive wails
In Grecian song. The tyrant hears the strains—
Euripides! those lays have freed thy race from chains.
'Tis Alcæus wandering in the myrtle shade;
Blent with the murmuring sea come passionate words
From dark-browed Sappho bending o'er Leucade.
Æschylus ponders on the sullen hate
Of destiny. From the Achaian vales
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Of choral triumph swell the Isthmian gales.
Now sings Anacreon o'er the bowl he drains;
And now in Syracuse a captive wails
In Grecian song. The tyrant hears the strains—
Euripides! those lays have freed thy race from chains.
Not beautiful as Greece; yet is she fair,
Seated on her seven hills, imperial Rome!
I look abroad on every land, and there
Her victor eagle waves his martial plume.
Mother of nations, ever in her hand
She bears the sheathless sword;—her sons go forth;
Arms subjugate, arts civilize each strand;
Barbarian hordes breathe mental life—the north
Sees, in her untilled, piny solitude
Green cultivation; cities gem the earth;
Broad ways are paved through the impervious wood;
And the magnificent arch defies the unforded flood.
Seated on her seven hills, imperial Rome!
I look abroad on every land, and there
Her victor eagle waves his martial plume.
Mother of nations, ever in her hand
She bears the sheathless sword;—her sons go forth;
Arms subjugate, arts civilize each strand;
Barbarian hordes breathe mental life—the north
Sees, in her untilled, piny solitude
Green cultivation; cities gem the earth;
Broad ways are paved through the impervious wood;
And the magnificent arch defies the unforded flood.
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Circus, and portico, and marble bath,
Theatre, temple, and triumphal arch,
Of her, memorial every nation hath.
Herself—I see returning legions march,
Cohort on cohort, through her city gate.
Great Cæsar triumphs o'er the subject world;
Myriads of captives in barbaric state,
Rich spoils and gorgeous, dazzling and empearled;
Yoked monarchs harnessed to the conqueror's car;
And, towering high, her ensigns are unfurled,
Borne by the hands that planted them afar,
They go, they see, they conquer,—such is Roman war.
Theatre, temple, and triumphal arch,
Of her, memorial every nation hath.
Herself—I see returning legions march,
Cohort on cohort, through her city gate.
Great Cæsar triumphs o'er the subject world;
Myriads of captives in barbaric state,
Rich spoils and gorgeous, dazzling and empearled;
Yoked monarchs harnessed to the conqueror's car;
And, towering high, her ensigns are unfurled,
Borne by the hands that planted them afar,
They go, they see, they conquer,—such is Roman war.
The triumph halts—the crowned conqueror stays
His chariot-wheels to list the voice of song;
Rome, 'mid her crimson laurels, twines the bays,
And with sweet music smooths her Latin tongue.
Hush!—even the sleepless nightingale is mute!—
'Tis eve, and from a marble porch my ear
Catches, by fits, the cadence of a lute;
'Tis Virgil tunes the instrument. A clear
And mellowed mingling of sweet sound that swells
Like choral symphony, or Dorian flute,
In full-toned melody; as water wells
From an o'erflowing fount, his soul his verse impels.
His chariot-wheels to list the voice of song;
Rome, 'mid her crimson laurels, twines the bays,
And with sweet music smooths her Latin tongue.
Hush!—even the sleepless nightingale is mute!—
'Tis eve, and from a marble porch my ear
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'Tis Virgil tunes the instrument. A clear
And mellowed mingling of sweet sound that swells
Like choral symphony, or Dorian flute,
In full-toned melody; as water wells
From an o'erflowing fount, his soul his verse impels.
As nightingale to nightingale replies,
Filling the woods with their ecstatic voices,
So, from the Tiber's shore sweet sounds arise,
And in the harmonious contest, Rome rejoices.
'Tis Horace singing 'neath his own pure skies,
Where native laurel round his brow entwines.
But from afar—what sorrowing sounds arise?
Ovid, in exile, for his country pines,
And wanders, with his lyre upon the shores
Of Pontus, murmuring to the sea. The vines
Hang clustering round the bower, where Lucan pours
His might of warlike song, and battle-fields restores.
Filling the woods with their ecstatic voices,
So, from the Tiber's shore sweet sounds arise,
And in the harmonious contest, Rome rejoices.
'Tis Horace singing 'neath his own pure skies,
Where native laurel round his brow entwines.
