Specimens of American poetry :: :: University of Virginia Library

There's a fierce gray bird—with a sharpen'd beak;
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek:
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow—

Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow—
That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splinter'd point of a shiver'd peak—
Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp—
Bald-headed and stripp'd!—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stain'd—while scattering—bright,
Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare—
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!—
Like the crest of a warrior thinn'd in the fight,
And shorn—and bristling—see her! where
She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding—
And kindling eye—as if her prey
Had—suddenly—been snatch'd away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!
A Bird that is first to worship the sun,
When he gallops in flame—'t ill the cloud tides run
In billows of fire—as his course is done:
Above where the fountain is gushing in light;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprison'd blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair!
Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright,
Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky—
With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair
Above where the silvery flashing is seen—
The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,
And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning's eye
Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky:
Above that dark torrent—above the bright stream—
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard—of the thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne, and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
Proud bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs—
Where the sunshine stays—and the wind-harp sings,
Where the heralds of battle sit—pluming their wings—

A scream! she 's awake!—over hill-top and flood,
A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood—
Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood
That bird is abroad—in the van of her brood!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED] The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipp'd falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
Or sleeps upon the wing—amid the ray
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch.
Soars wheeling through the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play.

BATTLE OF NIAGARA.

THE SOLDIER'S VISIT TO HIS FAMILY.

And there the stranger stays: beneath that oak.
Whose shatter'd majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—
As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood.

Beneath its venerable vault he stands:
And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands,
That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touch'd him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air
Had call'd upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—
The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—
All! all are gathering on his dampen'd sight.

His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window, on the turf are laid;
The panes are ruddy through the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,
O'er flower-embosom'd roof led wandering.
His pulses quicken—for a rude old door
Is open'd by the wind: he sees the floor
Strew'd with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles—and assign a place
To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell—
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell,
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.

Hark!—that sweet song!—how full of tenderness!
O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow—
It is as if some holy—lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring.
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now—on the very window where he stands
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes—
As tender as the blue of weeping skies:
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue
When sunset glitters on its falling dew:
With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:
A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ah—a mother's song is lulling it to rest!

A youthful mother! God of heaven!
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!

A single bound! our chief is standing by
Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy—
“Bless thee!” at length he murmur'd—“bless thee, love!
“My wife!—my boy:”—Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone:
A choking transport drowns his manly tone.
He sees the closing of that mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:
His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep;

Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap
As half in fear, along the stranger's dress,
Then, half advancing, yields to his caress:—
Then, peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.

The stranger now is kneeling by the side
Of that young mother,—watching for the tide
Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow
Goes—faintly—slowly—o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast—like twilight's melting clouds—
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.

She lives! she lives—see how her feelings speak,
Through what transparency of eye and cheek!
Her color comes and goes, like that faint ray,
That flits o'er lilies at the close of day.
O, nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh—
That youthful mother in her ecstacy,
Feels but the wandering of a husband's eye.
Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast
Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest.

[OMITTED]

'T is dark abroad. The majesty of night
Bows down superbly from her utmost height:
Stretches her starless plumes across the world;
And all the banners of the wind are furl'd.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom!
As if we slumber'd in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour,
When life is helpless, and the dead have power:
When solitudes are peopled: when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course; and all the hills
Are bright with armor:—when the starry vests
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
Of moon-light sentinels, are sparkling round,
And all the air is one rich floating sound:
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts: and every bird
That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower,
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower:
When every lovely—every lonely place,

Is ringing to the light and sandal'd pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go:
When watery tunes are richest—and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around:
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground,
Sweet drowsy distant music! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.

It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,—

Unconscious where we are—or what is near,
Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gather'd in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then—as if our sins were all forgiven—
And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven
It is that hour of quiet ecstacy,
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers are betray'd!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute
Is touch'd amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light:
When every cave and grot—and bower and lake,
And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim

In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim:
When all the holy sentinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.

Such is the hour!—the holy, breathless hour,
When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power;
When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day
Can never rival, in its fierce display:
Such is the hour—yet not a sound is heard;
No sights are seen—no melancholy bird
Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air
Is thick and motionless—as if it were
A prelude to some dreadful tragedy;
Some midnight drama of an opening sky!

