 | Night |  |
5
NIGHT.
BOOK I. THE LOVERS.
I.
Night, I will sing of thee! while o'er my soulCare broods like Darkness, which the hopeless pass'd
Haunts, drinking her own tears, and—still too late,—
Offering her phantom-aid of mockery.
I love thy face, when it is calm and sad,
As Valor's dying hour, or the stern mind
That suffers, and is mute. I love thee, Night,
When each near object, like a corse laid out,
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Sleep on their shadows vast, in dimness cloth'd.
Which, as with magic transformation, gives
To bounded things seeming infinity,
And shapes grotesque or awful, at the will
Of wizard Fancy. Man's ingratitude
Out-frowns thy darkness; Man's hypocrisy
More perilous is than all thy paths of gloom;
But hath the lip of Man, even in death,
A smile so lovely and serene as thine,
When thy wan moon, and all her sisterhood,
Look on the sleep of Nature, while the long
Grass of the grave is tranquil as the dust,
That once was life, and power, and intellect?
Is there, oh! Night, a wretch with blasted heart,
Who hath no friend but thee, no joy but one,
The joy of Terror? Bid him look on Man!
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Compar'd with that strange chaos, that wild hell,
Which scath'd Remorse or wither'd Rancor bears
In his perturbed breast. Hast thou, Oh, Night,
A scowl like his, who hates whom he hath wrong'd?
Hast thou a tempest wild as Jealousy?
Hast thou a scene terrific as the mind
In ruins—as the human heart deprav'd?
Behold Ambition blasted! Look on him
Who calls the wrongs he doeth benefits,
And bids his victim thank him for a stab!
Hark! 'tis Rapacity, tearless and stern,
Who curses whom he spoils! Lo, Calumny,
The smiler and the saint, the dagger-tongued,
Who murders worth with words! All-dreaded Night,
Hid'st thou in deepest gloom ought half so sad,
Or foul, or terrible, as the revenge
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To trample on the fall'n? as the vile Spleen
That feels its worthlessness, and persecutes
What it admires, and envies what it loathes,
And loathes because it envies? as Despair,
Who, fearing evil, seeks the worst of ills,
Death? or that dark and bosom'd Blasphemy,
Which bids the demon-passions call on heav'n
To do the devil's work? It is not Night,
It is himself, whom Man hath cause to fear.—
Cruel in kindness, terrible in love,
His heart strange contradictions reconciles,
Itself the strangest, an enigma sad.
II.
What love-lorn youth, above the torrent's roar,,Stands like a dreaming seer, and, motionless,
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Henry Macdonald. 'Mid his native snows
Of Caledonia, never rose a pine
More hardy, never wav'd an Alpine larch
Of wilder graces. From his manly mein
The charm'd spectator, wond'ring, turn'd away
Reluctant, and enamor'd Memory still
Lov'd to recal the fire-glance of his eye.
So, by the lakes of faery Cumberland,
'Mid heights uncouth, to the wild melody
Of rock-rills vocal, grows in loneliness
A rare and stately flower; the wanderer
Seeing its beauty, wonders, as he treads
The morning dews, and lingers still to gaze,
And in the aftertimes remembers still
The plant so rare and stately. But, 'twas thought,
His eye was dim, and sad his daimen smile,
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The blushing stranger, who, to Severn's banks
Returning from the mountain'd Thule, bore
His heart with her. Yet, ere she went, she vow'd
That she would be his bride, of previous vows
Forgetful, to another strongly sworn,
With too, too facile tongue. Why droop'd he then?
Why? She was absent. Findorn's wizard wave,
And dark-isled Lomond's brightness, and unclimb'd
Shihallion, and Lohial's virgin snows
Could please no more; but his impatient soul
Counted the hours, till she should be his bride.
III.
Amid surrounding mountains, dark with shade,Where infant Severn wimples through the fern,
Earth's sweetest valley sleeps, like Loveliness
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So beauteous, that the erring heart of Man
Might place the dwelling there of Happiness,
Whose home is heaven! But there, in reed-roof'd cot,
Eliza, fairest far of Cambrian maids,
Dwelt with her parents aged, their only child.
Her knew the valleys, and each mountain lone,
Each mead and pathless forest, where she sought
The children of the desert. She, ye flowers,
Lov'd you! and she could bid ye smile in death,
And give your fading hues eternity.
Less wildly graceful was the salient roe,
On the heath's purple! like the Alpine maid
That bounds on heights snow-covered, she appear'd,
Freedom, the dauntless, and the mountain-born;
Nor unlike Freedom's mountain sister, Health,
That huntress, tall and fair, who sees clouds roll
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She lov'd the desert, with its infinite
Of wond'rous grandeur, and wild gloominess.
Aye, and she lov'd the Muses. And the woods
Wav'd on her canvas their unnumber'd trees,
The hill storm-crested bade his pines aspire,
The horse ramp'd in his pastures, torrents rush'd
In seeming thunder; or th' enchantress, Spring,
On hoar wastes smiling, chang'd the ice to flowers;
Or Winter scarf'd the cloud around his form,
Yok'd the loud winds, and o'er the barren deep
Bade Death and Terror scourge his gloomy steeds.
But when she pour'd her soul in song!—her voice,
Sweet as the smiles of angels, gave the verse
A more than mortal euphony, and lapp'd
The hearer's soul in rapture's dulcet heav'n.
And, hark! her voice is heard along the wild,
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Descends beneath th' eternal forest's shade,
The homeward laborer stops and listens there,
While the grey glooming, slow and silent comes,
Like a sad widow mourning still her lord,
Tho' long hath crept the crisp moss o'er his grave.
IV.
‘While the virgin's pale plant is festooning the bowers,And the lily below is in tears,
Perfume-breathing hawthorn, winds scatter thy flowers,
And the wane of thy beauty appears.
Alone in the forest with blossoms of snow,
The lovely wild cherry is seen;
The dove croos, how sweetly! the shower falling slow,
Scatters gems on earth's mantle of green.
How swiftly this little rill slides thro' the grass,
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Like the light that fades there, like a vision they pass,
And leave nought but gloom on the heart.
Our youth is a flower, and its fragrance is love,
And its beauty to perish was made:
Young damsels, oh, pluck the ripe flower as ye rove,
Oh, snatch the frail flower ere it fade!’
V.
Maid of the fields, why sigh'st thou? Poetess,Lovely and lov'd! what cause hast thou for tears?
Why dost thou fear to hope all will be well?
Behold the flowers are faded in thine hand!
Art thou not weary with far wandering?
Return! lest sadness in thy mother's heart
Chide thy long absence. But on the dark,ning west
She turns the mournful sweetness of her eye,
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‘Oh, haste to rise, departed orb!’ she cries,
‘Tomorrow Hymen gives me to my love.
‘But that tomorrow! will it ever be?’
She dropp'd the gather'd wild flowers from her hand;
And night o'er all had spread the gradual shade,
When faint Eliza reach'd her happy home.
VI.
The laborer's homeward footstep on the windIs heard no more. Earth slumbers, and is still.
'Twas but the breeze! and at the shaking twig
Starts the faint echo, while the trembling leaves
Dance with the moon-beam on th' awaken'd wave;
And now they pause, and now are motionless.
Silence rests, pillow'd on his arm, as erst
He listen'd to the sighs of sleeping Love,
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The blissful father of mankind sunk first
To sweet repose. And such repose enjoy
The aged parents of the Cambrian maid.
Thro' all the lone, lone night they sleep, and kiss,
In dreams, Eliza's cheek, which, vein-inlaid,
Droops, like the blush-rose with its tender tints.
Her heart's deep silence eloquently speaks,
And sad are lonely Fancy's whisperings.
‘Why rest your heavy wings, ye long-desir'd
‘Hours?’ saith the sigh that heaves her bosom's snow.
‘Come, Caledonian! come! delay no more,
‘Soft slumber's too, too lovely enemy!
‘Man of my heart, thou sleepest! Oh, he sleeps
‘Idealess, far, (fond one!) far from thee.
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VII.
The dawn delay'd, and idle darkness, deem'dThe friend of love; and envious Night was slow.
Th' intrusive moon-beam thro' her curtains peep'd,
Illumining the big tear, as it gush'd
From wakeful eyes, thro' long-lash'd lids half clos'd;
For in her heart restless anxiety
Foreboded woe. She rose half up, she sigh'd;
She rose, she pac'd her chamber's loneliness,
And started at her footsteps. Pale she sate
And, from her lowly window, on the deep
Solemnity of Nature gaz'd, in thought
Lost, while the stillness of creation hymn'd
The great Creator. Tears were fain to flow;
And in her eye beam'd her soul's tenderness,
And whisper'd to the listening Solitude:
‘What soothing shade, what solemn duskiness!
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‘That seems to consecrate their murmurless
‘Meanders; Oh, how softly, valley-stream,
‘How sweetly glide thy waters! now unseen,
‘Now splendid in the light so beautiful,
‘So chaste, so tranquil! But more sweetly glide
‘The gentle hours of matrimonial love,
‘Whose calmness is elysium to the soul.’
VIII.
Then, trembling, sighing, blushing, she put onHer snowy bridal robes, and from the cot
Walk'd, fairer than the sun-beams of the spring.
Flowers, planted by the reinless winds, she trode
Beneath her feet, (so Time on Beauty treads;)
She wept them not, the maiden saw them not;
And on the lawn they sank to bloom no more;
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To shed the dew-drop from their azure eyes.
Beneath her favorite maple she sate down:
The sparkling stream, which bath'd its naked roots,
Wander'd before her wildly; and she sate,
Beauteous, with sable tresses negligent,
As Evening in her mildness, when the breeze
Plays with her dusky hair. Her pensive cheek
Reclining on the languor of her arm,
She, all-unconscious, wept, while her blue eyes
Look'd downwards on the little rivulet,
And seem'd to count, yet saw them not, the waves.
Beauteous in tears, while stormy clouds convene
On the gruff mountain, ere the rain descend,
Thus bends th' aurelian globe-flower, o'er the rill
That mirrors its reclining loveliness.
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IX.
No wind? The aspin slept. And yet she thoughtThe hawthorn rustled near her! She arose
On tiptoe—hope was earnest in her eye,—
She listen'd!—Was it not a coming step?
Soft as the moonlight, smil'd extatic thought,
And Fancy gave a hushand to her arms.
But swart was he, and withering was his look,
Who came so stilly on her privacy.
‘Glanfillan?’ shrieking, she exclaim'd, and shrank,
And would have fled;—but with no feeble grasp
Th' intruder held her. ‘Aye 'tis I!’ he cried,
‘Canst thou not trust thy senses? I am here!
‘Unwelcome—unexpected—that I know,
‘And am glad of it.—Guilty, fearful fool!
‘In vain thou striv'st to fly, yet well may'st strive—
‘I am not he whom thou should'st rush to meet.’
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X.
‘Hast thou not had thine answer?’ she reply'd.‘I cannot love thee. What would'st thou have more?
‘My parents would abhor to call thee son;
‘Yet hate they not, they fear thee, and with cause.
‘Few are thy gloomy words, thy deeds unknown,—
‘Not unsuspected. Who hath heard thee name
‘Thy country, or thy parentage? Dark Man!
‘Suspicion dwells with Mystery. Away!’
XI.
‘Think not,’ he answer'd, ‘that I come the slave‘Of whining hope, to merit (what I scorn,)
‘Thy contumely. Nor did I come to ask
‘What brass-hair'd Pict hast thou been sporting with,
‘Where lovers rub their knuckles while they woo?