But from afar—what sorrowing sounds arise?
Ovid, in exile, for his country pines,
And wanders, with his lyre upon the shores
Of Pontus, murmuring to the sea. The vines
Hang clustering round the bower, where Lucan pours
His might of warlike song, and battle-fields restores.
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Song wakes in Persia's fragrant cedar bowers.
Where shines the sun on opal-plumaged birds,
I hear the poet, couched on radiant flowers,
Tuning his citarr to luxurious words.
Love, like a spirit, rules that sunny clime,
'Mong beautiful forms, whose eyes of diamond ray
Dim not, and rose-lipped beauty has its prime.—
Lo! now a mighty river!—Rising day
Brightens the Ganges; on its heaven-sprung tide
Floats the immortal lotus. Why delay,
Sweet Hindoo girl, thy steps—this eve a bride?
For yon small leaf—his spell, propitious Love will guide.
Where shines the sun on opal-plumaged birds,
I hear the poet, couched on radiant flowers,
Tuning his citarr to luxurious words.
Love, like a spirit, rules that sunny clime,
'Mong beautiful forms, whose eyes of diamond ray
Dim not, and rose-lipped beauty has its prime.—
Lo! now a mighty river!—Rising day
Brightens the Ganges; on its heaven-sprung tide
Floats the immortal lotus. Why delay,
Sweet Hindoo girl, thy steps—this eve a bride?
For yon small leaf—his spell, propitious Love will guide.
Land of the desert! birth-place of romance!
Arabia slumbers now; she did not sleep
Ages ago, when, with a lightning glance,
Young science beamed on her, and she did steep,
Like her own bird, her breast in heaven-lit flame.
There is she, mid her trackless wastes of sand,
The unyoked spirit, ages may not tame;
She has a rod of magic in her hand.—
Towards icy Caf she turns; and from the north
Wings the gigantic roc: she points the wand
To Africa,—the swart magician forth
Comes from his hidden den, and wonders awe the earth.
Arabia slumbers now; she did not sleep
Ages ago, when, with a lightning glance,
Young science beamed on her, and she did steep,
Like her own bird, her breast in heaven-lit flame.
There is she, mid her trackless wastes of sand,
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She has a rod of magic in her hand.—
Towards icy Caf she turns; and from the north
Wings the gigantic roc: she points the wand
To Africa,—the swart magician forth
Comes from his hidden den, and wonders awe the earth.
She smiles, and faery regions are revealed,
Dazzling, and wrought with gems and flowers. 'Tis she
From whom earth, air, and flood have nought concealed—
The genii mild, the peri of the sea.
—Now is the vision changed; 'tis evening hour,
And the broad sun goes down upon the sand:
Fleet herds of the wild horse, like tempest, scour
Across the desert. There the wandering band
Of the Bedouins pitch their tents. Gleams bright
The red fire on their visages;—as stand
The eternal piles of Tadmor, so delight
Has fixed that listening band,—glad wonder and affright.
Dazzling, and wrought with gems and flowers. 'Tis she
From whom earth, air, and flood have nought concealed—
The genii mild, the peri of the sea.
—Now is the vision changed; 'tis evening hour,
And the broad sun goes down upon the sand:
Fleet herds of the wild horse, like tempest, scour
Across the desert. There the wandering band
Of the Bedouins pitch their tents. Gleams bright
The red fire on their visages;—as stand
The eternal piles of Tadmor, so delight
Has fixed that listening band,—glad wonder and affright.
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Amid the tent sits one, in low, wild tone
Telling the marvellous tale; and, as a chain,
He winds his mystery; how, upon a throne
Of awful magic, Maugraby did reign;
Of curse; of dire enchantment; and the might
Of that young arm which broke the wizard's spell.
Now, sings he of the blessed halls of light,
Where Ahmed and his fairy-love did dwell
In splendour, as in regions of the sun.
And now Aladdin's wondrous lamp burns bright:
Palace and city shines, the bride is won;—
And he, a mighty king, the desolate widow's son.
Telling the marvellous tale; and, as a chain,
He winds his mystery; how, upon a throne
Of awful magic, Maugraby did reign;
Of curse; of dire enchantment; and the might
Of that young arm which broke the wizard's spell.
Now, sings he of the blessed halls of light,
Where Ahmed and his fairy-love did dwell
In splendour, as in regions of the sun.
