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 | The Works of Thomas Love Peacock |  |
PALMYRA, AND OTHER POEMS
TO THE REVIEWERS:
A CENTO, FROM THE WORKS OF SHAKESPEAR
Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,My very noble and approv'd good masters,
With all my love I do commend me to you:
And now, good friends, when you shall judgment join
In censure of my seeming, I beseech you,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor aught set down in malice. Note you this:
Time has not sow'd a grizzle on my face:
The golden mark I seek to hit, is not
To look quite through the deeds of men, and shew
The very age and body of the time
Its form and pressure. With a simple wreath,
Cull'd from the book and volume of my brain,
I come before you. Yet alas! methinks
I hear a voice cry: “horrible! most horrible!
Ye Gods! how vilely does this cynic rhyme!
Oh! he's as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Worse than the forc'd gait of a shuffling nag!”
With your displeasure piec'd, my good intent
May carry through itself: no levell'd malice
Infects one comma in the course I hold.
Under your good correction, if I speed,
And my invention thrive, then will I say,
Your love deserves my thanks: so farewell, gentlemen.
PALMYRA
Palmyra is situated under a barren ridge of hills to the west, and open on its other sides to the desert. It is about six days journey from Aleppo, and as many from Damascus, and about twenty leagues west of the Euphrates, in the latitude of thirty-four degrees, according to Ptolemy. Some geographers have placed it in Syria, others in Phœnicia, and some in Arabia. Wood's Ruins of Palmyra.
That Solomon built Tadmor in the wilderness, we are told in the Old Testament; and that this was the same city which the Greeks and Romans called afterwards Palmyra, though the Syrians retained the first name, we learn from Josephus. Ibid.
We departed from Aleppo on Michaelmas day, 1691, and in six easy days travel over a desert-country, came to Tadmor. . . . Having past by the ruins of a handsome mosque, we had the prospect of such magnificent ruins, that if it be lawful to frame a conjecture of the original beauty of that place by what is still remaining, I question whether any city in the world could have challenged precedence of this in its glory. —Philosophical Transactions, Lowthorp's Abridgement, Vol. III.
On the fourteenth of March, 1751, we arrived at the end of the plain, where the hills to our right and left seemed to meet. We found between those hills a vale, through which an aqueduct, now ruined, formerly conveyed water to Palmyra. In this vale, to our right and left, were several square towers of a considerable height, which, upon a nearer approach, we found were the sepulchres of the ancient Palmyrenes. We had scarcely passed these venerable monuments, when the hills opening discovered to us, all at once, the greatest quantity of ruins we had ever seen, all of white marble, and beyond them, towards the Euphrates, a flat waste, as far as the eye could reach, without any object which shewed either life or motion. It is scarcely possible to imagine any thing more striking than this view: so great a number of Corinthian pillars, mixed with so little wall or solid building, afforded a most romantic variety of prospect. Wood.
Undoubtedly the effect of such a sight is not to be communicated. The reader must represent to himself a range of erect columns, occupying an extent of more than twenty-six hundred yards, and concealing a multitude of other edifices behind them. In this space we sometimes find a palace of which nothing remains but the courts and walls; sometimes a temple whose peristyle is half thrown down; and now a portico, a gallery, or triumphal arch. Here stand groups of columns, whose symmetry is destroyed by the fall of many of them; there we see them ranged in rows of such length, that similar to rows of trees, they deceive the sight, and assume the appearance of continued walls. If from this striking scene we cast our eyes upon the ground, another, almost as varied, presents itself; on all sides we behold nothing but subverted shafts, some entire, others shattered to pieces, or dislocated in their joints; and on which side soever we look, the earth is strewed with vast stones half buried, with broken entablatures, damaged capitals, mutilated frizes, disfigured reliefs, effaced sculptures, violated tombs, and altars defiled by dust. Volney's Travels in Syria.
I.
As the mountain-torrent rages,Loud, impetuous, swift, and strong,
So the rapid stream of ages
Rolls with ceaseless tide along.
Man's little day what clouds o'ercast!
How soon his longest date is past!
All-conqu'ring Death, in solemn state unfurl'd,
Comes, like the burning desert-blast,
And sweeps him from the world.
The noblest works of human pow'r
In vain resist the fate-fraught hour;
The marble hall, the rock-built tow'r,
Alike submit to destiny:
Oblivion's awful storms resound;
The massy columns fall around;
The fabric totters to the ground,
And darkness veils its memory!
II.
'Mid Syria's barren world of sand,Where Thedmor's marble wastes expand,
Has fix'd his adamantine throne,
I mark, in silence and alone,
His melancholy reign.
These silent wrecks, more eloquent than speech,
Full many a tale of awful note impart;
Truths more sublime than bard or sage can teach
This pomp of ruin presses on the heart.
Whence rose that dim, mysterious sound,
That breath'd in hollow murmurs round?
As sweeps the gale
Along the vale,
Where many a mould'ring tomb is spread,
Awe-struck, I hear,
In fancy's ear,
The voices of th' illustrious dead:
As slow they pass along, they seem to sigh,
“Man, and the works of man, are only born to die!”
III.
As scatter'd round, a dreary space,Ye spirits of the wise and just!
In reverential thought I trace
The mansions of your sacred dust,
Enthusiast Fancy, rob'd in light,
Pours on the air her many-sparkling rays,
Redeeming from Oblivion's deep'ning night
The deeds of ancient days.
The mighty forms of chiefs of old,
In feeble splendor I behold,
Discover'd dimly through the mists of Time,
As through the vapours of the mountain-stream
With pale reflection glows the sun's declining beam.
IV.
Still as twilight's mantle hoarySpreads progressive on the sky,
See, in visionary glory,
Darkly-thron'd, they sit on high.
But whose the forms, oh Fame, declare,
That crowd majestic on the air?
Bright Goddess! come, on rapid wings,
To tell the mighty deeds of kings.
Where art thou, Fame?
Each honor'd name
From thy eternal roll unfold:
Awake the lyre,
In songs of fire,
To chiefs renown'd in days of old.
I call in vain!
