 | Airs of Palestine, and other poems |  |
AIRS OF PALESTINE.
The rushing tempest in its gathering folds;
The darkened world beneath it holds its breath,
And, from its bosom, comes the voice of Death,
Solemn and deep:—yet on that cloud we gaze
With calm delight, when on its border blaze
The golden splendors of the closing day:
These tell us, that the cloud will pass away
Harmless, and leave behind it purer air
For all that breathe, and the fair world more fair.
So, when one language bound the human race,
On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base,
Gloomily rose the minister of wrath;
Dark was his frown, destructive was his path;
That tower was blasted by the touch of Heaven;
That bond was burst,—that race asunder driven:
Yet, round the Avenger's brow, that frowned above,
Played Mercy's beams,—the lambent light of Love.
All was not lost, though busy Discord flung
Repulsive accents from each jarring tongue;
And Mercy dropped it, to connect mankind:
One tie, whose airy filaments invest,
Like Beauty's zone, the calm or stormy breast;
Wake that to action, rule of this the strife,
And, through the mazy labyrinths of life,
Supply a faithful clue, to lead the lone
And weary wanderer to his Father's throne.
How lovely is the Power that all obey!
Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock;
Her voice is echoed by the desert rock;
For her, the asp withholds the sting of death,
And bares his fangs but to inhale her breath;
The royal lion leaves his desert lair,
And, crouching, listens when she treads the air;
And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill,
Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still.
Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal
Along his heart,—that heart will never feel.
'T is hers to chain the passions, soothe the soul,
To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl,
From Murder's hand; to smooth the couch of Care,
Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there;
Of Pain's hot brow to still the bounding throb,
Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob.
How vast her empire! Turn through earth, through air,
Your aching eye, you find her subjects there;
Nor is the throne of heaven above her spell,
Nor yet beneath it is the host of hell.
Her eye looks heavenward, for from heaven she came.
And when Religion's mild and genial ray
Around the frozen heart begins to play,
Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light;
The fire is kindled, and the flame is bright;
And that cold mass, by either power assailed,
Is warmed, is melted, and to heaven exhaled.
How fresh this mountain air!—how soft the blue,
That throws its mantle o'er the lengthening scene!
Those waving groves,—those vales of living green,—
Those yellow fields,—that lake's cerulèan face,
That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace
Of roaring torrents, lulled by her to rest;—
That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast:
How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky!
How rich the light that gives it to the eye!
We may admire, but cannot tread them all.
Where lies our path?—a poet, and inquire
What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre?
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow;
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow;
There Ossa rises; there Olympus towers;
Between them, Tempè breathes in beds of flowers,
For ever verdant; and there Peneus glides
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides.
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave,
Enchanted by his lyre:—Cithæron's shade
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth,
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth.
And fast by Hæmus, Thracian Hebrus creeps
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps,
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along,
Was still melodious, and expired in song.
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell;
There be thy path,—for there the Muses dwell.
Greece and her charms I leave, for Palestine.
There, purer streams through happier valleys flow,
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow.
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm;
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm;
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews;
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse;
In Carmel's holy grots I'll court repose,
And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose.
And hold their green shields o'er the pilgrim's head,
At once repelling Syria's burning ray,
And breathing freshness on the sultry day.
Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing,
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring;
I gather flowers to bloom along my line,
And hang my garland in festoons around,
Enwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound;
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope, the Power,
That gave perfume and beauty to the flower,
Drew living water from this rocky shrine,
Purpled the clustering honors of the vine,
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither,
To weave a garland, will not let it wither:—
Wondering, I listen to the strain sublime,
That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time,
Wafted in grand simplicity along,
The undying breath, the very soul of song.
Down that long vale of years are sweetly rolled
The mingled voices of the bards of old;
Melodious voices! bards of brightest fire!
Where each is warm, how melting is the quire!
Yet, though so blended is the concert blest,
Some master tones are heard above the rest.
Israel is safe, and Egypt tempts the tides:
Her host, descending, meets a watery grave,
And o'er her monarch rolls the refluent wave.
The storm is hushed; the billows foam no more,
But sink in smiles;—there 's Music on the shore!
On the wide waste of waters, dies that air
Unheard; for all is death and coldness there.
But see! the robe that brooding Silence throws
O'er Shur reclining in profound repose,
That swells the song the astonished Hebrews raise.
The desert waked at that proud anthem, flung
From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue:
The first to Liberty that e'er was sung.
Such high-toned triumph wakes the exulting lyre,
What are its breathings, when pale Sorrow flings
Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings?
His life and empire in prophetic lines. —
Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends,
And conscious earth, as when the dew descends,
Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell,
Her herbs shoot greener, as he bids farewell.
Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows:
And as that harp, which God alone bestows,
Is swept in concert with that sinking breath,
Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death.
It was the touch of death!—Sweet be thy slumbers,
Harp of the prophet! but those holy numbers,
That death-denoting, monitory moan,
Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan.
From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw,
O'er Jordan's wave, where Canaan met his view.
His sunny mantle, and his hoary locks
Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks.
Where is that mantle?—Melted into air.
Where is the prophet?—God can tell thee where.
A fleecy cloud hangs hovering in the light,
Fit couch for angels; which while yet we view,
'T is lost to earth, in the clear depths of blue.
The battle stream, and roll its darkest surge;
Whose army marches through retiring seas,
Whose gory banner, spreading on the breeze,
Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers,
For the account of the destruction of Jericho, by the Jews under the command of Joshua, see Joshua vi., particularly verse 20th, “So the people shouted, when the priests blew the trumpets; and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound of the trumpets, and the people shouted with a great shout, that the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, every man straight before him, and they took the city.”
And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers?
The Moon can answer; for she heard his tongue,
And cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung.
“Then spake Joshua to the Lord, in the day when the Lord delivered up the Amorites before the children of Israel, Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon, and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon. And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies.”