And now Aladdin's wondrous lamp burns bright:
Palace and city shines, the bride is won;—
And he, a mighty king, the desolate widow's son.
'Tis gone—'tis gone—the Arab and his tale;
The wild horse, and the desert tents are gone!—
I gaze upon a sky where meteors sail;
I hear a sea that hath a warring moan.
And snowy peak, and piny promontory
Stretch to the main, and pierce the cold, blue sky.
Grey mists hang o'er the valley, and from hoary
And riven crags, screams out the eagle's cry.
Odin is there, I hear his charmed lay
Chaunted amid the storm; and, as his eye
Gleams on the land or sea, spirits obey,
And throng from glen, isle, wood, drear cave, or haunted bay.
The wild horse, and the desert tents are gone!—
I gaze upon a sky where meteors sail;
I hear a sea that hath a warring moan.
And snowy peak, and piny promontory
Stretch to the main, and pierce the cold, blue sky.
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And riven crags, screams out the eagle's cry.
Odin is there, I hear his charmed lay
Chaunted amid the storm; and, as his eye
Gleams on the land or sea, spirits obey,
And throng from glen, isle, wood, drear cave, or haunted bay.
Night is upon the mountains.—O'er the wave
The fierce sea-king, red from the battle sails;
The ships are moored—and in the ocean-cave
The visioned-scald recites his runic tales.
Night is upon the mountains. Grey and bowed
Stands the lone tree that marks the grassy tomb;
Dim, shadowy forms ride on the hurrying cloud;
And Lodi's spirit murmurs in the gloom.
Hark! 'tis the ring of bossy shields I hear;
And o'er the plain, ere morning, warriors come;
Fingal is there; he shakes his mighty spear,
And, 'mid the echoing war, pours music on mine ear.
The fierce sea-king, red from the battle sails;
The ships are moored—and in the ocean-cave
The visioned-scald recites his runic tales.
Night is upon the mountains. Grey and bowed
Stands the lone tree that marks the grassy tomb;
Dim, shadowy forms ride on the hurrying cloud;
And Lodi's spirit murmurs in the gloom.
Hark! 'tis the ring of bossy shields I hear;
And o'er the plain, ere morning, warriors come;
Fingal is there; he shakes his mighty spear,
And, 'mid the echoing war, pours music on mine ear.
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Oh lovely Selma! fallen are thy halls!
Thy bard lies low, in his forgotten grave;
The dry grass whispers o'er thy buried walls;
And sighs the low wind to the moaning wave!
Yet now he rises on my sight! I know
The aged Ossian!—list, his sounding shell;
Sad is the strain; a sweet, wild tale of woe;—
Malvina droops where valiant Oscar fell.
I see his grey locks streaming to the blast;
By Clutha's thundering falls I hear the swell
Of his wild mountain harp. The storm is past,
And, to the uprising sun, his sightless eyes are cast.
Thy bard lies low, in his forgotten grave;
The dry grass whispers o'er thy buried walls;
And sighs the low wind to the moaning wave!
Yet now he rises on my sight! I know
The aged Ossian!—list, his sounding shell;
Sad is the strain; a sweet, wild tale of woe;—
Malvina droops where valiant Oscar fell.
I see his grey locks streaming to the blast;
By Clutha's thundering falls I hear the swell
Of his wild mountain harp. The storm is past,
And, to the uprising sun, his sightless eyes are cast.
Years roll on years; and changes strange have been;
Gloom has gone o'er the world, and mental night:
But now my spirit views a radiant scene,
Clear skies, sweet flowers, and valleys bathed in light.
It is the land of beautiful Provence;
And yonder wends the chivalrous Troubadour;
Skilful alike to handle lute, or lance;
True to his lady, as his shield is pure.
In court, in camp, gay hall, and valley lone,
Swells the glad strain of his “chanson d'amour.”
Lo! to the fight the Troubadour is gone!
“Now to the charge, brave hearts!” he cries, and leads them on.
Gloom has gone o'er the world, and mental night:
But now my spirit views a radiant scene,
Clear skies, sweet flowers, and valleys bathed in light.
It is the land of beautiful Provence;
And yonder wends the chivalrous Troubadour;
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True to his lady, as his shield is pure.
In court, in camp, gay hall, and valley lone,
Swells the glad strain of his “chanson d'amour.”
Lo! to the fight the Troubadour is gone!
“Now to the charge, brave hearts!” he cries, and leads them on.