The welcome strain
Of praise to them no more shall sound:
Their actions bright
Must sleep in night,
Till Time shall cease his mystic round.
The dazzling glories of their day
The stream of years has swept away;
Shall ring no more on mortal ear!
V.
Yet faithful Memory's raptur'd eyeCan still the godlike form descry,
At the time when the East trembled at the name of Sapor, he received a present not unworthy of the greatest kings; a long train of camels, laden with the most rare and valuable merchandises. The rich offering was accompanied by an epistle, respectful but not servile, from Odenathus, one of the noblest and most opulent senators of Palmyra. “Who is this Odenathus” (said the haughty victor, and he commanded that the presents should be cast into the Euphrates), “that he thus insolently presumes to write to his lord? If he entertain a hope of mitigating his punishment, let him fall prostrate before the foot of our throne, with his hands bound behind his back. Should he hesitate, swift destruction shall be poured on his head, on his whole race, and on his country.” The desperate extremity to which the Palmyrenian was reduced, called into action all the latent powers of his soul. He met Sapor; but he met him in arms. Infusing his own spirit into a little army, collected from the villages of Syria, and the tents of the desert, he hovered round the Persian host, harassed their retreat, carried off part of the treasure, and, what was dearer than any treasure, several of the women of the Great King, who was at last obliged to repass the Euphrates, with some marks of haste and confusion. By this exploit, Odenathus laid the foundation of his future fame and fortunes. The majesty of Rome, oppressed by a Persian, was protected by a Syrian or Arab of Palmyra. Gibbon.
Of him, who, on Euphrates' shore,
From Sapor's brow his blood-stain'd laurels tore,
And bade the Roman banner stream unfurl'd;
When the stern Genius of the startling waves
Beheld on Persia's host of slaves
Tumultuous ruin hurl'd!
Meek Science too, and Taste refin'd,
The grave with deathless flow'rs have dress'd,
Of him whose virtue-kindling mind
Their ev'ry charm supremely bless'd;
Who trac'd the mazy warblings of the lyre
With all a critic's art, and all a poet's fire.
VI.
Where is the bard, in these degen'rate days,To whom the muse the blissful meed awards,
Again the dithyrambic song to raise,
And strike the golden harp's responsive chords?
Be his alone the song to swell,
The all-transcendent praise to tell
Of yon immortal form,
That bursting through the veil of years,
In changeless majesty appears,
What countless charms around her rise!
Aurelian had no sooner secured the person and provinces of Tetricus, than he turned his arms against Zenobia, the celebrated queen of Palmyra and the East. Modern Europe has produced several illustrious women who have sustained with glory the weight of empire, nor is our own age destitute of such distinguished characters. But Zenobia is perhaps the only female, whose superior genius broke through the servile indolence imposed on her sex by the climate and manners of Asia. She claimed her descent from the Macedonian kings of Egypt, equalled in beauty her ancestor Cleopatra, and far surpassed that princess in chastity and valour. Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely, as well as the most heroic of her sex. She was of a dark complexion (for in speaking of a lady these trifles become important). Her teeth were of a pearly whiteness, and her large black eyes sparkled with uncommon fire, tempered by the most attractive sweetness. Her voice was strong and harmonious. Her manly understanding was strengthened and adorned by study. She was not ignorant of the Latin tongue, but possessed in equal perfection the Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages. She had drawn up for her own use an epitome of oriental history, and familiarly compared the beauties of Homer and Plato, under the tuition of the sublime Longinus. Gibbon.
If we add to this her uncommon strength, and consider her excessive military fatigues, for she used no carriage, generally rode, and often marched on foot three or four miles with her army; and if we at the same time suppose her haranguing her soldiers, which she used to do in a helmet, and often with her arms bare, it will give us an idea of that severe character of masculine beauty, which puts one more in mind of Minerva than Venus. Wood.
What dazzling splendor sparkles in her eyes!
On her radiant brow enshrin'd,
Minerva's beauty blends with Juno's grace;
The matchless virtues of her godlike mind
Are stamp'd conspicuous on her angel-face.
VII.
Hail, sacred shade, to Nature dear!Though sorrow clos'd thy bright career,
Though clouds obscur'd thy setting day,
Thy fame shall never pass away!
Long shall the mind's unfading gaze
Retrace thy pow'r's meridian blaze,
When o'er Arabian deserts, vast and wild,
And Egypt's land, (where Reason's wakeful eye
First on the birth of Art and Science smil'd,
And bade the shades of mental darkness fly)
And o'er Assyria's many-peopled plains,
By Justice led, thy conqu'ring armies pour'd,
When humbled nations kiss'd thy silken chains,
Or fled dismay'd from Zabdas' victor-sword:
Yet vain the hope to share the purple robe,
From the time of Adrian to that of Aurelian, for about 140 years, this city continued to flourish, and increase in wealth and power, to that degree, that when the Emperor Valerian was taken prisoner by Sapor, King of Persia, Odenathus, one of the Lords of this town, was able, whilst Gallienus neglected his duty both to his father and his country, to bring a powerful army into the field, and to recover Mesopotamia from the Persians, and to penetrate as far as their capital city Ctesiphon. Thereby rendering so considerable a service to the Roman state, that Gallienus thought himself obliged to give him a share in the empire: of which action Trebellius Pollio, in the Life of Gallienus, has these words: Laudatur ejus (Gallieni) optimum factum, qui Odenatum participato imperio Augustum vocavit, ejusque monetam, quæ Persas captos traheret, cudi jussit; quod et Senatus et Urbs et omnis ætas gratanter accepit. The same, in many places, speaks of this Odenathus with great respect; and mentioning his death, he says: Iratum fuisse Deum Reipublicæ credo, qui interfecto Valeriano noluit Odenatum reservare. But by a strange reverse of fortune, this honor and respect to Odenathus occasioned the sudden ruin and subversion of the city. For he and his son Herodes being murdered by Mæonius, their kinsman, and dying with the title of Augustus, his wife Zenobia, in right of her son Vaballathus then a minor, pretended to take upon her the government of the east, and did administer it to admiration: and when, soon after, Gallienus was murdered by his soldiers, she grasped the government of Egypt, and held it during the short reign of the Emperor Claudius Gothicus. But Aurelian, coming to the imperial dignity, would not suffer the title of Augustus in this family, though he was contented that they should hold under him as vice Cæsaris, as plainly appears by the Latin coins, of Aurelian on the one side, and Vaballathus on the other, with these letters, V. C. R. IM. OR; which P. Harduin has most judiciously interpreted, Vice Cæsaris Rector Imperii Orientis, without the title of Cæsar or Augustus, and with a laurel instead of a diadem. But both Vaballathus and Zenobia are styled ΣΕΒΑΣΤΟΙ in the Greek coins, made, it is probable, within their own jurisdiction.