The genius of the mountain, and the wood;
The stormy eagle, and her rushing brood;
The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave;
The gallant spirit of the roaring wave;
The star-crown'd messengers that ride the air;
The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair,
Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill;
The shaking cascade—and the merry rill
Are hush'd to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still.

And now the day-light comes:—slowly it rides,
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,
Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast;
Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;
The morning breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake
Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugle's ready cry: the laboring drum:
The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum
That the bright tenants of the forest send:
The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their song of praise, while ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark;
While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty spectres sway the mountain brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the wing'd idolators of day;
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!

Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky—
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of poesy!

Now comes the sun forth! not in blaze of fire:
With rainbow-harness'd coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter through heaven and earth their fiery spray.
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings:
And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance:
No airy minstrels in the flush light glance:
No rushing melody comes strong and deep:
And far away no fading winglets sweep:
No boundless hymning o'er the blue sky rings,
In hallelujahs to the King of kings:
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash,
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash,
While starry crowns, and constellations fade
Before the glories of that cavalcade,
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven,
Embroider'd thickly on the clouds of even.

No!—no!—he comes not thus in pomp, and light!
A new creation bursting out of night!
But he comes darkly forth! in storm array'd—
Like the red tempest marshall'd in her shade,
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round,
Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound.

GOLDAU.

Switzerland! my country! 'tis to thee,
I rock my harp in agony:—
My country! nurse of Liberty,
Home of the gallant, great and free,
My sullen harp I rock to thee.

O, I have lost ye all
Parents—and home—and friends:
Ye sleep beneath a mountain pall;

A mountain-plumage o'er ye bends.
The cliff-yew in funereal gloom,
Is now the only mourning plume,
That nods above a people's tomb.
Of the echoes that swim o'er thy bright blue lake,
And deep in its caverns, their merry bells shake;
And repeat thy young huntsman's cry:
That clatter and laugh, when the goatherds take
Their browsing flocks at the morning's break,
Far over the hills—not one is awake
In the swell of thy peaceable sky.
They sit on that wave with a motionless wing;
And their cymbals are mute and the desert birds sing
Their unanswer'd notes to the wave and the sky—
One startling, and sudden—unchangeable cry—
As they stoop their broad wing, and go sluggishly by:
For deep in that blue-bosom'd water is laid
As innocent, true, and as lovely a maid
As ever in cheerfulness carol'd her song,
In the blithe mountain air, as she bounded along:
The heavens are all blue, and the billow's bright verge
Is frothily laved by a whispering surge,
That heaves incessant, a tranquil dirge,
To lull the pale forms that sleep below:
Forms—that rock as the waters flow.
That bright lake is still as a liquid sky,
And when o'er its bosom the swift clouds fly,
They pass like thoughts o'er a clear blue eye!
The fringe of thin foam that their sepulchre binds,
Is as light as a cloud that is borne by the winds;
While over its bosom the dim vapors hover,
And flutterless skims the snowy-wing'd plover:
Swiftly passing away—like a haunted wing;
With a drooping plume—that may not fling
One sound of life—or a rustling note—
O'er that sleepless tomb—where my loved ones float.
Oh cool and fresh is that bright blue lake,
While over its stillness no sounds awake:
No sights—but those of the hill-top fountain
That swims on the height of a cloud-wrapp'd mountain—
The basin of the rainbow-stream,
The sunset gush—the morning gleam—
The picture of the poet's dream.
Land of proud hearts! where freedom broods
Amid her home of echoing woods,
The mother of the mountain floods—

Dark, Goldau is thy vale;
The spirits of Rigi shall wail
On their cloud-bosom'd deep, as they sail
In mist where thy children are lying—
As their thunders once paused in their headlong descent,
And delay'd their discharge—while thy desert was rent
With the cries of thy sons who were dying.
No chariots of fire on the clouds career'd;
No warrior-arm, with its falchion rear'd:—
No death-angel's trump o'er the ocean was blown;
No mantle of wrath o'er the heaven was thrown;
No armies of light—with their banners of flame—
Or neighing steeds—through the sunset came,
Or leaping from space appear'd!
No earthquakes reel'd—no Thunderer storm'd;
No fetterless dead o'er the bright sky swarm'd;
No voices in heaven were heard!
But the hour when the sun in his pride went down
While his parting hung rich o'er the world:
While abroad o'er the sky his flush mantle was blown,
And his red-rushing streamers unfurl'd;—
An everlasting hill was torn
From its eternal base—and borne—
In gold and crimson vapors drest
To where—a people are at rest!
Slowly it came in its mountain wrath,
And the forests vanish'd before its path:
And the rude cliffs bow'd—and the waters fled—
And the living were buried, while over their head
They heard the full march of their foe as he sped—
And the valley of life—was the tomb of the dead!
The clouds were all bright: no lightnings flew:
And over that valley no death-blast blew:
No storm pass'd by on his cloudy wing:
No twang was heard from the sky-archer's string—
But the dark, dim hill in its strength came down,
While the shedding of day on its summit was thrown,
A glory all light, like a wind-wreathed crown—
While the tame bird flew to the vulture's nest,
And the vulture forbore in that hour to molest.—