‘Ye did not always scorn the dark Unknown,
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‘Welcom'd with smiles—aye! and with smiles betray'd.
‘What would ye know of me? more than I know?
‘If all were born of woman, so was I:
‘A Man my sire! this is my country! I
‘Am—what I needs must be! Thou lov'st me not?’—
And with a laugh of horror, pausing here,
Fiercely he shook her. ‘Why should'st thou love me?
‘Fool! I would but have pluck'd a beauteous flower
‘To breathe on it, and blast it. I was born,
‘Unwithering, unpitied, pitiless,
‘To kill whate'er of good I look upon.
‘Methou could'st not have bless'd!—nor shalt thou bless
‘Another!’ From her lip the hue of life
Fled. ‘Wilt thou murder me?’ and on her knees
She sank before him, and look'd up—in vain.
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XII.
He twisted in her sable hair his hand:She fainted. From her neck the snowy lawn
Fell to the ground; her virgin breast was bare;
And on that loveliest breast, with deadliest might,
His dagger's point impressing, thro' the bone
He pierc'd the lungs. Then, as th' autumnal moon,
In plenitude of mournful majesty,
When Night is stillest, veil'd in clouds, displays
Her shaded silver, dim, yet beautiful;
So heav'd the dying virgin's breast, beneath
The rushing life-blood. Ah, she knew it not,
Till, from the bowers of bliss, her spirit saw
A form terrific stamping on her corse;
Still grasp'd his hand her tresses blood-defil'd,
And still he rais'd the steel, and still he struck.
At that dread moment, sorrow pierc'd her soul
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Her aged parents from their dwelling came,
And sought and smote at once their dreadful foe,
And in one instant on their child they died.
Henry Macdonald, distant, heard their cries:
He reach'd, with breathless speed, the maple grove;
He pass'd, but not unseen, the stream beyond.
Glanfillan, snatching from the father's heart
The dagger, with a long, loud, laughing yell,
Sprang o'er the dead, and like another Cain,
Or like the Condor's shadow o'er the deep,
Rush'd on the Caledonian. Stunn'd, the youth
Stood; but instinctively his rapid hand
Met the descending weapon,—grasp'd it fast,—
A struggle stern and still! With his left hand
Glanfillan siez'd his throat. But Henry, huge,
And shoulder'd broad, with iron sinews terse,
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He smote th' unweapon'd miscreant to the earth.
Half-rising, twice he sank: he rose, he stood,
He stagger'd; then, with senses all amaz'd,
Rush'd down the rock, and vanish'd, unpursu'd.
XIII.
The victor paus'd. No triumph-feeling proudSwell'd his young heart. A black and deadly thought,
Big with despair and torture, seiz'd his soul:
Breathless advanc'd he—horror-freez'd, he stopp'd,—
And, reeling, falling, fainted on the dead.
Wan on one knee, with dim, dim eye, he rose.
‘Bride! Bride! and am I widow'd?—Speak to me!
‘Canst thou not speak?’ Alas, she answer'd not!
Still in his hand her lifeless hand he held,
All-shuddering at its coldness; on her face,
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In woe intense, and, oh, how tenderly
He kiss'd the lily on its bed of death!
‘Elizabeth! and is it thus we meet?—
‘Ye, too? Sire! Mother!—Oh, ye hoary hairs,
‘Why is this blood upon ye?—Misery!—
‘The world is empty! and I live.—'Tis come,
‘The bridal hour is come.—Alas, are these
‘My nuptials?’ Soul-subdu'd, he groan'd, and sank;
His pillow was the bosom of his love,
And long his fervid temples panted there.
Alas, she was to him the only flower
That deck'd the field of being! Deadly pale,
And feeble, he arose. he rais'd from earth
The dagger, felt its sharp point, and was still.
‘If it must be, thou, in the hour of need,
‘My dreadful Friend, shalt finish this thy work.’
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O'er the pale dead, in grief that spake not there.
XIV.
Rous'd from their beds, th' affrighted peasants cameThey shook him from his dream of agony.
They dragg'd him, stunn'd, amaz'd, before the Judge,
With all the dreadful evidence of guilt
Upon him. His stain'd hands, his attitude,
The victims, his wild looks, and—more than these,—
That grasped dagger, dropping with warm blood,
Witness'd against him. He stood motionless.
The Judge condemn'd him. Stupifi'd he heard
The fatal sentence. yet one piteous look,
Of strange inquiry, on the crowd he cast—
'Twas fearful!—like the harrow'd cloud, the flash
On broken darkness. All eyes look'd on him—
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They stood in horrid wonder, that a form
Beauteous as his, could lodge a demon's soul!
And no heart pitied him in all that crowd?
None pitied him, the guiltless, the condemn'd?
None pitied him, the desolate? Not one!
Is't true? is't possible? 'Tis certainty!
Horrible certainty! Astonishment
Sunk into grief, grief into dread, and dread
Soon became agony. Lo! as he wept,
He started—at a sound, harsh, tho' suppress'd;
It was not laughter, and it was not speech;—
But 'twas a voice which whoso once had heard
Might not but recognise!—he turn'd, and met
The rancor of Glanfillan's grin of scorn!—
It was the hand of Providence!—That grin,
That fiendish croon, wither'd his intellect!
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He stood in mental ruin! blank and still.
The dire tribunal, the unweeping crowd,
The murderer, and his own tremendous doom,
What were they? dreams? Where are they? Memory,
Like a burnt parchment, was uncharacter'd.
The past, to him, was all anhililate,
To him the dreadful future shall not be;
But to the scaffold they shall bear a shape
Of living Man,—a form idealess,—
Life!—Feeling?—but not Soul! The hand of God
Smote him, in horror, and in mercy, there.
XV.
They rear'd his gibbet where Eliza died,And many a midnight tempest swung his bones.—
Doth the Owl like the taste of Felon's flesh?
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But Conscience can.—A Goblin (so 'twas said,)
Haunted the fatal spot; not a bright form
Of virgin beauty, but a horrid shape
Gloomy and gaunt, that stalk'd with warrior stride,
And mutter'd curses. years had pass'd away:
The cloud, that veil'd the moon, was on the hill:
Along the spectred path, with hurried step,
A swain, belated, came; and as he pass'd
The gibbet, in the pauses of the wind,
He heard the words of agony and prayer.
He fled: but on th' opposing hill, the moon
Came from the cloud: he stood, he look'd, and saw
A dusky figure, at the gibbet's foot,
Writhing, as writhes a sapling in the storm;
And, suddenly, 'twas still. He reach'd his home,
He wak'd the village, and, with others, sought
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Out-stretch'd and pale—self-slaughter'd? so it seem'd!
If not, who might th' Assassin be? and how
Lur'd he his victim hither? and for what
Struck he the blow of death? For on the slain
They found a purse, a ring, and, set in gems,
The picture of a Lady passing fair,
Which this inscription bore, ‘To her soul's Lord
‘His own Eliza.’ In the wound was left
The golden-hilted dagger. Worn his form
To bare anatomy, his raiment rich;
Ghastly the features! and remorse and guilt
Were written there. Even where he died his corpse
Was laid in earth. And let them mix their dust
Together there, the Suicide, and he
Miscall'd the Felon! let the bones, storm-bleach'd,
Drop, one by one, upon th' unhallow'd grave!
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And Night can tell of sadder things than these.
END OF BOOK I.
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BOOK II. WHARNCLIFFE.
I.
Why look'st thou in thy beauty from that cloudIdle and dark, why look'st thou, brightest star
Of loneliest midnight, on the felon's chain
And half-bleach'd ghastness? Richest gem that decks
Heav'n's azure robe! Man's vileness cannot dim
Thy glory. Yet, on Meditation's walk,
Where lovers, whispering, pour'd the full, full heart,
Beneath thine holy beam; on pensive groves,
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Silent in dewy sleep, ere while, hath gaz'd
Thine eye of purest light. Art thou in love
With Horror? splendid one, then go with me!
Smile on the crag, and tremble thro' the trees,
And glimmer on the river at my feet,
And mark the long leaf, by the gale awak'd,
Bending to sip the hasty current there!
II.
Turn from the mouldering Suicide, oh, Night,To where the hard rocks dip their rugged feet
In Don's dark wave, and billowy heights ascend,—
Surges eternal, silent, motionless,—
As if th' Almighty's hand had still'd and fix'd
The waves of chaos in their wildest swell!
Bid thy winds sleep; and bid thy calmest moon,
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On Wharncliffe of the Demons! Tranquil scene!
Lonely and beautiful! yet, oh, how wild!
III.
Night, canst thou, unalarm'd, behold the placeOf Striga's dire enchantments? Near those rocks,
(Still call'd the Dragon's Den,) her husband died;
And yonder, at the broad oak's foot, (the couch
Of doubly sinful loves,) a whisper'd word
From her calm lip,—while the stars seem'd to fade
In shuddering horror,—drove the freezing blood
Swift from her sister's husband's guilty cheek.
‘Murder my poor Rosmilda!’ he exclaim'd,
‘Didst thou advise it? Thou? Oh, say 'tis false!
‘Already are we deep in blood, how deep!
‘Wretch tho’ I am! thank God, I am not yet
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‘Murder her? I! Why so, alas, I do!
‘I murder her, if I bid Jealousy
‘Feed on her injur'd heart, and drink her life;
‘Basely I murder her!’ He said and wept.
‘Baltha! but, while she lives, we are not safe,
Answer'd the murderess: ‘strongly doth thy wife
‘Suspeet us; nay, her doubts speak audibly:
‘And Murder will have Vengeance!—if we please.’
‘Doure Striga!’ he replied, ‘my troubled sleep
‘Informs against us!—Oh, Guilt hath a tougue
‘That blabs what he would hide!’ Pensive, he said,
And, weeping, turn'd to go; but with quick hand
She siez'd on his, and, fondly chiding, spake:
‘What, not a kiss at parting? Oh, cold men,
‘Ye pluck the flower and, lo, it is a weed!
‘Hoard then thy kisses for Rosmilda's lip,
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‘The bitterness of unrequited love!’
IV.
She said, but he replied not: mournfullyHe turn'd away and went; while, sighing, she
Fellow'd with eye and ear his wilder'd steps.
Thoughtful, she paus'd. ‘Did the dead die in vain?
‘Shall baffled Striga fail? Shall Striga's guilt
‘Make Striga's rival bless'd?—Anathma! rise.
‘Star-ruling Striga calls thee. Rise! Appear!’
A form of blasted majesty, with eyes,
As of the lightning dimm'd, not quench'd, with brow
Dark, but not sad, and lip where scorn with pain
Seem'd to contend in angry pride, arose
Before her. ‘Mighty Mistress, here am I:
‘What would'st thou with thy slave?’ the spirit said.
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‘The wife of Baltha!’ ‘That I cannot do,’
Answer'd the fiend: ‘Shall I raise him who can?
‘I read thy wish—'Tis done! Retire awhile,
‘My potent Mistress!—Even now, he spreads
‘Unmeasurd wings, as horror black; he shades
‘The pole with gloom; and casts beneath his flight
‘Darkness, as when the sun and stars, extinct,
‘Shall shine no longer on their heav'nly way,
‘Darkness and dread. The moon is black with fear;
‘Ocean looks up, and trembles, and heaves back
‘Her tumult infinite. Like hurrying heav'n
‘With lightning fring'd, or like a deluge wild
‘Of raging fire, with Night o'er canopied,
‘Idea-swift, he comes. Retire, retire!’
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V.
She shrank behind the rock; and darken'd NightConfess'd the presence of the Prince of Fiends.