He sings no more, for as the summer bird
Makes glad the woods in the bright month of May
Yet, in the yellowing Autumn is not heard,
So from Provence the song has passed away.
But in the chestnut groves of Italy
Sweet song is carolled through the livelong year.
Behold the bard whose quick and frenzied eye
Has visions terrible; communings drear
He holds; and, knows the histories of the dead.
—'Tis morning—and the matin call I hear
From Santa Clara, whither, by love led,
Petrarca goes, whose peace is, thenceforth, banished.
Makes glad the woods in the bright month of May
Yet, in the yellowing Autumn is not heard,
So from Provence the song has passed away.
But in the chestnut groves of Italy
Sweet song is carolled through the livelong year.
Behold the bard whose quick and frenzied eye
Has visions terrible; communings drear
He holds; and, knows the histories of the dead.
—'Tis morning—and the matin call I hear
From Santa Clara, whither, by love led,
Petrarca goes, whose peace is, thenceforth, banished.
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Laura in prayer, bends to the blessed saint;
Her eyes upturned; her radiant face unveiled;—
What ails thee, Petrarch, that thy steps are faint,
Thy soul is saddened, and thy cheek so paled?—
He loves—youth deepens, darkens, dims to age,
Yet still he loves; and that enduring flame,
His life of life, inspires his glowing page,
And God and Laura like devotion claim.—
Now Ariosto sings—and lo! the expanse
Opens of fairy realms, where knight and dame,
Led on by sorcerers' wiles, or stern mischance,
Wander through all the maze and marvels of romance.
Her eyes upturned; her radiant face unveiled;—
What ails thee, Petrarch, that thy steps are faint,
Thy soul is saddened, and thy cheek so paled?—
He loves—youth deepens, darkens, dims to age,
Yet still he loves; and that enduring flame,
His life of life, inspires his glowing page,
And God and Laura like devotion claim.—
Now Ariosto sings—and lo! the expanse
Opens of fairy realms, where knight and dame,
Led on by sorcerers' wiles, or stern mischance,
Wander through all the maze and marvels of romance.
In proud Ferrara's halls a poet bends
O'er his impassioned lyre—The song is done.
And now a thunder of applause ascends,
And power and beauty bless the muses' son.
Oh! happy Italy that gave him birth,
Immortal Tasso—yet, behold him bowed;
A wretched maniac, fettered, crushed to earth;
And this is he of whom the world is proud!
Song is in other lands than Italy.
See yon pale mendicant who shuns the crowd.
That is Camoens! Wandering where the sea
Lashes the rocks, he sings for immortality.
O'er his impassioned lyre—The song is done.
And now a thunder of applause ascends,
And power and beauty bless the muses' son.
Oh! happy Italy that gave him birth,
Immortal Tasso—yet, behold him bowed;
191
And this is he of whom the world is proud!
Song is in other lands than Italy.
See yon pale mendicant who shuns the crowd.
That is Camoens! Wandering where the sea
Lashes the rocks, he sings for immortality.
Ungrateful land! unworthy of his song,
She hears not, heeds not, though his voice alone
Exalt her 'mong the nations. Grief and wrong
Have stilled the chords—her only bard is gone.
She spurned him living, yet she mourned him dead;
And grief, as mockery, from yon sainted pile
Came forth in solemn chaunts. Onward has sped
Time, and she hath forgotten him like the vile.
Away! the land of slaves I see no more!
Mine eye is on a green, delightful isle
Whence rise such tones of music, as before
Ne'er rose from sacred shrine, or fair enchanted shore.
She hears not, heeds not, though his voice alone
Exalt her 'mong the nations. Grief and wrong
Have stilled the chords—her only bard is gone.
She spurned him living, yet she mourned him dead;
And grief, as mockery, from yon sainted pile
Came forth in solemn chaunts. Onward has sped
Time, and she hath forgotten him like the vile.
Away! the land of slaves I see no more!
Mine eye is on a green, delightful isle
Whence rise such tones of music, as before
Ne'er rose from sacred shrine, or fair enchanted shore.