But nothing less than a participation of the empire contenting Zenobia, and Aurelian persisting not to have it dismembered, he marched against her; and having in two battles routed her forces, he shut her up and besieged her in Palmyra, and the besieged finding that the great resistance they made availed not against that resolute emperor, they yielded the town; and Zenobia flying with her son was pursued and taken; with which Aurelian being contented spared the city, and marched for Rome with this captive lady; but the inhabitants, believing he would not return, set up again for themselves, and, as Vopiscus has it, slew the garrison he had left in the place. Which Aurelian understanding, though by this time he was gotten into Europe, with his usual fierceness, speedily returned, and collecting a sufficient army by the way, he again took the city without any great opposition, and put it to the sword with uncommon cruelty (as he himself confesses in a letter extant in Vopiscus), and delivered it to the pillage of his soldiers. Philosophical Transactions.
Or snatch from Roman arms the empire of the globe.
VIII.
Along the wild and wasted plainHis vet'ran bands the Roman monarch led,
And roll'd his burning wheels o'er heaps of slain:
The prowling chacal heard afar
The devastating yell of war,
And rush'd, with gloomy howl, to banquet on the dead!
IX.
For succour to Palmyra's wallsHer trembling subjects fled, confounded,
But wide amid her regal halls
The whirling fires resounded.
Onward the hostile legions pour'd:
Nor beauteous youth, nor helpless age,
The following is the letter of Aurelian above alluded to:
... Aurelianus Augustus Ceionio Basso: Non oportet ulterius progredi militum gladios, jam satis Palmyrenorum cæsum atque occisum est. Mulieribus non pepercimus, infantes occidimus, senes jugulavimus, rusticos interemimus, cui terras, cui urbem, deinceps relinquemus? Parcendum est iis qui remanserunt. Credimus enim paucos tam multorum suppliciis esse correctos. Templum sanè solis, quod apud Palmyram aquilifer legionis tertiæ cum vexilliferis et draconario cornicinibus atque liticinibus diripuerunt, ad eam formam volo, quæ fuit, reddi. Habes trecentas auri libras Zenobiæ capsulis: habes argenti mille octingenta pondo e Palmyrenorum bonis: habes gemmas regias. Ex his omnibus fac cohonestari templum: mihi et diis immortalibus gratissimum feceris. Ego ad Senatum scribam, petens ut mittet pontificem, qui dedicet templum.
Nor female charms, by savage breasts ador'd,
Could check the Roman's barb'rous rage,
Or blunt the murd'rous sword.
Loud, long, and fierce, the voice of slaughter roar'd,
The night-shades fell, the work of death was o'er,
Palmyra's sun had set, to rise no more!
X.
What mystic form, uncouth and dread,With wither'd cheek, and hoary head,
Swift as the death-fire cleaves the sky,
Swept on sounding pinions by?
His scythe, and sand, and eagle wings:
He cast a burning look around,
And wav'd his bony hand, and frown'd.
Far from the spectre's scowl of fire
Fancy's feeble forms retire,
Her air-born phantoms melt away,
Like stars before the rising day.
XI.
Yes, all are flown!I stand alone,
At ev'ning's calm and pensive hour,
Mid wasted domes,
And mould'ring tombs,
The wrecks of vanity and pow'r.
One shadowy tint enwraps the plain;
No form is near, no sounds intrude,
To break the melancholy reign
Of silence and of solitude.
How oft, in scenes like these, since Time began,
With downcast eye has Contemplation trod,
Far from the haunts of Folly, Vice, and Man,
To hold sublime communion with her God!
How oft, in scenes like these, the pensive sage
Has mourn'd the hand of Fate, severely just,
War's wasteful course, and Death's unsparing rage,
And dark Oblivion, frowning in the dust!
Has mark'd the tombs, that king's o'erthrown declare,
Just wept their fall, and sunk to join them there!
XII.
In yon proud fane,Architecture more especially lavished her ornaments, and displayed her magnificence, in the temple of the sun, the tutelar deity of Palmyra. The square court which enclosed it was six hundred and seventy-nine feet each way, and a double range of columns extended all round the inside. In the middle of the vacant space, the temple presents another front of forty-seven feet by one hundred and twenty-four in depth, and around it runs a peristyle of one hundred and forty columns. Volney.
How oft of old the swelling hymn arose,
In loud thanksgiving to the Lord of Day,
Or pray'r for vengeance on triumphant foes!
'Twas there, ere yet Aurelian's hand
Had kindled Ruin's smould'ring brand,
As slowly mov'd the sacred choir
Around the altar's rising fire,
The priest, with wild and glowing eye,
Bade the flow'r-bound victim die;
And while he fed the incense-flame,
With many a holy mystery,
Prophetic inspiration came
To teach th' impending destiny,
And shook his venerable frame
With most portentous augury!
In notes of anguish, deep and slow,
He told the coming hour of woe;
The youths and maids, with terror pale,
In breathless torture heard the tale,
And silence hung
On ev'ry tongue,
While thus the voice prophetic rung:
XIII.
“Whence was the hollow scream of fear,Whose tones appall'd my shrinking ear?
Whence was the modulated cry,
What sudden blaze illum'd the night?
Ha! 'twas Destruction's meteor-light!
Whence was the whirlwind's eddying breath?
Ha! 'twas the fiery blast of Death!
XIV.