—Josh. x. 12, 13.The Sun can tell:—o'er Gibeon's vale of blood,
Curving their beamy necks, his coursers stood,
Held by that hero's arm, to light his wrath,
And roll their glorious eyes upon his crimson path.
What mine, exploding, rends that smoking ground?
What earthquake spreads those smouldering ruins round?
The sons of Levi, round that city, bear
The ark of God, their consecrated care,
And, in rude concert, each returning morn,
Blow the long trump, and wind the curling horn.
No blackening thunder smoked along the wall:
No earthquake shook it:—Music wrought its fall.
Freezes to love's, to melt in holier fires,
And builds on Libanus his humble shed,
Beneath the waving cedars of his head;—
Doubt after doubt in stronger hopes dissolving;—
Though neither pipe, nor voice, nor organ's swell,
Disturb the silence of his lonely cell;
Yet hears enough, had nought been heard before,
To wake a holy awe, and teach him to adore.
For, ere the day with orisons he closes,
Ere on his flinty couch his head reposes,—
A couch more downy in the hermit's sight,
Than one of rose-leaves to the Sybarite,—
As lone he muses on those naked rocks,
Heaven's last light blushing on his silver locks,
Amid the deepening shades of that wild mountain,
He hears the burst of many a mossy fountain,
Whose crystal rills in pure embraces mingle,
And dash and sparkle down the leafy dingle,
There lose their liquid notes:—with grateful glow,
The hermit listens, as the waters flow,
And says, there 's Music in that mountain stream,
The storm beneath him, and the eagle's scream.
The tameless Music, that with time began;
Airs of the Power, that bids the tempest roar,
The cedar bow, the royal eagle soar;
The mighty Power, by whom those rocks were piled,
Who moves unseen, and murmurs through the wild.
What countless chords does that dread Being strike!
Various their tone, but all divine alike:
There, Mercy whispers in a balmy breath,
Here, Anger thunders, and the note is death;
And here, a burst that shakes the whole creation.
Behold Elijah stands by Horeb's cave;
Grieved that the God, for whom he 'd warmly striven,
Should see his servants into exile driven,
His words neglected, by those servants spoken,
His prophets murdered, and his altars broken.
His bleeding heart a soothing strain requires:
He hear it:—softer than Æolian lyres,
“A still, small voice,” like Zephyr's dying sighs,
Steals on his ear:—he may not lift his eyes,
But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings,
And hears a whisper from the King of kings.
“And after the earthquake a fire; but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire, a still, small voice. And it was so, when Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, behold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What dost thou here, Elijah?”
—1 Kings xix. 12, 13.Where spreads a desert prospect, wild and wide,
The prophet sees, with reverential dread,
Dark Sinai rear his thunder-blasted head;
Where erst was poured on trembling Israel's ear
A stormier peal, that Moses quaked to hear.
In what tremendous pomp Jehovah shone,
When on that mount he fixed his burning throne!
Thick, round its base, a shuddering gloom was flung:
Black, on its breast, a thunder-cloud was hung:
Bright, through that blackness, arrowy lightnings came,
Shot from the glowing vail, that wrapped its head in flame.
And when that quaking mount the Eternal trod,
Scorched by the foot of the descending God,
Swelled by the breath of whirlwinds, rent the cloud,
And Death and Terror stalked beneath that smoky shroud.
Of eye serene, and brightly flowing hair,
That leans, in thoughtful posture, on his crook,
And, statue-like, pores o'er the pebbly brook?
Yes: and why stands he there, in stupor cold?
Why not pursue those wanderers from his fold?
Or, 'mid the playful children of his flocks,
Toss his light limbs, and shake his amber locks,
Rather than idly gaze upon the stream?—
That boy is lost in a poetic dream:
And, while his eye follows the wave along,
His soul expatiates in the realms of song.
For oft, where yonder grassy hills recede,
I've heard that shepherd tune his rustic reed;
And then such sweetness from his fingers stole,
I knew that Music had possessed his soul.
Oft in her temple shall the votary bow,
Oft at her altar breathe his ardent vow,
And oft suspend, along her coral walls,
The proudest trophies that adorn her halls.
Even now the heralds of his monarch tear
The son of Jesse from his fleecy care,
“Wherefore Saul sent messengers unto Jesse, and said, Send me David thy son, which is with the sheep. And Jesse took an ass laden with bread, and a bottle of wine, and a kid, and sent them by David his son unto Saul. And David came to Saul, and stood before him; and he loved him greatly, and he became his armour-bearer. And Saul sent to Jesse, saying, Let David, I pray thee, stand before me; for he hath found favor in my sight. And it came to pass, when the evil spirit from God was upon Saul, that David took a harp, and played with his hand; so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the evil spirit departed from him.”
—1 Sam. xvi. 19–23.And to the hall the ruddy minstrel bring,
Where sits a being, that was once a king.
Still on his brow the crown of Israel gleams,
And cringing courtiers still adore its beams,
But rays of hell, that melt it while they shine.
It leaps and sparkles with prophetic fire,
And, with the kindling song, the kindling rays
Around his fingers tremulously blaze,
Till the whole hall, like those blest fields above,
Glows with the light of melody and love.
Heaven on his memory bursts, and Eden's balm:
He sees the dawnings of too bright a sky;
Detects the angel in the poet's eye;
With grasp convulsive rends his matted hair;
Through his strained eyeballs shoots a fiend-like glare;
And flies, with shrieks of agony, that hall,
The throne of Israel, and the breast of Saul,
Exiled to roam, or, in infernal pains,
To seek a refuge from that shepherd's strains.
Their starlight watch: their flocks around them slept.
To heaven's blue fields their wakeful eyes were turned,
And to the fires that there eternal burned.