Wrath, like a serpent, wrinkled on his brow;
His black lip paled with ire. ‘And who art thou,
‘Presumptuous slave!’ he cried, ‘that dar'st to call
‘Thy Master from his sovereignty below?’
‘Know'st thou not me?’ with fearless scorn replied
Anathma: ‘I am he who, in the rout
‘Of rebel angels, fought when Satan fled.’
‘I may not waste my words on thee,’ return'd
The haughty Fiend: ‘the purport of thy spell?’
‘Thine, and my Mistress, can inform thee best,’
Answer'd Anathma, sneering: ‘lo, she comes!’
And from the stung Fiend turning, he was gone.
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VI.
‘Oh, Victor!’ cried the ruin'd Angel, highRaising his clasped hands, ‘this is indeed
‘Damnation! I do feel thy conquering hand!
‘And must Abaddon post o'er land and sea
‘To do a Woman's bidding?—What with me?’
He said, and frown'd on Striga, who stood wan
Beneath him, trembling at her own dread power.
‘Reluctant, I offend thee,’ pausing said
Th' Enchantress. ‘Aid me, for I need thy aid.
‘Hell we control, but Passion masters us.
‘Canst thou not bid my hated rival breathe
‘A pestilential air, that she may die,
‘And no appalling finger point at me?’
She ended, and th' impatient Fiend replied:
‘I cannot—Hades can. Lo, he is here!’
And, with a frown that, as with palsy, shook
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In terror there, but not in loneliness.
VII.
She fear'd and wonder'd; for a stately form,Faded from grandest, with aurelian wings,
Sun-bright, tho' blasted, in stern loveliness
Was present, like a dying Hero's dream.
‘Who art thou?’ exclaim'd Striga: ‘if thou com'st
‘From heav'n, an Angel, wherefore art thou here?’
The Spirit answer'd, ‘That ask I of thee.
‘From heav'n I come not—the grave calls me Death:
‘Can I assist thee?’ ‘Wilt thou—if thou canst?’—
Said Striga. ‘Bid my rival drink thy breath,
‘And perish!’ And, all trembling, she retir'd.
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VIII.
Why gazes Hades on the troubled sky?‘The whirlwind of the motion of a wing
‘Not less than archangelic, this way comes!’
Fled every star; earth groan'd from all her caves,
As if she felt her final hour was nigh:
And, with chaotic darkness helmeted,
Rush'd from the gloom Adorni, to embrace
His fallen friend. ‘Dost thou remember me?’
Ask'd the Archangel, ‘Or hath hell's thick gloom
‘So dull'd thy sense, that thou seest nothing here
‘That once was lov'd?’ ‘I know thee, Angel, well,’
Answer'd lorn Hades: ‘but I know not why
‘A Spirit pure should clasp a Demon damn'd.’
IX.
Pensive, replied Adorni: ‘I was once‘Pure. From the host rebellious I return'd
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‘Borders on chaos, and dimensionless
‘Rocks in perennity of gloom repose,
‘I make perpetual Night my canopy,
‘And, with the majesty of Ruin, sit,
‘Awfully lone. The elements, all dark,
‘Combat before me; or the hand of God
‘Writes fiery indignation on the deep,
‘A formless, heaving sea of dismal light,
‘Which seems, in fragments wild, a Universe,
‘Or Continent of deflagrated worlds
‘Array'd in lightning, or infinitude
‘Of burning Oceans, up in ridges roll'd,
‘Huger than myriad systems ruin'd. There
‘Dwell I in horrid solitude, yet not
‘Heav'n's outcast. Sometimes, I revisit, calm,
‘Th' eternal throne, and breathe my native air,
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‘Extinguish'd, ceaseth to illumine space,
‘But, to heav'n's silence, sad Adorni's voice
‘Singeth of worlds annihilate the song
‘Funereal: such the mournful task sublime,
‘Which God, in mercy, hath assign'd to me,
‘The traitor. But, my hapless Friend, thou heard'st,
‘Ere join'd th' ethereal hosts in conflict strange,
‘My words approv'd. Why didst thou then remain
‘Disloyal? Heav'n beheld thy unassur'd
‘Contrition, but with more of grief than hope.
‘His uprais'd arm supported on his shield
‘Eternal, and his warrior hand the plumes
‘Grasping that shade his helm of adamant,
‘The might of Michael wept. Reclin'd in grief,
‘The pensive cheek of Abdiel on his hand
‘Rested; he wept, like Valor, o'er the bed
47
‘His black locks veil'd his beauty and his tears.
‘Tears gemm'd the sunny plumes of Raphael,
‘Tears dimm'd the lightning glance of Uriel's eye.
‘But tall Syona wip'd her tears away
‘With flowing tresses fair; kneeling, she spread
‘The fairest of celestial hands, and pray'd:
‘Trembled the whiteness of her wings of snow,
‘Whose golden summits glow'd, as dipp'd in light;
‘And, when she ceas'd, she calmly rais'd the eye
‘Of sweetest hope, bright as empyreal day.
‘But the stern fiat of thy destiny
‘Condemn'd thee to abide in hell, yet not
‘The lowest there, the servant of his wrath
‘When Earth offends him; and Heav'n calls thee Plague.’
48
X.
Then to the Angel helm'd with darkness, spakeHis brother: ‘Satan, and example sway'd
‘My judgment: I was faithful only there
‘Where faith was crime.’ ‘But on thy cheek,’ reply'd
Adorni, ‘is the path of burning tears
‘Remorseful. For Contrition there is Hope.’
‘Hope? said'st thou Hope?’ exclaim'd the fallen one,
‘Never, Adorni, never may I greet
‘That heav'nly stranger!—What would'st thou with me?
‘Dreadful inhabiter of Dissonance!
‘Is not eternal Desolation thine?
‘Doth Chaos sleep, that hither thou dost come,
‘To seek the gloomy joys of horror here?
‘Why, King of Ruin, hast thou left the storms?’
49
XI.
‘To punish Striga, I am here,’ reply'dThe dark Archangel. ‘With the Fiends invok'd,
‘Comes her destruction. Do her bidding, thou—
‘E'en as it is appointed; but select
‘No Victim. Loose the blast of Pestilence,
‘But guide it not.’ ‘Shall Chance, then, be the guide
‘Of Havock?’ said pale Hades. Unsurpris'd
Adorni answer'd him: ‘Chance is a word
‘Meaningless.’ While he spake, the firm rock reel'd
In gloomier darkness, thunder o'er their heads
Bellow'd, and ceas'd; and like the distant sound
Of worlds in ruin hurl'd, a voice was heard:
‘Plague, wander wild among the homes of men,
‘And leave the Fates to me.’ Hades fell prone:
‘Didst thou not hear?’ he cried, ‘Clouds heard, and fled;
‘Winds and the Thunder heard, and where are they?—
50
‘Whose footsteps shook thee? To my soul dismay'd
‘Speak, cloudless storm! and, soundless lightnings, say
‘What 'tis ye fear?’ Was it a dream? At once
Gone were the giant Angels. Where they stood
Was loneliness; no living thing was there;
But the breeze lifted up the little leaf,
And on the cold rock lay the moonbeam cold.
XII.
Two days had pass'd since Striga call'd the Fiends,And the third night was come. Toss'd on her couch,
Like the wave's foam, th' Enchantress. Did she sleep?
If that all-troubled slumber was repose,
There may be rest in Hell. The lamp's faint beam
O'er her brow trembled darkly, as in fear.
Did Conscience speak to her in dreams? She rose
51
‘Anathma!’ she exclaim'd, ‘Anathma, rise!
‘Help! help! Anathma!—Double-dealing Fiends!’
The Spirit was obedient, and he came:
‘What would my potent Mistress with her Slave?’
He said, and paus'd. ‘Oh, listen!’ she replied.
‘Methought my murder'd husband to my bed
‘Came and said, “Rise, most faithful of the chaste!
“He is departed!” And his scornful lip
‘Smil'd as he vanish'd. Soon he came again,
‘Smiling, and bearing in his hands a bowl,
‘Which courteously he offer'd to my lips.
“Drink, my love, drink!” he said, “For the last time
“We meet: tomorrow! and infinitude
“Is cast between us.—Lo, thy husband quaffs
“To our eternal parting!—Pledge me, love!—
“'Tis blood—'tis my blood—Doth it frighten thee?
52
“Pledge me, love, pledge me!” And with quivering lip,
‘And soundless laugh, he faded slow away.
‘What may this mean? this warning from the grave?
‘Who is departed?—Oh, ye flattering Fiends,
‘Much I mistrust ye!—Traitor! why that sneer?’
XIII.
‘Be not offended, Mistress!’ with a smile,Answer'd the calm Anathma. ‘We obey
‘Thy bidding. Thou didst pray for pestilence,
‘And pestilence was granted to thy prayer.
‘Is it not well? An hour since, died thy Sire;
‘Thy hoary Mother, while I speak, expires;
‘Thy Brothers three, their children, and their wives,
‘Vanquish'd have wrestled with the mighty one;
‘Three of thy Sisters, and their fourteen sons,
53
‘Food, which the worm may not devour, and live.
‘Is it not well? Thy relatives are dead,
‘Dead. Earth is black with funeral, and Night
‘Gleams with the death-torch—but Rosmilda lives.’
He said, and vanish'd; but his long loud laugh
Still echo'd in her soul, when nought was heard
But the vex'd river o'er its bed of stone.
XIV.
Towards the sad house of Baltha, thro' the duskFleeted the scath'd Enchantress. Dark it stood,
And all around was mute as coffin'd dust.
Ah, surely Death, or death-like Sleep was there!
Would she disturb that stillness? Suddenly,
A low sound, as of many moving feet,
From within murmur'd: her damp hair stood up!
54
And in its indistinctness, without words,
Spake clearly. She stood still. The door unclos'd,
Light issu'd pale. Audibly beat her heart,
Albeit unheard; and in the beam she stood
Dark, as a Liar before slander'd Truth.
Soon slowly forth was Baltha's coffin borne,
Shoulder'd aloft, with many a torch before,
And many a mourner glooming mute behind,
While sweetly sad the funeral anthem wail'd;
And on that long, black coffin there was laid
A little one, a baby's bed of death.
She gaz'd, as looks a traitor on the axe;
She mov'd not, breath'd not, till the train had pass'd;
Then sank she, senseless, as the headless dead.
55
XV.
What voice, as of a Seraph singing, callsThe Sorceress from her trance? She leans half up;
And, lo, like one new risen from the dead,
And ready to take wing for heav'n, with face
Pale as the moon-light, and as calm and cold,
Her eye uprais'd, her fading lips half clos'd,
The beauteous Maniac, Baltha's widow, stands
Beside her, as if listening to the stars!
There is a lovely vision in her soul,
Delicious as the gale of Florida
Which, over fragrance, bears the tiny bird,
The feather'd bee, dipp'd in the morning—Aye,
But she is human! and Reality
Shall wake her from that dream, to agonize.
Bare is her bosom; tears are in her eye,
Smiles on her cheek; her long hair floateth loose;
And, in wild accents, pausing oft, she sings:
56
XVI.
‘What art thou, Stranger?—Get thee gone.‘Oh, Woman stern and bold!—
‘What! be there ladies eyed with stone?
‘How still is thine and cold!—
‘Alas, 'twas such a dame as thou,
‘Who laid my lord and husband low!—
‘They plac'd him in his coffin, pale;
‘Full many a torch was bright;
‘They bore him hence with pomp and wail.
‘And left me here in night:
‘But still his spirit hover'd near,
‘And from my sad cheek kiss'd a tear.