The mountain sepulchre of all I loved!
The village sank—and the monarch trees
Lean'd back from the encountering breeze—
While this tremendous pageant moved!
The mountain forsook his perpetual throne—
Came down from his rock—and his path is shown

In barrenness and ruin—where
The secret of his power lies bare—
His rocks in nakedness arise:
His desolation mocks the skies.

THE BIRTH OF A POET.

On a blue summer night,
While the stars were asleep,
Like gems of the deep,
In their own drowsy light;
While the newly mown hay
On the green earth lay,
And all that came near it went scented away;
From a lone woody place,
There looked out a face,
With large blue eyes,
Like the wet warm skies,
Brimful of water and light;
A profusion of hair
Flashing out on the air,
And a forehead alarmingly bright:
'T was the head of a poet! He grew
As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness grow,
In the dropping of natural dew,
Unheeded—alone—
Till his heart had blown—
As the sweet strange flowers of the wilderness blow;
Till every thought wore a changeable stain
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain:
A proud and passionate boy was he,
Like all the children of Poesy;
With a haughty look and a haughty tread,
And something awful about his head;
With wonderful eyes
Full of wo and surprise,
Like the eyes of them that can see the dead
Looking about,
For a moment or two, he stood
On the shore of the mighty wood;
Then ventured out,
With a bounding step and a joyful shout,
The brave sky bending o'er him!
The broad sea all before him!

100

AMBITION.

I loved to hear the war-horn cry,
And panted at the drum's deep roll;
And held my breath, when—flaming high—
I saw our starry banners fly,
As challenging the haughty sky,
They went like battle o'er my soul:
For I was so ambitious then,
I burn'd to be the slave—of men.

I stood and saw the morning light,
A standard swaying far and free,
And loved it like the conqu'ring flight
Of angels floating wide and bright
Above the stars, above the fight
Where nations warr'd for liberty.
And thought I heard the battle cry
Of trumpets in the hollow sky.

I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep:
And shouted to the eaglet soaring;
And hung me from a rocking steep,
When all but spirits were asleep;
And oh, my very soul would leap
To hear the gallant waters roaring;
For every sound and shape of strife
To me, was but the breath of life.

But, I am strangely alter'd now—
I love no more the bugle voice—
The rushing wave—the plunging prow—
The mountain with his clouded brow—
The thunder when his blue skies bow,
And all the sons of God rejoice—
I love to dream of tears and sighs
And shadowy hair and half-shut eyes.

THE SLEEPER.

WRITTEN THE DAY AFTER THE FUNERAL OF BYRON.

I stood above the sea. I heard the roar
Of waters far below me. On the shore

101

A warrior-ship, with all her banners torn,
Her broad sails flying loose, lay overborne
By tumbling surges. She had swept the main,
Braved the loud thunder—stood the hurricane;
To be, when all her danger was o'erpast,
Upon her native shore, in wreck and ruin cast.

I thought of Greece—the proud one dead;
Struck—with his heart in flower;
Wreck'd—with his bright wings all outspread,
In his descent,
From that forbidden firmament,
O'er which he went,
Like some Archangel in his power:

The everlasting ocean lay
Below my weary eyes;
While overhead there roll'd away
The everlasting skies:

A thousand birds around me flew,
Emerging from the distant blue,
Like spirits from the summer deep,—
Then, wheeling slowly, one by one,
All disappearing in the sun,
They left me—and I fell asleep:

But soon a loud, strong trumpet blew,
And by, an armed angel flew,
With tresses all on fire, and wings of color'd flame:
And then the thunder broke
About me, and I woke—
And heard a voice above proclaim
The warrior-poet's name!
The island bard! that came
Far from his home, to die
In martyrdom to Liberty:

I started—wonder'd—where was I?—
Above me roll'd a Grecian sky;
Around me Grecian isles were spread,
O'erpeopled with great shadowy dead,
Assembled there to celebrate
Some awful rite:
Again the iron trump was blown

102

With overpowering might;
And lo! upon a rocky throne,
Appear'd a dead man that I knew;
His hair unbound, his forehead wet with dew,
And then the angel, standing o'er him, said
This incantation, with her wings outspread.

