 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
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HISTORIC SCENES.
INSCRIBED TO HON. JOHN BRODHEAD, NEW YORK.
THE SHADE OF THEODOSIUS.
[“Constans II. retained a jealous fear, lest the people should one day invade the right of primogeniture, and seat his brother on an equal throne. By the imposition of holy orders the grandson of Heraclitus was disqualified for the purple; but the ceremony was insufficient to appease the suspicions of the tyrant; and the death of Theodosius could not expiate the crime of his royal birth. His murder was avenged by the imprecations of the people, and the assassin went into voluntary exile. The remorse of his conscience created a phantom, who pursued him, by day and by night; and the visionary Theodosius presenting to his lips a cup of blood, said, or seemed to say, ‘Drink, brother, drink.’”]
Gibbon's Decline and Fall.
From his pale brow the diadem he tore,
And with a look of fear expressive, then
Aside the purple robe of Empire flung.
The watchful sentry of the palace gave
No warning sign of danger lurking near,
And visible was naught that could awake
Within the bosom of a timid child
One thrill of dread. As if communing with
Unearthly forms, the Ruler of proud Rome
Like some enchanter, wildly gazing, stood
Pale and affrighted by his own creations.
The start convulsive, and the trembling frame,
Bespoke the fearful tempest of the soul;
And oft his throbbing brow he fiercely smote,
For memory was working madness there.
In his own shadow breathing life he saw,
And the soft music of the summer winds,
That like a spirit through the lattice stole,
Gave to his hollow cheek a deadlier hue.
His long, loose locks were prematurely gray,
And gone for ever was the bearing high
That one beseems invested with stern power.
He spake at length, as if his ashy lips
The fearful secret could no longer guard,
In the wild tones of agony and guilt:
And with a look of fear expressive, then
Aside the purple robe of Empire flung.
The watchful sentry of the palace gave
No warning sign of danger lurking near,
And visible was naught that could awake
Within the bosom of a timid child
One thrill of dread. As if communing with
Unearthly forms, the Ruler of proud Rome
Like some enchanter, wildly gazing, stood
Pale and affrighted by his own creations.
The start convulsive, and the trembling frame,
Bespoke the fearful tempest of the soul;
And oft his throbbing brow he fiercely smote,
For memory was working madness there.
In his own shadow breathing life he saw,
And the soft music of the summer winds,
That like a spirit through the lattice stole,
Gave to his hollow cheek a deadlier hue.
His long, loose locks were prematurely gray,
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That one beseems invested with stern power.
He spake at length, as if his ashy lips
The fearful secret could no longer guard,
In the wild tones of agony and guilt:
“Grim Phantom! quit my sight—
To me extend not that appalling bowl!
Its crimson contents cannot make my soul
From torture free and white:
Malignant smiles upon thy face appear,
As if exulting in my mortal fear.
To me extend not that appalling bowl!
Its crimson contents cannot make my soul
From torture free and white:
Malignant smiles upon thy face appear,
As if exulting in my mortal fear.
“Wilt thou confront me yet—
Still fix on me thy wild, terrific gaze,
And to my lips again the chalice raise
With slaughter warm and wet?
Depart, depart! thou wan, unbidden guest,
And with the secrets of the charnel, rest!
Still fix on me thy wild, terrific gaze,
And to my lips again the chalice raise
With slaughter warm and wet?
Depart, depart! thou wan, unbidden guest,
And with the secrets of the charnel, rest!
“When mingling with the gay,
Thy presence chills the life-drops in each vein,
And thou art with me on the tented plain
When hosts my nod obey:
Thy presence chases slumber from mine eye
When night in sable robes the earth and sky.
Thy presence chills the life-drops in each vein,
And thou art with me on the tented plain
When hosts my nod obey:
Thy presence chases slumber from mine eye
When night in sable robes the earth and sky.
“Unseen by other men,
Thou art my pale attendant in the halls
Where ring with song and merriment the walls—
And thou art with me when
Poor, crouching vassals gather in the street,
And thousands fall in homage at my feet.
Thou art my pale attendant in the halls
Where ring with song and merriment the walls—
And thou art with me when
Poor, crouching vassals gather in the street,
And thousands fall in homage at my feet.
“Upon a distant shore,
Across the wide expanse of waters blue,
In vain methought affrighted I should view
Thine awful face no more;
Clad in the vestments of the starless grave
Thy spectral form went with me o'er the wave.
Across the wide expanse of waters blue,
In vain methought affrighted I should view
Thine awful face no more;
Clad in the vestments of the starless grave
Thy spectral form went with me o'er the wave.
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“Ah! noiseless is thy tread
When thou art stealing fiercely by my side
Through the dark chambers of this dome of pride,
Bearing the goblet red.
Oft I behold with horror on the floor
Thy gliding feet leave tracks of smoking gore.
When thou art stealing fiercely by my side
Through the dark chambers of this dome of pride,
Bearing the goblet red.
Oft I behold with horror on the floor
Thy gliding feet leave tracks of smoking gore.
“Leave me one hour alone!
My knife long since drank purple from thy veins,
Through fear thy hand would take away the reins
Of empire from mine own;
I could not bear to even dream thy brow
Would wear the crown I cast far from me now.
My knife long since drank purple from thy veins,
Through fear thy hand would take away the reins
Of empire from mine own;
I could not bear to even dream thy brow
Would wear the crown I cast far from me now.
“The shroud that wraps thy form
Moves not when winds are sporting with my locks,
And thy tall, ghastly figure likewise mocks
The fury of the storm;
I have beheld thee standing on the wave
As if the chainless rover was thy slave.
Moves not when winds are sporting with my locks,
And thy tall, ghastly figure likewise mocks
The fury of the storm;
I have beheld thee standing on the wave
As if the chainless rover was thy slave.
“Suppress those hollow sighs!
And let thy brow a milder aspect wear;
My stout frame withers in the fiendish glare
Of those dark, searching eyes—
Recall once more the rose-flush to thy cheek,
And in the sweet tones of forgiveness speak.
And let thy brow a milder aspect wear;
My stout frame withers in the fiendish glare
Of those dark, searching eyes—
Recall once more the rose-flush to thy cheek,
And in the sweet tones of forgiveness speak.
“‘Drink, royal brother, drink,’
Is thy sole answer, while the gory chalice
Recalls a deed of blood in my own palace—
This wasting form will sink
Ere long, unlighted by the frost of Time,
Beneath the weight of agony and crime.
Is thy sole answer, while the gory chalice
Recalls a deed of blood in my own palace—
This wasting form will sink
Ere long, unlighted by the frost of Time,
Beneath the weight of agony and crime.
“Oh, brandish not the steel
That won for me the name of ‘Fratricide,’
But throw away that weapon, redly dyed.
Dizzy and faint I feel!
Ha! fleshless arms my reeling form uphold—
Loose, loose me, brother, for thy grasp is cold!”
That won for me the name of ‘Fratricide,’
But throw away that weapon, redly dyed.
Dizzy and faint I feel!
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Loose, loose me, brother, for thy grasp is cold!”
Of what avail are counterfeited smiles
That light the haggard face of hiding guilt!
On scorching brain and heart there is a worm
That darkly feeds until the tongue at last
Proves traitor to the secret, and proclaims
The horrid truth:—that worm is keen Remorse!
That light the haggard face of hiding guilt!
On scorching brain and heart there is a worm
That darkly feeds until the tongue at last
Proves traitor to the secret, and proclaims
The horrid truth:—that worm is keen Remorse!
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LAMENT OF PERICLES.
[“Pericles neither wept, nor performed any funeral rites, nor was he seen at the grave of any of his nearest relations, until the death of Paralus, his last surviving son. This at last subdued him. He attempted, indeed, then, to keep up his usual calm behavior and serenity of mind; but in putting the garland upon the head of the deceased, his firmness forsook him. He could not bear the sad spectacle, and broke out into loud lamentation.”]
Plutarch.
Chide not these tears! my fondest hopes are blighted,
And life henceforward will a burthen be;
Chill airs of death at length have disunited
The noblest scion from its parent tree:
Beneath yon dark and veiling pall extended,
The pallid wreck of youth and beauty lies,
The quick pulsation of that breast is ended,
And light hath early faded from those eyes.
And life henceforward will a burthen be;
Chill airs of death at length have disunited
The noblest scion from its parent tree:
Beneath yon dark and veiling pall extended,
The pallid wreck of youth and beauty lies,
The quick pulsation of that breast is ended,
And light hath early faded from those eyes.
While sadly gazing on those darksome tresses
That still their silken loveliness retain,
I feel once more his passionate caresses,
And hear that lip breathe melody again.
Lost boy! my days, hereafter, will be clouded,
For grief is deeply rooted in my breast;
While gazing on thee, pale and darkly shrouded,
I almost envy thy unbreathing rest.
That still their silken loveliness retain,
I feel once more his passionate caresses,
And hear that lip breathe melody again.
Lost boy! my days, hereafter, will be clouded,
For grief is deeply rooted in my breast;
While gazing on thee, pale and darkly shrouded,
I almost envy thy unbreathing rest.
The voice of grief falls on that ear unnoted—
Those arms will wreathe around my neck no more;
The face of him on whom my bosom doated
Wears not the look of earthliness it wore.
I little thought while summer winds were drying
The childish tear upon thy dimpled cheek,
Soon, like the work of some rare sculptor lying,
Mine eyes would gaze upon thy corse, young Greek.
Those arms will wreathe around my neck no more;
The face of him on whom my bosom doated
Wears not the look of earthliness it wore.
I little thought while summer winds were drying
The childish tear upon thy dimpled cheek,
Soon, like the work of some rare sculptor lying,
Mine eyes would gaze upon thy corse, young Greek.
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Unfeeling tyrant! when the smile is brightest,
Why call away the beautifully fair?
Why still the pulses when the step is lightest,
And wretched leave the bowed and gray of hair?
Ah! the last blossom of my house is faded,
And the cold sternness of my look hath fled;
The pale sepulchral chaplet I have braided
Around the icy temples of my dead.
Why call away the beautifully fair?
Why still the pulses when the step is lightest,
And wretched leave the bowed and gray of hair?
Ah! the last blossom of my house is faded,
And the cold sternness of my look hath fled;
The pale sepulchral chaplet I have braided
Around the icy temples of my dead.
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MOORISH MEMORIES.
An hour of precious romance, I owe, my friend, to thee,
And on the wings of Fancy my spirit crossed the sea;
The same transporting magic did to thy gift belong
That sparkled in Aladdin's Lamp, old theme of Eastern song!
An Andalusian summer clad earth in brightest guise—
Gave dark green to the foliage, deep azure to the skies,
And sternly mountain-barriers uprear'd their crests of snow,
While palace-spire and minaret flashed at their feet below.
And on the wings of Fancy my spirit crossed the sea;
The same transporting magic did to thy gift belong
That sparkled in Aladdin's Lamp, old theme of Eastern song!
An Andalusian summer clad earth in brightest guise—
Gave dark green to the foliage, deep azure to the skies,
And sternly mountain-barriers uprear'd their crests of snow,
While palace-spire and minaret flashed at their feet below.
Approached by winding avenues, Granada lay in sight—
Gay pleasure-ground and gardens basked in the dazzling light;
To groves of palm and cypress flocked birds of plumage rare,
And happy genii were afloat upon enchanted air.
Throned on a height commanding the Darro's vale of flowers,
I saw the red Alhambra's tall battlements and towers;
Oh! would that mine were language to paint its pictured walls,
Its colonnades and court-yards, its galleries and halls.