‘Hail, after stormy night, the morn,
‘The bright bow, after rain!
‘Hail, after Winter's waste, the thorn
‘That sweetly blooms again!
57
‘The smile that stills the waves of mind!—
‘She saw not when my true-love smil'd;
‘For then the lady slept:—
‘I wept, because his voice was mild,
‘As when 'twas stern I wept:—
‘I've wish'd that I had ne'er been born;
‘But sweet is kindness after scorn!’
XVII.
‘My love is mine in heav'n, and true.—‘Still, still his manly form I see,
‘His white wings gemm'd with dew!
‘Still, still he sings, and bends on me
‘His eye of laughing blue!
‘The frown returns not to his brow;
‘Oh, still his voice is soft and low!—
58
‘Come to this bosom, mine!
‘Come to my soul! take this, and this!
‘Take this—but leave me thine!
‘And steal not yet that face away!
‘It smil'd not so this many a day!’
XVIII.
‘Is't true? snatch'd Striga's demon-shriek‘My baby from my sight?—
‘My chubby boy, with red, round cheek,
‘And locks of crisped light!
‘Far be my sister's love from thee!
‘It murders mine, it withers me!—
‘When last he titter'd on my breast,
‘Was it his sweet farewell?—
‘Poor babe! where is thy earthy rest,
59
‘The mother seeks her child in vain!
‘She ne'er shall bless his lisp again!—
‘But what, stern lady, dost thou here?
‘Away! thy port is bold—
‘All unacquainted with a tear,
‘Thine eye is keen and cold:
‘And she, they say, is calm and dire,
‘Who stole my child, and kill'd his sire!’
XIX.
The blasted Sorceress groan'd. Slowly she rose,And would have kiss'd her sister's hand; but she
Snatch'd it away, as from a viper's lip.
‘Alas!’ said Striga, ‘there is now no cause!
‘Know'st thou, then, me? Beautiful Maniac, no!
‘Oh, envied Wretch! would I were as thou art!
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‘Come to me, happy Dreamer, with thy tales
‘That bless while they delude! Thou wilt not come;
‘Thou wilt not, but Death shall. Forth then she drew
A dagger keen, and smil'd. But—with a shriek
Convuls'd, at once, she started: from her hand
The dagger dropp'd: ‘Mercy!’ she cried; and gaz'd,
All trembling, on the weapon at her feet.
Whence that unwonted cowardice? why shrank,
From Death desir'd, a heart unus'd to fear?
E'en when the giant angels from the rock
Fled, she was smitten, tho' she knew it not;
And therefore did Rosmilda look on her,
As on a stranger's mein, so chang'd she was!
The breath of Pestilence had siez'd in might
Her shuddering vitals then; and now it rush'd
To consummation. Vanquish'd, sank her soul;
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With sudden fire; her lip assum'd the hue
Of sulphur flames; and Darkness on her cheek
Devour'd the pallid horror greedily.
In grim convulsions, terribly transform'd,
She strove, or thought she strove, with worse than pain:
Three spectre Cannibals seem'd to contend
Which should devour her; and from each, by turns,
She seem'd to snatch her mangled limbs, and bleed.
XX.
‘What ails she?’ cried the Maniac. ‘Does she dance?‘Or does she kick? Lolls she her tongue at me?
‘I do not like her tricks; and if she laughs,
‘Her laugh is ugly.—Do not bite thy tongue;
‘'Tis not becoming.—How her quaking lips
‘Foam! and the blood starts from her staring eyes.
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‘Where is she?—Oh, what foul and horrid thing
‘Lies where she lay! It moves not, it is black.’
The Maniac, in disgust, withdrew; and nought
Remain'd of Striga, but a shapeless mass,
Putrid, appaling, venomous, and grey.
XXI.
Night! thou art silent, thou art beautiful,Thou art majestic! and thy brightest moon
Rides high in heav'n, while on the stream below,
Her image, glimmering as the waters glide,
Floats at the feet of Boulter. There no more
The green graves of the pestilence are seen;
O'er them the plough hath pass'd; and harvests wave
Where Haste and Horror flung th' infectious corse.
Grey Wharncliffe's rocks remain, still to outlive
63
But where are now their terrors? Striga's form
Of largest beauty wanders here no more;
No more her deep and mellow voice awakes
The echoes of the forest: and a tale
Of fear and wonder serves but to constrain,
Around the fire of some far moorland farm,
The speechless circle. while th' importunate storm
O'er the bow'd roof growls with a demon's voice.
The Poacher whistles in the Dragon's den;
Nor fiend, nor witch fears he. With felon foot,
He haunts the wizard wave, and makes the rock,
Where spirits walk'd, his solitary seat.
Th' unsleeping gale moves his dark curls; the moon
Looks on his wild face. At his feet, his dog
Watches his eye. And while no sound is heard—
Save of the booming Don, or startled twig
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But not in fear. At once he bounds away;
And the snar'd hare shrieks, quivers, and is still.
END OF BOOK II.
67
BOOK III. THE CANADIAD.
I.
Oh, Thou, with thought coeval, who didst teachMan, the barbarian, in the dawn of time,
Songs grandly wild, and wildly beautiful!
Thy suitor calls thee, in the gloomy hour
Congenial with his soul, while the winds chaunt
The dirge of the past year, and the moon sets
Red on the heathy hill, the couch of storms.
High Spirit! privileg'd to fly, where soars
No seraph's wing, and in the heav'n of heav'ns
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A favor'd stranger, roves where hallow'd streams
Warble thro' bower'd elysium's boundless bliss,
And, as with silvery locks dishevel'd, tress
Th' eternal verdure. To thy votary
The royalty of Fancy give, thy words
Immortal! When the spectred Night is pass'd,
He yet may seek thy footsteps, on the hill
Where sleeps the young year cradled on the snow,
While, o'er the wan flower tripping, fairy feet
Crush not a leaf that strews its dews on him,
And shake her shining pearls from April's hair.
Yet—while the love-taught skylark meets the morn
With music, and the sunny cloud showers wide
The daisy o'er the dews,—yet may he seek
Thee, as in better days, when all he saw
Was beauty, and hope led him by the hand
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Was mirror'd truth, and heav'n in miniature.
Smile on him, Thou, his early hope ador'd!
Still burns within, sublim'd, the living fire;
And—ere the coming of the long, long night,
The dreamless and the dread, whose gloom no star
Illumines, and whose slumber doth not breathe,—
Fain would he dedicate to memory
Some strain, tho' sad and tuneless, yet not quite
Unworthy of the Spirit he invokes.
Vision of morning! spurn the gloom, and smile!
II.
On thy dark waves, oh, Lawrence, in his haste.The red sun cast a shuddering look, and set,
While from their ships, with fatal ardor rush'd
Britannia's warriors on their bulwark'd foe.
70
Rattling with scatter'd ineffectual roar,
Flash'd vainly thro' the white smoke, billowing wide.
But, from the rocks of hoarse Montmorency,
When Murray bade the cannon's lightning gleam,
Then Carnage hurried thro' the camp of Gaul,
Where Horror shudder'd in the arms of Death,
And Life, maim'd terribly. Unpitied Pain
Shriek'd. With half-loaded musquet, Valor sank
Wounded; and still, in death, his slack hand strove
To grasp his useless arms, while Pride and Scorn,
On his damp brow, contemn'd the foes of France.
Montcalm, slow moving thro' the bleeding ranks,
Smil'd with serene contempt, while to defeat
And death advanc'd his lion-hearted foes;
And welcome to his soul was that dread sight,
As to the good man, dying, worn with want,
71
The soothing voice of angels. Oft he paus'd,
And oft he spake: ‘My comrades, dicipline
‘Is victory. Each man reserve his fire.
‘No finger touch a trigger, till the ball
‘Can know its victim.’ Bleeding, at his feet
A grey-hair'd soldier sank. Friends, false as Lust,
And Fortune, like a harlot, on his youth
Smil'd to deceive. The siren Luxury,
Unmindful of the future, danc'd and sung
Before him: by her side, Pleasure appear'd
With rosy lip, and tearless pride erect.
But, unexpected, thou, oh, Poverty,
Didst strip him to the skin, and with thy whip
Of scorn and sorrow scourge him. Desperate,
He struggled strongly with his fate in vain,
And, at last, fled from wife and babes, (ah, base!)
72
Renown and Wealth. Then sank in misery
The soul-struck mother. Memory, untir'd,
Spoke of the years departed, of that theme
Fondest: and ever as the Scorner's eye
Look'd on her terrible calamities,
Shame crimson'd her pale cheek, and (that faint glow
Retiring to her famish'd heart,) sad tears
Would stain it soon, as, silent, she survey'd
Her wan and ragged children pining round.
Soon, one by one, victims of Want, they died,
And soon she follow'd them. Far from their graves,
The sire and husband sank; and, as he died,
The long-pass'd days in recollection rose,
When, with the hand of vain Extravagance,
He scatter'd on the villain and the slave,
Wealth, that from Death and Horror might have sav'd
73
Beneath his war-horse, fell a swarthy man:
Rapid he rode, a fearless messenger,
With tidings from Quebec: his maim'd horse fell,
Crushing his rider: crash'd his broken ribs,
And, like the torn worm, writhing agoniz'd,
He curs'd the horse and died. Nature on him
Had lavish'd, as in mockery, her gifts
Most splendid, beauty, genius eagle-like,
And strength, and dauntless courage; yet he liv'd
An hunger-bitten vagabond, and died
A ruffian hir'd to slaughter. Circumstance,
Thou satirist! still, in derision, still
Wilt thou make pastime of the fates of men?
This soldier might have fought as Cæsar fought;
Or, hadst thou shown his mighty mind its powers,
He might, with Newton's calmness, have unveil'd
74
Wild as the cloud, the Shakspeare of his land.
But thou didst load him with calamity,
And laugh his woes to scorn, oh, Circumstance,
And fling thy noble victim to the earth
Shatter'd, his white ribs starting thro' his flesh,
Beneath his charger. And that wounded horse,
Reviving, snorted, shrinking from the dead,
For near him, pale, a beauteous warrior fell,
Thro' arm, and chest, and heaving lungs, transpierc'd.
Self-exil'd wander'd he, beyond the main
And far away. With matchless tenderness,
A matchless maid he lov'd, but on his love
Frown'd his penurious sire. Therefore the youth
Sought battle's tumult, forc'd by cruel fate,
And in a land of strangers fought and died,
Thinking in death of France, and of the maid
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Oh! shores of stormy Biscay! Oh, ye rocks
That, o'er th' Iberian Pyrenees, o'erlook
The pomp of forest verdure! you, ye glens
Romantic, and ye cataracts, that leap,
As from the clouds, in wildest liberty!
The flower of Araw withers far from you,
And droops, how pale, in blood! Dead at his side
A young Canadian dropp'd: the fatal ball
Had torn the shoulder from the bleeding trunk,
Splinter'd his riven ribs, and pour'd the light
Of day, unwelcome, on his naked heart.
A son he was of parents credulous,
Who told their child tales of the faery tribe
That dance on silvery moonbeams, or repose
Couch'd in the apple-flower; tales of the weir'd
Sisters, that breathe the lightnings, hors'd on winds;
76
That wave their heli-brands o'er the future grave;
They told, and he believ'd them. Did the owl
Shriek to the pauses of the midnight storm?
Battles he saw in heaven on the sanguine clouds,
Death in the flapping of the night-bird's wing.
And if, aslope night's azure, like a star,
Ignited vapors stream'd, enlightening earth,
War, change, and pestilence, predicted he,
Commotion, and the rage of maniac men.