INCANTATION.

Bard of the ocean, wake!
The midnight skies
Of solid blue,
That roll away above thee, shed
O'er thy unshelter'd head
A most untimely dew!
Wake, Sleeper, wake!
Arise!
And from thy marble forehead shake
The shadow of the dead!
Arise! Arise!
Thou last of all the Giants! Tear
Thy silken robes away—
Shake off the wine-dew from thy hair—
The crush'd and faded roses there,
And let it play,
A glittering shadow on the air,—
Like the young Spartan's when he set
His foot—and met
The Persian in array:

Byron, awake!
Stand up and take
Thy natural shape upon thee! bare
Thy bosom to the winds that blow—
Not over bowers,
Heavy with scented flowers—
But over drifted snow;
Not o'er the perfumed earth,
Sweltering in moonlight rain,
Where even the blossoms that have birth.
Breathe on the heavens a stain—
But o'er the rude,
Cold Grecian solitude:

Up, Byron, up! with eyes
Dark as Egyptian skies,

103

Where men may read their destinies!
Up! in thy golden panoply complete
Transfigured—all prepared to meet
The Moslem foe!

What! still unmoved, thou Sleeper! still
Untroubled by the sounds that fill
Thy agitated air!
Thy forehead set—
Thy bosom wet—
Still undisturbed!
Thy proud lip curb'd—
The death-dew on thy hair!

Awake thee, Byron! Thou art call'd,
Thou man of power! to break
The thraldom of the nations—wake!
Arise!
The heathen are upon thee! Lo, they come
Without a flute, or bell, or drum,
Silent as death,
Holding their breath;
Appall'd—
Like them of old, that crept
On the shorn Samson, while he slept,
In their barbarian power afraid
Of one—a woman had betray'd!
Or, like the pirate-band that stole
The sleeping God of wine;
Each, as he came, through all his soul,
Thrilling with awe divine,—
An armed multitude, to take
A giant by surprise:

Awake, anointed one, awake!
The awful sky
Is full of lamentation—all the air
With sweet, remote,
Low sounds, afloat—
And solemn trumpeting and prayer.
And lo!
The waters of the mountain lake
O'ershadow'd by the flowery wood,
Tremble and shake—
And change their hue
Of quiet blue,

104

As if they felt a spirit go
O'er their transparent solitude:

The great hills darken—all the valleys quake
With one continual throe,—
The green earth is wet
With a fragrant sweat,
Like the fine small dew,
That filters through
Rich moss, by the foot subdued;
And the olive trees there
Their blossoms throw
On the motionless air,
Like a shower of snow,
Perpetually—
Trembling as if they felt the tread
Of the stout invisible dead—
The buried nations of all the earth—
All struggling upward into birth,
To subterranean melody:

And see! another band appear,
Unarm'd with helm, or sword, or spear,
Or buckler, guard, or shield;
A band of giants! on they go,
Each—by himself—to meet the foe,
Alone in yonder field:
Three hundred Spartan shadows they
I know them by their flying hair,
Rejoicing as it floats away,
A lustre on the troubled air:
Behold! they gather round
The marble Sleeper, where he lies
Reposing on the scented ground,—
His head with dripping roses bound—
A shadow in his eyes:

Behold them slowly trace,
With sorrow in each noble face,
The print of naked feet about the holy place:
Awake! awake!
Thou sleeping warrior-Bard! O break
Thy trance profound!
The Spartans are about thee—
They will not go without thee—
Awake!

105

They claim thee for the last
Of all that valiant race;
The Grecians of the past,—
To whom the battle and the chase,
The war-ship tumbling to the blast,
The stormy night,
The thunder and the fight,
Were pastime and repose?
Up, then, and take thy stand
Amid the shadowy band!
Outspread thy banner o'er them,
Go, as thou should'st, before them;
Hear thou their call,
Awake! and fall
Like the bright thunder on their foes!