Gay pleasure-ground and gardens basked in the dazzling light;
To groves of palm and cypress flocked birds of plumage rare,
And happy genii were afloat upon enchanted air.
Throned on a height commanding the Darro's vale of flowers,
I saw the red Alhambra's tall battlements and towers;
Oh! would that mine were language to paint its pictured walls,
Its colonnades and court-yards, its galleries and halls.
Methought the dreams of childhood were realized at last,
And magic hands uplifted a pall that hid the past,
While looking on its panels with colored stone inlaid,
And alabaster vases on which the sunbeam played.
In gem-embroidered caftan, and grave with cares of state,
Dispensing equal justice, a king was at the gate—
The hajib was in waiting, to hear his high command,
And in the foreground gathered proud nobles of the land.
And magic hands uplifted a pall that hid the past,
While looking on its panels with colored stone inlaid,
And alabaster vases on which the sunbeam played.
In gem-embroidered caftan, and grave with cares of state,
Dispensing equal justice, a king was at the gate—
The hajib was in waiting, to hear his high command,
And in the foreground gathered proud nobles of the land.
Luxurious rooms I entered through quaintly carven doors,
And trod on fretted pavements and tesselated floors;
And in secluded chambers for beauty's use designed,
On gorgeous silken cushions voluptuous forms reclined.
To win their smile full often had gallant cavaliers
Met with a shock, like thunder, at the Tournament of Spears,
And all had won the homage by Love and Valor paid,
When, under moon-lit balconies, awoke the serenade.
And trod on fretted pavements and tesselated floors;
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On gorgeous silken cushions voluptuous forms reclined.
To win their smile full often had gallant cavaliers
Met with a shock, like thunder, at the Tournament of Spears,
And all had won the homage by Love and Valor paid,
When, under moon-lit balconies, awoke the serenade.
Xariffa, rose of sunset—Zorayda, star of dawn!
Ye never can be numbered with things of beauty gone;
Poetical embalmment bestows a glorious light,
That frights away the minions of darkness, dust, and blight.
Umbrageous courts I traversed, where lime and orange grew,
And fig and date their shadows on beds of roses threw,
Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound
Of singing founts diffusing grateful coolness round.
Ye never can be numbered with things of beauty gone;
Poetical embalmment bestows a glorious light,
That frights away the minions of darkness, dust, and blight.
Umbrageous courts I traversed, where lime and orange grew,
And fig and date their shadows on beds of roses threw,
Then bathed in perfumed waters, and listened to the sound
Of singing founts diffusing grateful coolness round.
While silvery Xenil wandered through blooming bower and plain,
Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain:
I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal's deep roll,
And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul.
Elvira's gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar,
A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war;
The standard of the prophet above them was unrolled,
And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold.
Back came once more the splendor of Moorish rule in Spain:
I heard the stormy clarion, the atabal's deep roll,
And felt the joy of battle awake within my soul.
Elvira's gates unfolded, and, grim with many a scar,
A host of Moorish horsemen rode fiercely forth to war;
The standard of the prophet above them was unrolled,
And dallied with the lifting wind its green and golden fold.
Gemmed saddle-cloth and armor were blinding to the gaze,
And burnished lance and scimetar flashed back the sun-beam's blaze,
While prancing in the van, as if their nostrils scented gore,
The milk-white steeds of Yemen, king, sheik and emir bore.
When fled that martial pageant, like vapor on the gale,
Woke on the banks of Darro a startling voice of wail,
And tones so full of sweetness, and wild, despairing woe,
Were never heard by listening ear from mortal lips to flow.
And burnished lance and scimetar flashed back the sun-beam's blaze,
While prancing in the van, as if their nostrils scented gore,
The milk-white steeds of Yemen, king, sheik and emir bore.
When fled that martial pageant, like vapor on the gale,
Woke on the banks of Darro a startling voice of wail,
And tones so full of sweetness, and wild, despairing woe,
Were never heard by listening ear from mortal lips to flow.
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COSMO.
AN ITALIAN SKETCH.
One morn the Princes from the wall
Took down the weapons of the chase,
And issued from the ducal hall,
Their sinews in the hunt to brace.
The mother with an anxious eye
Beheld her manly sons depart,
And vainly strove to quell the sigh,
For grief was heavy at her heart.
Took down the weapons of the chase,
And issued from the ducal hall,
Their sinews in the hunt to brace.
The mother with an anxious eye
Beheld her manly sons depart,
And vainly strove to quell the sigh,
For grief was heavy at her heart.
She saw them ere they went away,
The tangled wild and glen to range,
By frowns their settled hate betray,
And looks of stern resolve exchange.
When gently on the land and flood
The dusky veil of eve was thrown,
The youngest hunter from the wood
With horn and hound came back alone.
The tangled wild and glen to range,
By frowns their settled hate betray,
And looks of stern resolve exchange.
When gently on the land and flood
The dusky veil of eve was thrown,
The youngest hunter from the wood
With horn and hound came back alone.
The stain of purple on the hilt
Of his keen dirk suspicion woke;
His looks expressive were of guilt,
Though in a mirthful tone he spoke.
When loudly questioned why he came
Without his brother, he replied,
“I left him still pursuing game,
Alive and well, ere eventide.”
Of his keen dirk suspicion woke;
His looks expressive were of guilt,
Though in a mirthful tone he spoke.
When loudly questioned why he came
Without his brother, he replied,
“I left him still pursuing game,
Alive and well, ere eventide.”
A band of liegemen, tried and true,
The ducal palace left at night,
And vainly warning bugle blew
To guide their absent prince aright.
Within the forest, lying dead,
The missing one at last was found;
And damp with slaughter was his bed,
Upon the dark and trampled ground.
The ducal palace left at night,
And vainly warning bugle blew
To guide their absent prince aright.
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The missing one at last was found;
And damp with slaughter was his bed,
Upon the dark and trampled ground.
Duke Cosmo, when the tidings came,
His fingers clenching, smote his brow,
And spake, while horror shook his frame,
“My fondest hopes are blasted now!
His body to that chamber bear,
Where hang the portraits of my race;
And—mark me—hide with utmost care
Stiff limbs and cold distorted face.”
His fingers clenching, smote his brow,
And spake, while horror shook his frame,
“My fondest hopes are blasted now!
His body to that chamber bear,
Where hang the portraits of my race;
And—mark me—hide with utmost care
Stiff limbs and cold distorted face.”
His princely garb the father rent,
And long and bitterly he wept;
Then slyly to that chamber went
Wherein the guilty hunter slept:
The mourner wiped his tearful eyes—
The storm of grief had made them dim—
And calmly bade the youth arise,
And from the chamber follow him.
And long and bitterly he wept;
Then slyly to that chamber went
Wherein the guilty hunter slept:
The mourner wiped his tearful eyes—
The storm of grief had made them dim—
And calmly bade the youth arise,
And from the chamber follow him.
The wretched parent led the way
With hurried stride to that dread room,
In which the lifeless brother lay,
Wrapt in the raiment of the tomb.
The slayer by the hand he took
And fixed on him a dark keen eye,
But in his quietude of look
No trace of terror could espy.
With hurried stride to that dread room,
In which the lifeless brother lay,
Wrapt in the raiment of the tomb.
The slayer by the hand he took
And fixed on him a dark keen eye,
But in his quietude of look
No trace of terror could espy.
His arm uplifting, Cosmo cried,
“Affect not calmness, guilty youth!
Or fruitless efforts make to hide
From God and man the awful truth:
Add not to thy foul crime deceit,
But rather deeply feel remorse.”
Then, lifting up the gory sheet,
Unfolded to his view the corse.
“Affect not calmness, guilty youth!
Or fruitless efforts make to hide
From God and man the awful truth:
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But rather deeply feel remorse.”
Then, lifting up the gory sheet,
Unfolded to his view the corse.
“Wild frenzy should consume thy brain
While gazing on that ghastly brow,
And blood should curdle in each vein—
Can thy lips guard the secret now?”
How still he lies! upon his flesh
The worm will soon in darkness feed:
Those gaping wounds that bleed afresh
Disclose the author of the deed!
While gazing on that ghastly brow,
And blood should curdle in each vein—
Can thy lips guard the secret now?”
How still he lies! upon his flesh
The worm will soon in darkness feed:
Those gaping wounds that bleed afresh
Disclose the author of the deed!
“To me address no vain appeal!
Fix not on me that pleading eye!
Thy doom is written on the steel
That drank his blood—and thou must die!
Last of my house, my only one!
Stern justice claims atoning gore—”
Deep struck the father, and the son
Fell gasping on the marble floor.
Fix not on me that pleading eye!
Thy doom is written on the steel
That drank his blood—and thou must die!
Last of my house, my only one!
Stern justice claims atoning gore—”
Deep struck the father, and the son
Fell gasping on the marble floor.
Fond, gentle mother of the slain!
For thee it was a fearful night—
The fire of madness scorched thy brain,
And fiends howled round thee to affright
When morning tipped the hills with flame,
And flushed the waves that slept below,
Death, like a kind deliverer, came,
To free thee from thy sumless woe.
For thee it was a fearful night—
The fire of madness scorched thy brain,
And fiends howled round thee to affright
When morning tipped the hills with flame,
And flushed the waves that slept below,
Death, like a kind deliverer, came,
To free thee from thy sumless woe.
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ZILLAH. [FRAGMENT OF A JEWISH TALE.]
INSCRIBED AS A MEMORIAL OF LONG AND FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP TO MY ESTEEMED TOWNSMAN, WILLIAM C. HAWLEY, ESQ.
[“A Saracen Captain sailing from a port in Spain captured a vessel having on board several Jews of distinction, among whom were a young man and his wife, a woman of exquisite beauty. Having received some insults from the Captain, she asked, ‘Shall those who are drowned in the sea revive at the Resurrection?’ She was answered in the words of the Psalmist: ‘The Lord said, I will bring again from the depths of the sea;’ and she immediately flung herself into the waters.”]—
Jus Regium Hebr.The din of conflict ceased;—on high
Dark clouds ascended from the main
As if to robe the vaulted sky
In mourning vesture for the slain
Who late with exultation heard
The soul-arousing signal word
Go up, when met the hostile ships,
In thunder from a thousand lips:
Who lately, prodigal of life,
Moved sharers in the gory strife,
While Havoc shook his wings of flame,
And Death, in terror shrouded, came.
No sheet, within its tarry fold,
Wraps mournfully their bodies cold;
Nor yew, nor solemn cypress throws
Sepulchral gloom where they repose.
For ever deaf to boatswain call
They sleep in Ocean's charnel-hall,
And monarch waters, in their might,
Above them roll with crowns of white.
No eye shed tributary tear
When darkly ended their career,
Nor were the brave “with dirges due”
Committed to the waters blue.
Far from the quiet hearths of home
The blood of sire and brother gave
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That crested fearfully the wave.
War furled his wing:—the Infidel
His ocean conquest dearly bought,
For in the hour of trial well
The sons of Israel had fought.
The cry, “our hold a leak has sprung!”
In them, though shroud in tatters hung,
And reeling deck was strewn with dead,
Had woke no unresisting dread.
Despair, in that appalling hour,
Had nerved the feeble frame with power,
And, with the strength of manhood, strung
The untried sinews of the young.
When the tall mainmast, like some oak,
Uprooted by the whirlwind, fell,
In stern defiance through the smoke
Had rang their battle yell.
Admiring Athens deified
Such children in her day of might,
And Fame inscribed their names, allied
To daring, with a look of pride,
Upon her tablets bright:
And worthy would have been such sons
Of Judah, when her mighty ones,
With Maccabæus in the van,
Smote down the vaunting Syrian;
Or in that hour when Jew of old
Proud Rome with desperation met,
While, red with slaughter, Kedron roll'd
And charging shouts shook Olivet.