And each day thrice in secret prayer he kneel'd,
That he might die in peace: alas, alas,
In weakness strong, arm'd with infirmity,
Too fondly we believe the dreams of Hope!
He fear'd to doubt his wish; but in the war
All shatter'd he expir'd. Montcalm his foot
Plac'd on the hideous corse, unconsciously,
77
Advanc'd, infatuate. Clang'd the drums, and crash'd
At once, ten thousand muskets: the torn ranks
Groan'd: flash'd again thro' all the Gallian host
The homicidal volley: the torn ranks
Paus'd, faulter'd. And with soul-dismaying cries,
Gore-reeking Havoc o'er Britannian slain
Rush'd, stamping, like a maniac, arm'd with fire.
III.
Clouds, wild and vast, in forms of majesty,Roll'd o'er the sullen sky. Lawrence, alarm'd,
Murmur'd, along his rude, romantic shore,
Melodious murmurs mournful. As the wave
Of heaving ocean, restless and untir'd,
The sea-bird scream,d, and wheel'd in air, unseen,
And winds, awaking, blacken'd as they blew
78
Curtain'd Night's darkness, and a viewless wing
Smote the black river into howling foam.
Hurl'd o'er each trembling ship, the headlong wave
Swept many a wretch to unexpected death;
And awfully the deep half-stifled groan
Brake o'er the billows. Down in ruin masts
Crash'd. From the blasting lightnings shrunk appal'd
The gloomy cohorts; and th' eternal hills
Quak'd, as with fear, their sky-ascending pines
Blaz'd to enlighten'd horror. Then retir'd
Britannia's warriors, wild in disarray,
Heart-palsied by the tempest, and the hail
Of unremitting havoc, which the foe
Pour'd from his safe entrenchment calmly. Death
Rush'd, merciless, o'er rout that dreadly howl'd.
Fast, faster, faster, fled the fugitives,
79
While their sad wounded clutch'd the sand, and wept,
Or clasp'd their slain companions, to defraud
The vengeful ball that, hungry, hiss'd above.
All tumult was that conflict, as a sea
With wild dark billows streak'd with fiery foam,
Driven passively before th' impetuous wind;
And, here and there, a floating banner pale
Rose o'er the awful surge of flight and fear.
The far-off Savage yell'd amain: he stood
On the hoar hills, above the flaming field,
And laugh'd with ire; deeming that, in that blaze,
The bayonet rush'd, while highland broad-swords clave
The helms of flying Frenchmen, his allies.
IV.
Wolfe saw, with anguish'd heart, his fearless troopsRush disobedient, captainless, confus'd,
80
Dense as a cloud, his column of reserve
Embattled. Tir'd of pale inaction, all,
While, heap'd, their comrades perish'd, silently
Expected and desir'd immediate fight.
‘Soldiers,’ he said, ‘the torrent-rain hath drench'd
‘Each charge of death, our tarnish'd arms refuse
‘To urge the ball, and Murray from the Heights
‘His army-scattering cannon hath withdrawn,
‘And rends no more, with iron hail, the ranks.
‘Night, too, assists the tempest-aided foe,
‘Who waits, in bulwark'd safety, our advance.
‘March, soldiers! and protect our flying friends;
‘Attempt not more.’ He ended, and they march'd,
But with the awful slowness of the cloud
Electric, marshall'd by the thunder's roar,
And covering earth with gloom; and oft they pans'd
81
While fast their scatter'd comrades to the camp
Fled, o'er the foam of hoarse Montmorency.
But when the last, last fugitives had pass'd,
Then from the smoke-wrapp'd tents of Gaul they turn'd
Reluctant, and with measur'd steps retir'd.
Tho' from his camp he rush'd not in pursuit,
War-practis'd Montcalm bade his host distract
With shouts the echoes of the wilderness,
To urge the sullen tardiness of flight;
And still the marksmen at the death-flash aim'd,
Still fast the deadly riffle rose and fell,
And mutual Gaul and Briton with his blood
Soak'd the deep sand. Thus, o'er the angry wave,
Wolfe led, with agonizing heart, the van
Of sad retreat. The cataract above,
Illumin'd by the splendor-flashing storm,
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Commingling with the tempest, and the rush
Of booming waves, the shout of ardent hosts;
And, at his task of coward cruelty,
The Savage rais'd his hideous yell between.
E'en when they reach'd the safety of the camp,
Awe watch'd on Valor's brow, and on the hilt
Trembled the hand that gladly sheath'd the sword.
V.
Now o'er the horror of the field had NightSpread deep her flamy gloom. There the maim'd wretch
Long'd for th' eternal sleep. There terror-pale
Sublimity, with unsinged pinions, smote
The fire unblown that flash'd and was not, mute,
Hearkening the peal so long and loud, that seem'd
The lullaby of fiends. Thro' all the camp,
83
He slept, but not idealess; his dreams
Recall'd the battle's woes, blood, streaming, seem'd
To track his flight. No human sound was heard,
Save of the Savage, ripping off the scalp,
Or faint shriek of his victim, yet alive
To agony and fear. But, passion-toss'd,
Wolfe slept not. On the threshold of his tent
He stood, and watch'd the lightnings, and beheld,
As pale they flash'd away, the scalpless corse,
Soul-darkening sight! and heard, or thought he heard,
The deep last sob of swooning Weariness,
While shuddering Fancy animated Death.
His laboring breast heav'd sighs on sighs, he groan'd
Convuls'd with grief. As pants, with all desire,
The youthful Bard, to live, when life is not,
The deathless life, and, unfatigueable,
84
To ages in the womb of ages; so
Panted for glory Wolfe. But on his arms
Disaster lour'd; and his tumultuous thoughts
Rose, dark and ceaseless, like successive fiends,
Starting from spectres sterner than themselves.
‘No monumental marble!’ he exclaim'd,
‘No proud, triumphant tear! Over my dust
‘No patriot wan shall say, with joy and grief,
“Here rests the Conqueror of Canada!”
‘This was my hope, the angel of my dreams—
‘To clasp the unborn Future as a bride,
‘And give her deedless years a deathless name.
‘For rather would I be th' unbroken steed
‘That roams the wilderness, than crawl thro' life
‘To earn, with shameful toil, the common tomb,
‘And die unhonor'd, unrenown'd, a man.
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‘Is Nature's vastness, and each vital sun
‘His golden lamp—Fame, I would worship thee!
‘How blooms the stately flower amid the realms
‘Of ancient Solitude, alone, unbless'd!
‘No eye beholds its lovely life; it dies—
‘And who shall come to say, “The flower is faded?”
‘But Wolfe must sink to infamy and shame!
‘Why is this, Destiny? why have I striven
‘Vainly to 'scape the taunt unmerited,
‘Misfortune's cruel scourge? Amherst is crown'd
‘With glory; I alone successless fight;
‘Fate frowns on me alone. Quebec defies
‘My efforts, and cold-hearted Montcalm laughs.’
VI.
He said, and paus'd in tears.—Desponding Chief!With sweeter blush the rose droops in the shower,
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Silent he paus'd in thought; and, as the eye
Of glowing Artist, or enraptur'd Bard,
From some unequall'd eminence, that frowns
On regions wide, and wildly grand and fair,
(Darting with instant and unbounded flight,
O'er distance, vastness,) joins the far and near,
The bright and gloomy, harmonizing all,
And forms a picture that no hand can paint;—
So, over each contingence of the war,
The martial mind of Wolfe glanc'd lightning-swift,
Embracing each and all. ‘The dark, dark night
‘Shrouds all things now,’ he said, ‘and steals from sight
‘The Heights, dimensionless, of Abraham,
‘Quebec's eternal bulwarks, frowning huge
‘O'er moaning Lawrence. What, if, unbeheld,
‘We climb the unattempted altitude?
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‘Thy vaunts, thy skill, thy camp impregnable?’
He said, and, starting wild into the night,
With straining eyeball strove in vain to pierce
The darkness. ‘Terror is abroad,’ he said,
‘And, roaming with the angel of the gloom,
‘Wakes Murder from his blood-congealing dream.
‘Hark! Vengeance stamping on the fiery clouds,
‘Roareth on high! and o'er affrighted earth
‘The flaming glances of his angry eye
‘Flash!—What art thou? Hath then the trembling grave
‘Given to the tempest her portentous forms?’
VII.
The billowy infinite of forests shook;And pale, and shrinking, with erected hair,
He stood before the form that sadden'd night.
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‘Hast thou then lineaments?—The blast unveils thee,
‘Visage of mystery! and swirls the cloud
‘That seems thy carpet.’ From the earth it rose
Slow, from the ancient tomb, with human blood
Polluted in the fight of yesterday,
Nor scatter'd the red death-dews from a flower;
A dim form, mingling with the tempest's light,
All indistinct, as the moon's shrouded beams,
Seen thro' the snow-flakes as they fluttering fall,
Muffling the mountain echoes silently.
The brow seem'd turn'd to heaven, the airy hand
In deprecation wav'd. ‘Cloud-involv'd moon!
‘Stars, that from earth's blood-bolter'd face withdraw
‘Your blasted beams!’ exclaim'd a hollow voice,
‘For peace I cross'd the sable-rolling seas,
‘Left country, friends, (all but my God,) for peace.
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‘The white man's home amid Canadian woods,
‘And worshipp'd in the unhewn temple wild
‘Of Nature. Where the mightiest torrent pours
‘His desert-shaking deluge, with my sons
‘Kneeling, I gave the God of deserts praise;
‘I kiss'd their hands, I bade them live in love,
‘And sometimes think of me. And then—I slept.
‘They wept, they delved on the echoing shore
‘My narrow bed of rest; and nameless flowers
‘Bloom'd o'er it, drooping lonely. But the blood
‘Of murder hath prophan'd the shuddering tomb,
‘And call'd the slumberer from his bed of worms.’
Then, pointing o'er the city's viewless spires,
On Wolfe the phantom fix'd a heavy gaze,
And, ‘Oh, Destroyer!’ sterner accents cried.
‘Thou hear'st the voice of Death! Ascend the Heights
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‘Then may the land of refuge bloom in peace.’
VIII.
‘Prophetic Terror!’ said the trembling Chief,‘Thou dost not tempt me?—Thither tend my thoughts—
‘Thou pointest thither still—Oh, turn from me
‘The deathiness and horror of thine eye!—
‘Why threatenest thou?’ Darker the gloomy form
Stood, in its blackness grandly visible.
‘Obey me!’ said a voice, terribly calm.
‘Wolfe will obey the mandate of his mind,’
Answer'd the youth, and rush'd into his tent.
Back sped the spectre to the slaughter-field,
And long in agony there hovering, paus'd,
As, deep and dread, the groan of woe was heard.
Stooping, he kiss'd the stiff and pallid forms,
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And seem'd to weep, and beat his aged breast:
‘Are these my children?’ From her stormy throne,
Night's troubled empress heard the voice of Death,
And doubly veil'd in blacker clouds her fear,
While thoughtfully the pensive phantom glid
O'er wide destruction, pausing, lingering still.
Sighing, it vanish'd, shadowy, as the mist
That, rainbow-hued, in everchanging forms,
Or rolls its graceful foldings thro' the vale,
Or to the mountain lifts its skirts of gold,
Till winds disperse it. But the thought-pale youth
Slept: on his sleep ethereal beauty smil'd;
Seraphic tresses curtain'd his repose,
And wings aurelian fann'd him, and in dreams
Of victory and fame, his soul rejoic'd.
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IX.
