 | Hannibal |  |
HANNIBAL ON THE ALPS.
“Peace nevermore; but war, eternal war,'Twixt Romans and the race of Hamilcar!”
Thus, by the altar of his fatherland,
With mystic ceremonial, laying hand
Upon the bleeding victim, sternly swore
The stripling of nine years; and in the core
Of his deep soul he treasures up that oath,
Till one great purpose, growing with his growth,
Absorbs his very being, and the boy
Becomes a man, devoted to destroy
Th' oppressor of his race, and with her name
Wipe out the memory of Punic shame.
Twice nine years more have passed; behold him now
Preparing to redeem that solemn vow,
Collecting all his strength to meet the foe,
And strike the long-premeditated blow:
For Rome will never yield; who fights with her
Must be her victim or her vanquisher.
And he hath manned his fleet and swept the seas,
Through slaughter waded to the Pyrenees,
From Pyrenees to Alps; and nothing stops
The course of the avenger; cliffs, whose tops
Are in the clouds of heaven, he dares to scale:
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To modern tourist's ear, who bravely vaunts
His Alpine feats and pleasant summer jaunts
Through the same region, civilised by time:
For what was dreadful once is now sublime,
Romantic, picturesque, or how besides
You like to phrase it, led by Switzer guides
To sights and scenes that ravish or entrance,
Cloud-reaching roads from Italy and France,
Or where the fur-clad Corsican, the god
Of modern admiration, safely trod
The rugged paths, and dragged his cannon down
St. Bernard slopes, and won a cheap renown.
But honour unto him who first essays
Of peril unexplored the darksome ways.
Well might the Carthaginian at the sight
Of those strange barriers pause; height over height,
Like ramparts raised by nature to repel
Invasion, and the boldest hopes to quell,
Interminable rising; ridge from ridge
Parted by dizzy chasms, that none could bridge
Save the strong-pinioned eagle; jagged steeps,
From which the fiercely-foaming torrent leaps
Or rolls the avalanche. No pastime this,
To march in terror of the huge abyss
That yawns beneath, upon some narrow ledge
Of slippery rock, or on the cataract's edge,
While grisly natives, who defy pursuit,
Hang threatening on the height, and hurl or shoot
Their savage missilery; and then to bear,
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Can pitilessly inflict, the piercing winds,
The hail that buffets, and the mist that blinds;
Roads lost in darkness, or by storms effaced,
Still to be cut and cleared, retrieved, retraced,
For beast and baggage, over deep defiles
And swampy hollows, wrecks of mountain, piles
Of hurricano-driven snow, that freeze
Under a summer-sky. Amidst all these,
Though many a brave one for the wolf and kite
Be left a prey, without a funeral rite,
Without a turf to mark a soldier's grave,
The banners of imperial Carthage wave;
And men are gathered round, of matchless might,
In courage dauntless, terrible in fight;
A semi-barbarous and motley host,
Of many a tribe and tongue, from many a coast;
Faith in their bold commander is the spell
Their union, their devotion, to compel,
Him following, like bloodhounds, in the lure
Of carnage and of rapine: quivered Moor,
And Balearian slinger; sons of Spain,
From Gades and the far Atlantic main
Or Celtiberian hills, in tunics gay
Of snowy-white and scarlet; and th' array
Of subject Libyans, from the broad frontiers
Of Carthage, with their long and glittering spears;
And Punic lords, the blood of ancient Tyre,
With dark and haughty brows and eyes of fire;
The plumy-crested Nomad, and his steed,
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Shall not avail him here: the elephant
Hath shared his master's toil; with forage scant,
With painful burdens laden, numbed and pinched
With cold and hunger, never hath he flinched
From duty; pattern of the discipline
That trains a soldier: such is Heaven's design,
That muscle, nerve, and strength shall be the tools
Of thought, that safely guides and wisely rules.
See now upon a table-summit spread
Their weather-torn pavilions: night hath fled,
And saffron tints of morning streak the skies;
Thick vapours steaming from the valley rise,
And cliff and crag are wrapt with silvery haze,
Until the sun breaks forth, with sudden blaze
Flooding the mountain tops; the mists unfold
Their snowy wreaths and turn to clouds of gold,
Ascending yet, till with the burning ray
They mingle and are melted into day.
Peaks, precipices, glens, and clefts appear,
And all the Alpine region far and near;
Beneath it and beyond it, far away
As eye could reach, a glorious prospect lay,
Extended like a picture to the view,
More beautiful than artist ever drew,
Or poets of Elysian landscapes feign;
A country formed for a Saturnian reign
Of happiness; not yet with cities crowned,
Or stately towers and battlements, that frowned
On vassal people learning to forget
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The name of province. The unconquered Celt
In the rude freedom of his fathers dwelt;
No other bulwark than the sword he prized,
And art he understood not or despised;
His tillage, like his life, was rough and plain;
Earth yielded what he asked with little pain.