It is a melancholy sight
To see that bird of regal sway
Who holds, in dazzling realms of light,
Proud converse with the King of Day,
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With ruffled plume and closing eye,
On common earth far, far below
His throne where Alpine blossoms grow:—
It is a melancholy sight
To mark the hungry raven hover,
When ended is the stormy fight,
Above the father, friend, or lover;
To see, unmindful of the rein,
The gallant steed, with nostril spread,
And gore-drops clinging to his mane,
In death extended on the plain
That echoed to his tread,
When hills sent back the charging cheer,
And sunlight shone on casque and spear:
But far more saddening to the view
To scan some ship bereft of sail,
Deserted by her hardy crew,
And drifting wildly with the gale.
One gazing on that floating wreck
Bethinks him sadly of the day
When hundreds stood upon the deck,
And winds made glad her way;—
When weeping on some distant shore
Stood faithful wife and sylph-like maid
To see the flying bark, that bore
Their loved ones, in the distance fade.
While that lone wreck with riven sides
Dismasted on the billow rides,
The trembling gazer asks the main
To tell her history in vain—
In fancy vieweth wan Despair
Cling wildly to the broken mast,
While wreaths of foam bedeck his hair,
And sweeps in terror by the blast.
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A ruddy radiance to the wave,
While the stern voice of War from sleep
Awoke the monsters of the deep?
One floats with helm and cordage gone,
And deck in carnage deeply dyed,
Unguided through the sea whereon
She lately rode a thing of pride:
With spar of strength, and mast that vies
In grace the palm, the other flies,
And proudly on the water flings
The shadow of her mighty wings.
The dolphin, in her dazzling track,
Comes up to “bare his golden back,”
And with the rustling of her shroud
The white surge blends its murmur loud.
With glance, expressive of command,
Her turbaned captain waves his hand,
And, courted by the whistling gale,
Streams haughtily the crescent pale.
Rich goods and bags of Jewish gold
Are lying in her darksome hold—
Ferocious is the chief, whose sway
The tenants of that ship obey;
On his forbidding brow and cheek
Deep scars his bloody trade bespeak.
With hasty stride and eye of fire
He walks the deck in proud attire;
A scarlet turban, fringed with gold,
Begirds his brow with silken fold—
Beneath his oriental vest
With jewels sparkling heaves a breast
Wherein compassion never dwelt,
That never thrill of terror felt.
One gazing on his swarthy face
The darkness of the soul would trace,
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Would be petition to the main,
When tempest-sprites their wings unfold,
And revel on his bosom hold,
Than wild appeal to him for life
From lip of foeman in the strife”—
The crooked weapon at his side
His arms in many a fight hath tried,
And never more unsparing sword
Drank blood in grasp of ocean lord.
At times he cast his vengeful eye
Upon a group of captives nigh,
Replying to the word of fear,
And anguished cry with brutal jeer—
Surveying chain-encircled limb,
And gaping wound with visage grim,
Then murmuring with purpose dark—
“A pretty banquet for the shark!”
Or drowning with his crew in song
The wailing of the captive throng.
SONG.
We lead not the life of the slave,
We fear not the frown of a king;
But free as the foam-crested wave
We wander like birds on the wing
Our foemen, though valiant, despair
When our ebony hull is descried;
The streamers we give to the air,
In the purple of conquest are dyed.
We fear not the frown of a king;
But free as the foam-crested wave
We wander like birds on the wing
Our foemen, though valiant, despair
When our ebony hull is descried;
The streamers we give to the air,
In the purple of conquest are dyed.
We exult when the signal is made
To clear our broad deck for the strife!
We exult when the gleam of each blade
Is dim with the red tide of life.
We had rather have Ocean our grave
Than, Earth, in thy bosom repose!
For a shroud the white foam of the wave,
And sleep where the red coral grows. ...
To clear our broad deck for the strife!
We exult when the gleam of each blade
Is dim with the red tide of life.
99
Than, Earth, in thy bosom repose!
For a shroud the white foam of the wave,
And sleep where the red coral grows. ...
Amid the sad, desponding crowd
Yon matron mark of bearing proud—
Her regal spirit scorns to show
Submission to the Paynim foe;
No outward sign betrays the storm
That rages inwardly; her form
Is like the work of sculptor rare,
Or shape that haunts the poet's dream—
Inwoven with her sable hair
Gems of transparent lustre gleam,
The coral beads are dull in hue
Contrasted with her lip of dew;
Her robes with diamond lustre blaze,
But her dark eye has brighter rays—
Their lids, by tear unwet, proclaim
That courage nerves her fairy frame—
While gazing on the pirate chief,
Her looks are unallied to grief;
The face of Judith when she bent
To dye her snowy hand in gore
Above the victim in his tent,
A like expression wore.
While sullen clang of iron gyves
From manly cheek the color drives,
Her features, beautifully fair,
The flush of indignation wear.
While startling peals of corsair mirth
In other hearts to fear give birth,
With frown that would befit a queen
When murmurs rise from subject hands,
And lordly anger in her mien
The lovely Jewess stands
Strong in affection by the side
Of one whose glances seem to say,
“Yon waves that now so gently glide,
Ere long will clap their hands, my bride,
Above their unresisting prey!”
Yon matron mark of bearing proud—
Her regal spirit scorns to show
Submission to the Paynim foe;
No outward sign betrays the storm
That rages inwardly; her form
Is like the work of sculptor rare,
Or shape that haunts the poet's dream—
Inwoven with her sable hair
Gems of transparent lustre gleam,
The coral beads are dull in hue
Contrasted with her lip of dew;
Her robes with diamond lustre blaze,
But her dark eye has brighter rays—
Their lids, by tear unwet, proclaim
That courage nerves her fairy frame—
While gazing on the pirate chief,
Her looks are unallied to grief;
The face of Judith when she bent
To dye her snowy hand in gore
Above the victim in his tent,
A like expression wore.
While sullen clang of iron gyves
From manly cheek the color drives,
Her features, beautifully fair,
The flush of indignation wear.
While startling peals of corsair mirth
In other hearts to fear give birth,
With frown that would befit a queen
When murmurs rise from subject hands,
And lordly anger in her mien
The lovely Jewess stands
100
Of one whose glances seem to say,
“Yon waves that now so gently glide,
Ere long will clap their hands, my bride,
Above their unresisting prey!”
One month on fleeting wing hath flown
Since Zillah gave her heart to him
Whose soul was kindred to her own;
And fancied, in the future dim,
She saw beneath a cloudless sky
The sea of life untroubled lie,
While on its breast a graceful pair
Their barks to blissful ports were steering,
With features by the hand of care,
And touch of time, undimm'd appearing.
She thought not on her bridal day,
As mirth within her breast held sway,
That blight would ever mar the rose
Expanding in the light of love—
That waves of trouble soon would close
Her radiant dreams of bliss above—
While uttering the marriage vow
In accents passionately sweet,
The light of joy was on her brow,
And thrillingly her pulses beat.
No Sibyl of the future threw
Athwart her path one darkling shade,
Proclaiming that the rainbow hue
Of cherub Hope too soon would fade.
No warning voice rang in her ear,
“Thy horoscope is overcast—
The time of agony is near—
Thy dreams are fated not to last!”
While leaning fondly on her lord,
Whose ear drank in each honeyed word,
Unto her lips she little thought
The minister of ill would raise
His cup with deadly poison fraught,
In the glad spring-time of their days ...
Since Zillah gave her heart to him
Whose soul was kindred to her own;
And fancied, in the future dim,
She saw beneath a cloudless sky
The sea of life untroubled lie,
While on its breast a graceful pair
Their barks to blissful ports were steering,
With features by the hand of care,
And touch of time, undimm'd appearing.
She thought not on her bridal day,
As mirth within her breast held sway,
That blight would ever mar the rose
Expanding in the light of love—
That waves of trouble soon would close
Her radiant dreams of bliss above—
While uttering the marriage vow
In accents passionately sweet,
The light of joy was on her brow,
And thrillingly her pulses beat.
No Sibyl of the future threw
Athwart her path one darkling shade,
Proclaiming that the rainbow hue
Of cherub Hope too soon would fade.
No warning voice rang in her ear,
“Thy horoscope is overcast—
The time of agony is near—
Thy dreams are fated not to last!”
While leaning fondly on her lord,
Whose ear drank in each honeyed word,
101
The minister of ill would raise
His cup with deadly poison fraught,
In the glad spring-time of their days ...
Morn on the mighty deep! from rest
Light winds awake his billowy breast,
And sunlight, on the plumy snow
Of Ocean, flings a crimson glow.
Thy waters wide, majestic sea!
Roll onward with a voice of glee,
When dawning gilds with radiant glance
The beauty of thy broad expanse—
When blushing morn looks fondly down
On isles, green jewels in thy crown,
Whose shores are musical with birds
That feed upon thy scaly herds.
Strange shapes to hail the first bright streak
In throngs the upper waters seek
With plashing fin, in mimic strife,
As if they felt a newer life.
Light winds awake his billowy breast,
And sunlight, on the plumy snow
Of Ocean, flings a crimson glow.
Thy waters wide, majestic sea!
Roll onward with a voice of glee,
When dawning gilds with radiant glance
The beauty of thy broad expanse—
When blushing morn looks fondly down
On isles, green jewels in thy crown,
Whose shores are musical with birds
That feed upon thy scaly herds.
Strange shapes to hail the first bright streak
In throngs the upper waters seek
With plashing fin, in mimic strife,
As if they felt a newer life.
Morn on the waves! yon gallant bark
Whose hull is ominously dark,
Moves bird-like on the heaving waste,
As if to reach her port in haste.
The subject waters seem to say
That dash against her sides in spray,
“Proud Queen, submissively we feel
The touch of thy dividing keel!”
As if rejoicing that old Night
No longer veils the foamy seas,
Exultingly her wings of white
Are flapping in the breeze.
Who would not think, while in her course
Yon vessel spurns the billows hoarse,
And walks the deep, a thing of grace,
Swift as the charger in the race,
While welkin blue and gilded brine
Of coming ill disclose no sign,
That hearts with happiness replete
For such a vessel would be meet?
Ah, sunlight often robes the sky
When storms and death are lurking nigh—
Oft crouching in the thicket green
The panther marks his prey unseen;
The rose, within its inmost fold,
The dark, devouring worm may hide,
And grace may fashion in her mould
Things to impurity allied.
Mild autumn like a mourner grieves
For all things withering away,
While robes of loveliness she weaves
That vie in tint the close of day;
And dying beauty on her cheek
Too often wears deceptive glow,
When pulse is tremulously weak,
And hollow is the voice and low.
Whose hull is ominously dark,
Moves bird-like on the heaving waste,
As if to reach her port in haste.
The subject waters seem to say
That dash against her sides in spray,
“Proud Queen, submissively we feel
The touch of thy dividing keel!”
As if rejoicing that old Night
No longer veils the foamy seas,
Exultingly her wings of white
Are flapping in the breeze.
Who would not think, while in her course
Yon vessel spurns the billows hoarse,
And walks the deep, a thing of grace,
Swift as the charger in the race,
102
Of coming ill disclose no sign,
That hearts with happiness replete
For such a vessel would be meet?
Ah, sunlight often robes the sky
When storms and death are lurking nigh—
Oft crouching in the thicket green
The panther marks his prey unseen;
The rose, within its inmost fold,
The dark, devouring worm may hide,
And grace may fashion in her mould
Things to impurity allied.