Why shouts Quebec? why rolls from all her towersThe peal of gladness, thro' the midnight air,
O'er moving crowds? why do her casements blaze,
Her torches flash in lines of restless light?
Great Montcalm is return'd with victory,
And moves in triumph thro' her gazing streets.
All eyes are turn'd on him, while tears of joy
Grace wrinkled famine. Music and the dance
Are wedded, in the triumph of the brave
Exulting. Loudly laughs the trumpet's blare;
Rejoice the plaintive flute and dulcet voice,
And odorous garlands blooming o'er his head.
Before him move Canadian maids white-rob'd,
War-widow'd virgins, on whose woe-worn cheeks
The blush of health hath faded into snow.
Life, Life, how heavenly graceful are thy forms!
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What languish'd beauty! Soft as sleep they move,
High waving o'er their heads the spotless lawn,
And scattering at his proud steed's feet their flowers.
And, as, where bowery Moorgate loves and boasts
The purple distance of her Alpine views,
While Rother, loveliest vagrant, roves below,
Th' enamor'd thistle-finch, most beautiful
Of British birds melodious, wing'd with gold
And ruby-breasted, to the vernal shower
Warbling, awakes the dawn with sweetest song;
So, warble they their heartfelt lays, and weep:
X.
‘Canadia calls her mountains wild‘To bless her dear, adopted child,
‘The man whose deeds shall never die:
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‘And scatter the frail flower, sweet sisters.
‘Humbler of England! welcome thou,
‘Who bid'st the rustic yoke his plough,
‘And plenty sing where anguish groan'd;
‘Peace on thy brow serene is thron'd,
‘With Modesty, blushing at Triumph.
‘Yes, Montcalm! wars' dire storm is o'er,
‘And Slaughter feeds on pangs no more;
‘Plant of thy toil, on Valor's tomb,
‘Where Danger lour'd, shall Safety bloom,
‘Plac'd there by the hand of a Hero.
‘The virgin smile, the virgin tear,
‘The virgin heart are offer'd here;
‘Accept the wreath which Love hath made!
‘Unlike thy fame, these roses fade;
‘Yet tread on our carpet of roses.’
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XI.
Thus sang the virgins, while Quebec rejoic'd,And pour'd forth all her people. Young and old,
To see again their great deliverer,
To see again and bless him, came abroad.
The war-unchilded mother, and the boy
Whose sire had fall'n in battle, with the gay,
The careless, the untroubled, (they were few,)
Left their homes silent, and came forth to gaze.
Even the friendless, aged, houseless man,
Cast on his ruin'd dwelling, as he pass'd,
But one brief glance, then, dancing with the young,
Follow'd the glad procession, and rejoic'd.
The soldier's widow sought the crowded street;
Oh, deem not that her true heart could forget
Her low-laid husband! no! with mournful smiles,
She thought on him, and wept! and, while she view'd
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‘And he, too, was a soldier!’ Did not then
Love-lorn Miranion, of the downcast eye,
Steal to the lattice of her tower to gaze?
She (stately nun! angelic exile! torn
From Nature's bosom!) on the various throng
Look'd, wan and anxious. Soon again she saw,
(Herself unseen,) yet mute and timidly,
Tho' with energic pensiveness, the lord
Of her affections, Montcalm. Loftier seem'd
His martial beauty, darker his large eye
With triumph fir'd; and, God-like, he advanc'd,
To stamp a dearer image on her soul,
And redivorce, unhappy maid, her vows.
Why was she born? All ignorant is he,
As, in vain triumph, drunk with praise, he moves,
What cause he hath to feel ennobling pride.
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Aches, and her silence mourns her hapless fate.
He reins his foamy steed: the mighty crowd
Halts, and is hush'd, and living statues hold
Unnumbered torches still! She sees no torch,
She sees no crowd; her eye is fix'd on him.
He waves his hand, he bows, in act to speak:
Forward she bends, she listens, motionless,
Hangs on his lips, and, breathless, drinks his speech,
As if the words that should pronounce her death
Quiver'd for awful utterance on his tongue:
XII.
‘France is victorious! Winter comes, to smite‘The wave to marble, and enslave the ships
‘That feed the foe. Soon Famine, in his camp.
‘Shall tear her anguish'd and vindictive heart,
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‘France is victorious! Ever fortunate,
‘She, mistress of the nations, shall exalt
‘Her castled head, and widen and extend
‘The limits of her sway. Columbia spreads
‘The verdure of unbounded wilds, and rolls
‘Her rivers rivalless, to load with wealth
‘Our noble country; and the vanquish'd deep
‘Shall bound her greatness with his amplitude;
‘For England, like a wintry sun, descends,
‘Nor shall the sloping orb, relum'd, arise
‘Again to glory. Laud the Lord of hosts!
‘Our arms have been triumphant! Soon in peace,
‘The maple, and the monarch of the woods,
‘Magnolia, shall uplift their hands to us;
‘Soon shall the genius of exulting Gaul,
‘Sublimely thron'd on sky-ascending hills,
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‘And ocean's roar; from sainted Lawrence wide,
‘To measureless Missouri's serpent folds.
‘I see the unborn glory of this land,
‘In woods primeval garmented; I see
‘The stately children of futurity,
‘Her sons high-destin'd, her immortal men;
‘I see the good that shall be.—My lov'd friends!
‘Calamity hath worn you, War hath sow'd
‘Your streets with woe; but better days approach.
‘Go to your homes, and to your little ones
‘Say, “Ruin hath stalk'd near us, with a frown
‘“That aw'd, but blasted not, the storm is past.”’
XIII.
So said he, hapless in his prophecy,And, from the throng retiring, sought repose.
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The living scene was hush'd! a lonely crowd!
A peopled solitude! The city slept.
XIV.
Time ever moves, the only travellerThat tires not, rests not: dilatory Man
May loiter and may pause; Time pauses not.
How fast his wings have swept away the hours!
And, lo, 'tis come! th' important hour is come,
That shall make children fatherless, and dash
Into despair the confident hope of Pride!
Thou, Quebec, sleepest! and thy warrior sons,
In visions, see the host of England worn
With famine, and subdued without a blow.
But that unconquered host abjures repose,
Crowds every boat, and glides inaudibly
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Thy rocks with thunder, while they yet are thine!
XV.
Wrapp'd in her weeds of sorrow, like a queenWho mourns her lord, the patriot and the king,
In battle slain, Night hears the flitting bat
Flap his dull wing. Rustle no more the pines
That clothe, oh, Lawrence, with funereal pomp,
Thy giant cliffs, the tresses of the rock!
No breeze, with hueless pinions, soft as snow,
Dimples the river vast, th' unfathom'd lake
Dimensionless, the sea of many an isle.
You, mighty rivers, and lakes ocean-like,
That grandly deck th' eternal wilderness,
Or, round the virgin waist of Solitude,
Enamor'd, twine your long and lovely arms!
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And stars that wake to watch your tranquilness,
While o'er your pathless deeps the mariner
Sails homeward, gladly safe: calmly he sees
The snow-white porpoise roll, and hears alone
The prow-divided wave. How sweet, oh, Night,
Thy chaste and unperturb'd sublimity!
Yet on the shadowy Lawrence many a heart
Aches, as the British boats, with muffled oars,
Glide down his stream. Of England's happy fields
Thinks the poor soldier, mute, of friends, and home
Of love and calmness, and the parting look,
Engraven on his heart, of weeping wife—
Oh, never more around his neck to clasp
Her faithful arms, or lift his babes to kiss
Their sire return'd! Wolfe leads the noiseless van,
And thro' the glimmering waves, sees oft the face
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Of waters. For, tho' heaven's bright queen towers not
Above the mountains, yet the clouds, which wreathe
Their highest cliffs, ting'd with her mildest beams,
Are visible in majie forms of shade
And brightness; and their edges silver-fring'd
Tremble, reflected on the glassy stream,
How lonely! And that solemn light displays,
Amid the silent faces, one most pale
Most thoughtful. O'er the stern he leans, and sighs.
The shrouded heavens, the soundless hour, the vast
River, the rocks enormous, plum'd with pine,
That cast their calm shade o'er the gliding war,
All bend to sadness his o'er-wearied mind;
And his tears start, as memory recals
The images of friends who are not here.
Ah! soon the battle-crash shall wake these shades
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Soon shall War, ruin-arm'd, hurl o'er these rocks
The slayer and the slain, and dye with gore
This loneliest, loveliest scene, belov'd of Night!
XVI.
The rocks frown'd darker o'er the shoreward fleet.First, on the Strand stood Wolfe. Him follow'd fast
Thy warriors, land untam'd of dreadless men,
Bleak Caledonia. Boat succeeded boat,
And warrior warrior. With exalted sword,
He pointed to the rocks; and swift, and strong,
And resolute, they scal'd the steepness there.
Silent, and each assisting each, they rose
From tree to tree, from cliff to cliff; and soon,
High on the summit, twenty veterans wav'd
Their Highland blades. A while they linger'd there,
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Narrow and rocky, led them to the fort
Which crown'd that summit, deem'd impregnable.
Unapprehensive, slept the garrison.
One soldier only wak'd, a Briton base,
Who, starting from the horror of his dreams,
With limbs all-shuddering sate. Full many a crime
Had stain'd his soul. When glimmer'd not a star
Thro' Night's deep gloom, he, with repeated wounds,
Slew his own father, plunder'd him, and fled;
But conscience, vengeance, destiny, pursued
Where'er he fled. Now, in a foreign land,
To Britain hostile, on his bed uprais'd
And chill he sate, and stilly listening, heard
The cautious tread, the breathing, half-suppress'd,
Of coming foes, when, lo, the gleam of arms
Flash'd faintly thro' the dusk! At once, he rose,
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Wrench'd the good sword, and o'er the foe disarm'd
Wav'd it, all-trembling, impotent to strike.
Wild as a spectre, hideous as a corse
Dragg'd newly from th' invaded grave, he wav'd
The aimless sword, and with uplifted locks
Yell'd in despair. But Howe, tho' weaponless,
Smote him to earth; his slack hand dropp'd the sword;
The warrior siez'd it, and the murderer died.
Beneath his eyes, intrepid Man, thy sword
Descended thro' each cheek bone and the nose:
He, groaning, cough'd the blood back, and on thee,
With flamy balls protruded horribly,
Gaz'd in dire agony, or seem'd to gaze,
The falchion darkly flashing o'er his head.
He thought his father's angry spirit wav'd
The gory sword, as on his features Death
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Awak'd, bare fled his comrades, and with fear
Wing'd, thro' the dusk, bewilder'd, diverse, fled;
While, by their young commander cheer'd, the men
Of England scal'd the unattempted rock
With labor infinite, and painfully
From pine to pine their slaughtering cannon weigh'd.
XVII.
Still dost thou sleep, proud city, unalarm'd?Hush'd are thy streets, and by the warrior's bed
The sword is idle, and of peace restor'd
The matron dreaming, sees her sons unscrew
The riffle, and release the useless helm.
But pale Miranion wakes. She, love-lorn maid,
Hath stolen to the Heights, unseen, unheard,
Alone, to hear old Lawrence, far below,
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And wishes fond and vain. O'er the grey rock
She bends her drooping beauty. Doth she think
How, sweetly pillow'd on his hairy breast,
The peasant's wife is sleeping from her toils?
How well it were to be a soldier's bride,
And couch with love and danger? Holy maid,
What, if thou doff thy veil, in man's attire,
To stand by Montcalm's side, a seemly page?
But virgin fear, and virgin modesty,
Chas'd that wild thought, at once; a painful heat
Rush'd to the cheek which never erst the blush
Of guilty shame suffus'd; and, ‘Oh!’ she said,
‘My God, forgive me! oh, forgive thy child!