On with thy helmet! set thy foot
Where'er thou art—
Strike down the infidel, and put
Thy mailed hand upon thy slumbering heart,
Or on the nearest altar, where,
Unstain'd with revel, blood, or wine,
Stands many an everlasting shrine,
Wrapp'd in perpetual cloud,
For ever echoing loud,
And sounding to the mountain air,
With voices wild, remote, and high,
Like fanes of ancient prophecy—
Built by the cherubim, of solid rock,
Into the broad blue heaven—to mock
The thunder and the Moslem shock—
The armies of the earth and sky!

O Thou!
Of steadfast eye,
And cold, intrepid brow,
Whose marble amplitude
Is frightful now,
There is thy place of worship—there!
And this the hour!
Go up, thou Sleeper! go with loosen'd hair;
Go up into the cloud, and then forbear
To join the awful interlude,
The wild and solemn harmony
Of that afflicted solitude,
Bard of the Ocean, if thou canst, in one eternal prayer!

106

What!
Still changing not,
Still motionless and pale,
And damp, and cold,
Unmoved by trumpet, prayer, or song,
The stirring gale,
Or noise of coming strife,
Or thunder near thee roll'd:
The nations that have known thee long
Unheeded marching by,
Where thou art lying;
The Spartan wise—the Spartan strong,
Scared women with their garments flying,
As if pursued
By some great multitude—
Young children all about thee crying,
And thou, alone,
Immoveable as if—thy blood were turn'd to stone!
Why! what art thou,
Man of the solid brow;
O what!
To alter not,
Nor change, nor stir thyself, nor wake,
Though all the nations try to break
Thy trance profound!
Nay, though they altogether take
The place of supplication round
The silent spot,
The cold extinguished ground,
Where thou art now,
Until
They overcast
Thy spirit, Sleeper, with a last
And most awakening spell—
A spell of power and sorcery
For all that dwell
Beneath the water or the sky
Or fill
The vaulted mystery,
That silent flies
For ever o'er our upturn'd eyes—
Showering the dew
Like a shower of light
From the beautiful blue
Of a beautiful night:
Up, then, awake!

107

Up from thy charmed slumber! break
Thy long and sorrowful trance!
Now! Now!
Advance!
Ye of the snowy brow,
Each in her overpowering splendor!
The young and great,
Superb and desolate,
The beautiful and tender!
Advance!
Ye shadows of his child and wife,
And thrill the sleeper into life!

[OMITTED]

Now heaven be thanked! he lies
Regardless of our cries.
Rejoice! Rejoice!
Children of Greece, rejoice!
No change nor trouble shall come again
To the island-bard of the deep blue main;
Nor blight nor blast
To overcast
The brightness of his name;
Rejoice! Rejoice!
All ye that have loved the man, rejoice,
Throughout the world!
He cannot, now,
From the precipice brow
Of Glory's hill be hurl'd?
And you, ye men of Greece,
For his heart is yours
While time endures—
A flame
That will burn eternally—
And sound that will never cease!
And ye that have loved him, where
There 's freedom in the air,
O peace!
For his beautiful eyes,
Under Grecian skies,
Were shut by the hands of Grecian men
And the voice of his heart
Will never depart
Away from the land of the brave again:

108

O peace!
For he lifted his head,
With a sorrowful look,
When the spirit fled,
And the temple shook,
Forgetful of all that were nearest;
And he thought of his home
O'er the ocean foam;
And call'd upon them that were dearest;
The mother and the blue-eyed child,
Far, far away,
And all that in his morning smiled
When he was innocent as they—
O peace!
For his loving voice will haunt the place
Of their green repose,
Where'er they may lie interr'd,
Like his own sweet, unseen bird,
That pale and blighted rose:
But where the warriors of the household lie,
And they that dwelt in minstrelsy,
His voice will sound with a warlike tone,
Like the distant cry
Of trumpets when the wind is high:
O peace!
Peace to the ancient halls!
Peace to the darken'd walls!
And peace to the troubled family,
For never again shall one of them be
A moment on earth alone,
A spirit, wherever they go,
Shall go for ever before them;
A shelter from every foe,
A guardian hovering o'er them;
O peace!
For every trace
Of his glorious face
Shall be preserved in the sculptured stone!
Embalm'd by Greece,
And multiplied
On every side,
Instinct with immortality—

109

His rest for aye in the warrior-grave—
His heart in the tomb of the Grecian brave;
His marble head
Enthroned on high, to be
Like the best of her ancient dead,
A sculptured thought of liberty—
A boding forth of Poesy
To wake the youthful ages hence,—
The gifted of Omnipotence.

The last words of Byron related to his wife and child.

In the Giaour.

ODE TO PEACE.

Up with thy banners! Out with all thy strength
Rock-hearted country of the brave and wise!
Huge fortress of the North! unfurl at length
All thy sharp streamers o'er the flashing skies

Thou that of old, if but a shadow fell—
The shadow only of a coming foe,
Athwart thy bulwarks—heard the stormy swell
Of countless armies gathering below

Thy deep foundations; all thy ancient woods
Upwaking with a heavy solemn roar,
Thy rocks, thy rivers and thy solitudes,
And the great sea that broke upon thy shore,

Out-thundering to the nations! with the noise
Of strange artillery in the earth and sky,
Chariots and horsemen, such as God employs,
When he would startle to new energy

The o'ertired Universe. Up with thee now!
Child of the North—New England—Up and heave
Thy sumptuous drapery to the wind! Thy brow
Begirt with adamant, lay bare; and leave

The lurid panoply of death; and go
Forth like the mightiest and the best of them
Who, if they move to grapple with a foe,
Put on a snowy robe—a diadem

Of triple stars. Up with thee, in thy grave
And awful beauty! Let the nations hear

110

The language of endurance from the brave;
The song of peace from such as know not fear.

Shall War prevail for ever? Must we be
For ever and for ever bound to wage,
Like the devouring creatures of the sea,
Unceasing battle for our heritage?

Are we to sleep in armor? To lie down
With lighted thunderbolts, year after year,
Lest they who saw their monarch vail his crown
At our approach of old, may venture near?

What though a fourth of thy brave empire now
Is put upon the casting of a die?
The land our fathers bled for—that which Thou
Regardest as a portion of the sky—

And justly too. What though thy outstretch'd hands
Are vast and powerful? Thy rocky earth,
Rough though it be, more precious than the lands
That burn with gold and gems? Of greater worth

To thy stout people, Country of the free!
Than if thy waters rang o'er beds of pearls,
Flashing and sounding with the great high sea,—
Or when their wrath was up—in drifts and whirls

Threw diamonds—rubies—lumps of light ashore;
The wealth of India, or the glorious coil
Of shipwreck'd empires freighted with the store
Of gone-by ages—founder'd with their spoil.

From the four quarters of our strength, are we
To keep for ever thundering, night and day?
Will nothing do but warfare? Must we be
Arm'd to the teeth for ever? arm'd to slay?

Are the proud creatures of our soil—our youth,
Our fruitage and our hope—are they to go
Not reasoning as they ought with words of truth,
Along the way of life, but arm'd as though

The brave and beauteous earth whereon they tread,
Were fashion'd by the Builder of the Skies,

111

Not for his living Image, but the dead—
A place for slaughter and for sacrifice;

The Golgotha of nations. Must they be
Bred up to butchery from their earliest breath?
Made to believe that they are serving thee,
Our Father! when they sweep a storm of death,

O'er portions of thy goodliest heritage,
Tearing a path to empire—laying bare
The Vineyards of the world, age after age,
Or clamoring with ten thousand trumpets where

The shadowy monsters of the Great Deep dwell,
With star-drift—fire—and shapes magnificent,
Creatures that watch thy roaring citadel—
The broad black sea—the sun-dropp'd firmament.

Father of men! Jehovah! What are they,
The rulers of the earth, that they should dare,
To set aside thy law—to bid man slay
Where thou, their God, hast told him to forbear?

New England rouse thee from thy heavy sleep!
Storehouse of nations—Lighted of the sky—
Great northern hive—Long cherish'd of the deep—
Mother of States! To thee we turn our eye!

Up with thy heart in prayer, and cry aloud
Peace to the Nations; to our Borders peace!
Why roll your banners like a thunder-cloud,
O'er sky and earth for ever? Let war cease!

Let our brave Country lift her arms and swear
By Him that dwelleth in eternity,
That henceforth and for ever she will wear
About her warrior brow, the flowering olive-tree!