“See! the mighty God of BattleSpreads abroad his crimson train!
Discord's myriad voices rattle
O'er the terror-shaken plain.
Banners stream, and helmets glare,
Show'ring arrows hiss in air;
Echoing through the darken'd skies,
Wildly-mingling murmurs rise,
The clash of splendor-beaming steel,
The buckler ringing hollowly,
The cymbal's silver-sounding peal,
The last deep groan of agony,
The hurrying feet
Of wild retreat,
The length'ning shout of victory!
XV.
“O'er our plains the vengeful strangerPours, with hostile hopes elate:
Who shall check the coming danger?
Who escape the coming fate?
Thou! that through the heav'ns afar,
When the shades of night retire,
Clad in sempiternal fire!
Thou! from whose benignant light
Fiends of darkness, strange and fell,
Urge their ebon-pinion'd flight
To the central caves of hell!
Sun ador'd! attend our call!
Must thy favor'd people fall?
Must we leave our smiling plains,
To groan beneath the stranger's chains?
Rise, supreme in heav'nly pow'r,
On our foes destruction show'r;
Bid thy fatal arrows fly,
Till their armies sink and die;
Through their adverse legions spread
Pale Disease, and with'ring Dread,
Wild Confusion's fev'rish glare,
Horror, Madness, and Despair!
XVI.
“Woe to thy numbers fierce and rude,Woe to the multitude of many people, that make a noise like the noise of the seas, and to the rushing of nations, that make a rushing like the rushing of mighty waters! The nations shall rush like the rushing of many waters; but God shall rebuke them, and they shall flee far off, and shall be chased as the chaff of the mountains before the wind, and like a rolling thing before the whirlwind. Isaiah, c. xvii.
Thou madly-rushing multitude,
Loud as the tempest that o'er ocean raves!
Woe to the nations proud and strong,
That rush tumultuously along,
As rolls the foaming stream its long-resounding waves!
As the noise of mighty seas,
As the loudly-murmuring breeze,
Shall gath'ring nations rush, a pow'rful band:
And stretch, to blast their proud career,
Thy arrow-darting hand!
Then shall their ranks to certain fate be giv'n,
Then on their course Despair her fires shall cast,
Then shall they fly, to endless ruin driv'n,
As flies the thistle-down before the mountain-blast!
XVII.
“Alas! in vain, in vain we call!The stranger triumphs in our fall!
And Fate comes on, with ruthless frown,
To strike Palmyra's splendor down.
Urg'd by the steady breath of Time,
The desert-whirlwind sweeps sublime,
The eddying sands in mountain-columns rise:
Borne on the pinions of the gale,
In one concenter'd cloud they sail,
Along the darken'd skies.
It falls! it falls! on Thedmor's walls
The whelming weight of ruin falls!
Th' avenging thunder-bolt is hurl'd,
Her pride is blotted from the world,
Her name unknown in story:
The trav'ller on her scite shall stand,
And seek, amid the desert-sand,
The records of her glory!
Her palaces are crush'd, her tow'rs o'erthrown,
Oblivion follows stern, and marks her for his own!”
XVIII.
How oft, the festal board around,These time-worn walls among,
Has rung the full symphonious sound
Of rapture-breathing song!
Ah! little thought the wealthy proud,
When rosy pleasure laugh'd aloud,
That here, amid their ancient land,
The wand'rer of the distant days
Should mark, with sorrow-clouded gaze,
The mighty wilderness of sand;
While not a sound should meet his ear,
Save of the desert-gales that sweep,
In modulated murmurs deep,
The wasted graves above,
Of those who once had revell'd here,
In happiness and love!
XIX.
Short is the space to man assign'dThis earthly vale to tread;
He wanders, erring, weak, and blind,
By adverse passions led.
Love, the balm of ev'ry woe,
The dearest blessing man can know;
Jealousy, whose pois'nous breath
Blasts affection's op'ning bud;
Stern Despair, that laughs in death;
Black Revenge, that bathes in blood;
And trembles at the whisp'ring air;
And Hope, that pictures on the clouds
Celestial visions, false, but fair;
All rule by turns:
To-day he burns
With ev'ry pang of keen distress;
To-morrow's sky
Bids sorrow fly
With dreams of promis'd happiness.
XX.
From the earliest twilight-ray,That mark'd Creation's natal day,
Till yesterday's declining fire,
Thus still have roll'd, perplex'd by strife,
The many-clashing wheels of life,
And still shall roll, till Time's last beams expire.
And thus, in ev'ry age, in ev'ry clime,
While circling years shall fly,
The varying deeds that mark the present time
Will be but shadows of the days gone by.
XXI.
Along the desolated shore,Where, broad and swift, Euphrates flows,
The trav'ller's anxious eye can trace no more
The spot where once the Queen of Cities rose.
In cedar-groves embow'r'd,
A rudely-splendid wreck alone remains.
The course of Fate no pomp or pow'r can shun.
Pollution tramples on thy giant-fanes,
Oh City of the Sun!
Fall'n are the Tyrian domes of wealth and joy,
The hundred gates of Thebes, the tow'rs of Troy;
In shame and sorrow pre-ordain'd to cease,
Proud Salem met th' irrevocable doom;
In darkness sunk the arts and arms of Greece,
And the long glories of imperial Rome.
XXII.
When the tyrant's iron handThe mountain-piles of Memphis rais'd,
That still the storms of angry Time defy,
In self-adoring thought he gaz'd,
And bade the massive labors stand,
Till Nature's self should die!
Presumptuous fool! the death-wind came,
And swept away thy worthless name;
And ages, with insidious flow,
Shall lay those blood-bought fabrics low.
Then shall the stranger pause, and oft be told,
“Here stood the mighty Pyramids of old!”
And smile, half-doubtful, when the tale he hears,
That speaks the wonders of the distant years.
XXIII.
Though Night awhile usurp the skies,Yet soon the smiling Morn shall rise,
And light and life restore;
Again the sun-beams gild the plain;
Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms descend. Roar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged meteors fly; rise the pale moon from behind her hills, or enclose her head in clouds; night is alike to me, blue, stormy, or gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is poured on the hill. The young day returns from his clouds, but we return no more.
Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of mighty name? The fields of their battles are silent; scarce their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgotten. This lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins in grass. They shall ask of the aged, “Where stood the walls of our fathers?”—See the beautiful little poem of The Bards in the notes on Ossian's Croma.
Raise, ye bards, said the mighty Fingal, the praise of unhappy Moina. Call her ghost, with your songs, to our hills; that she may rest with the fair of Morven, the sun-beams of other days, and the delight of heroes of old. I have seen the walls of Balclutha, but they were desolate. The fire had resounded in the halls: the voice of the people was heard no more. The stream of Clutha was removed from its place, by the fall of the walls. The thistle shook, there, its lonely head: the moss whistled to the wind. The fox looked out from the windows, the rank grass of the wall waved round his head. Desolate is the dwelling of Moina, silence is in the house of her fathers. Raise the song of mourning, oh bards, over the land of strangers. They have but fallen before us: for, one day, we must fall. Why dost thou build the hall, son of the winged days? Thou lookest from thy towers to-day; yet a few years, and the blast of the desert comes; it howls in thy empty court, and whistles round thy half-worn shield. Ossian.
The youthful day returns again,
But man returns no more.
Though Winter's frown severe
Deform the wasted year,
Spring smiles again, with renovated bloom;
But what sweet Spring, with genial breath,
Shall chase the icy sleep of death,
The dark and cheerless winter of the tomb?
Hark! from the mansions of the dead,
What thrilling sounds of deepest import spread!
Sublimely mingled with the eddying gale,
Full on the desert-air these solemn accents sail:
XXIV.
“Unthinking man! and dost thou weep,That clouds o'ercast thy little day?
That Death's stern hands so quickly sweep
Thy ev'ry earthly hope away?
Thy rapid hours in darkness flow,
But well those rapid hours employ,
And they shall lead from realms of woe
To realms of everlasting joy.
For though thy Father and thy God
Benignantly severe,
Yet future blessings shall repair,
In tenfold measure, ev'ry care,
That marks thy progress here.
XXV.
“Bow then to Him, for He is Good,And loves the works his hands have made;
In earth, in air, in fire, in flood,
His parent-bounty shines display'd.
Bow then to Him, for He is Just,
Though mortals scan his ways in vain;
Repine not, children of the dust!
For He in mercy sends ye pain.
Bow then to Him, for He is Great,
And was, ere Nature, Time, and Fate,
Began their mystic flight;
And still shall be, when consummating flame
Shall plunge this universal frame
In everlasting night.
Bow then to Him, the Lord of All,
Whose nod bids empires rise and fall,
Earth, Heav'n, and Nature's Sire;
To Him, who, matchless and alone,
Has fix'd in boundless space his throne,
Unchang'd, unchanging still, while worlds and suns expire!”
THE VISIONS OF LOVE
Dio di Citera,
I di non tornano
Di primavera;
Non spira un zeffiro,
Non spunta un fior.
Metastasio.
To strew its short but weary way with flow'rs,
New hopes to raise, new feelings to impart,
And pour celestial balsam on the heart;
For this to man was lovely woman giv'n,
The last, best work, the noblest gift of Heav'n.
At Eden's gate, as ancient legends say,
The flaming sword for ever bars the way;
Not ours to taste the joys our parents shar'd,
But pitying Nature half our loss repair'd,
Our wounds to heal, our murmurs to remove,
She left mankind the Paradise of Love.
All-conqu'ring Love! thy pow'rful reign surrounds
Man's wildest haunts, and earth's remotest bounds:
Alike for thee th' untainted bosom glows
'Mid eastern sands and hyperborean snows:
Thy darts unerring fly with strong controul,
Tame the most stern, and nerve the softest soul,
Check the swift savage of the sultry zone,
And bend the monarch on his glitt'ring throne.
The half-hid deeds of years that are no more,
How few the scenes her hand can picture there
Of heart-felt bliss untroubled by a care!
Yet many a charm can pow'rful Fancy raise,
To point the smiling path of future days;
There too will Hope her genial influence blend,
Faithless, but kind; a flatt'rer, but a friend.
But most to cheer the lover's lonely hours,
Creative Fancy wakes her magic pow'rs;
Most strongly pours, by ardent love refin'd,
Her brightest visions on the youthful mind.
Hence, when at eve with lonely steps I rove
The flow'r-enamell'd plain or dusky grove,
Or press the bank with grassy tufts o'erspread,
Where the brook murmurs o'er its pebbly bed;
Then steals thy form, Rosalia, on my sight,
In artless charms pre-eminently bright:
By Hope inspir'd, my raptur'd thoughts engage
To trace the lines of Fate's mysterious page;
At once in air, the past, the present, fade;
In fairy-tints the future stands display'd;
No clouds arise, no shadows intervene,
To veil or dim the visionary scene.
I see thee stand, in spotless white array'd;
I hear thee there thy home, thy name resign,
I hear the awful vow that seals thee mine.
Not on my birth propitious Fortune smil'd,
For me no dome with festal splendor shines;
No pamper'd lacquies spread their length'ning lines;
No venal crowds my nod obsequious wait;
No summer-friends besiege my narrow gate;
Joys such as these, if joys indeed they be,
Indulgent Nature ne'er design'd for me:
I ask them not: she play'd a kinder part:
She gave a nobler gift, Rosalia's heart.
The smiling plains, by calm content endear'd;
The classic book-case, deck'd with learning's store,
Rich in historic truth, and bardic lore;
The garden-walks, in Nature's liv'ry dress'd;
Will these suffice to make Rosalia bless'd?
And will she never feel a wish to roam
Beyond the limits of our rural home?
The woods with verdure, and the fields with flow'rs,
When fleeting Summer holds his burning reign,
Or fruitful Autumn nods with golden grain,
With thee, dear girl, each well-known path to tread,
Where blooming shrubs their richest odors shed,
With thee to mark the seasons' bright career,
The varied blessings of the rip'ning year.