Those azure regions had been peopled long,
With Fancy's children, by the sons of song:
And there the simple shepherd, conning o'er
His humble pittance of Chaldean lore,
Saw, in the stillness of a starry night,
The Swan and Eagle wing their silent flight,
To the reader, who is but superficially acquainted with astronomy, no explanatory note is here necessary. To others it is enough to observe, that the Swan, the Eagle, Berenice's lock, Boötes, the Pleiades, the Lyre, and Auriga or the Charioteer, are the names of constellations, or parts of constellations, visible in the northern hemisphere,—of course in Palestine.—Cynosure is the classical name of the Pole-star.
On Israel's vales of verdure shower the dew:
Saw there the brilliant gems, that nightly flare
In the thin mist of Berenicè's hair;
And there Boötes roll his lucid wain,
On sparkling wheels, along the ethereal plain;
And there the Pleiades, in tuneful gyre,
Pursue for ever the star-studded Lyre;
And there, with bickering lash, heaven's Charioteer
Urge round the Cynosure his bright career.
O'er heaven's blue concave flashed a sudden light.
The unrolling glory spread its folds divine
O'er the green hills and vales of Palestine;
And lo! descending angels, hovering there,
Stretched their loose wings, and in the purple air
Hung o'er the sleepless guardians of the fold:—
When that high anthem, clear, and strong, and bold,
On wavy paths of trembling ether ran:
“Glory to God;—Benevolence to man;—
Peace to the world:”—and in full concert came,
From silver tubes and harps of golden frame,
The loud and sweet response, whose choral strains
Lingered and languished on Judea's plains.
Yon living lamps, charmed from their chambers blue
By airs so heavenly, from the skies withdrew:
All?—all, but one, that hung and burned alone,
And with mild lustre over Bethlehem shone.
Chaldea's sages saw that orb afar
Glow unextinguished;—'t was Salvation's Star.
And echoes through Philippi's gloomy cells?
From vault to vault the heavy notes rebound,
And granite rocks reverberate the sound.
The wretch, who long, in dungeons cold and dank,
His chains had shaken, that their iron clank
Might break the grave-like silence of that prison,
On which the Star of Hope had never risen;
Then sunk in slumbers, by despair oppressed,
And dreamed of freedom in his broken rest;
Wakes at the music of those mellow strains,
Thinks it some spirit, and forgets his chains.
'T is Paul and Silas;—with the voice of prayer,
And holy chant, they load the midnight air.
Soon is their anthem wafted to the skies:
An angel bears it, and a God replies.
At that reply, a pale, portentous light
Plays through the air,—then leaves a gloomier night.
The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch,
The rocking walls, confess an earthquake's march,
“And when they had laid many stripes upon them, (Paul and Silas,) they cast them into prison, charging the jailer to keep them safely; who, having received such a charge, thrust them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the stocks. And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang praises unto God; and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the prison were shaken; and immediately the doors were opened, and every one's bands were loosed.”
—Acts xvi. 23–26.The stars look dimly through the roof:—behold,
From saffron dews and melting clouds of gold,
Brightly uncurling on the dungeon's air,
Freedom walks forth serene:—from her loose hair,
And every glistening feather of her wings,
Perfumes that breathe of more than earth she flings,
And with a touch dissolves the prisoner's chains,
Whose song had charmed her from celestial plains.
Abroad at night; when all her subjects kneel,
And, at that sober hour, she'll sit alone,
Upon a bank, by her sequestered cell,
And breathe her sorrows through her wreathed shell.
Again 't is night,—the diamond lights on high
Burn bright, and dance harmonious through the sky;
And Silence leads her downy-footed hours
Round Sion's hill and Salem's holy towers.
The Lord of Life, with his few faithful friends,
Drowned in mute sorrow, down that hill descends.
They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes
Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes;
And climb the steep, where oft the midnight air
Received the Sufferer's solitary prayer.
There, in dark bowers imbosomed, Jesus flings
His hand celestial o'er prophetic strings;
Displays his purple robe, his bosom gory,
His crown of thorns, his cross, his future glory:—
And, while the group, each hallowed accent gleaning,
On pilgrim's staff, in pensive posture, leaning,—
Their reverend beards, that sweep their bosoms, wet
With the chill dews of shady Olivet,—
Wonder and weep, they pour the song of sorrow,
In this deeply interesting scene, I have taken the liberty of varying the order in which the events of the evening before the crucifixion occurred; in that I have supposed the hymn to be sung after crossing the Kedron, and ascending the Mount of Olives,—rather than in the supper chamber, as stated by Matthew. With this acknowledgment, I presume, the license will be excused. I considered the scene thus laid, more poetical, and not less solemn or religious.
—See Matth. xxvi. 30, 31.With their loved Lord, whose death shall shroud the morrow.
Heavens! what a strain was that! those matchless tones,
That ravish “Princedoms, Dominations, Thrones”;
That, heard on high, had hushed those peals of praise,
That seraphs swell, and harping angels raise;
Soft, as the wave from Siloa's fount that flows,
Through the drear silence of the mountain rose.
The last he sung on earth:—how melancholy!
Along the valley sweep the expiring notes:
On Kedron's wave the melting music floats:
From her blue arch, the lamp of evening flings
Her mellow lustre, as the Saviour sings:
The moon above, the wave beneath, is still,
And light and music mingle on the hill.
The brook's green margin and the mountain's crest,
Catch that unearthly song, and soar away,
Leave this dark orb, for fields of endless day,
And round the Eternal's throne on buoyant pinions play.
In seas of rapture, as ye tune the hymn
Ye bore from earth,—O say, ye choral quires,
Why in such haste to wake your golden lyres?
Why, like a flattering, like a fleeting dream,
Leave that lone mountain, and that silent stream?
Say, could not then the “Man of Sorrows” claim
Your shield of adamant, your sword of flame?—
Hell forced a smile at your retiring wing,
And man was left—to crucify your King.
Than Carmel's hill and Sharon's valley breathe?