Mild autumn like a mourner grieves
For all things withering away,
While robes of loveliness she weaves
That vie in tint the close of day;
And dying beauty on her cheek
Too often wears deceptive glow,
When pulse is tremulously weak,
And hollow is the voice and low.
Yon vessel, moving with the speed
Of falcon by the keeper freed,
When, startled by the tramp of feet,
The heron leaves his lone retreat,
Bears one upon her deck whose soul
Is dark, unlike his own bright clime,
And outlaws own his stern control
Who daily quaff at founts of crime.
Strong men, with hearts about to break,
And tender wives, with features wan,
Are gazing on her snowy wake
Empurpled by the smile of dawn
It is the bark that Zillah bears—
She stands amid yon captive crowd,
Her pallid countenance still wears
An aspect of endurance proud.
While others raise the cry of wail,
And clank in agony their chains,
The peerless subject of my tale
To give her sorrow voice, disdains
In the pale beauty of her face
Observant eye can changes trace,
While speakingly her glances show
The beautifying power of woe.
The spectral outlines of her frame
Grief's desolating touch proclaim—
Though hum of insect in the glade,
Or dash of wavelet, plumed with foam,
In better days her bosom made,
Of pleasant thoughts, the angel home—
In vain, in vain, the swelling sea,
And lulling winds that gently stir
The canvas with a voice of glee,
Awake their minstrelsy for her.
Ah, joys that once illumed her brow
No longer hold her heart in thrall,
The melodies of nature now
Upon her ear unheeded fall:
For one is missing from her side
Who was the idol of her soul,
In hoarse accord the waters wide
Above his mangled body roll.
Of falcon by the keeper freed,
When, startled by the tramp of feet,
The heron leaves his lone retreat,
Bears one upon her deck whose soul
Is dark, unlike his own bright clime,
And outlaws own his stern control
Who daily quaff at founts of crime.
Strong men, with hearts about to break,
And tender wives, with features wan,
Are gazing on her snowy wake
Empurpled by the smile of dawn
It is the bark that Zillah bears—
She stands amid yon captive crowd,
Her pallid countenance still wears
An aspect of endurance proud.
103
And clank in agony their chains,
The peerless subject of my tale
To give her sorrow voice, disdains
In the pale beauty of her face
Observant eye can changes trace,
While speakingly her glances show
The beautifying power of woe.
The spectral outlines of her frame
Grief's desolating touch proclaim—
Though hum of insect in the glade,
Or dash of wavelet, plumed with foam,
In better days her bosom made,
Of pleasant thoughts, the angel home—
In vain, in vain, the swelling sea,
And lulling winds that gently stir
The canvas with a voice of glee,
Awake their minstrelsy for her.
Ah, joys that once illumed her brow
No longer hold her heart in thrall,
The melodies of nature now
Upon her ear unheeded fall:
For one is missing from her side
Who was the idol of her soul,
In hoarse accord the waters wide
Above his mangled body roll.
When Night upon her starry throne
Held undisputed sway and lone,
And moonlight to the trembling wave
A soft but spectral radiance gave,
He seized with iron grasp his chain,
As if endued with giant strength,
And after many efforts vain,
While glowing madness fired his brain,
From bondage burst at length.
The cunning corsair heard the sound
Of strong link breaking, with a clang,
And stealing lightly, with a bound
Upon his frenzied victim sprang;
His right arm, used to felon-deed,
The corsair raised with ready skill—
One thrust of his stiletto freed
The crazed one from his load of ill.
The pleading look and wild appeal
Of Zillah could not stay the steel;
She saw him fall, and from his side
The red stream gush in bubbling tide,
Then fell herself, as if the blade
A sheath of her own breast had made,
While fearfully his spouting gore
The white robe purpled that she wore.
Her ear heard not the gurgling sound
Of hungry waters closing round,
As hastily the ruffian cast
His victim to the ocean vast,
Or marked the grim exulting smile
That lighted up his face the while:
Extended on the deck she lay
As if the war of life was over,
As if her soul had fled away,
To realms of never-ending day,
To join the spirit of her lover.
Held undisputed sway and lone,
And moonlight to the trembling wave
A soft but spectral radiance gave,
He seized with iron grasp his chain,
As if endued with giant strength,
And after many efforts vain,
While glowing madness fired his brain,
From bondage burst at length.
104
Of strong link breaking, with a clang,
And stealing lightly, with a bound
Upon his frenzied victim sprang;
His right arm, used to felon-deed,
The corsair raised with ready skill—
One thrust of his stiletto freed
The crazed one from his load of ill.
The pleading look and wild appeal
Of Zillah could not stay the steel;
She saw him fall, and from his side
The red stream gush in bubbling tide,
Then fell herself, as if the blade
A sheath of her own breast had made,
While fearfully his spouting gore
The white robe purpled that she wore.
Her ear heard not the gurgling sound
Of hungry waters closing round,
As hastily the ruffian cast
His victim to the ocean vast,
Or marked the grim exulting smile
That lighted up his face the while:
Extended on the deck she lay
As if the war of life was over,
As if her soul had fled away,
To realms of never-ending day,
To join the spirit of her lover.
She woke at last from her long swoon,
To hope that death would triumph soon,
And the mad pulses of her frame
With icy touch forever tame:
She woke with features ashy white,
And wildly gazed upon the plank
That deeply, freely in the night
The crimson of his veins had drank;
Then raising heavenward her eye
In still, expecting posture stood,
As if a troop from realms on high
Were coming down with battle-songs,
To wash out sternly in the blood
Of coward hearts her many wrongs:
No tear-drop came to her relief
In that wild, parching hour of grief:
The tender plant of love, she knew,
Would into verdure break no more—
The spot was arid where it grew
In green luxuriance before.
She knew henceforth her lot below
Would be to quaff the cup of pain—
On thing of earth she could not throw
The sunlight of her smile again—
The voice was still whose melting tone
Had vied in sweetness with her own—
The hiding wave had closed above
The only object of her love:
And Rispah, as strict watch she kept,
While cold, like forms of Parian stone,
Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
To hope that death would triumph soon,
And the mad pulses of her frame
With icy touch forever tame:
She woke with features ashy white,
And wildly gazed upon the plank
That deeply, freely in the night
The crimson of his veins had drank;
105
In still, expecting posture stood,
As if a troop from realms on high
Were coming down with battle-songs,
To wash out sternly in the blood
Of coward hearts her many wrongs:
No tear-drop came to her relief
In that wild, parching hour of grief:
The tender plant of love, she knew,
Would into verdure break no more—
The spot was arid where it grew
In green luxuriance before.
She knew henceforth her lot below
Would be to quaff the cup of pain—
On thing of earth she could not throw
The sunlight of her smile again—
The voice was still whose melting tone
Had vied in sweetness with her own—
The hiding wave had closed above
The only object of her love:
And Rispah, as strict watch she kept,
While cold, like forms of Parian stone,
Her sons on gory couches slept,
Felt not more desolate and lone.
In many hearts the gloomy sway
Of sorrow lessens day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruised leaf,
So Time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief:
But hearts in other bosoms beat
Where anguish finds a lasting seat—
That heal not with the lapse of time:
Too delicately strung for earth,
Whose chords can never after chime
With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth.
Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight
Strove oft, but vainly, to forget
The horrors of that fatal night,
When her beloved star, whose light
Made bondage pleasant, set.
No murmur from the lip outbroke,
Though suddenly her cheek grew thin—
No quick, convulsive start bespoke
The desolating fire within.
Her dark eye rested on the wave
By day and in the hush of eve,
As if, ere long, the wet sea cave
Her buried one would leave,
And, drifting suddenly in view,
His murderer with dread subdue!
Ah, I have said the stately mien
Of Zillah would befit a queen,
That lawless crime would ill withstand
Her innate bearing of command.
Alas! regality of soul
Gives agony supreme control,
And prompts the wretched one to hide
Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze—
To nurse, in uncomplaining pride,
The scorpion that preys.
Of sorrow lessens day by day,
Until the charms of life at last
Blot out remembrance of the past:
As winds may kiss the trampled flower,
And lift again its bruised leaf,
So Time, with his assuaging power,
May stay the wasting march of grief:
But hearts in other bosoms beat
Where anguish finds a lasting seat—
That heal not with the lapse of time:
106
Whose chords can never after chime
With peals of loud, unmeaning mirth.
Weeks flew: but Zillah in their flight
Strove oft, but vainly, to forget
The horrors of that fatal night,
When her beloved star, whose light
Made bondage pleasant, set.
No murmur from the lip outbroke,
Though suddenly her cheek grew thin—
No quick, convulsive start bespoke
The desolating fire within.
Her dark eye rested on the wave
By day and in the hush of eve,
As if, ere long, the wet sea cave
Her buried one would leave,
And, drifting suddenly in view,
His murderer with dread subdue!
Ah, I have said the stately mien
Of Zillah would befit a queen,
That lawless crime would ill withstand
Her innate bearing of command.
Alas! regality of soul
Gives agony supreme control,
And prompts the wretched one to hide
Consuming pangs from vulgar gaze—
To nurse, in uncomplaining pride,
The scorpion that preys.
One blessed evening when the light
Of starry hosts made ocean bright,
An aged Rabbi woke the lay
Of Judah in her mightier day—
Of olden time when gladsome strains
Ascended from her holy plains;
When every rock beneath her sky
Rang with the voice of prophecy—
When musical were grove and glade
With prayer by simple herdsmen made—
Ere fires of sacrifice grew pale
On blooming height, in flowery vale—
Then changing skilfully his strain,
While newer life each sinew strung,
And triumph in his breast held reign,
The glory of his fathers sung.
The music in its proudest swell
Cold on the ear of Zillah fell—
Bold notes, with patriot ardor fraught,
No change in her appearance wrought—
She tamely heard ancestral praise,
And fixed no kind approving gaze
Upon the Rabbi, as his lay
In trembling cadence died away.
Her love of olden time had fled,
Her heart was with the early dead.
Of starry hosts made ocean bright,
An aged Rabbi woke the lay
Of Judah in her mightier day—
Of olden time when gladsome strains
Ascended from her holy plains;
When every rock beneath her sky
Rang with the voice of prophecy—
107
With prayer by simple herdsmen made—
Ere fires of sacrifice grew pale
On blooming height, in flowery vale—
Then changing skilfully his strain,
While newer life each sinew strung,
And triumph in his breast held reign,
The glory of his fathers sung.
The music in its proudest swell
Cold on the ear of Zillah fell—
Bold notes, with patriot ardor fraught,
No change in her appearance wrought—
She tamely heard ancestral praise,
And fixed no kind approving gaze
Upon the Rabbi, as his lay
In trembling cadence died away.
Her love of olden time had fled,
Her heart was with the early dead.
While marking her abstraction lone,
The old man said, with darkening brow,
And stern displeasure in his tone:—
“Unthinking one! forgettest thou
Jerusalem, the home of sire—
Of beauty the perfection, where
King David woke the sacred lyre,
And moved his tuneful lip in prayer?
Shall apathetic fetter bind
Thy native majesty of mind,
While the wrapt minstrel breathes with pride
One name to Israel allied?
Why gaze as if thy murder'd mate
Was near in disembodied state?
Why sorrow that his form of grace
Yon ocean folds in wet embrace?
From his shut eye the fitful ray
Of frenzied grief hath fled away;
No dreams of startling horror now
Contort the marble of his brow:
His manly heart is well at rest,
By throb of madness unoppress'd—
Full many fathoms low his head
Lies sweetly on a briny bed,
Nor taunt, nor execration deep
Disturbs the quiet of his sleep.