‘Support me! strengthen me! or let cold earth
‘Wrap poor Miranion's bosom, and the tears
‘Of pious sisters mourn a sinless maid.’
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XVIII.
Her eye is red with weeping; on her handHer moisten'd cheek reclines: silent, she looks
On shadowy Lawrence. ‘Do those shadows move?’
She rises, listens. ‘What strange sound is this?—
‘The hum continues, deepens—hark! a step.
‘Men? Soldiers? What are they? The foe! the foe!’
She trembles; fear is frantic in her eye:
What shall she do? Obey Affection's voice,
And Duty's mandate. And, with Terror's haste,
She hurried to the camp of sleeping Gaul.
XIX.
Meantime, heroic Montcalm, on his couchExtended, sought not sleep, nor had he doff'd
His garments. But the toil of thought intense,
At length, o'erpower'd, confus'd him. Slumbering,
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The wildly-wandering soul, a reinless steed;
Nor sleep'd, nor wak'd. Upstarted stiff his locks,
By terror, with a look plenipotent,
Smitten! his bones shook. Deep the darken'd gloom,
Deeper the silence. Vast and motionless,
In gloom and might, before his troubled soul
The power unbodied stood, unspeakable
And hueless. ‘Sleep'st thou, Montcalm?’ said a voice,
‘Still, vanquish'd victor, sleep! Why wake to shame?
‘Sleep! Wolfe hath torn the laurel from thy brow.’
XX.
Thus spake the evil dream. Still slumber'd heUnhappy, and the mute expressive tear
Stole from his eyelids o'er his swarthy cheek,
(Or 'twas the glimmering of the early dawn
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When, pale, approach'd, unseen, with noiseless step,
Miranion. Fear and love had bleach'd her cheek;
And with mute, trembling, inexpressible
Emotion, she beheld the man belov'd!
She heard him sigh—nearer she drew—she stoop'd:
‘He weeps,’ she cried, ‘ah! wherefore? in his sleep!’
She look'd, she paus'd: at length, with timid hand,
She touch'd the hero's forehead, and she said,
‘Rise, Montcalm!’ Up, at once, the warrior sprang,
Confus'd, astonish'd, and, ere well awake,
His hand had half-undrawn the ready sword,
While on the maid he gaz'd, with such a look
Of doubt and fierce surprise, as drove the blood
Back from her fading lip oppressively.
‘Who? Whence?’ he cried, retiring; and he rais'd,
With out-stretch'd arm, the falchion now unsheath'd.
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Came on her heart like death; and, faultering,
At length she cried: ‘A friend to France, I come:
‘Wolfe climbs the Heights of Abraham, and seeks
‘The city.’ Fix'd in awe, she stood unmov'd;
The growing light was in her fearful eye;
He gaz'd upon her! never had he seen
Her face before, never a face so fair,
So mild, so sad, so innocent! She seem'd
The mournful angel of the dead, ordain'd
To bear the virgin spirit to its home
Eternal! and if beauty could have mov'd
His heart ambition-fir'd, sure he had lov'd
That heavenly pensiveness. He stood, he look'd,
He answer'd not, he turn'd in thought away.
Slow grew the light, the darkness dimly wan'd,
And on the mountains, clad in misty robe,
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When Montcalm's eye shrank, dark, from what it fear'd—
The banner'd cross, high on the vanquish'd Heights,
O'er bright arms waving red! and England's host,
Embattled, like a crimson fortress vast,
Cresting the eminence with hostile steel!
XXI.
Why bends Miranion o'er a soldier's couch?To kiss the pillow of her warrior love.
Her heart is fill'd with joy which, soon to fade,
Painteth her pale cheek with a cherub's glow;
And, for a moment, she forgets herself.
Rise, tall Miranion of the pensive smile!
Rise, stately Vestal, from thy warrior's couch!
Soon shalt thou tremble o'er thy counted beads,
And, faultering, listen in thine earnest prayer,
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And vainly calling every saint to save.
He is not fallen yet! But ere that sun
Shall set and rise, one kiss, thy first and last,
On Montcalm's lip thy breaking heart shall print;
Nor shall th' unfeeling taunt of Prudery
Flush poor Miranion's faded cheek with shame.
‘My Hero!’ shalt thou say, ‘for ever mine!
‘My Soul in this chill kiss hath wedded thee.’
Then shalt thou grasp his hand—fast—with a look
That almost might awake th' illustrious dead.
But ere grief close thine eye for ever, one
Proud spectacle, one long procession more
Shalt thou behold; sad, slow, funereal pomp,
And nations weeping o'er thy Montcalm's bier;—
The victor vanquish'd! that competitor,
Worthy of Britain's Wolfe! less fortunate,
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Immortal both! equal their love of fame,
Their genius equal, and their scorn of Death.
Then, when the midday torches shall no more
Cast the dim gloom of mockery on the slain;
Altho' no marble tell where thou art laid,
Miranion! Night shall love the lonely spot,
The stars shall look in silence on its flowers,
There shall the moonbeam slumber, and the dews
Weep o'er an hapless virgin's modest grave.
END OF BOOK III.
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BOOK IV. NAPOLEON.
I.
How like a lonely, fluctuating light,On a black, stormy ocean, (seen, not heard,
In awful distance,) is the struggling moon
Amid her clouds, the billows of the sky!
On earth there is no light, there is in heaven
No splendor, all is dark sublimity.
Hell, envious, turns from earth's black horror, pale;
But not because the clouds are met on high,
A sable conclave, as of spirits damn'd,
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Night! shall day don his golden diadem,
And laugh at weeping worlds? Lo, earth is mov'd,
With all her dynasties! o'er kings and thrones
The wheels of ruin pass; and—while they pass—
The torn worm writhes unseen, but not unpain'd.
Is Man the pupil of chastising heaven?
Is Sorrow discipline? Slowly, alas,
Water'd with blood, his sad amendment grows!
Turn from the lone grave of the broken heart,
Oh, Night, in tears! and bid thy storms arise!
Wake every whirlwind! hurtle o'er the deep,
And dash his gloomy billows into light!
What is thy voice, o'er storm-distracted seas,
And shrieking shipwreck? What thy howling rock,
Thy moonlight strand, with masts and corses strewn,
Compar'd with Battle's voice of myriad woes,
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And such a cry, as that of Waterloo,
Tells the aw'd nations that the game of kings
Is lost and won, and that their thousands were?
Look on the splendid and applauded form
Of glorious War, arraying realms in blood!
Look at pale Empire in his winding sheet!
Today a nation, and tomorrow dust!
The city chang'd into a sepulchre,
As by the stroke of some demoniac wand!
II.
Look—if thou dar'st—on Moscow's boundless blaze!Oh, what a canopy that city hath!
Whose eye shall measure it? a canopy
Of fiery darkness! How the deluge roars!
Who hath heard sounds like these? From street to street,
122
Rolls like a chaos! And, as if awak'd
From direst dreams to worse reality,
Bare wretches crawl, each from his hiding place,
Like reptiles from their holes, when forests burn.
It is a dreadful, beauteous sight, this vast
Illumination! while the golden roof,
Like willing Beauty in the spoiler's arms,
On conflagration smiles! Amid sublime
Savannas, thus, supreme Magnolia, towers
Thy state imperial! and while clouds on clouds
Rush, by the lightnings harrow'd momently,
Lovely amid them laugh thy crimson cones.
Red runs the river in terrific light,
And giant shadows fluctuate on the waves,
The forms of rushing towers, and shapes that frown
And pass away. Walls fall, and rafters crash;—
123
Black in the brightness. Night! how grimly stare,
On this strange noon, the dying and the dead!
When did thine eye see sights like these? And ne'er,
Save once again, shalt thou behold a scene
Dreadful as this! when Wrath's consuming torch,
The comet of Earth's doom, shall flood with fire
The mountain tops, and all things in one blaze
Shall perish, one wild blaze, that shall cast gloom
On boundless darkness, while the silent stars
Look on their sister, and turn pale. What looks
Of desperate, hopeless misery! Behold
That little group! it is a family.
The hoary grandsire first, bow-bent with years,
Comes, leading by the hand a little boy:
Timidly looks that little boy around:
‘Is not this fire a pretty sight?’ the child
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His elder sister, next, comes weeping forth,
Yet bearing, cherish'd on her breast, a bird!
The mother last! an infant in her arms,
At the flames pointing with its tiny hand,
The sunbeam of the storm! Their father sleeps
At Borodino. Whither shall they go?
When all are homeless, where shall they abide?
Beauty hath left the widow's sweet cheek waste,
And sickness fades an early lily there.
Better is he who sleeps, no more to wake,
Than he who wakes to woes and fears like her's!
Hark! how the soldier shouts where plunder calls,
And Force drags shrieking woman by the hair!
Where are the fiends?—it cannot be that men
Are the sole demons here! What eye is that
Which, thro' this horror, looks so calm and still,
125
A torch in hell, to wave it here! hast thou
A look of mildness? Man of Corsica,
It is not burning Moscow, it is thou
Whose destiny is more than terrible!
Immortal Envy hails it, and becomes
Half-humaniz'd, undemon'd by thy fall!
III.
As, on the peaks that island gloomilyA gloomy ocean of tumultuous clouds,
The giant Condor, iron-wing'd, supreme
In courage, from the lightning-blasted crag
Andean, grimly looks, and meditates
To wing the night, watch'd by the stars unveil'd,
The Tempest's path beneath his flight; so look'd
Napoleon on that all-devouring storm,
126
Wait on Reflection. 'Twas a dreadful scene!
And Retribution's fire-glance seem'd to flash
Above, around him, nearer, and more near!
He turn'd away, with troubled step, and sought
The couch of sleep. And could the tyrant sleep?
He, sternly tranquil, slept. But soon, in dreams,
Demons of fire pursu'd him; and a black,
Gigantic hand wrote on the flamy gloom,
‘Force is thy law, thy lord that shall be, Force:
‘Thy kingdom is departed from thee.’ Shrank
His soul from that inscription, to confront
(More dreadful still,) a benefactor wrong'd.
Stalwart she came; the spear was in her hand,
The red cap on her brow. A bitter smile,
(Despair, it was not thine!) a laughing frown,
Like foam upon the billow, brake athwart
127
‘What! Supercilious?—Tyrant!—Am I then
‘So soon forgotten? My hand rais'd thee: thou
‘Forget'st that, too. And thou no longer know'st
‘Her of Thermopylæ? Well. Ruin comes!
‘I did not send it: he who stabs himself
‘Needs not a foe. Hadst thou been true to me,
‘Tho' thou hadst fall'n, thou hadst not fall'n accurs'd,
‘But mourn'd by millions. Hadst thou not been false,
‘What could have mov'd thee? Not the world in arms.
‘Maniac-of Fortune! doth my speech offend?
‘Nay, then 'twas well to sell thyself, and France,
‘And Freedom, for—a shadow! Frown'st thou, Wretch,
‘On me, thine only friend? What is to me
‘The tyrant's frown? but e'en thy flatterers now
‘Will not fear thine.—Ha! fetters? and for me?
‘Right. Never tyrant fell as thou shalt fall;
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The despot's rage choak'd his reply; but she
Who fears it not, was gone. A lovelier form,
With wilder'd step, and wither'd cheek, approach'd:
The wreath of vine-leaves on her brow was pale:
He knew her well, and dear to him was she,
If ought was dear; yet was their meeting sad:
‘Why, my adopted son!’ the matron cried,
‘Why didst thou slight me? why destroy my hopes?