When frost-crown'd Winter binds the earth in chains,
And pours his snow-storms on the whit'ning plains,
To chase the deep'ning gloom that low'rs around.
Beside the cheerful fire's familiar blaze,
Shall Memory trace the deeds of long-past days;
Of those propitious hours when first I strove
To win thy gentle ear with tales of love,
When, while thy angel-blushes half-conceal'd
The kind consent thy bashful smiles reveal'd,
From those bright eyes a soft expression stole,
That spoke the silent language of the soul.
Or haply then the poet's song may cheer
The dark death-season of th' accomplish'd year:
Together then we'll roam the sacred plain,
Where the bright Nine in ceaseless glory reign;
By Homer led, through Trojan battles sweep;
With Virgil cleave the tempest-beaten deep;
Trace the bold flights of Shakespear's muse of fire;
Strike the wild chords of Gray's enraptur'd lyre;
From Milton learn with holy zeal to glow;
Or weep with Ossian o'er a tale of woe.
Nor less shall Music charm: her pow'r sublime
Shall oft beguile the ling'ring steps of Time:
Then, as I watch, while my Rosalia sings,
Her seraph fingers sweep the sounding strings,
In soft response to sorrow's melting lay,
Or joy's loud swell, that steals our cares away,
My heart shall vibrate to the heav'nly sound,
And bless the stars our mutual fates that bound.
Beneath our roof shall Friendship's voice arise;
On ev'ry breast her sacred influence pour'd,
Shall crown with gen'rous mirth our social board;
The chosen few, to Taste and Virtue dear,
Shall meet a welcome, simple, but sincere.
Not from our door, his humble pray'r denied,
The friendless man shall wander unsupplied;
Ne'er shall the wretch, whom fortune's ills assail,
Tell there in vain his melancholy tale:
Thy heart, where Nature's noblest feelings glow,
Will throb to heal the bending stranger's woe;
On mercy's errand wilt thou oft explore
The crazy dwellings of the neighb'ring poor,
To blunt the stings of want's unsparing rage,
To smooth the short and painful path of age,
The childless widow's drooping head to raise,
And cheer her soul with hopes of better days:
For thee the pray'r affliction's child shall frame,
And lisping orphans bless Rosalia's name.
Soon shall new objects thy affection share,
New hopes, new duties claim Rosalia's care.
How will thy anxious eye exulting trace
The charms and virtues of thy infant-race!
Thy tender hand with sense and taste refin'd
Shall stamp each impulse of the rip'ning mind,
And early teach their little steps to stray
Through Virtue's paths, and Wisdom's flow'ry way.
Possess'd of thee, I ask no more below.
That constant love, which bless'd with genial rays
The bright and happy spring-time of our days,
Shall still dispel the clouds of woe and strife
From the full summer of progressive life.
The hand of Time may quench the ardent fire
Of rising passion, and of young desire;
But that pure flame esteem first taught to burn
Can only perish in the silent urn.
And when the last, the solemn hour draws near,
That bids us part from all that charm'd us here,
Then on our thoughts the heav'nly hope shall rise,
To meet in higher bliss, in better skies,
In those bright mansions of the just above,
Where all is Rapture, Innocence, and Love.
MARIA'S RETURN TO HER NATIVE COTTAGE
Finisca il martire;
È meglio morire,
Che viver così.
Metastasio.
In frost is bound;
The snow is swiftly falling;
While coldly blows the northern breeze,
And whistles through the leafless trees,
In hollow sounds appalling.
Now reach'd with pain,
Once stood my father's dwelling:
Where smiling pleasure once was found,
Now desolation frowns around,
And wintry blasts are yelling.
My thoughts beguil'd,
My earliest days delighting,
Till unsuspected treach'ry came,
Beneath affection's specious name,
The lovely prospect blighting.
Of blackest guile
Did Henry first deceive me:
He swore, by all the pow'rs of Heav'n,
That he would never leave me.
I lov'd the youth:
My soul, to guilt a stranger,
Knew not, in those too simple hours,
That oft beneath the sweetest flow'rs
Is couch'd the deadliest danger.
I fled my home;
I burst the bonds of duty;
I thought my days in joy would roll;
But Henry hid a demon's soul
Beneath an angel's beauty!
E'er cease to smart?
Oh never! never! never!
Did av'rice whisper thee, or pride,
False Henry! for a wealthier bride
To cast me off for ever?
No golden store
Had he, no earthly treasure:
I only could his griefs assuage,
The only pillar of his age,
His only source of pleasure.
He miss'd his child,
And long in vain he sought her:
The fiercest thunder-bolts of heav'n
Shall on thy guilty head be driv'n,
Thou Disobedient Daughter!
I see his tears,
I hear his groans of sadness:
My cruel falsehood seal'd his doom:
He seems to curse me from the tomb,
And fire my brain to madness!
While drifts the snow,
The cold nocturnal breezes;
On me the gath'ring snow-flakes rest,
And colder grows my friendless breast;
My very heart-blood freezes!
And thousands sleep,
Unknown to guilt and sorrow;
They think not of a wretch like me,
Who cannot, dare not, hope to see
The rising light to-morrow!
From all the world,
Whom none would love or cherish,
But here, amid the deep'ning snows,
To lay me down and perish?
Invades my heart:
Just Heav'n! all-good! all-seeing!
Thy matchless mercy I implore,
When I must wake, to sleep no more,
In realms of endless being!
FIOLFAR, KING OF NORWAY
E l'usata costanza in oblio porre?
Vedrai l'aurette alla tua vela ancelle
Spirar dolci e seguaci.
Menzini.
- Dalinger,—day.
- Hrimfax,—the steed of the evening twilight.
- Niord,—the god of the sea and wind.
- Norver,—night.
- Lok,—the evil principle.
- Valfander,—a name of Odin.
- Valhalla,—the hall of Odin.
- Thor,—the Gothic Mars.
- Hilda and Mista,—two of the Valkyræ, or fatal sisters.
- Nilflhil,—the frozen hell of the north.
- Hela,—the goddess of death.
- Duergi,—dwarfs.