If word of mine was fraught with power
To animate the dead this hour,
I would not call thy lover up
From his calm resting in the main,
To curse existence, and the cup
Of horror deeply quaff again,
Unless to blanch, with spectral stare,
The visage of that man of guilt,
Who stole upon him unaware
Of danger, in his deep despair,
And plunged the dagger to its hilt!”
The growling voice of ruffian nigh
Outspoke ere Zillah could reply—
“That weapon mark! its crimson hue
Tells fearfully of him I slew—
Beware, old dotard, ere its blade
Familiar with thy heart be made!”
The old man started, and his look
Withdrawing from the mourner pale,
Saw, while the blood his cheek forsook,
The Corsair of my tale:
His features in the moony light
A smile of evil import wore;
The scar of some terrific fight
His turbaned forehead bore:
The stern expression of his face
At length to irony gave place;
And hellish satisfaction shone
On each dark lineament impress'd,
While thus in simulating tone
His captive he address'd:—
“Though passion fires that sunken eye,
The young in years and gray of hair,
United in the marriage-tie,
Will never make a loving pair.
Much rather would yon matron feel
The pressure of this hand of steel
Than round her fairy waist have thrown
An arm, all shrivell'd, like thine own!”
The old man said, with darkening brow,
And stern displeasure in his tone:—
“Unthinking one! forgettest thou
Jerusalem, the home of sire—
Of beauty the perfection, where
King David woke the sacred lyre,
And moved his tuneful lip in prayer?
Shall apathetic fetter bind
Thy native majesty of mind,
While the wrapt minstrel breathes with pride
One name to Israel allied?
Why gaze as if thy murder'd mate
Was near in disembodied state?
Why sorrow that his form of grace
Yon ocean folds in wet embrace?
From his shut eye the fitful ray
Of frenzied grief hath fled away;
108
Contort the marble of his brow:
His manly heart is well at rest,
By throb of madness unoppress'd—
Full many fathoms low his head
Lies sweetly on a briny bed,
Nor taunt, nor execration deep
Disturbs the quiet of his sleep.
If word of mine was fraught with power
To animate the dead this hour,
I would not call thy lover up
From his calm resting in the main,
To curse existence, and the cup
Of horror deeply quaff again,
Unless to blanch, with spectral stare,
The visage of that man of guilt,
Who stole upon him unaware
Of danger, in his deep despair,
And plunged the dagger to its hilt!”
The growling voice of ruffian nigh
Outspoke ere Zillah could reply—
“That weapon mark! its crimson hue
Tells fearfully of him I slew—
Beware, old dotard, ere its blade
Familiar with thy heart be made!”
The old man started, and his look
Withdrawing from the mourner pale,
Saw, while the blood his cheek forsook,
The Corsair of my tale:
His features in the moony light
A smile of evil import wore;
The scar of some terrific fight
His turbaned forehead bore:
The stern expression of his face
At length to irony gave place;
And hellish satisfaction shone
109
While thus in simulating tone
His captive he address'd:—
“Though passion fires that sunken eye,
The young in years and gray of hair,
United in the marriage-tie,
Will never make a loving pair.
Much rather would yon matron feel
The pressure of this hand of steel
Than round her fairy waist have thrown
An arm, all shrivell'd, like thine own!”
Roused by the taunt of the Pirate Chief
From her drooping attitude of grief,
The sufferer stood with eye upcast,
As if her prayer had been heard at last,
And a message from Heaven was borne on the air
That seraphs would hasten on pinions of light,
And her soul, from the thrall of mortality, bear
To a realm never dim with the presence of night.
From her brow the sign of health had fled,
And the shrunken veins were there instead;
By robe invested was her frame
That well the white of her cheek became:
Inwoven with dark ringlets, shone
The dazzling blaze of a diamond stone
That her passionate lover gave away,
With a stolen kiss, on her bridal day.
O, that some sculptor
With chisel in hand,
While the warm glow of thought
By religion was fann'd,
Could the Jewess have seen
Looking sweetly to Heaven,
And her angel-like glance
To cold marble have given—
Or some exquisite painter,
In that mystic hour,
When Genius best governs
The pencil of power,
Could one fleeting moment
On Zillah have gazed,
With her wan lips apart,
And her dark eye upraised.
Has she heard from her Maker
The mandate—“Live on?”
I know not—her gaze
From the sky is withdrawn,
And imploringly rests
On the Rabbi, who stands
With his old limbs encircled
By prisoning bands:
She addresses him now—
“When the last trumpet calls,
And the sleepers of Earth
Leave the gloom of her halls,
Will the dead whose bones whiten
The floor of the deep,
Hear the life-giving summons,
And waken from sleep?”
While the mingling emotions
Of grief and surprise
In his mien are depicted,
The Rabbi replies:—
“Is the promise of God
Not familiar to thee?—
‘Again will I bring
From the depths of the sea!’
That Being whose arm
The mad waters divided,
And our fathers through haunts
Of the sea-monsters guided;
That Being whose terrible
Majesty gave
For a tomb to proud Egypt
The bed of the wave,
Will make, the Last Day,
His Omnipotent word
In the most secret place
Of yon Ocean be heard.”
He spake:—and the beautiful
Mourner appears
Like saint newly freed
From the sorrow of years—
One moment she lingers
With foot on the rail,
While around her the moon
Throws a loveliness pale—
The next, shrieking wildly,
“I come, murder'd lover!”
Leaves her perilous footing—
Wild waves roll above her!
From her drooping attitude of grief,
The sufferer stood with eye upcast,
As if her prayer had been heard at last,
And a message from Heaven was borne on the air
That seraphs would hasten on pinions of light,
And her soul, from the thrall of mortality, bear
To a realm never dim with the presence of night.
From her brow the sign of health had fled,
And the shrunken veins were there instead;
By robe invested was her frame
That well the white of her cheek became:
Inwoven with dark ringlets, shone
The dazzling blaze of a diamond stone
That her passionate lover gave away,
With a stolen kiss, on her bridal day.
O, that some sculptor
With chisel in hand,
While the warm glow of thought
By religion was fann'd,
Could the Jewess have seen
Looking sweetly to Heaven,
And her angel-like glance
To cold marble have given—
110
In that mystic hour,
When Genius best governs
The pencil of power,
Could one fleeting moment
On Zillah have gazed,
With her wan lips apart,
And her dark eye upraised.
Has she heard from her Maker
The mandate—“Live on?”
I know not—her gaze
From the sky is withdrawn,
And imploringly rests
On the Rabbi, who stands
With his old limbs encircled
By prisoning bands:
She addresses him now—
“When the last trumpet calls,
And the sleepers of Earth
Leave the gloom of her halls,
Will the dead whose bones whiten
The floor of the deep,
Hear the life-giving summons,
And waken from sleep?”
While the mingling emotions
Of grief and surprise
In his mien are depicted,
The Rabbi replies:—
“Is the promise of God
Not familiar to thee?—
‘Again will I bring
From the depths of the sea!’
That Being whose arm
The mad waters divided,
And our fathers through haunts
Of the sea-monsters guided;
111
Majesty gave
For a tomb to proud Egypt
The bed of the wave,
Will make, the Last Day,
His Omnipotent word
In the most secret place
Of yon Ocean be heard.”
He spake:—and the beautiful
Mourner appears
Like saint newly freed
From the sorrow of years—
One moment she lingers
With foot on the rail,
While around her the moon
Throws a loveliness pale—
The next, shrieking wildly,
“I come, murder'd lover!”
Leaves her perilous footing—
Wild waves roll above her!
112
THE REVENGE OF ROSAMOND.
[“Alboin, the conqueror of Rome, in a palace near Verona, feasted the companions of his arms. After draining many capacious bowls of Falernian wine, he called for the skull of Cunimund. The cup of victory was accepted with horrid applause by the circle of Lombard chiefs. ‘Fill it again with wine!’ exclaimed the inhuman conqueror. ‘Carry this goblet to the queen, inform her it is the skull of her father, and request in my name, she would rejoice with him.’ In an agony of grief and rage, Rosamond had strength to utter:—‘Let the will of my lord be obeyed,’ and touching it with her lips, pronounced a silent imprecation, that the insult should be washed away in the blood of Alboin.”]—
Gibbon. “And this is blood for blood.”—Barry Cornwall.
The haughty king of Lombardy, the conqueror of Rome
His valiant chiefs convened within his splendid palace-home,
And loudly spoke, surveying the circle with his eye—
“Each guest with rich Falernian, his wassail cup fill high!
With those the blood-bought spoils of conquest shall be shared,
Who, undismayed, the perils of battle with me dared;
Let those who bravely follow my pathway o'er the slain,
At banquet-board, with Alboin the flowing goblet drain.’
“Long life,” replied each reveller, “to our unrivalled king!”
And, with applauding shouts, they made the vaulted palace ring.
With savage exultation, then, the wine-awakened throng
Recalled their deeds of hardihood, and sang the battle-song;
The king, with martial ardor and potent draughts inflamed,
To one of his attendants near, ferociously exclaimed:
“Bring forth the skull of Cunimund, to grace the banquet-hall;
The memory of glorious deeds that goblet will recall!
Bring forth the precious trophy!—The relic of a foe
Can even give Falernian wine a richer taste and glow.
Let purple nectar occupy the palace of the soul,
For meet it is the warrior should drink from such a bowl!”
The reckless king received it with a loud and scornful laugh,
And from the cup of victory he bade each Lombard quaff;
Then said in bitter irony:—“Fill up the bowl again,
And carry to my blooming queen this relic of the slain;
113
When sparkling in the grinning skull of her lamented sire:
And, page, be sure to bring me back fair Rosamond's reply—
Discharge thine errand faithfully, or by this hand you die!”
With words it were impossible to paint the burst of rage
With which the queen accepted the goblet from the page;
Though strength she had to utter:—“His will I shall obey,”
In secret she resolved her wrongs with blood to wash away.
Then to her lips she wildly raised with trembling hand the brim,
While gushing tears of agony her beauteous eyes made dim.
The base, inhuman husband soon, with love and wine inspired,
From the festive board unto his downy couch retired.
The injured queen his weary head did pillow on her breast,
And, with caress affectionate, the monarch lull to rest;
Then slyly left the chamber, and gave a signal-word,
And stealthy steps approaching her were indistinctly heard.
At length masqued figures entered; in each determined hand,
A taper faintly shedding light, disclosed the battle-brand.
“Tread softly, brave avengers, and not the sleeper rouse:
For few in prowess match the king,” whispered the false spouse.
“What is your errand, warriors?” alarmed the monarch spoke:
The answer to his question was the deadly sabre-stroke.
His keen and trusty battle-blade hung useless by his side,
Prevented from unsheathing it by his revengeful bride.
When, bleeding from an hundred wounds, she saw her lord expire,
Burst forth, “I now have well revenged the murder of my sire;”
And spurning fiercely with her foot his wound-disfigured clay,
“My wrongs,” she cried exultingly, “in blood are washed away.”
Though partially the elements may yield to man's control,
He cannot calm in woman scorned the tempest of the soul.
114
ASDRUBAL'S WIFE.
[“The flames spreading rapidly, they continued to fly from one part of the building to another, till at length they got on the roof.
“Here Asdrubal's wife appeared, uttering the most bitter reproaches against her husband, exclaiming:—‘Inglorious wretch! what degrading actions hast thou perpetrated to preserve an existence so dishonorable!’ Having stabbed her two infants with a dagger, she precipitated them from the temple's top, and leaped after them into the flames.”]