‘Did I not love thee?—Oh, that thou hadst known
‘Me, or thyself! then, in thy single name,
‘The noblest two on memory's tablets graven,
‘Would have been join'd! his, of the seven hills,
‘The mightiest Julius, who could brook no peer;
‘And his, who dug beyond the western waves
‘The grave of Tyranny. And hast thou given
‘A fame unequall'd for a vulgar fame?
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‘Written with curses on the records sad
‘Of falling Empire! scourges of mankind!
‘Imperial spectres! o'er the surge of blood
‘Momently rising, but to shriek and sink!—
‘And art thou such as they? And thou hast join'd
‘The common herd, whose execrated deeds
‘Adorn not, but pollute, th' historic page!
‘Thou shouldst have been the prodigy of time;
‘Not—what thou would'st be, what thou art!—the slave
‘Of thy derided foes, their toy, their sport,
‘No more their terror! and—perchance—their scorn!’
She said, she paus'd, and long in silence wept.
So bends the patriot o'er the bust of Fox,
Whose heart was kindness; mournfully he reads
The features stamp'd with thought; fast-flowing tears
Bedew the cold, unconscious monument;
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And, ‘Why, oh, prophet unbeliev'd!’ he cries,
‘Loveliest of mighty minds! why art thou dust,
‘While Folly lives, to laugh at tears like these?’
It was no heartless kiss that press'd his cheek;
He felt her warm tears there; but where was she?
Gone in despair. His iron soul was mov'd.
Beauteous as light, then came a queenly form:
He sprang to clasp it, but it sigh'd, and fled:
‘Wretch! throneless, thou art widow'd!’ He, too, wept:
And, o'er the desert of his horrid march,
His spirit, all perturb'd, seem'd to pursue
That flying spectre—Was it here? 'Tis gone.
Lo! at his feet, amid that plain of woe,
A giant corse was stretch'd, beneath the shroud
Of snowy vastness cold! He stood, he gaz'd
Intensely still. He hop'd there yet was life!
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But marble lies not heavier on the earth;
There was no motion, nought but Death was there.
Oh, might he see the features! and he stoop'd,
With dreadful eagerness, to raise the shroud;—
It was a dire presentiment!—he paus'd—
He trembled—fearful, yet resolv'd, he paus'd—
And, with retracted form, still gazing, stood,
Fix'd. He put back his hand; he lifted up
The veil of ghastliness; and saw—himself.
‘All-blasted, and for ever!’ in a voice
That faulter'd with its fervor, he exclaim'd.
More visions? spectral Night! more terrors, yet?
Behold!—a rock in ocean! and a king,
Once lord of kings, lay on the summit chain'd;
Smiling no more on monarchs at his feet.
Earth's spectre erst was his—now! not that rock,
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Was all his empire!—‘Art thou come to this?’—
The billows were around him, and the winds
Dash'd their insulting homage on his rock;
And Night was o'er the waters, with her blue
Pure, lucid, lovely, as an infant's eye;
Aye, and the stars—they, too, shall fall from heav'n!—
Beheld his fate, and trembled. And the moon
Serene and splendid, look'd upon him, mute,
While rav'd below the storm without a cloud;
But her wild image, on the howling surge
All-shatter'd, was the image of his soul.
He started up, awake.—He was alone
Within the Kremlin.—On his eye the flames
Of Moscow flash'd! he heard the roar of flames!
Fire was around him! Fire pursu'd him! Fire
Was in his heart!—and Winter, too, was there!
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IV.
Turn from his blasted eyeballs, shuddering Night,To Borodino's sleep.—How long since, here,
That well-contested game of death was play'd?
The winner lost!—not here,—and yet he lost.
Two hostile nations rest together here,
How peacefully! Even where they fell, they lie,
Heaven their sole covering, and their monument!
Ye myriad spectres of unburied Death!
I look upon a picture, black and vast,
Painted by Horror, with the direst hues
Of gloomy Hell! a finish'd masterpiece!
And yet, oh, Night, one thing is wanting here:
Shorn of his beams, Ambition should be here,
A blank spectator, a reluctant one,
And made to feel, in his own wretchedness,
The miseries and the littleness of Man.
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Spectators! They who fought and triumph'd here,
Behold it, silent as the shroudless dead,
With haggard eyes, and cheek bones famine-gnaw'd.
While the moon struggles with unmoving clouds.
Formless, and vast, and wild, the battle-steed
Stops, and lifts cautiously his feet, and fears
To touch the festering dead, and bends his neck,
And smells with horrid instinct, startingly.
Night! here is Life, more fearful far than Death!
A living crowd, without a sound of Life,
Gazing on Death without a sepulchre!
Pensive, they hear their undulating plumes
Swept by the wind. Cold, on the musket-stock
Trembles the hand that never shook in fight.
The faded form of Valor bends in tears,
Leans on his useless and degraded sword,
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And shudders and despairs. What! hast thou not
Arms, and an enemy? Aye, but thy foe
Leagues with the rigor of the elements;
And, Valor! thou didst fight and triumph here,
To buy with blood a fate that hath no name.
V.
What flying shadows blacken o'er the snows?—Start not, oh, Night!—What are these horrible
Shapes? Are they human? were they ever such?
Soon will they be—but, first, what have they been?
They are—they were—the ehivalry of France!
With fainting hope, they urge their weary way
To yon dark spots that speck th' horizon's verge.
What hope they there to find? Rest, food, and fire.
And what are those dark spots? They are—they were—
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Pass onward, onward! to your graves? Pass on!
But ye shall have no graves!—And they pass'd on;
All who yet liv'd pass'd on.—But who shall count
The wretches, foodless, strengthless, garmentless,
Who halted at the icy inn of Death?
VI.
Say, Night, is this enchantment? Crystal woodsLaugh, in their brightness, on terrific forms
That tend enormous fires! And weeping trees,
The willow's saddest bough, the long-hair'd birch,
And larch snow-plum'd, reflecting vivid hues,
Droop, and from all their melting icicles
Scatter, as if in mockery, a shower
Of diamonds on the ample shroud below.
Many the sleepers here who shall not wake!
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Some, sitting, sleep upon their knees; some rise
Chill'd, to dissolve an icicle, and drink,
Or feed on horse-flesh, precious morsel! priz'd
Above the ruby. Some around the fires
Stand motionless, or wander phantom-like,
Or, gazing on the dead, drop down and die.
Scorch'd, darkly pale, half naked, smear'd with blood,
What grisly Terror feeds on yonder corse?
Lo! maniac Famine gnaws his limbs, and laughs!
Lo! direr Madness, with tremendous smile,
Plunges into the fire his frosted feet,
Then, yelling, leaps at once amidst the flames
That hunger for him, and in horrible
Convulsions dies; soon, like a shrivell'd scroll,
Or cloud that melts in thunder, vanishing!
With such forms Superstition peoples hell!
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And dying, at the half-extinguish'd fire,
In haggard silence, stares? Haste to expire,
In mercy haste, ye flames! that dire Delay
May give (too long withheld!) the boon of death,
And lay them, by their stools of horror, stiff.
Why start ye, wretches?—oh, your miseries
Would call compassion to a demon's eye!—
Why start ye? can Flight save, or Darkness hide,
Or ought defend the God-abandon'd? No.
But wherefore did ye start? Devoted men!
The voice ye heard was but the carrion crow's—
Look up! that darkness is a cloud of wings.
Why start ye? 'twas the dog of famine's howl;
The vampire's maw expects ye! Well ye know,
The goul of Night hath hunger'd for ye long!
Still fear ye Death? Preposterous maniacs! why?
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He is at hand: these tell of his approach,
These shaggy monsters! houseless, masterless,
Gaunt, hide-bound skeletons, with bared teeth,
Impatient for their prey, they prowl around
The spectral fires. Hideous avengers! first
They fright their blasted victims, then devour.
E'en on the motionless, yet living wretch,
In his last pangs, they sieze; or, yelling, drag
The unseen corse from its concealing snow,
Tear out the frozen eyes, and, hung'ring still,
O'er fleshless bones—grim ghosts of Moscow!—growl.
Infernal scene! more dreadful than the voice
Of Berisina, when her crashing bridge,
Beneath the weight of thousands agoniz'd,
Fell.—What a shriek was there! and all was hush'd!
Men, women, children, in the whelming wave
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The river's womb, pregnant with dying life,
Quiver'd in agitation horrible:
The pang was brief, but fatal!—It is past!
VII.
How terrible this sudden silence is,This dead sublimity of loneliness!
Even the boom of far artillery
No longer, o'er the sounding forest, moans,
And dies away. His town-destroying brand
Destruction o'er th' horizon waves no more,
Casting o'er boundless snows the glare of hell.
Cold, cold is Night! yet, oh, how beautiful!
There is not on heaven's shoreless blue a speck,
Nor on the whiteness of the earth a stain.
Yet what are these? The mole mines not the soil
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As ocean's sands. Far as the raven's wing
Can bear his flight—long, narrow, snowy mounds—
They slumber on th' interminable waste.
What are they? Ha! it moves! that hillock moves!
Oh, God! it moves!—there still is life then here!—
Lift not, oh, Winds, the snow-shroud from these mounds!
For every form of horror is below,
And every attitude of agony.
Some featureless, some limbless, dreadful all,
A host of men are here, by Winter's hand
Transform'd to marble! shapes of Pain and Toil,
Of Rage and Grief, of Death and direr Life,
And strewn, as Life and Death are every where,
Over an Empire's face!—Oh, Solitude,
Peopled with spectres of the past! like his,
Who hath inflicted and endured wrongs,
Till his heart's loneliness starts from itself,
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That lingers on a lifeless baby's lip!
VIII.
Night! this is dreadful! this is—but a tomb.More awful far a sleeping city is,
For Evil there will wake to sin again!
Behold a host of men!—I mock thee not,—
Here are their forms; their spirits are—Where are they?
What! doth this silent horror startle thee,
And pale thy gloomy cheek? Why doth it so?
Haply, 'tis but a type diminutive,
A tiny emblem of thine endless reign,
Thy final triumph, o'er the powers of earth.
What, if the sun, that lights thy lamp, shall fade?
What, if his heat shall die, and be no more
For ever? Still, the earth will move around
The central cinder, once the torch of God!
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The worm of tombs will be an icicle.
And ocean will be ice, with all his waves,
Bursting in foam; confusion without sound,
Cold, fix'd, immutable! Still, yawning rage,
Leviathan, a glassy monster green,
Aye in crystaline horror bound, will seem
To lash the solid surge. Still, vale and rock,
And all the infinite of forms will be;
Men, animals, and insects, fishes, birds,
And reptiles, all will be, but breathless all!
No life! no thought! motionless images,—
But everlasting! awful, numberless,
In shapes and postures all diversified
Of act or suffering—ever such to be!
Scorn's snaky lip, Rancor's immortal scowl,
Joy's living laughter, Misery's marble tears,
And Love's dear kiss, fix'd in etersial ice!
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In his last action, or unacted wish!
And Frost will sculpture in chill adamant
Sleep's troubled dream, and all-surviving Death!
The deathless mockery of Death and Life!
Still, on the hush'd mausoleum of the earth,
Th' affrighted stars, and they alone, will look,
How dimly! Evermore, and evermore
Dead! She will be like a vast theatre,
With gloomy lights mocking its emptiness;
No audience! and no actors!—forms of Life!
Statues of Passion! but no living thing!—
All ice! all silence!—Night! cold, starry, dark,
Moonless, idealess, eternal Night!
FINIS.
| Night | |