Are holy airs borne only through the skies
Where Sinai thunders, and where Horeb sighs?
Bethesda's pool, the lake of Galilee?
And does the hand that bids Judea bloom,
Deny its blossoms to the desert's gloom?
No:—turn thine eye, in visionary glance,
To scenes beyond old Ocean's blue expanse,
Where vast La Plata rolls his weight along
Through worlds unknown to science and to song,
And, sweeping proudly o'er his boundless plain,
Repels the foaming billows of the main.
Let Fancy lap thee in his bordering bowers,
And scatter round thee Nature's wildest flowers:
For Nature there, since first her opening eye
Hailed the bright orb her Father hung on high,
Still on her bosom wears the enamelled vest,
That bloomed and budded on her infant breast;
Still to the sportive breeze, that round her blows,
Turns her warm cheek, her unshorn tresses throws;
With grateful hand her treasured balm bequeaths
For every sigh the enamoured rover breathes,
And even smiles to feel the flutterer sip
The virgin dew that cools her rosy lip.
There, through the clouds, stupendous mountains rise,
And lift their icy foreheads to the skies;
There blooming valleys and secure retreats
Bathe all thy senses in voluptuous sweets:
Reclining there, beneath a bending tree,
Fraught with the fragrant labors of the bee,
Admire, with me, the birds of varied hue,
That hang, like flowers of orange and of blue,
Quaffing the perfumes, from those cups that flow.
Do Love and Mercy haunt that sunny glade,
And sweetly rest upon that lovely shore,
When light retires, and nature smiles no more?
No—there, at midnight, the hoarse tiger growls:
There the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls:
And there, in painted pomp, the yelling Indian prowls.
Shoots, on white wings, the missionary's skiff,
And, walking steadily along the tide,
Seems, like a phantom, o'er the wave to glide,
Her light cymar unfolded to the breeze,
That breaks not, though it moves, the mirror of the seas.
His reverend front, ploughed by the share of years.
Let not the Protestant reader be alarmed at seeing a Jesuit in company with Music and Religion. I do assure him, it is a supposable case. I am not ignorant of the fact, that many accounts of the arts and ambition of this order of Christians have been given to the world, which are not the most favorable to the purity or disinterestedness of their piety; and I am well aware, that, if poetry and fiction are synonymous terms, there is but little poetry in too many of these accounts. But let the Protestant reader recollect, that most of these views have been drawn by Protestant pencils.—“Let us lions be the painters,” say the Jesuits, “and we will show you a very different picture.” One of their pieces of colored canvass I will lay before my readers, as well to show that I do not think the above request unreasonable, as to explain what may want explanation, in this scene of the poem:
“Il restait encore, aux pieds des Cordilières, vers le côté qui regarde l'Atlantique, entre l'Orénoque et Rio de la Plata, un pays immense, rempli de Sauvages, où les Espagnols n'avaient point porté la dévastation. Ce fut dans ces épaisses forêts que les missionnaires entreprirent de former une république chrétienne, et de donner, du moins à un petit nombre d'Indiens, le bonheur qu'ils n'avaient pu procurer à tous.
“Ils commencèrent par obtenir de la cour d'Espagne la liberté de tous les Sauvages qu'ils parviendraient à réunir. A cette nouvelle, les colons se soulevèrent; ce ne fut qu'à force d'esprit et d'adresse que les Jésuites surprirent, pour ainsi dire, la permission de verser leur sang dans les forêts du Nouveau-Monde. Enfin, ayant triomphè de la cupidité et de la malice humaines; méditant un des plus nobles desseins qu'ait jamais conçus un cœur d'homme, ils s'embarquèrent pour Rio de la Plata.
“C'est dans ce grand fleuve que vient se perdre cet autre fleuve, qui a donné son nom au pays et aux missions, dont nous retraçons l'histoire. Paraguay, dans la langue des Sauvages, signifie le Fleuve couronné, parce qu'il prend sa source dans le lac Xarayès, qui lui sert comme de couronne. Avant d'aller grossir Rio de la Plata, il reçoit les eaux du Parana et de l'Uraguay. Des forêts qui renferment dans leur sein d'autres forêts tombées de vieillesse, des marais et des plaines entièrement inondées dans la saison des pluies, des montagnes qui élèvent des déserts sur des déserts, forment une partie des vastes régions que le Paraguay arrose. Le gibier de toute espèce y abonde, ainsi que les tigres et les ours. Les bois sont remplis d'abeilles, qui font une cire fort blanche, et un miel très-parfumé. On y voit des oiseaux d'un plumage éclatant, et qui ressemblent à de grandes fleurs rouges et bleues, sur la verdure des arbres. Un missionnaire Français, qui s'était égaré dans ces solitudes, en fait la peinture suivante.
“‘Je continuai ma route sans savoir à quel terme elle devait aboutir, et sans qu'il y eût personne qui pût me l'enseigner. Je trouvais quelquefois, au milieu de ces bois, des endroits enchantés. Tout ce que l'étude et l'industrie des hommes ont pu imaginer pour rendre un lieu agréable n'approche point de ce que la simple nature y avait rassemblé de beautés.
“‘Ces lieux charmans me rappelèrent les idées que j'avais eues autrefois, en lisant les vies des anciens Solitaires de la Thébaïde: il me vint en pensée de passer le reste de mes jours dans ces forêts où la Providence m'avait conduit, pour y vaquer uniquement à l'affaire de mon salut, loin de tout commerce avec les hommes; mais, comme je n'étais pas le maître de ma destinée, et que les ordres du Seigneur m'étaient certainement marqués par ceux de mes supérieurs, je rejetai cette pensée comme une illusion.’
“Les Indiens que l'on rencontrait dans ces retraites ne leur ressemblaient que par le côté affreux. Race indolente, stupide et féroce, elle montrait dans toute sa laideur l'homme primitif dégradé par sa chûte. Rien ne prouve davantage la dégénération de la nature humaine, que la petitesse du Sauvage dans la grandeur du désert.