'Twas Nature of her lavish bounty made
That lovely garden, clothing field and glade
With sweetest verdure, pouring from the hills
The rich abundance of their floods and rills,
Breathing the airs that wake ambrosial spring,
And teach the earth to flower, the bird to sing:
For these are Nature's, God's; the harmony
Of earth with heaven above; the soft blue sky
Seen in the mirror-lake; the dewy lawn
Glistering in the flush of crimson dawn;
Th' unclouded sun, of his meridian march
When he has climbed the zenith, from his arch
Of glory looking down, beheld by men
In brightness only, as to mortal ken
A glimpse of the Creator is revealed
Throughout His glorious works. Were man not steeled
By custom of ill deeds, and thoughts yet worse
Enthralling his degenerate soul, the curse
Of sin primeval, in this garden grove,
In this delicious clime, were scenes to move
High thoughts and holy rapture, that might charm
Barbarian bosoms, and their rage disarm.
Gazing awhile they stood with strange delight
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With autumn's dædal hues, and wonder mute
Held them, as they surveyed each speck minute
Of life and motion, every field and tree
Visible in the clear transparency,
Green hillocks dotted o'er with nibbling flocks,
And shepherd boy, and ploughman with his ox
Cleaving the fallow glebe, and straying herds,
And twinkling of innumerable birds
That skim along the meads or upward soar,
And lonely fisher paddling with his oar,
Hamlets and rural cots, the homes of toil,
Remote from cares of war and foreign broil.
All in the centre of the valley flows
The king of rivers, fed with Alpine snows,
Eridanus, at first with fond delay
Wooing his banks and winding on his way;
And now the champaign threads, now peeps thro' green
Embowering shades or opening hills between;
Now by Taurinian woods his path is crost,
And in their covert dense the flood is lost;
But soon again he hastens to emerge
With broader channel and with bolder surge,
Swelled by a thousand tributary streams,
His waters dancing in the sunny beams,
Exulting in his strength he rolls along,
The source of plenty and the theme of song.
'Twas Italy! they cried; and quickly ran
From tent to tent the word, from man to man;
And they had gazed their fill, and Hannibal
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Triumphantly he looked, and speech that raised
Their highest hopes began: “The gods be praised!
Ye see before your eyes the promised land,
Prize for the valiant heart and conquering hand.
This Italy, the land of corn and oil
And blushing vineyards, ye shall seize and spoil;
Yet not these nearest vales that lie below;
Here dwells no Roman, but the Roman's foe,
Our friend and our ally, the stubborn Gaul,
Whose armies soon shall muster at our call.
Yonder upon your right ye see a sheet
Of glassy splendour, stretching till it meet
The heaven's blue concave; 'tis the Libyan sea,
That once was ours, and ours again shall be,
When Rome hath fallen. Those highlands dark with pine
Are offbreaks of the ridgy Apennine,
The backbone of Italia; thither now
Our march is. South and eastward from the brow
Of that blue mountain pours th' Etrurian flood,
Which the fell Romans drink, the hateful brood
Of ravenous wolves, whom to their lair we'll hunt,
And smite and slay them till our swords are blunt
With slaughter: to the gods we'll give their lives;
But yours shall be their daughters and their wives,
Raiment and jewels, gold and silver hoards,
Delicious wines that sparkle on their boards,
Their horses and their flocks and rich domains,
The plunder of their houses and their fanes,
And stores of armour—all shall be for you;
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‘Onward’ be still the word! the deeds ye've done
Are earnest of new trophies to be won.
Alps, glaciers, frost, and famine—these are past;
Remains the easiest conquest and the last,
To win this sunny land, and end the sway
Of robber-tribes, whom only slaves obey.
Then come, my comrades, to the plain descend;
There is your guerdon, there your labour's end!”
He said; and martial valour at his words
Was kindled into flame, and shields and swords
Were clashed, and from the dissonant voices broke
A shout of acclamation, that awoke
Echoes on echoes rolling, till it seemed
The mountain's thunder-cry; the eagle screamed,
As if some new Enceladus had blown
His war-blast, the Olympian to dethrone.
Anon, at sound of trumpet, all the camp
Was busy with departure and the stamp
Of mustering files and squadrons; full of hopes,
And with requickened vigour, down the slopes
That overhang Hesperia they commence
Their easier march descending. “What and whence
Be these new-comers?” of each other ask
Cisalpine shepherds, pausing in their task
To gaze upon the mighty stream of war.
No huntsmen of their kindred: from the far
Crest of the mountain to the vale below
Stretches the long battalia, with brave show
Of military splendour; lance and plume
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Th' advancing columns opening into ranks
Halt on the spacious field, and soon, their flanks
On each side deepening, to the view present
Centre and wing and squared regiment
In battailous array. Before the van
Conspicuous rides the lordly African,
Leader of all the host; with earnest gaze
Their number and their order he surveys,
Then looks upon the mountains left behind,
His heart with pride distending, in his mind
Already victor: for what feat were hard
To these the much-enduring, who had warred
With greater power than mortal, had assailed
The fortresses of Nature, and prevailed
Over the very elements? “We come,
Avengers of our wrongs, accursed Rome,
To sweep thee from the earth!” What human force
Can meet the deluge, or resist its course?
| Hannibal | |