- Asgard,—the city of Odin. The passage from this city to the earth is over the bridge Bifrost (the rainbow), on the end of which, nearest Asgard, is stationed the centinel-god Heimdaller, to watch the approach of Surtur, and his attendant genii and giants, from the fiery regions of the south, by whom, in the twilight of the gods, the world is to be consumed.
TERMS OF NORTHERN MYTHOLOGY
I.
In the dark-rolling waves at the verge of the westThe steeds of Dalinger had hastened to rest,
While Hrimfax advanced through the star-spangled plain,
And shook the thick dews from his grey-flowing mane;
The moon's silver crescent shone feebly on high,
And meteors shot red down the paths of the sky.
By the shore of the ocean Fiolfar reclined,
Where through the rock-fissures loud murmured the wind,
For sweet to his ear was the deep-dashing flow
Of the wide-foaming breakers that thundered below.
—“Alas!” he exclaimed, “were the hopes of my youth,
Though raised by affection, unfounded on truth?
Ye are flown, ye sweet prospects, deceitfully fair,
As the light-rolling gossamer melts into air;
As the wild-beating ocean, with turbulent roar,
Effaces my steps on the sands of the shore!
Thy waters, oh Niord! tumultuously roll,
And such are the passions that war in my soul:
And such are the death-flames that burn in my heart.
Nitalpha! my love! on the hill and the plain,
In the vale and the wood, have I sought thee in vain;
Through the nations for thee have I carried afar
The sun-shine of peace and the tempests of war;
Through danger and toil I my heroes have led,
Till hope's latest spark in my bosom was dead!
Cold, silent, and dark, are the halls of thy sires,
And hushed are the harps, and extinguished the fires;
The wild autumn-blast in the lofty hall roars,
And the yellow leaves roll through the half-open doors.
Nitalpha! when rapture invited thy stay,
Did force or inconstancy bear thee away?
Ah, no! though in vain I thy footsteps pursue,
I will not, I cannot, believe thee untrue:
Perchance thou art doomed in confinement to moan,
To dwell in the rock's dreary caverns alone,
And Lok's cruel mandates, while fast thy tears flow,
Forbid thy Fiolfar to solace thy woe,
Condemn thee unvarying anguish to bear,
And leave me a prey to the pangs of despair.”—
Ha! whence were those accents, portentous and dread,
Like the mystical tones of the ghosts of the dead,
In echoes redoubling that rung through the gloom,
As the thunder resounds in the vaults of the tomb?
—“Fiolfar!”—He started, and wondering descried,
Majestic he stood, on the surf-beaten steep,
Like a spirit of storms by the roar of the deep:
His soul-piercing eyes as the eagle's were bright,
And his raven-hair flowed on the breezes of night.
—“Fiolfar!” he cried, “thy affliction forsake:
To hope and revenge let thy bosom awake;
For he, that Nitalpha from liberty tore,
Is Lochlin's proud monarch, the bold Yrrodore.
Still constant to thee, she the traitor abhorred;
Haste! haste! let thy valor her virtue reward:
For her let the battle empurple the plain:
In the moment of conquest I meet thee again.”—
He ceased, and Fiolfar beheld him no more;
Nor long paused the youth on the dark-frowning shore:
—“Whate'er be thy nature, oh stranger!” he said,
“Thou hast called down the tempest on Yrrodore's head:
The broad-beaming buckler and keen-biting glaive
Shall ring and resound on the fields of the brave,
And vengeance shall burst, in a death-rolling flood,
And deluge thy altars, Valfander, with blood!”—
II.
To Loda's dark circle and mystical stone,With the grey-gathered moss of long ages o'ergrown,
While the black car of Norver was central in air,
Did the harp-bearing bards of Fiolfar repair;
In deep modulations responsively rung;
To the hall of Valhalla, where monarchs repose,
The full-swelling war-song symphoniously rose:
—“From the throne of Skialfa, Valfander, look down,
And marshal thy sons in the paths of renown:
Be thou too propitious, invincible Thor!
And lend thy strong aid to our banners of war.
As the torrent, in eddies tumultuously tost,
That lately has slumbered in fetters of frost,
Descends from the mountain all turbid with snow,
Shall Norway rush down on the fields of the foe.
Ye spirits of chieftains tremendous in fight,
That dwell with Valfander in halls of delight!
Awhile from your cloud-circled mansions descend;
On the steps of your sons through the conflict attend,
When Lochlin shall glow with the beacon's wide beams,
And the battle-blast mix with the roar of her streams,
And the gaunt raven hover, on dark-flapping wing,
To scent his red feast on the foes of our king!”—
As full to the wind rose the soul-thrilling tones,
Strange murmurs rung wild from the moss-covered stones:
The ghosts of the mighty, rejoicing, came forth,
And rolled their thin forms on the blasts of the north.
They scattered their signs from the centre of heaven.
The skies were all glowing, portentously bright,
With strong coruscations of vibrating light:
In shadowy forms, on the long-streaming glare,
The insignia of battle shot swift through the air;
In lines and in circles successively whirled,
Fantastical arrows and javelins were hurled,
That, flashing and falling in mimic affray,
In the distant horizon died darkly away,
Where a blood-dropping banner seemed slowly to sail,
And expand its red folds to the death-breathing gale.
Fiolfar looked forth from his time-honored halls,
Where the trophies of battle emblazoned the walls:
He heard the faint song, as at distance it swelled,
And the blazing of ether with triumph beheld;
He saw the white flames inexhaustibly stream,
And he knew that his fathers rode bright on the beam,
That the spirits of warriors of ages long past
Were flying sublime on the wings of the blast.
—“Ye heroes!” he cried, “that in danger arose,
The bulwark of friends, and the terror of foes;
By Odin with glory eternally crowned;
By valor and virtue for ever renowned:
Like yours may my arm in the conflict be strong,
Like yours may my name be recorded in song,
And when Hilda and Mista my spirit shall bear
The joys of Valhalla with Odin to share,
And bend forward with joy to acknowledge your son!” —
III.