Upon the temple-roof she stood,
Unbraided was her hair,
And loud shouts from the multitude
Rose wildly on the air.
Pale terror in her fragile frame
Awoke no icy thrill:
She stood, as if the leaping flame
Was subject to her will.
Unbraided was her hair,
And loud shouts from the multitude
Rose wildly on the air.
Pale terror in her fragile frame
Awoke no icy thrill:
She stood, as if the leaping flame
Was subject to her will.
Maternal love each sinew strung
With more than mortal power,
For two fair infants trembling clung
To her in that last hour.
Did not their father, in his gore,
With thousands sleep below,
While haughtily that mother bore
Vile tauntings of the foe?
With more than mortal power,
For two fair infants trembling clung
To her in that last hour.
Did not their father, in his gore,
With thousands sleep below,
While haughtily that mother bore
Vile tauntings of the foe?
No!—standing by the Roman chief,
While fiercely spread the fire,
He heard his children for relief
Call vainly on their sire.
The Pride of Carthage lay around,
Of unclean birds the food,
And purple was the groaning ground
Whereon he basely stood.
While fiercely spread the fire,
He heard his children for relief
Call vainly on their sire.
The Pride of Carthage lay around,
Of unclean birds the food,
And purple was the groaning ground
Whereon he basely stood.
115
His well-known form the dauntless wife
Saw dimly through the smoke,
And sending up no prayer for life
Indignantly thus spoke:—
“Thrice happy they who nobly die
Beneath the steel of foemen,
And scorn, at honor's price, to buy
Existence from the Roman!
Saw dimly through the smoke,
And sending up no prayer for life
Indignantly thus spoke:—
“Thrice happy they who nobly die
Beneath the steel of foemen,
And scorn, at honor's price, to buy
Existence from the Roman!
“Inhuman wretch! the blush of shame
May well suffuse thy cheek—
Faint are thine infants, and my name
Their lips refuse to speak.
A red sea rolls its burning surge
Their utterance to choke;
The roar of Ruin is their dirge,
Their winding-sheet the smoke.
May well suffuse thy cheek—
Faint are thine infants, and my name
Their lips refuse to speak.
A red sea rolls its burning surge
Their utterance to choke;
The roar of Ruin is their dirge,
Their winding-sheet the smoke.
“The savage vulture will not fly
From his affrighted mate
And ‘unshell'd brood’ when foes are nigh,
But stay and share their fate:
But man, to guard a worthless life,
The tie of nature breaketh—
To save his little ones and wife
Not one brave effort maketh.
From his affrighted mate
And ‘unshell'd brood’ when foes are nigh,
But stay and share their fate:
But man, to guard a worthless life,
The tie of nature breaketh—
To save his little ones and wife
Not one brave effort maketh.
“The deed is mine,—but oh, the guilt
On your black soul shall rest!”
She plunged a dagger to the hilt
Within each infant's breast;
Then wildly to the hungry flame
Their bleeding corpses flung—
One loud, appalling shriek went up,
And after them she sprung.
On your black soul shall rest!”
She plunged a dagger to the hilt
Within each infant's breast;
Then wildly to the hungry flame
Their bleeding corpses flung—
One loud, appalling shriek went up,
And after them she sprung.
116
THE FALL OF AQUILEIA.
[“When Attila invaded Italy, he received a severe check before the walls of Aquileia. After repeated failures to storm the place, he rode round the walls, and observing a stork take wing, he exclaimed:—‘A creature fond of human haunts would not abandon these walls if they were not doomed to a speedy overthrow.’ He renewed the attack with redoubled energy, and a breach being made near the stork's nest, the barbarians rushed in and hurned the town, having previously butchered the inhabitants.”]—
Gibbon.
Broad meadows of the Danube
Sent forth a Hunnish horde
To reap in groaning Italy
Red harvest with the sword;
But howls of rage from front to rear
Convulsed the dark array,
When Aquileia reared her walls
That fearful march to stay.
Sent forth a Hunnish horde
To reap in groaning Italy
Red harvest with the sword;
But howls of rage from front to rear
Convulsed the dark array,
When Aquileia reared her walls
That fearful march to stay.
Close to the town their leader spurred
With monarchs in his train,
While darts from tower and battlement
Fell round his head like rain—
“Weak, trembling cowards of the south,
Unbar these gates,” he cried,
“Or over your dismembered forms
My cavalry shall ride.”
With monarchs in his train,
While darts from tower and battlement
Fell round his head like rain—
“Weak, trembling cowards of the south,
Unbar these gates,” he cried,
“Or over your dismembered forms
My cavalry shall ride.”
The brave, devoted garrison
Sent back these taunting words:—
“The corpses of you swarthy crew
Shall feed our carrion birds!”
The broad square frame of Attila
Grew tremulous with ire,
And glanced within its socket deep
His rolling eye like fire.
Sent back these taunting words:—
“The corpses of you swarthy crew
Shall feed our carrion birds!”
The broad square frame of Attila
Grew tremulous with ire,
And glanced within its socket deep
His rolling eye like fire.
117
The fierce beleaguerers advanced
In vain to storm the town,
By showers of hissing javelins
Arrested and struck down.
The flourish of barbaric horns,
The neigh of wounded steeds
Were mingled with the groans of men,
Ambition's broken reeds.
In vain to storm the town,
By showers of hissing javelins
Arrested and struck down.
The flourish of barbaric horns,
The neigh of wounded steeds
Were mingled with the groans of men,
Ambition's broken reeds.
Night came:—and to their camp retired
The squadrons of the Hun;
No breach within the rampart made—
The citadel unwon:
Invincible they deemed no more
The chosen scourge of God,
Though many a tribe of earth had bowed
Beneath his iron rod.
The squadrons of the Hun;
No breach within the rampart made—
The citadel unwon:
Invincible they deemed no more
The chosen scourge of God,
Though many a tribe of earth had bowed
Beneath his iron rod.
When morning dawned, the mighty king
Round Aquileia rode,
And marked with joy an aged stork
Abandon its abode:
“Old dweller amid human haunts,
Thou leavest yonder wall,
By instinct taught that dome and tower
Are doomed this day to fall.”
Round Aquileia rode,
And marked with joy an aged stork
Abandon its abode:
“Old dweller amid human haunts,
Thou leavest yonder wall,
By instinct taught that dome and tower
Are doomed this day to fall.”
The signal of assault he gave,
And thundered in the van,
While tidings of an omen fair
Were borne from man to man;
Against that portion of the work
The living torrent prest,
Where Attila beheld the stork
Forsake its ancient nest.
And thundered in the van,
While tidings of an omen fair
Were borne from man to man;
Against that portion of the work
The living torrent prest,
Where Attila beheld the stork
Forsake its ancient nest.
The crumbling masonry gave way,
A fissure opened wide,
While yells arose that would have drowned
The roar of Ocean's tide.
Dark clouds of Hunnish horse rushed in
To glut themselves with blood
And not a roof was left to tell
Where Aquileia stood.
A fissure opened wide,
118
The roar of Ocean's tide.
Dark clouds of Hunnish horse rushed in
To glut themselves with blood
And not a roof was left to tell
Where Aquileia stood.
That citadel, the human heart,
Must look to its defence;
For woe betide it, if the Bird
Of Hope takes flight from thence.
Dread tenant of the ruin wild,
Remorse will vainly moan,
A constant mourner for the shrine
Of beauty overthrown.
Must look to its defence;
For woe betide it, if the Bird
Of Hope takes flight from thence.
Dread tenant of the ruin wild,
Remorse will vainly moan,
A constant mourner for the shrine
Of beauty overthrown.
For some dread augury without
The powers of darkness wait,
That they may enter in, and leave
Its chambers desolate.
Let Truth be watchman on the wall,
And Love abide within,
And, weary of assault, will fly
The baffled host of sin.
The powers of darkness wait,
That they may enter in, and leave
Its chambers desolate.
Let Truth be watchman on the wall,
And Love abide within,
And, weary of assault, will fly
The baffled host of sin.
119
FREEDOM'S OAK.
IN COMMEMORATION OF THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS.
They landed not a bannered host
Eager the battle-shock to brave,
Upon a rude and rocky coast
Lashed by the moaning wintry wave.
Eager the battle-shock to brave,
Upon a rude and rocky coast
Lashed by the moaning wintry wave.
No hungering desire for gain
Far, far away lured son and sire
From pleasant homes beyond the main,
Cheered by church-bell and village spire.
Far, far away lured son and sire
From pleasant homes beyond the main,
Cheered by church-bell and village spire.
Frail ones to hardship uninured,
Maid, wife, and grandam, bowed and pale,
Without complaining word endured
The buffet of the freezing gale.
Maid, wife, and grandam, bowed and pale,
Without complaining word endured
The buffet of the freezing gale.
They recked not, though the beast of prey
By night was on his bloody walk,
And prowled the red man forth to slay,
Armed with his murderous tomahawk.
By night was on his bloody walk,
And prowled the red man forth to slay,
Armed with his murderous tomahawk.
Oh! higher, holier motives far
Than painful quest of golden sand,
Or love of desolating war,
Nerved to high deed that little band!
Than painful quest of golden sand,
Or love of desolating war,
Nerved to high deed that little band!
What brought they to a wild remote?
Stern hearts that danger could not quell—
The zeal with which a Milton wrote,
The creed for which a Hampden fell.
Stern hearts that danger could not quell—
The zeal with which a Milton wrote,
The creed for which a Hampden fell.
120
Clad in coarse, pilgrim garb, they came
To give a mighty empire birth,
And kindled up an altar-flame
That lights the gloom of guilty earth.
To give a mighty empire birth,
And kindled up an altar-flame
That lights the gloom of guilty earth.
On them devolved a mighty task—
They robbed the bigot of his cowl,
And wrenched from tyranny the mask
That curtained features black and foul.
They robbed the bigot of his cowl,
And wrenched from tyranny the mask
That curtained features black and foul.
An acorn in the soil by them
Was sown beneath a frowning sky,
From which an oak of giant stem
Grew up, and tossed its boughs on high.
Was sown beneath a frowning sky,
From which an oak of giant stem
Grew up, and tossed its boughs on high.
Gashed victims of the greedy sword,
While thunder shook the conflict-ground,
The best blood of their hearts have poured
Its firm, extending roots around.
While thunder shook the conflict-ground,
The best blood of their hearts have poured
Its firm, extending roots around.
And now, beneath its guardian shade,
When hunted from their native shore,
Gather thy wronged, oh Earth! afraid
Of quest-hounds on the track no more.
When hunted from their native shore,
Gather thy wronged, oh Earth! afraid
Of quest-hounds on the track no more.
Then honored be those Pilgrims old,
Who planted well that noble tree,
While springs a blossom from the mould,
Or roll the waters of the sea!
Who planted well that noble tree,
While springs a blossom from the mould,
Or roll the waters of the sea!
Proud of descent from such a stock
Let gratitude our bosoms warm,
And ever hallowed be the Rock
On which they landed in the storm!
Let gratitude our bosoms warm,
And ever hallowed be the Rock
On which they landed in the storm!
121
BRUTUS IN HIS TENT.
“How ill this taper burns!—ha! who comes here?”—
Shakespeare.
Shakespeare.
On wall-girt Sardis weary day hath shed
The golden blaze of his expiring beam;
And ring her paven walks beneath the tread
Of guards that near the hour of battle deem—
Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam;
From tented lines no murmur loud ascends,
For martial thousands of the battle dream
On which the fate of bleeding Rome depends
When blushing dawn awakes, and night's dark curtain rends.