192
Loftier than Greece, in her sublimest days;
Or Rome, the matron, o'er her Tuscan lyre;
Than phœnix Araby, amid the blaze,
The heaven-lit radiance of her spicy pyre,
Is she, the beautiful land of arts and arms,
Whom laws, and liberty, and song have made
The idol of the nations; myriad swarms,
Men of all tongues, in all attires arrayed,
Are thronging to her worship. Hark, again
Her carolling voice breaks forth from out the shade
Of her green, echoing wood, and mountain glen,
One anthem of delight, one general song as when
Or Rome, the matron, o'er her Tuscan lyre;
Than phœnix Araby, amid the blaze,
The heaven-lit radiance of her spicy pyre,
Is she, the beautiful land of arts and arms,
Whom laws, and liberty, and song have made
The idol of the nations; myriad swarms,
Men of all tongues, in all attires arrayed,
Are thronging to her worship. Hark, again
Her carolling voice breaks forth from out the shade
Of her green, echoing wood, and mountain glen,
One anthem of delight, one general song as when
She holds a carnival.—Now music slow
Peals 'mid a royal pageant; and a queen
Listens to one who tells of joy and woe,
Love, hate, war, passion, or whate'er has been.
And now behold, with high, calm brow sublime,
Through the dim glooms of anarchy arise,
Like some pure patriarch of the elder time,
Unveiling heaven, and peopling paradise,
Milton, whose vision was celestial light.
Years rolled, and song's divinest energies
Nerved Byron's soul, who, grappling in his might,
Broke custom's coward chain, and dared an untried flight.
Peals 'mid a royal pageant; and a queen
Listens to one who tells of joy and woe,
Love, hate, war, passion, or whate'er has been.
And now behold, with high, calm brow sublime,
Through the dim glooms of anarchy arise,
193
Unveiling heaven, and peopling paradise,
Milton, whose vision was celestial light.
Years rolled, and song's divinest energies
Nerved Byron's soul, who, grappling in his might,
Broke custom's coward chain, and dared an untried flight.
Hushed are those mighty voices.—I, who viewed
The shrined grandeur of gone time pass by,
In hallowed haunts, with mystic power imbued,
Who met the unshackled soul of poetry,
Yet shrunk I not, as now, before the tone
Of many an earthly voice. I hear a lay
Poured from the north, where, mid the mountains lone,
Grey Albyn's minstrel wends; and far away
Casts to the echoes of each ancient hill,
The songs they answered in an earlier day.
And round St. Mary's lake, in moonlight still,
The fairy people troop, at the blithe shepherd's will.
The shrined grandeur of gone time pass by,
In hallowed haunts, with mystic power imbued,
Who met the unshackled soul of poetry,
Yet shrunk I not, as now, before the tone
Of many an earthly voice. I hear a lay
Poured from the north, where, mid the mountains lone,
Grey Albyn's minstrel wends; and far away
Casts to the echoes of each ancient hill,
The songs they answered in an earlier day.
And round St. Mary's lake, in moonlight still,
The fairy people troop, at the blithe shepherd's will.
194
Long, from the Cumbrian hills, may Wordsworth teach
Man, what his wisdom is so slow to learn,
That simplest, purest joys that all may reach
Are such as yield the spirit best return.
And now he comes who strung his lyre to Hope,
And poured an angel's song. And now the seer
Of Human Life, who, in his spirit's scope,
Embraced the joys of Memory. Now the drear,
Wild tale of Thalaba becomes a spell;
Don Roderick's charge; Kehama's curse of fear:—
And, like the chime of “merry marriage bell,”
Our own Anacreon's song does even the Greek's excel.
Man, what his wisdom is so slow to learn,
That simplest, purest joys that all may reach
Are such as yield the spirit best return.
And now he comes who strung his lyre to Hope,
And poured an angel's song. And now the seer
Of Human Life, who, in his spirit's scope,
Embraced the joys of Memory. Now the drear,
Wild tale of Thalaba becomes a spell;
Don Roderick's charge; Kehama's curse of fear:—
And, like the chime of “merry marriage bell,”
Our own Anacreon's song does even the Greek's excel.
Yet not alone her sons excel in song;—
For many a lady wakes, with mighty hand,
Chords whose heroic strains had done no wrong
To the sweet Lesbian's fame. Amid the band,
I hear one syren singing to her lute,
Whose melody doth hold my soul in thrall;
Lays of far lands; Elmina's frantic suit;
And the wild woe that filled Grenada's hall.
But cease—I may the theme no more pursue.