The falchion resounded on helm and on shield,For Norway and Lochlin had met in the field;
The long lances shivered, the swift arrows flew,
The string shrilly twanged on the flexible yew;
Rejoicing, the Valkyræ strode through the plain,
And guided the death-blow, and singled the slain.
Long, long did the virgins of Lochlin deplore
The youths whom their arms should encircle no more,
For Norway rushed onward, to vengeance awake,
With the roar of the ocean, when thunder-clouds break;
With the strength of the whirlwind, that shatters the wood,
And roots up the oak that for ages has stood;
With the storm-swollen torrent's precipitous shock,
That hurls from the mountain the frost-loosened rock.
Fiolfar through danger triumphantly trod,
And scattered confusion and terror abroad:
Majestic as Balder, tremendous as Thor,
He plunged in the red-foaming torrent of war;
Till he mowed his strong course through the ranks of the brave,
Where deepened the tumult round Yrrodore's glaive.
Despiser of justice, profaner of love!
Already the shades of the guilty await
Thy spirit at Hela's implacable gate,
Their vigils of winter and darkness to share
In Nilflhil's nine worlds of eternal despair.”—
Indignantly Yrrodore turned on the foe,
And reared his strong arm for a death-dealing blow.
He stood, vast in stature, collected in might,
As the tower of the hill meets the tempest of night:
But the sword of Fiolfar descended to whelm
The seven-plated buckler, and plume-waving helm,
As the brand of the storm irresistibly falls,
And scatters in fragments the rock-founded walls.
Swift flowed the black blood, and in anguish he breathed,
Yet he muttered these words as expiring he writhed:
—“And deemest thou, Fiolfar, the conquest is thine?
No! victory, glory, and vengeance, are mine!
In triumph I die: thou shalt languish in pain:
For ne'er shall Nitalpha delight thee again!
The wakeful Duergi the caverns surround,
Where in magical slumbers the maiden is bound:
Those magical slumbers shall last till the day,
When Odin shall summon thy spirit away:
Then, then shall she wake to remembrance and pain,
To seek her Fiolfar, and seek him in vain,
Long years of unvarying sorrow to prove,
And weep and lament on the grave of her love!”—
And rushed to the caves of the uttermost north;
Still destined to roam through the frost-covered plain,
Where Hela has fixed her inflexible reign,
Till the tempest of fate shall o'er Asgard be driven
In the last lurid gleam of the twilight of heaven,
And the trump of Heimdaller tremendously rear
The deep-thrilling death-note all nature must hear,
And genii and gods, by one ruin enfurled,
Contend, and expire, in the flames of the world.
IV.
Now shone the broad moon on the field of the dead,Where Norway had conquered, and Lochlin had fled:
The hoarse raven croaked from the blood-streaming ground:
The dead and the dying lay mingled around:
The warriors of Norway were sunk in repose,
And rushed, in wild visions, again on their foes:
Yet lonely and sad did Fiolfar remain
Where the monarch of Lochlin had fall'n on the plain;
In the silence of sorrow he leaned on his spear,
For Yrrodore's words echoed still in his ear:
When, with hope-breathing wonder, again he descried
That the sable-clad stranger stood tall by his side:
Nitalpha is fettered in magical sleep:
Yet I to thy arms can the maiden restore,
And passion and vengeance shall harm her no more.”—
—“Strange being! what art thou? thy nature declare.”—
—“The name of Nerimnher from mortals I bear:
Mid desolate rocks, in a time-hollowed cell,
At distance from man and his vices I dwell;
But, obedient to Odin, I haste from the shade,
When virtue afflicted solicits my aid:
For the mystical art to my knowledge is given,
That can check the pale moon as she rolls through the heaven,
Can strike the dark dwellers of Nilflhil with dread,
And breathe the wild verse that awakens the dead.
My voice can the spells of thy rival destroy,
And recal thy loved maid to existence and joy.”—
Long, rugged, and steep, was their desolate way,
By the precipice-rock, and the cataract's spray,
Where the wild eagle screamed through night's luminous noon,
And the storm-shattered cedar spread black to the moon.
The dark-tufted pine topped the frost-mantled height:
The larch's long tresses waved lonely and light:
No vestige of man was impressed on the heath,
And the torrent roared deep in its caverns beneath.
They pierced the recesses of Deuranil's wood.
Through shades, where the yew and the cypress entwined,
Their branches funereal, unmoved by the wind,
Slow-toiling they passed, till before them arose
The caves of Nitalpha's unbreathing repose.
A blue-burning vapor shone dim through the gloom,
And rolled its thin curls round a rude-fashioned tomb,
Where the weary Duergi, by magic constrained,
With eyes never closing, their station maintained.
Loud shouting they rose when the strangers advanced,
But fear chilled their veins, and they paused as entranced,
While the mighty Nerimnher, in fate-favored hour,
Thus breathed the strong spell that extinguished their power:
—“By the hall of Valhalla, where heroes repose,
And drink beer and mead from the skulls of their foes;
By the virtues of Freyer, and valor of Thor;
By the twelve giant sisters, the rulers of war;
By the unrevealed accents, in secret expressed,
Of old by Valfander to Balder addressed;
By the ghosts, in the frost-worlds of Nilflhil that weep;
By the mystical serpent, that circles the deep;
Hence, children of evil! hear, tremble, and fly!”—
Loud yelled the Duergi, and sunk from his sight
To their caverns of toil in the regions of night:
The vapor rolled backward its tremulous wave,
And a star-like effulgence illumined the cave,
As the tomb burst asunder, and scattered the shade,
Where, in death-like entrancement, Nitalpha was laid.
Fiolfar sprang forward, and clasped to his breast
The maid, cold and pale as the marble she pressed:
The kiss of her love broke the spell of the tomb,
And bade life and rapture her beauty relume.
From the silent embrace, that no tongue may declare,
They turned: but Nerimnher no longer was there:
The tomb, and the cave, and the forest, were gone:
And fresh o'er their cheeks blew the breeze of the dawn,
That waved the proud standard, in victory's pride,
On the red field of Lochlin where Yrrodore died.
| The Works of Thomas Love Peacock | |