The golden blaze of his expiring beam;
And ring her paven walks beneath the tread
Of guards that near the hour of battle deem—
Whose brazen helmets in the starlight gleam;
From tented lines no murmur loud ascends,
For martial thousands of the battle dream
On which the fate of bleeding Rome depends
When blushing dawn awakes, and night's dark curtain rends.
Though hushed war's couchant tigers in their lair
The tranquil time to one brings not repose—
A voice was whispering to his soul—“Despair!
The gods will give the triumph to thy foes.”
Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids close
When throng distempered fancies and depart,
And thought a shadow on the future throws?
When shapes unearthly into being start,
And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?
The tranquil time to one brings not repose—
A voice was whispering to his soul—“Despair!
The gods will give the triumph to thy foes.”
Can sleep, with leaden hand, our eyelids close
When throng distempered fancies and depart,
And thought a shadow on the future throws?
When shapes unearthly into being start,
And, like a snake, Remorse uncoils within the heart?
At midnight deep when bards avow that tombs
Are by their cold inhabitants forsaken,
The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes,
And calmly reads by mortal woe unshaken:
His iron frame of rest had not partaken,
And doubt—dark enemy of slumber—fills
A breast where fear no trembling chord could waken,
And on his ear an awful voice yet thrills,
That rose, when Cæsar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills.
Are by their cold inhabitants forsaken,
The Roman chief his wasted lamp relumes,
And calmly reads by mortal woe unshaken:
His iron frame of rest had not partaken,
And doubt—dark enemy of slumber—fills
A breast where fear no trembling chord could waken,
And on his ear an awful voice yet thrills,
That rose, when Cæsar fell, from Rome's old Seven Hills.
122
A sound—“that earth owns not”—he hears, and starts,
And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;
Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,
A figure enters and stands by his side:
There was an air of majesty and pride
In the bold bearing of that spectre pale—
The crimson on its robe was still undried,
And dagger-wounds, that tell a bloody tale
Beyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.
And grasps the handle of his weapon tried;
Then, while the rustling tent-cloth slowly parts,
A figure enters and stands by his side:
There was an air of majesty and pride
In the bold bearing of that spectre pale—
The crimson on its robe was still undried,
And dagger-wounds, that tell a bloody tale
Beyond the power of words, the opening folds unveil.
With fearful meaning towers the phantom grim,
On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;
The face, though that of Julius, seems to him
Formed from the moonlight of a misty sky:
The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,
And a wild sound upon the shuddering air
Creeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,
And the fast-waning lamp, as if aware
Some awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.
On Brutus fixing its cold, beamless eye;
The face, though that of Julius, seems to him
Formed from the moonlight of a misty sky:
The birds of night, affrighted, flutter by,
And a wild sound upon the shuddering air
Creeps as if earth were breathing out a sigh,
And the fast-waning lamp, as if aware
Some awful shade was nigh, emits a ghostly glare.
Stern Brutus quails not, though his woe-worn cheeks
Blanch with emotion, and in tone full loud
Thus to the ghastly apparition speaks—
“Why stand before me in that gory shroud,
Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;
Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?”
The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,
In hollow accents—“We will meet again
When the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain.”
Blanch with emotion, and in tone full loud
Thus to the ghastly apparition speaks—
“Why stand before me in that gory shroud,
Unwelcome guest! thy purpose unavowed;
Art thou the shaping of my wildered brain?”
The spectre answered, with a gesture proud,
In hollow accents—“We will meet again
When the best blood of Rome smokes on Philippi's plain.”
123
ÆGEUS.
[“Theseus set sail for Athens in the same mournful ship in which he came to Crete, but forgot to change his sails, according to the instructions of his father; so that when his father beheld from a watch-tower the ship returning with black sails, he imagined that his son was dead, and cast himself headlong into the sea, which was afterward called Ægean Sea, from his name and destiny.”]
Andrew Tooke.
“A mast above the waters
Is rising tall and fair,
And hither bound, with glory crowned,
Welcome, my princely heir.”
Is rising tall and fair,
And hither bound, with glory crowned,
Welcome, my princely heir.”
A king these glad words uttered,
His white locks streaming free
Beneath a golden circlet,
In his watch-tower by the sea.
His white locks streaming free
Beneath a golden circlet,
In his watch-tower by the sea.
When nearer drew to Athens
The bark that bore his son,
The monarch, with an altered mien,
This loud lament begun:
The bark that bore his son,
The monarch, with an altered mien,
This loud lament begun:
“Those sails are sails of mourning—
They flap above the dead,
And winds that fill them whisper
Low lies the laureled head!
They flap above the dead,
And winds that fill them whisper
Low lies the laureled head!
“Vain, vain the hope, long cherished,
That this old hand of mine
To Theseus, in dying hour,
Would royal robe resign!
That this old hand of mine
To Theseus, in dying hour,
Would royal robe resign!
“Though black the sails and rigging
Of yon ill-omened bark,
In my despairing bosom
There is a night more dark.”
Of yon ill-omened bark,
In my despairing bosom
There is a night more dark.”
124
High, high the broken billow
Its wreath of foam did fling,
When, headlong from the dizzy tower,
Plunged, in his woe, the king.
Its wreath of foam did fling,
When, headlong from the dizzy tower,
Plunged, in his woe, the king.
Thenceforth, august Athena!
Thy sea, for beauty famed,
The bards of classic story
Ægēum maré named.
Thy sea, for beauty famed,
The bards of classic story
Ægēum maré named.
A waste of troubled waters
Is, aye, the Poet's dower,
And royal thought keeps vigil
Within a lonely tower.
Is, aye, the Poet's dower,
And royal thought keeps vigil
Within a lonely tower.
Rich fancies have been trusted
To Fortune's varying gale;
And eagerly the watcher marks
Yon home-returning sail.
To Fortune's varying gale;
And eagerly the watcher marks
Yon home-returning sail.
Perchance on board are riches
To cheer the minstrel's lot,
And Glory's amaranthine crown,
Whose purple fadeth not.
To cheer the minstrel's lot,
And Glory's amaranthine crown,
Whose purple fadeth not.
Winds drive the vessel nearer,
And well their wrath she braves—
“Ho, watchman! swells her canvas,
A white cloud o'er the waves?”
And well their wrath she braves—
“Ho, watchman! swells her canvas,
A white cloud o'er the waves?”
“Thy visions, Bard, are perished—
Thy golden hopes have fled!
Those sails are sails of mourning—
They flap above the dead!”
Thy golden hopes have fled!
Those sails are sails of mourning—
They flap above the dead!”
125
TASSO.
[“A Prince of royal birth confined the Poet in a mad-house for more than seven years; the great and wealthy left him to a precarious life; but a Mountain Robber, by the road side, controlled in his favor the instinct of his gang, and craved forgiveness at the hands of the Author of the ‘Gerusalemme.’”]
Life of Tasso.
The swarthy Captain of the Band
Before the weary wanderer stood,
And the keen poniard in his hand
Had often tasted blood.
Awaiting but a sign from him,
In view were lawless men and bold,
Deep scars upon their features grim
Of strife and carnage told.
Before the weary wanderer stood,
And the keen poniard in his hand
Had often tasted blood.
Awaiting but a sign from him,
In view were lawless men and bold,
Deep scars upon their features grim
Of strife and carnage told.
“Thy purse, or life!” exclaimed the chief—
But savage look and threat'ning tone
Fear woke not in a heart where grief
Held mastery alone.
“Our trade admits of no delay—
The quest-hounds of the law are near;
No longer hesitate—OBEY,
Or end your journey here!”
But savage look and threat'ning tone
Fear woke not in a heart where grief
Held mastery alone.
“Our trade admits of no delay—
The quest-hounds of the law are near;
No longer hesitate—OBEY,
Or end your journey here!”
“These hollow cheeks—this mean attire,
And hair untimely streaked with snow,
But little aid from speech require
To tell of want and woe.”
Out spoke the robber in reply,
More darkly frowning than before—
“Perchance some wealthy friend would buy
Thy life with yellow ore.”
And hair untimely streaked with snow,
But little aid from speech require
To tell of want and woe.”
Out spoke the robber in reply,
More darkly frowning than before—
“Perchance some wealthy friend would buy
Thy life with yellow ore.”
126
Then mournfully the Pilgrim said:
“At night, upon the dewy sod,
I often rest this aching head—
My only friend is God!
Not always was my fate so hard,
Raised high my fellow men above—
While a proud princess bade the bard
His lute-strings tune to love.”
“At night, upon the dewy sod,
I often rest this aching head—
My only friend is God!
Not always was my fate so hard,
Raised high my fellow men above—
While a proud princess bade the bard
His lute-strings tune to love.”
“Those rags do not become, I ween,
The regal glance of those dark eyes:
I clearly trace in thy proud mien
Some lordling in disguise!”
“Ah! I am not unknown to fame,
Though a poor outcast now I roam;
Grim robber! Tasso is my name—
The world's wide street my home.”
The regal glance of those dark eyes:
I clearly trace in thy proud mien
Some lordling in disguise!”
“Ah! I am not unknown to fame,
Though a poor outcast now I roam;
Grim robber! Tasso is my name—
The world's wide street my home.”
“Flame and the sword I would defy
To shield thy person, Child of Song!
An hundred deaths would rather die
Than see thee suffer wrong.
Thy verse beneath his sable wave,
Oblivion can never hide;
Forgiveness is a boon I crave,”
The kneeling robber cried.
To shield thy person, Child of Song!
An hundred deaths would rather die
Than see thee suffer wrong.
Thy verse beneath his sable wave,
Oblivion can never hide;
Forgiveness is a boon I crave,”
The kneeling robber cried.
Although the rich had heard him pour
A prayer for aid with cold disdain—
Though long within a cell he wore
The flesh-consuming chain—
A man whose soul was dark with crime,
Whose heart compassion seldom felt,
Before the bard of strain sublime
In admiration knelt.
A prayer for aid with cold disdain—
Though long within a cell he wore
The flesh-consuming chain—
A man whose soul was dark with crime,
Whose heart compassion seldom felt,
Before the bard of strain sublime
In admiration knelt.
127
FALL OF LISBON.
Listen! is that startling sound
Some distant thunder-peal?
Or rolls upon the solid ground
The heavy chariot-wheel?
Yon pale wretch flying from his home—
The piercing shriek of woe—
The loud crash of the falling dome,
And temple, answer—no!
Some distant thunder-peal?
Or rolls upon the solid ground
The heavy chariot-wheel?
Yon pale wretch flying from his home—
The piercing shriek of woe—
The loud crash of the falling dome,
And temple, answer—no!
The soldier—who had borne a part,
When war his banner spread,
With stalwart arm and fearless heart—
Now, terror-stricken, fled:
The dying aid besought in vain—
The vaulted sky grew dark,
And, on the madly-heaving main,
Unguided rode the bark.
When war his banner spread,
With stalwart arm and fearless heart—
Now, terror-stricken, fled:
The dying aid besought in vain—
The vaulted sky grew dark,
And, on the madly-heaving main,
Unguided rode the bark.
The castle proud, and humble shed
Alike were overthrown;
With cottage-born and palace-bred
The trembling earth was strown.
Some cowered by dwellings prostrate laid,
Blank monuments of fear;
Others looked wildly round for aid—
No aid, alas! was near.
Alike were overthrown;
With cottage-born and palace-bred
The trembling earth was strown.
Some cowered by dwellings prostrate laid,
Blank monuments of fear;
Others looked wildly round for aid—
No aid, alas! was near.
128
“The sea is coming—we are lost!”
Despairing voices cried,
While, landward, like a charging host,
Swept on the chainless tide.