“Arrivés à Buenos Ayres, les missionnaires remontèrent Rio de la Plata, et, entrant dans les eaux du Paraguay, se dispersèrent dans ses bois sauvages. Les anciennes relations nous les représentent, un bréviaire sous le bras gauche, une grande croix à la main droite, et sans autre provision que leur confiance en Dieu. Ils nous les peignent, se faisant jour à travers les forêts, marchant dans des terres marécageuses où ils avaient de l'eau jusqu'à la ceinture, gravissant des roches escarpées, et furetant dans les antres et les précipices, au risque d'y trouver des serpens et des bêtes féroces, au lieu des hommes qu'ils y cherchaient.
“Plusieurs d'entr'eux y moururent de faim et de fatigue; d'autres furent massacrés et dévorés par les Sauvages. Le père Lizardi fut trouvé percé de flèches sur un rocher; son corps était à demi déchiré par les oiseaux de proie, et son bréviaire était ouvert auprès de lui à l'office des Morts. Quand un missionnaire rencontrait ainsi les restes d'un de ses compagnons, il s'empressait de leur rendre les honneurs funèbres; et, plein d'une grande joie, il chantait un Te Deum solitaire sur le tombeau du martyr.
“De pareilles scènes, renouvelées à chaque instant, étonnaient les hordes barbares. Quelquefois elles s'arrêtaient autour du prêtre inconnu qui leur parlait de Dieu, et elles regardaient le ciel que l'apôtre leur montrait; quelquefois elles le fuyaient comme un enchanteur, et se sentaient saisies d'une frayeur étrange: le Religieux les suivait en leur tendant les mains au nom de Jésus-Christ. S'il ne pouvait les arrêter, il plantait sa grande croix dans un lieu découvert, et s'allait cacher dans les bois. Les Sauvages s'approchaient peu á peu pour examiner l'etendard de paix, élevé dans la solitude; un aimant secret semblait les attirer à ce signe de leur salut. Alors le missionnaire sortant tout à coup de son embuscade, et profitant de la surprise des Barbares, les invitaient à quitter une vie misérable, pour jouir des douceurs de la société.
“Quand les Jésuites se furent attaché quelques Indiens, ils eurent recours à un autre moyen pour gagner des ames. Ils avaient remarqué que les Sauvages de ces bords étaient fort sensibles à la musique; on dit même que les eaux du Paraguay rendent la voix plus belle. Les missionnaires s'embarquèrent donc sur des pirogues avec les nouveaux catéchumènes; ils remontèrent les fleuves en chantant de saints cantiques. Les néophytes répétaient les airs, comme des oiseaux privés chantent pour attirer dans les rets de l'oiseleur les oiseaux sauvages. Les Indiens ne manquèrent point de se venir prendre au doux piége. Ils descendaient de leurs montagnes, et accouraient au bord des fleuves, pour mieux écouter ces accens. Plusieurs d'entr'eux se jetaient dans les ondes, et suivaient à la nage la nacelle enchantée. La lune, en répandant sa lumière mystérieuse sur ces scènes extraordinaires, achevait d'attendrir les cœurs. L'arc et la flèche échappaient à la main du Sauvage; l'avant-goût des vertus sociales, et les premières douceurs de l'humanité, entraient dans son ame confuse. Il voyait sa femme et son enfant pleurer d'une joie inconnue; bientôt, subjugué par un attrait irrésistible, il tombait au pied de la croix, et mêlait des torrens de larmes aux eaux régénératrices qui coulaient sur sa tête.
“Ainsi la religion chrétienne réalisait dans les forêts de l'Amérique, ce que la fable raconte des Amphion et des Orphée: réflexion si naturelle, qu'elle s'est présentée même aux missionnaires; tant il est certain qu'on ne dit ici que la vérité, en ayant l'air de raconter une fiction.”
—Chateaubriand, Génie du Christianisme, tom. VIII. chap. iv. p. 40–48.He takes his harp:—the spirits of the air
Breathe on his brow, and interweave his hair,
In silky flexure, with the sounding strings:—
And hark!—the holy missionary sings.
'T is the Gregorian chant:—with him unites,
On either hand, his quire of neophytes,
While the boat cleaves its liquid path along,
And waters, woods, and winds protract the song.
Huntsmen and warriors from their cabins rush,
See not the deer, that dashes wildly by,
Drop from their hand the bow and rattling quiver,
Crowd to the shore, and plunge into the river,
Breast the green waves, the enchanted bark that toss,
Leap o'er her sides, and kneel before the cross.
Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest;
Chateaubriand.—Perhaps I ought to apologize to this gentleman, —perhaps I owe the apology to the reader, for so frequently introducing him. The truth is, I find him very useful. If the facts stated by him are adapted to my purpose, I have a right to use them; if the truth of his stories is questionable, his is the responsibility, not mine. I screen myself from blame, if
As to the story of the snake, what he says he saw, we may perhaps believe, particularly as accounts somewhat similar are given by others. Besides, though M. de Chateaubriand certainly does tell tales, that occasionally happen to partake of the marvellous, I do not know that he has yet been publicly convicted of stating what is false, in regard to what has fallen under his own observation. There are those, indeed, who question his veracity even there,—where he has nothing to do with saints or legends,—and I must, for myself, confess, that my own opinion of his veracity has been somewhat shaken, by a French gentleman, a general officer under Bonaparte, and for some time a member of the National Institute, who tells me, that he knows M. de Chateaubriand personally, though not intimately, —for he claims to be a man of honor, and appears to be so,—and that he knows him not only to be, but to have been, in the pay of the French police, as a spy upon his fellow citizens, —and that he therefore ought to be, and is, universally despised. So much for the author of the Génie du Christianisme, Martyrs, Travels, &c. Here, then, follows a part of what I have made use of, remembering always that I am not writing history, but poetry.—Of the “monumental mounds” he says:
“On a découvert, depuis quelques années, dans l'Amérique septentrionale, des monumens extraordinaires sur les bords du Muskingum, du Mïami, du Wabache, de l'Ohio, et sur-tout du Scioto, où ils occupent un espace de plus de vingt lieues en longueur. Ce sont des murs en terre avec des fossés, des glacis, des lunes, demi-lunes et de grands cônes qui servent de sépulcres. On a demandé, mais sans succès, quel peuple a laissé de pareilles traces. L'homme est suspendu dans le présent, entre le passé, et l'avenir, comme sur un rocher entre deux gouffres: derrière lui, devant lui, tout est ténèbres; à peine apperçoit il quelques fantômes qui, remontant du fond des deux abymes, surnagent un instant à leur surface, et s'y replongent pour jamais.”
“Pour nous, amant solitaire de la nature, et simple confesseur de la Divinité, nous nous sommes assis sur ces ruines. Voyageur sans renom, nous avons causé avec ces débris comme nous-même ignorés. Les souvenirs confus des hommes, et les vagues rêveries du désert, se mêlaient au fond de notre ame. La nuit était an milieu de sa course; tout était muet, et la lune, et les bois, et les tombeaux. Seulement, à longs intervalles, on entendait la chute de quelque arbre, que la hache du temps abattait, dans la profondeur des forêts: ainsi tout tombe, tout s'anéantit.”
“Enfin, ces mònumens prennent leurs racines dans des jours beaucoup plus reculés que ceux où l'on a découvert l'Amérique. Nous avons vu sur ces ruines un chêne décrépit, qui avait poussé sur les débris d'un autre chêne tombé à ses pieds, et dont il ne restait plus que l'écorce; celui-ci à son tour s'était élevé sur un troisième, et ce troisième, sur un quatrième. L'emplacement des deux derniers se marquait encore par l'intersection de deux cercles, d'un aubier rouge et pétrifié, qu'on découvrait à fleur de terre, en écartant un épais humus composé de feuilles et de mousse. Accordez seulement trois siècles de vie à ces quatre chênes successifs, et voilà une époque de douze cents années que la nature a gravée sur ces ruïnes.”
—Génie du Christianisme, tom. I. pp. 212–215, 276, 277.As to the nature of the serpent generally, and his taste for Music, in particular, this is the account of our author:
“Notre siècle rejette avec hauteur tout ce qui tient de la merveille: sciences, arts, morale, religion, tout reste désenchanté. Le serpent a souvent été l'objet de nos observations; et, si nous osons le dire, nous avons eru reconnaître en lui cet esprit pernicieux et cette subtilité que lui attribue l'Ecriture. Tout est mystérieux, caché, étonnant dans cet incompréhensible reptile. Ses mouvemens different de ceux de tous les autres animaux; on ne saurait dire où gît le principe de son déplacement, car il n'a ni nageoires, ni pieds, ni ailes; et cependant il fuit comme une ombre, il s'évanouit magiquement, il reparaît, disparaît encore, semblable à une petite fumée d'azur, ou aux éclairs d'un glaive dans les ténèbres. Tantôt il se forme en cercle, et darde une langue de feu; tantôt, debout sur l'extrémité de sa queue, il marche dans une attitude perpendiculaire, comme par enchantement. Il se jette en orbe, monte et s'abaisse en spirale, roule ses anneaux comme une onde, circule sur les branches des arbres, glisse sous l'herbe des prairies, ou sur la surface des eaux. Ses couleurs sont aussi peu déterminées que sa marche; elles changent à tous les aspects de la lumière, et, comme ses mouvemens, elles ont le faux brillant et les variétés trompeuses de la séduction.
“Plus étonnant encore dans le reste de ses mœurs, il sait, ainsi qu'un homme souillé de meurtre, jeter à l'écart sa robe tachée de sang, dans la crainte d'être reconnu. Par une étrange faculté il peut faire rentrer dans son sein les petits monstres que l'amour en a fait sortir. Il sommeille des mois entiers, fréquente des tombeaux, habite des lieux inconnus, compose des poisons qui glacent, brûlent ou tachent le corps de sa victime des couleurs dont il est lui-même marqué. Là, il lève deux têtes menaçantes; ici, il fait entendre une sonnette; il siffle comme un aigle de montagne; il mugit comme un taureau. Il s'associe naturellement à toutes les idées morales ou religieuses, comme par une suite de l'influence qu'il eut sur nos destinées: objet d'horreur ou d'adoration, les hommes ont pour lui une haine implacable, ou tombent devant son génie; le mensonge l'appelle, la prudence le réclame, l'envie le porte dans son cœur, et l'éloquence à son caducée; aux enfers il arme les fouets des furies, au ciel l'éternité en fait son symbole; il possède encore l'art de séduire l'innocence; ses regards enchantent les oiseaux dans les airs; et, sous la fougère de la crèche, la brebis lui abandonne son lait. Mais il se laisse lui-même charmer par de doux sons; et, pour le dompter, le berger n'a besoin que de sa flûte.
“Au mois de juillet 1791, nous voyagions dans le Haut-Canada, avec quelques familles sauvages de la nation des Onontagués. Un jour que nous étions arrêtés dans une grande plaine, au bord de la rivière Génésie, un serpent à sonnettes entra dans notre camp. Il y avait parmi nous un Canadien qui jouait de la flûte; il voulut nous divertir, et s'avança contre le serpent, avec son arme d'une nouvelle espèce. A l'approche de son ennemi, le superbe reptile se forme en spirale, aplatit sa tête, enfle ses joues, contracte ses lèvres, découvre ses dents empoisonnées et sa gueule sanglante: sa double langue brandit comme deux flammes; ses yeux charbons ardens; son corps, gonflé de rage, s'abaisse et s'élève comme les soufflets d'une forge; sa peau, dilatée, devient terne et écailleuse; et sa queue, dont il sort un bruit sinistre, oscille avec tant de rapidité, qu'elle ressemble à une légère vapeur.
“Alors le Canadien commence à jouer sur sa flûte; le serpent fait un mouvement de surprise, et retire la tête en arrière. A mesure qu'il est frappé de l'effet magique, ses yeux perdent leur âpreté, les vibrations de sa queue se ralentissent, et le bruit qu'elle fait entendre, s'affaiblit et meurt peu à peu. Moins perpendiculaires sur leur ligne spirale, les orbes du serpent charmé, par dégrés s'élargissent, et viennent tour à tour se poser sur la terre en cercles concentriques. Les nuances d'azur, de verd, de blanc et d'or reprennent leur éclat sur sa peau frémissante; et, tournant légèrement la tête, il demeure immobile dans l'attitude de l'attention et du plaisir.
“Dans ce moment le Canadien marche quelques pas, en tirant de sa flûte des sons doux et monotones; le reptile baisse son cou nuancé, entr'ouvre avec sa tête les herbes fines, et se met à ramper sur les traces du musicien qui l'entraîne, s'arrêtant lorsqu'il s'arrête, et recommençant à le suivre, quand il recommence à s'éloigner. Il fut ainsi conduit hors de notre camp, au milieu d'une foule de spectateurs, tant Sauvages qu'Européens, qui en croyaient à peine leurs yeux, à cette merveille de la mélodie; il n'y eut qu'une seule voix dans l'assemblée, pour qu'on laissât le merveilleux serpent s'échapper.”
—Ibid., pp. 174–179.Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods,
Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her floods,
And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws;—
Who hangs the canvass where Atala glows,
On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded,
That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded;—
Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines,
Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines,
A funeral wreath, to bloom upon the moss,
That Time already sprinkles on the cross,
Raised o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps,
And Superstition o'er her victim weeps;—
Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds,
Among Scioto's monumental mounds;
Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears
A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years,
To swell the mass, that Time and Ruin throw,
O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below,
By virtues unembalmed, unstained by crimes,
Lost in those towering tombs of other times;
For, where no bard has cherished Virtue's flame,
No ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame.—
His weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles.
Whether he kneels in venerable groves,
Or through the wide and green savanna roves,
His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears
The faintest breath of Iduméa's airs.
That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale,
When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier,
A note for Satan's and for Herod's ear.
Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood,
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood,
The pilgrim stands; and o'er his memory rushes
The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes
Along the valleys, where his childhood strayed,
And round the temples where his fathers prayed.
How fondly then, from all but Hope exiled,
To Zion's woe recurs Religion's child!
He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters
Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters;
While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung,
Wrapped in the mist, that o'er the river hung,
Felt but the breeze, that wantoned o'er the billow,
And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow.
But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe?
Balanced between a revery and a dream,
The cold and curdling poison seems to dart.
For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake,
Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake,
Just in the act, with greenly venomed fangs,
To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs.
Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides;
His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides;
Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes,
And freezing poisons thicken on his gums;
His parched and hissing throat breathes hot and dry;
A spark of hell lies burning on his eye:
While, like a vapor, o'er his writhing rings,
Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings.
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers,
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight,
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight,
From his soft flute throws Music's air around,
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground.
See! as the plaintive melody is flung,
The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue;
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and gold;
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye;
His neck is burnished with a glossier dye;
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight,
And his relaxing circles roll in light.—
Slowly the charm retires:—with waving sides,
Along its track the graceful listener glides;
And bears her votary off, in magic folds of sound.
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws,
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales,
Alone,—at night,—the Italian boatman sails.
High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride,
Night's queen;—he sees her image on that tide,
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest;
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar,
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore;
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed
Of waveless water, rest her radiant head.
How mild the empire of that virgin queen!
How dark the mountain's shade! how still the scene!
Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep,
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir,
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver,
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river.
For music measures even the march of Time:—
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore,
Gray turrets rise:—the eye can catch no more.
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell,
Suspends his oar:—a low and solemn swell,
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies.
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night?
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white,
Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed,
To charm the parting spirit of the dead.
Triumphant is the spell! with raptured ear,
That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near;—
Why should she mount? why pant for brighter bliss,
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this!
Breathes fresh:—the huntsman winds his clamorous horn.
The youthful minstrel from his pallet springs,
Seizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings.
Lark-like he mounts o'er gray rocks, thunder-riven,
Lark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest-driven,
And lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs,
Whose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes.
With airy foot he treads that giddy height;
His heart all rapture, and his eye all light;
His voice all melody, his yellow hair
Floating and dancing on the mountain air,
Shaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls,
That gather clustering on his golden curls;—
And, for a moment, gazes on a scene,
Tinged with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening green;
Then plays a mournful prelude, while the star
Of morning fades:—but when heaven's gates unbar,
Burns on the hill, and down the valley blushes;
The mountain bard in livelier numbers sings,
While sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings,
And his young bosom feels the enchantment strong
Of light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song.
Through smiling valleys and religious groves;
Hears, there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat,
Here, the lone turtle pour her mournful note,
Till night descends, and round the wanderer flings
The dewdrops dripping from her dusky wings.
Far from his native vale and humble shed
By nature's smile and nature's music led,
This child of melody has thoughtless strayed,
Till darkness wraps him in her deepening shade.
The scene that cheered him, when arrayed in light,
Now lowers around him with the frown of night.
Crowned with huge oaks, giants of other times;
Who feel, but fear not, autumn's breath, and cast
Their summer robes upon the roaring blast,
And, glorying in their majesty of form,
Toss their old arms, and challenge every storm.
Below him, Ocean rolls:—deep in a wood,
Built on a rock, and frowning o'er the flood,
Like the dark Cyclops of Trinacria's isle,
Rises an old and venerable pile:
And pilgrims thronged to hail it and adore.
Mitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar,
The solemn organ led the chanting quire,
When in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung,
And o'er the dead a requiescat rung.
Now, all is still:—the midnight anthem hushed:—
The cross is crumbled, and the mitre crushed.
And is all still?—No: round those ruined altars,
With feeble foot as our musician falters,
Faint, weary, lost, benighted, and alone,
He sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone.
Here nameless fears the young enthusiast chill:
They 're superstitious, but religious still.
He hears the sullen murmur of the seas,
That tumble round the stormy Orcades,
Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar
Their sparkling surges to that savage shore;
And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves
Through rifted rocks and hollow-rumbling caves.
Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings;
Its green leaves rustle:—heavy winds arise;
The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs.
Now Fancy sees the ideal canvass stretched,
And o'er the lines, that Truth has dimly sketched,
Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly
Hurtled along before her frenzied eye.
The scudding cloud, that drives along the coast,
Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost,
O'er Morven's woods and Tura's mouldering wall,
To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall.
Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill,
Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill?
No:—'t is the mountain blast, that nightly rages
Around those walls, gray with the moss of ages.
Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light
Shines in you vault, before a spectre white?
No:—'t is a glow-worm, burning greenly there,
Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air.
What mighty organ swells its deepest tone,
And sighing heaves a low, funereal moan,
That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms,
And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs?
Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides!
The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides;
Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave;
Or shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave.
And wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms.
Yes:—'t is a Spirit in those vaults that dwells,
Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells.
Yes:—'t is some Spirit on the blast that rides,
And wakes the eternal tumult of the tides.
That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream,
Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream,
Lured his young foot to every vale that rung,
And charmed his ear in every bird that sung;
With various concerts cheered his hours of light,
But kept the mightiest in reserve till night;
Froze his whole soul, and chained the listener there.
Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame.
Bowed the perpetual hills:—the rivers fled:—
Green Ocean trembled to his deepest bed:—
Earth shrunk aghast,—eternal mountains burned,
And his red axle thundered as it turned.
Check thy bright chariot in its fervid course.
Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire,
And with one smile immortalize our lyre.
Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne,
Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown,
In sweet accord with the undying hymn
Of angle quires and harping Seraphim,
Still hast thou stooped to hear a shepherd play,
To prompt his measures, and approve his lay.
Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest!
Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest!
How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim,
From Zion's hill to Mount Moriah came,
Beneath the wings of Cherubim to rest,
In a rich vail of Tyrian purple dressed;
When harps and cymbals joined in echoing clang,
When psalteries tinkled,and when trumpets rang,
And white-robed Levites round thine altar sang,
Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd,
Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud,
And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud.
“And it came to pass, when the priests were come out of the holy place, (for all the priests that were present were sanctified, and did not then wait by course: Also the Levites, which were the singers, all of them of Asaph, of Heman, of Jeduthun, with their sons and their brethren; being arrayed in white linen, having cymbals and psalteries, and harps, stood at the east end of the altar, and with them a hundred and twenty priests, sounding with trumpets:) It came even to pass, as the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising and thanking the Lord; and when they lifted up their voice with the trumpets and cymbals and instruments of music, and praised the Lord, saying,—For he is good, for his mercy endureth for ever: that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the Lord; so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud; for the glory of the Lord had filled the house of God.”
—2 Chron. v. 11–14.When humble strains from grateful bosoms flow,
Those humble strains grow richer as they rise,
And shed a balmier freshness on the skies.
No gilded walls, no cedar colonnade,
No crimson curtains hang around our quire,
Wrought by the cunning artisan of Tyre;
No doors of fir on golden hinges turn;
No spicy gums in golden censers burn;
No frankincense, in rising volumes, shrouds
The fretted roof in aromatic clouds;
No royal minstrel, from his ivory throne,
Gives thee his father's numbers or his own;—
If humble love, if gratitude inspire,
Our strain shall silence even the temple's quire,
And rival Michael's trump, nor yield to Gabriel's lyre.
Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky!
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why.
The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore,
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar,
The rustling leaf in autumn's fading woods,
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods,
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fanned,
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spanned,
The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen,
The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men,
Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free,
The scorching bolt, that, from thine armoury hurled,
Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world;
All these are music to Religion's ear,—
Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear.
Thy hand invested in their azure robes,
Thy breath made buoyant, yonder circling globes,
That bound and blaze along the elastic wires,
That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres,
And in that high and radiant concave tremble,
Beneath whose dome adoring hosts assemble,
To catch the notes, from those bright spheres that flow,
Which mortals dream of, but which angels know.
Their holy influence let our bosoms feel!
Faith, that with smiles lights up our dying eyes;
Hope, that directs them to the opening skies;
And Charity, the loveliest of the three,
That can assimilate a worm to thee.
For her our organ breathes;
This poem was written in the cause of Charity, and at her call, in the year 1816. It was intended, that the recitation of it should form a part of the performances of an evening concert of sacred music, for the benefit of the poor.
I would here remark, that the double rhymes, that occasionally occur in the poem, I have, in most instances, suffered to remain; though they have been complained of, I believe, by the majority of critics, and perhaps by the majority of the public; while, on the other hand, they have met the decided approbation of many, whose taste, in matters of this sort, is entitled to high consideration. They were admitted because I was aware how difficult even a good speaker finds it to recite the best heroic poetry, for any length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous effects of a regular cadence. The double rhyme was therefore occasionally thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly gliding river, to break the current, which, without it, might appear sluggish, and to vary the melody, which might otherwise become monotonous.
The heartfelt homage of an humble lay;
And while, to her, symphonious chords we string,
And Silence listens while to her we sing,
While round thine altar swells our evening song,
And vaulted roofs the dying notes prolong,
The strain we pour to her, do thou approve;
For Love is Charity, and Thou art Love.
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