Dimness is on my vision;—on the wall
I hang my silent harp, o'er which I threw,
In grief, a feeble hand, and thence calm solace drew;
For many a lady wakes, with mighty hand,
Chords whose heroic strains had done no wrong
To the sweet Lesbian's fame. Amid the band,
I hear one syren singing to her lute,
Whose melody doth hold my soul in thrall;
195
And the wild woe that filled Grenada's hall.
But cease—I may the theme no more pursue.
Dimness is on my vision;—on the wall
I hang my silent harp, o'er which I threw,
In grief, a feeble hand, and thence calm solace drew;
Even while my soul, in sorrowful lament,
Wailed for the brother who may hear no more
My voice, in tones of welcome gladly sent,
To hail his wanderings from a foreign shore.
Peace to his ashes! though he does not rest
Within the small, green, quiet burial-place,
Where, side by side, in their last slumbers blest,
Are laid the sons and fathers of our race!
Peace to his ashes! though no kindred gave
Soothing in death, or took his last embrace;
Though a strange land hath given his silent grave,
Round which the cold winds howl, where roars the mighty wave.
Wailed for the brother who may hear no more
My voice, in tones of welcome gladly sent,
To hail his wanderings from a foreign shore.
Peace to his ashes! though he does not rest
Within the small, green, quiet burial-place,
Where, side by side, in their last slumbers blest,
Are laid the sons and fathers of our race!
Peace to his ashes! though no kindred gave
Soothing in death, or took his last embrace;
Though a strange land hath given his silent grave,
Round which the cold winds howl, where roars the mighty wave.
196
It matters not—it matters not where lies
Thy perishing dust—beloved, thou are not dead.
Thou dost survive in deathless memories;
And but to the soul's sanctuary art fled.
Thou, in thy bright and generous youth, art still
Dwelling amongst us—In the forest shade,
The low, green vale, and on the ancient hill,
Thou canst not be forgotten. Thou wast made
To be the one most cherished—a fair light
To gladden for a season, and to fade:
Then from the eternal day, more pure and bright,
Shine to dispel the shade that wraps life's gloomy night.
Thy perishing dust—beloved, thou are not dead.
Thou dost survive in deathless memories;
And but to the soul's sanctuary art fled.
Thou, in thy bright and generous youth, art still
Dwelling amongst us—In the forest shade,
The low, green vale, and on the ancient hill,
Thou canst not be forgotten. Thou wast made
To be the one most cherished—a fair light
To gladden for a season, and to fade:
Then from the eternal day, more pure and bright,
Shine to dispel the shade that wraps life's gloomy night.
Oh be the beacon, dear and lovely one!
The dark sea of futurity illume.
Mid rocks and storms our barks drive swiftly on;
And we must win thy haven through the tomb.
Alas, alas! the desolate hearth has known
What has been suffered;—the deep, silent pain
Of hearts which only broke not; the low tone
Of Christian sorrow that dared not complain,
But bowed to the mysterious will of heaven.
The shock is past—the sunk heart raised again:
Who gave the wound, hath also healing given;
And in meek, holy faith it hath not vainly striven.
The dark sea of futurity illume.
Mid rocks and storms our barks drive swiftly on;
And we must win thy haven through the tomb.
Alas, alas! the desolate hearth has known
What has been suffered;—the deep, silent pain
197
Of Christian sorrow that dared not complain,
But bowed to the mysterious will of heaven.
The shock is past—the sunk heart raised again:
Who gave the wound, hath also healing given;
And in meek, holy faith it hath not vainly striven.
Thus while my soul, in secret sorrow, strove
To stem the tide, or resolutely bear
The shock that severed, yet cemented love,
These visions of past glory lit despair.
And I have felt wild anguish pass away
Before the imaged splendour which has cast
On every land, in every age a ray;
Which, like the undimmed, undying sun shall last.
Immortal song, with energy divine,
Kindling the spirit from the glorious past!—
So cease the lay, and be my soul a shrine
O'er which the unquenched lamp of deathless verse shall shine.
To stem the tide, or resolutely bear
The shock that severed, yet cemented love,
These visions of past glory lit despair.
And I have felt wild anguish pass away
Before the imaged splendour which has cast
On every land, in every age a ray;
Which, like the undimmed, undying sun shall last.
Immortal song, with energy divine,
Kindling the spirit from the glorious past!—
So cease the lay, and be my soul a shrine
O'er which the unquenched lamp of deathless verse shall shine.
| The Desolation of Eyam | |