Above Art's gorgeous wreck did close
The billow darkly then;
And wildly from the flood arose
The cries of drowning men.
Despairing voices cried,
While, landward, like a charging host,
Swept on the chainless tide.
Above Art's gorgeous wreck did close
The billow darkly then;
And wildly from the flood arose
The cries of drowning men.
An awful scene, unlike the first,
With mournful twilight came:
From Lisbon's tortured heart outburst
Black smoke and hissing flame.
Then temple, arch, and glittering spire,
By wave and earthquake spared,
Wrapped in red banner-folds of fire,
The common ruin shared.
With mournful twilight came:
From Lisbon's tortured heart outburst
Black smoke and hissing flame.
Then temple, arch, and glittering spire,
By wave and earthquake spared,
Wrapped in red banner-folds of fire,
The common ruin shared.
129
THE MURDERED CZAR.
[“Paul caused the corpse of his father, Peter III., to be taken up and brought to the palace, to receive similar honors with that of the empress, his wife. Prince Baratinsky and Count Alexius Orloff, two of the murderers of the unfortunate czar, were fixed on to officiate as chief mourners.
The imperial crown was placed on the coffin of Peter; and in presence of the assembled court, and amidst sable hangings, lighted tapers, and all the solemnity of woe, the two mourners took their station. Orloff, whose nerves were strong, endured the scene, unshaken; but his companion fainted beneath his emotions.”]—
Mavor.
A dark procession from the tomb
The body of their monarch bore,
With blazing torch and sable plume,
Infolded in a shroud of gore.
From turret and from tower the toll
Of chiming bells rose on the air,
While, muffled in his dusky stole,
The holy priest knelt down in prayer.
The body of their monarch bore,
With blazing torch and sable plume,
Infolded in a shroud of gore.
From turret and from tower the toll
Of chiming bells rose on the air,
While, muffled in his dusky stole,
The holy priest knelt down in prayer.
A stately figure joined the train,
And slowly walked behind the bier—
Whose haughty spirit strove in vain
To check the unavailing tear.
No golden circlet graced his head,
Nor glittered on his breast the star;
But funeral garb, and lordly tread,
Proclaimed the mourner and the czar.
And slowly walked behind the bier—
Whose haughty spirit strove in vain
To check the unavailing tear.
No golden circlet graced his head,
Nor glittered on his breast the star;
But funeral garb, and lordly tread,
Proclaimed the mourner and the czar.
When nearer to the palace proud
The bearers drew in dark array,
To young and old they cried aloud—
“Room for the bier! make way, make way!”
Like flashing waves before the prow,
The mourners thronging round, divide;
And solemnly they enter now
The lofty dwelling-place of pride.
The bearers drew in dark array,
To young and old they cried aloud—
“Room for the bier! make way, make way!”
Like flashing waves before the prow,
The mourners thronging round, divide;
And solemnly they enter now
The lofty dwelling-place of pride.
130
The chandelier and lamp threw light
On every object in the hall;
And, darker than the wing of night,
Broad hangings rustled on the wall:
While nobles, in superb attire,
And prostrate serf, their homage paid,
Paul, on the coffin of his sire,
The diadem of empire laid.
On every object in the hall;
And, darker than the wing of night,
Broad hangings rustled on the wall:
While nobles, in superb attire,
And prostrate serf, their homage paid,
Paul, on the coffin of his sire,
The diadem of empire laid.
In presence of the courtiers then,
With downcast eye and timid look,
Reluctantly two noblemen
Their station by the coffin took.
A trembling thrilled each iron frame,
And bloodless waxed their “tell-tale” cheeks—
Oh! guilt and agony and shame
Are vultures with unsparing beaks!
With downcast eye and timid look,
Reluctantly two noblemen
Their station by the coffin took.
A trembling thrilled each iron frame,
And bloodless waxed their “tell-tale” cheeks—
Oh! guilt and agony and shame
Are vultures with unsparing beaks!
The taper shed a ruddy glare
On the bruised features of the dead,
And gory beard and clotted hair
In all awoke an icy dread.
Ah! fearfully the brow was still
Contorted by the pang of death,
And pomp with dust accorded ill,
Deprived of motion, mind and breath.
On the bruised features of the dead,
And gory beard and clotted hair
In all awoke an icy dread.
Ah! fearfully the brow was still
Contorted by the pang of death,
And pomp with dust accorded ill,
Deprived of motion, mind and breath.
Why sits that ghastly watcher by
The corse, with frenzy in his gaze?
The fearful wildness of his eye
A storm, at work within, betrays:
He looks upon the pall and shroud
With face, as stainless marble, pale,
Afraid the slumberer to the crowd
Would tell the heart-appalling tale.
The corse, with frenzy in his gaze?
The fearful wildness of his eye
A storm, at work within, betrays:
He looks upon the pall and shroud
With face, as stainless marble, pale,
Afraid the slumberer to the crowd
Would tell the heart-appalling tale.
The mystic pencil cannot paint
The frightful look his visage wore,
When, reft of consciousness and faint,
He sunk exhausted on the floor.
Awaking from the swoon, with hands
Outspread for aid, the ruffian cried:—
“Vengeful the sheeted victim stands,
With arm uplifted, by my side!”
The frightful look his visage wore,
131
He sunk exhausted on the floor.
Awaking from the swoon, with hands
Outspread for aid, the ruffian cried:—
“Vengeful the sheeted victim stands,
With arm uplifted, by my side!”
These startling words his guilt reveal,
His bosom wildly throbs with fear;
Loud shriek of death, and vain appeal
To stony hearts, ring in his ear;
The cup he bade the monarch drain,
With poison fraught, he now beholds,
And clenches in his hand again
The napkin with its bloody folds.
His bosom wildly throbs with fear;
Loud shriek of death, and vain appeal
To stony hearts, ring in his ear;
The cup he bade the monarch drain,
With poison fraught, he now beholds,
And clenches in his hand again
The napkin with its bloody folds.
Ah! phantoms, unallied to earth,
That other eyes cannot discern,
Are feeding, with their hellish mirth,
Fierce flames that in his bosom burn:
In vain the mind-destroying bowl
Was brought his anguish to allay,
No draught will ever from his soul
The stain of murder wash away.
That other eyes cannot discern,
Are feeding, with their hellish mirth,
Fierce flames that in his bosom burn:
In vain the mind-destroying bowl
Was brought his anguish to allay,
No draught will ever from his soul
The stain of murder wash away.
132
LYING IN STATE.
“Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust?
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.”
And, live we how we can, yet die we must.”
The palace floors of marble
Resound to falling feet,
And in a vast apartment
A mighty concourse meet;—
From lamp and candelabra
Stream waves of golden light,
And martial plumage flutters
On helmets, tall and bright.
Resound to falling feet,
And in a vast apartment
A mighty concourse meet;—
From lamp and candelabra
Stream waves of golden light,
And martial plumage flutters
On helmets, tall and bright.
From vine-wreathed goblets quaff not
That bright and brilliant throng,
And absent is the merry laugh,
The breathing lute and song.
How ill comports with sorrow
That gayly lighted hall,
Where banner-fold and trophy
Hang on the sculptured wall.
That bright and brilliant throng,
And absent is the merry laugh,
The breathing lute and song.
How ill comports with sorrow
That gayly lighted hall,
Where banner-fold and trophy
Hang on the sculptured wall.
The sage and fawning courtier,
The mail-clad knight and chief,
And young and old have gathered
In all the pomp of grief;
The conqueror of conquerors
Hath thrown a deadly dart,
And stricken, in an evil hour,
An empire to the heart.
The mail-clad knight and chief,
And young and old have gathered
In all the pomp of grief;
The conqueror of conquerors
Hath thrown a deadly dart,
And stricken, in an evil hour,
An empire to the heart.
Pale on a couch of purple
A kingly form reposed—
His stalwart arm was motionless,
His eye forever closed;
The crimson wreath of victory
His brow encircled yet,
Though Glory's star, so radiant long,
In mournful night had set.
A kingly form reposed—
His stalwart arm was motionless,
His eye forever closed;
133
His brow encircled yet,
Though Glory's star, so radiant long,
In mournful night had set.
Of death in awful mockery
A gorgeous crown he wore,
As if the glittering symbol
Could old command restore—
As if his right hand powerless
Could grasp the truncheon still,
And make surrounding nations
The vassals of his will.
A gorgeous crown he wore,
As if the glittering symbol
Could old command restore—
As if his right hand powerless
Could grasp the truncheon still,
And make surrounding nations
The vassals of his will.
Pale pearls and sparkling diamonds
Bedecked his costly vest,
And a cross, with jewels studded,
Reposed upon his breast;
These proud words were upon it—
“By this thou wilt subdue!”
Once traced, in lightning characters,
On morning's arch of blue.
Bedecked his costly vest,
And a cross, with jewels studded,
Reposed upon his breast;
These proud words were upon it—
“By this thou wilt subdue!”
Once traced, in lightning characters,
On morning's arch of blue.
Slow, near him, waned the taper
With a still, unwavering flame,
And royal raiment shrouded
His soul-forsaken frame:
Lo! state and army officers
Kneel down beside the bed;
And yield, with mock solemnity,
Allegiance to the dead.
With a still, unwavering flame,
And royal raiment shrouded
His soul-forsaken frame:
Lo! state and army officers
Kneel down beside the bed;
And yield, with mock solemnity,
Allegiance to the dead.
Can pomp restore the spirit
To its death-corrupted shrine?
That ghastly wreck of majesty
To kindred dust resign!
On brow and wasted bosom
Let hiding dust be thrown;
The worms are waiting for their prey—
The grave must have its own!
To its death-corrupted shrine?
That ghastly wreck of majesty
To kindred dust resign!
On brow and wasted bosom
Let hiding dust be thrown;
The worms are waiting for their prey—
The grave must have its own!
134
LAMENT FOR GRANADA.
Alas for thee, Granada!
The Crescent waned away,
When traitors leagued to shatter
Thy mace of royal sway.
Unworthy of the mother
That warmed them into life,
They heard the Gothic trumpet,
And armed not for the strife.
Look round! an earthly paradise
Is changed into a tomb,
A blight is on thy loveliness,
And mildew on thy bloom;
Where streamed the Moorish penon
Triumphantly of old,
Decay and mournful silence
Divided empire hold.
The Crescent waned away,
When traitors leagued to shatter
Thy mace of royal sway.
Unworthy of the mother
That warmed them into life,
They heard the Gothic trumpet,
And armed not for the strife.
Look round! an earthly paradise
Is changed into a tomb,
A blight is on thy loveliness,
And mildew on thy bloom;
Where streamed the Moorish penon
Triumphantly of old,
Decay and mournful silence
Divided empire hold.
Alas for thee, Granada!
Thy chiefs are shadows now,
And ashes have been sprinkled
Upon thy crownless brow:
Thy glory is departed,
Thy day of pomp is o'er,
And “Allah illah Allah!”
Is a battle-cry no more.
Castilian valor vainly
To cloud thy glory strove
Ere Treachery within thy walls
His cunning web-work wove;
By bloody parricidal hands
Inflicted was the blow
That brought thee, gem of cities!
In all thy grandeur low.
Thy chiefs are shadows now,
And ashes have been sprinkled
Upon thy crownless brow:
Thy glory is departed,
Thy day of pomp is o'er,
And “Allah illah Allah!”
Is a battle-cry no more.
Castilian valor vainly
To cloud thy glory strove
Ere Treachery within thy walls
His cunning web-work wove;
By bloody parricidal hands
Inflicted was the blow
That brought thee, gem of cities!
In all thy grandeur low.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |