 | The Modern Orlando |  |
115
CANTO V.
THE HURRICANE—THE FRIGATE—MIRABEAU—ATHENS—MARATHON—THE CHARTREUSE—THE PENITENTS—IGNAVIE ENCOMIUM—CHARLES XII.
I
Give me great Nature's summoners to thought—The mountain's thunder-splintered pinnacle;
The living freshness of the ivied grot,
Where the young river gushes from its cell;
The low rich echoes that from forests swell,
Or ruined piles, by wild-wood flowers o'ergrown,
Where ancient sages taught, or heroes fell:
And glorious shapes seem haunting every stone;
And the world-wearied heart communes with Heaven alone.
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II
Nature, I love thee, in thy storm and calm,In wilderness, or wave, I love thee still,
For thou alone hast power the pangs to balm,
That, but for thy sweet antidote, must kill.
Not, that I dare impeach the lofty will,
Which, like the lightning, struck me to the earth;
If mine are wounds too deep for human skill,
If bitter tears now mingle with my mirth;
I own the solemn bond—the burthen of man's birth!
III
“Three sultry days, and then a thunder storm!”France condescends to borrow England's weather;
So be it; I shall ask no sky-reform:
Better be drenched, than roast for months together;
Having your visage turned to varnished leather;
Earth fit for nothing, but a snake or ferret;
Hill, dale and plain, one crackling sheet of heather;
The world half burnt, “with all that it inherit,”
I think, upon the whole, our thunder-storms have merit.
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IV
Once, for my sins, I “summered it” abroad;'Twas in that “land of rapture,” Italy!
Within a week, my very soul was flawed;
Crackt like a jar! life round me ceased to be.
Off dropped the leaves from flower, and shrub, and tree;
Stript, like a ball-room belle, stood every vine;
(Romance, of course, will see what it will see.)
All that I saw, from Alp to Appennine,
Was grimness, dust, and glare,—a landscape of the Line!
V
The storm has come!—I love that world of clouds,With all its deepening, darkening, rolling, rushing!
Now, spreading, pale and wild, like giant shrouds;
Now, pile on pile, in fiery sunlight flushing;
Now, with the rain from all its fountains gushing;
Then, stooping on the hills, like funeral palls,
The thunderbolts the forest-monarchs crushing;
The streamlets bursting down in waterfalls;
Till comes the golden ray, to paint its airy halls.
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VI
The thunder dies away; the storm is past;—The sun looks out from heaven, a lovelier sun;
The rain-drops from the trees fall bright and fast;
The rainbow shoots across the vapours dun;
The leverets o'er the freshened herbage run;
The flowers all seem their sister flowers caressing;
A general evening anthem has begun;
The birds, in song their little souls confessing;
Field, forest, breathing up their incense for the blessing!
VII
I have been long a connoisseur in storms—Not these slight sprinklers of the summer plain;
But, would you worship Nature's grandest forms,
Leave forest, field, and mountain's marble chain;
And seek the goddess in her own domain,
The Ocean in its strength;—the blinding blaze;
The blasts, like iron columns; tropic rain
Pouring in cataracts; the sheeted sprays;
The tempest hiding Heaven, for desperate nights and days.
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VIII
Take my experience in those showy things;None (but your yachtmen) scorn a hurricane.
First, all is stillness; to the mast-head clings
The lumbering sail; no breath disturbs the vane;
The low horizon shows a blood-like stain;
The sky looks coppery; the air seems lead;
Far thunders mutter; fall slow drops of rain;
The sun on huge brown billows lays his head,
Then, shoots one broad red glare, and day at once is fled.
IX
Night drops death-dark; and, if on a board a ship,At anchor in some Windward island's lee,
You're sure to dream of taking your last trip,
Down to the bottom of the “deep deep” sea;
A million sharks upon you making free!
You feel their triple grinders taking bites!
You scream, and bounce from bed; the bell strikes three;
(The blackest hour of black West Indian nights;)
You find the crew all up, and hammering the dead-lights!
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X
Landward, the view is thick as Indian ink;Save where you see the flashing of a gun,
Or the wild tossing of some negro's link,
Waiting to pick your pocket, when all's done!
Ships, cutting cables, plump upon you run,
Threatening to send you to the “sailor's home.”
Shouts, shrieks, and thunder-peals, your ear-drums stun;
Seaward, you see but one wide world of foam,
Surge rolling upon surge, huge as St. Peter's dome!
XI
If peeps the moon, the sight but grows more horrid;She looks a ghost, above a boundless grave;
With “hat-band” clouds about her dismal forehead;
The winds all howling out your funeral stave!
Then comes a crash—a groan!—that mountain-wave
Has done the deed!—the cable 's snapt asunder!—
Your anchor 's gone!—You need but choose, what cave,
Or crag, your Worship wishes to lie under;
With grampusses for mutes; chief mourners, surge and thunder!
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XII
Then, chops the wind—at first, a stout north-wester,Right in your teeth; you reef, so forth, and brail;
Thinking all snug.—Then comes a stout north-easter,
Right on your stern; away go shroud and sail!
No sooner has it caught you by the tail,
Than comes another, stiff upon your beam;
Your vessel pitches, like a stranded whale;
You hear the water rush through leak and seam;
And whirl away bare-poled, along the Great Gulf Stream!
XIII
But, when the gale is done, Jack's work is done;He takes his sport, with all the world before him;
Cares for the world no more than his great gun!
No taxes, politics, or fashions, bore him;
Happy to think that all the sex adore him!
He rows life's long-boat with a hearty pull;
(Unless some land-shark manages to shore him;)
Steady of heart and hand, and quick of scull:
Yet there are tales of thy simplicity, John Bull!
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THE FRIGATE.
Her Majesty's crack frigate, the Osiris ,Was dropping down the Eastern-Indian Isles;
The sea around her coloured like an iris;
The clouds a mass of gold and silver piles;
The shore all spice and flowers—all Nature smiles!
The breeze, six knots an hour; the leadsman's tune,
Sweet ringing, as he measured off the miles.
When, from the cabin, like a fire-balloon,
The boatswain burst, and roared—“Prepare for the Typhoon!”
XV
'Tis known, this Indian tempest gives no warning;The sea is smooth as glass, the sky is clear;
Yet it would swamp the Channel-fleet by morning.
The only sign is the barometer;
When it sinks suddenly, the danger 's near.
The captain, lounging o'er his port and cheese,
Had seen it shake; although his eager ear
Could catch no swell of either surge or breeze;
He looked again; plump down it went five—ten degrees!
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XVI
“All hands aloft!” Down rattled each sky-scraper!Topsail, topgallant, mizen, all they go!
Yet round the whole horizon, not a vapour;
Still the old Quartermaster, from below,
Cried—“Glass still falling; steadily, though slow.”
The frigate now stood naked to her hull,
Heaving with every billow to and fro;
Loose on the water, as a wounded gull!
Captain, Lieutenants, Mids, and Tars, all looking dull!
XVII
Soon, with the tide, up came a fleet of junks,Toiling along, like horses in a mill;
Jack had his jest against those floating trunks:
“John Chinaman will shortly pay his bill!”
They worked along; the frigate stood stock still!
Then came a Yankee steamer, all on smoke.
Jack scoffed—“Old Jonathan may make his Will;
“He 'll quickly find typhooning is no joke;
“He 'll reach his anchorage to-night, without his coke!”
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XVIII
Next came a Frenchman, steering for Canton;Smooth as the slipper on a lady's foot,
A showy six-and-thirty, dancing on.
“Crapaud” is saucy; so, for a salute,
He roared with laughter!—every tar was mute:
But, fierce and furious; longed to change his tune,
But saw him onwards like a dolphin shoot.
Their only comfort—“Well, he 'll have it soon;
“He 'll sing another song to-night, in the typhoon!”
XIX
The day went down. The evening in this climateIs lovely; but this evening was sublime!
The sun sat throned in gold—a great sky-primate.
Jack sulked at all, the sun, the sea, the clime.
The mercury was watched from time to time,
And still reported “falling;” though the gale
Came whispering, rich with scents of grape and lime.
Stars rose by millions, yet not one was pale!
Jack paced the deck in wrath; there lay yard, mast, and sail!
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XX
Morn came at last; but, from the island-bays,Out swarmed a locust-flight of war-canoes,
Those robbers of all nations, the Malays,
As black as Satan in their hearts and hues,
Reckoning to sack her Majesty's “true blues.”
Thinking the frigate fixed upon a shoal,
They peppered her with matchlocks and long-twos;
While Jack, with many a writhe of face and soul,
Stood to be raked, as still as shore-boats in a mole!
XXI
'Tis true, he blazed until his guns were hot;But, might as well have blazed them at the moon!
The men in black, each chose his favourite spot,
Where he might fire from January to June.
Jack whistled, howled, danced, raved for the typhoon!
The captain to the doctors was sent wounded;
The master, and lieutenant followed soon;
The water in the hold “six feet” was sounded!
Seldom was fighting bark more consummately pounded!
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XXII
The captain, stretched upon the cabin-floor,Casting around an agonizing eye;
Saw something trickle, like a drop of ore—
By Mars and Venus, 'twas the mercury!—
The glass had cracked, and oozed!—He sprang sky-high!
Jumped upon deck, and shouted—“Make all sail!”
Out burst three cheers! like birds the topmen fly!
Grape, round, and canister, poured thick as hail!
The pirates fled, and Jack rushed off before the gale!
MIRABEAU.
Now, rise before me the Provençal hills;Glory of Novels, “Paradise of France!
“Where wine from every highway hedge distils,
“And life's sole labour is, to sing and dance!”
Alas, for all the honours of Romance!
The morning cuts your midriff with the Bise!
Noon burns your cuticle, and blinds your glance!
The evening dews your very heart-veins freeze!
Night is despair—the reign of Pharaoh's plague of fl---s!
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XXIV
And yet, I paused, to see an old château;Now but a heap of ivy-mantled stones;
The fortress of thy fathers, Mirabeau!—
On a height near Monasque, are the ruins of the chateau in which the celebrated Mirabeau spent his early years. The first orator of France in his day, he was the most popular man with the people, and for a while the most confidential man with the king. But his life had hastened the revolution, and his death was the fatal blow of the monarchy.
Thou man of contradictions!—prop of thrones,
Yet, the hot marrow in Rebellion's bones;
The Monarch's hireling; yet the rabble's king!
Courtier, yet brazen trump of faction's tones!
Thy genius, half swine's hoof, half eagle's wing!
Bold, coward, patriot, slave, tool, traitor,—everything!
XXV
These are the men one hates, and yet admires;The base, yet brilliant, actors on life's stage;
The Titan-brood, with serpents for their sires;
The shame and scorn, but, wonder of their age;
Wild mixture of the savage and the sage;
Fierce summoners to that consummate fray,
Which tainted thrones with maddened nations wage;
Dark heralds of the last, avenging day,
When diadems are crushed, and those who crushed them—clay!
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XXVI
Those are the tribe whose mission is, to teach,Not learn;—interpreters of fate to men.
Instinct, their thoughts; their tongues, of mighty speech;
Too fiery for the slow-performing pen.
There never rushed the lion from his den,
Rousing the forest-echoes with his roar;
More marked by nature for the fight; than when
This tribe their way to sanguine triumph tore,
Leaving the world in doubt, to dread them, or adore.
XXVII
Do I grow fretful?—No; no revolutions,No overthrows, for me or for my heir;
My rental wants no new-light distributions;
I want no Yankee presidential chair.
Still, there is something in the sudden glare;
This flush and rush of minds, till then unknown;
This drinking of oxygenated air;
This filling with live blood the heart of stone;
(Remember, I picked up lance-heads in Marathon).
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XXVIII
Athens ! thou hadst a hundred thousand faults,Perhaps a million, in thy “seventy” years!
Yet, take the dynasty in Hapsburg's vaults,
With their ten centuries of saints and seers,
Could they produce thy equals, for their ears?
Tell us, what made thy men like beacon-flames;
Thy genius, keen and sparkling as thy spears?
What built thy temples, stòas, academes?
Thou galaxy of earth's imperishable names!
XXIX
Some find the secret in thy purple seas;Some in thy hills—nay, some in thy fresh air!
Thou hast them still; but no Euripides;
No Eschylus now shocks our “fell of hair,”
Smiting the spirit with his grand despair!
No Sophocles ascends the Drama's throne;
No Socrates now takes the sage's chair:
Where is the trumpet, once by Pindar blown?
And Alcibiades—all thy wild oats are sown!
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XXX
Earth's rough, yet noblest spell is—Energy!Mind's hammer, hatchet, plough! the stern-faced dun,
That makes us pay our debt to man—or die!
Never to halt, until the race is run—
To know no weariness; no danger shun;
Until Time's hand has struck the crowning hour—
To think that nothing 's done, till all is done—
Through day and night, through sunshine and through shower,
To fight the gallant fight!—Resolve itself is power!
XXXI
'Twas evening when I first saw Marathon.As down its rocky pass my way I wound,
I thought I ne'er saw loneliness so lone;
All nature seemed to say, 'twas hallowed ground!
One ray of splendour touched the grass-grown mound,
That marks the fall'n Athenians' sepulchre;
All else was dim; but, on the hills around
Blazed the full glory of the setting sphere:
All still! no sound of man disturbed the eye or ear!
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XXXII
I lingered long, and “fancy had her fill,”Peopling the twilight with “the things that were.”
At once, a horn came echoing from the hill;
I started; but no phalanx glittered there—
'Twas an old hermit's call to evening prayer,
Gathering the mountain shepherds to his cell;
And soon I saw them in the sinking glare,
Each with his infants, coming up the dell:
That hermit was their priest; that horn their vesper bell.
XXXIII
I am no whimperer o'er antique graves;But, if each nation had a Marathon,
Think you the world would vegetate with slaves?
Nay, if the patriot found his grave alone;
If the last ray of freedom on him shone;
Such spots would be fresh founts of memory;
The rudest name upon the moss-grown stone
Would be a trophy to the heart and eye;
A lesson how to live—a lesson how to die.
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THE CHARTREUSE.
Yet stop—how could I hope to be forgivenBy Earth's and England's brightest, best, the Blues!
Unless my tourist-sins were duly shriven,
(A Christian Hadgi), at the Grande Chartreuse
A convent founded by St. Bruno, among the mountains of Dauphine. The monks, in the more rigid days of their order, were forbidden the use of speech, except on Sundays and féte days. They once formed a numerous community, and possessed a large extent of the surrounding country. It was a lazy life for thousands, a life of suffering for a few, and an useless life for all. Bruno, who was a German, did little more than give the monks his example and his name. Guignes, their prior in the twelfth century, gave them the rules of the order. The approach of women to the convent was forbidden in the most prohibitory and ridiculous terms: the rule on the subject declaring, that women have been irresistible in all ages. “Remember,” says this document, “David, Solomon, Samson and Lot, and Adam himself. Remember, too, that man cannot hide a fire in his bosom without burning his clothes, nor walk on burning embers without scorching the soles of his feet.” The monk must have had a like glowing conception of the tyranny and the temptations of the sex.
I spare my countrymen the “heights and hues,”
“Chasms, deep as death,—Lakes, lucid as a mirror!”
(Not liking much to tread in others' shoes;)
Throw in, ad libitum, “Awe! Wonder! Terror!”
Add, “barrenness, and bog,”—you 'll not be much in error.
XXXV
Its monks !—Yet, what have I to do with monks?Cumberers of earth; but made, to sleep and die;
In Life's green forestry, the withered trunks;
(Not seldom “Hogs of Epicurus' sty;”)
I doubt if I should give a single sigh,
If their whole race were in their church-yards flung.—
How could I live and breathe (I'd scorn to try)
Without the silver sound of woman's tongue;
Life 's sal volatile—that Lyre for ever strung!
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XXXVI
Three fourths of all I saw, were born to ploughs,Or destined—spade in hand—to “mend our ways;”
But, 'twas much pleasanter to make their vows
To walk the world in petticoats of baize;
Living on alms; their years all holidays!—
Huge caterpillars, basking in the sun;
Or fixing, in wild reveries, their gaze
On the rich features of some sainted nun:
Rome, Rome! it is not thus, that Life's high deeds are done.
XXXVII
But then—“They look so pious and pathetic;So tonsured, sack-clothed, sallow, and resigned!”
Enquire in London, “Wanted an Ascetic;”
The “Times” will find you hundreds, to your mind,
Aye, thousands; all as piously inclined
To eat and drink for nothing, all their lives,
As any monk that ever dozed or dined:
Ready to trick their debtors, 'scape their wives,
Wear cowls, and cant, and fill with droneship all your hives.
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XXXVIII
Now, Grande Chartreuse, thy tale is quickly told—A labyrinth of cell and corridor;
The pile, huge, melancholy, lumbering, old;
(The world grows wise, it builds these dens no more.)
Here sudden ague strikes through every pore;
Here reigns supreme the weariness of life;
(Life Lethe, monks the weeds upon its shore!)
One wonders how they keep from rope, or knife,
And wishes each dumb wretch, an honest trade, and wife.
XXXIX
What man of mind has ever seen the cloister,But asked the question, “Why, such things were made?”
Was it to teach our race to ape the oyster,
Stuck to the stone, for ever, where 'twas laid?
Religion, but a hypocrite parade!
Man's glowing heart, and woman's love—a crime!
Life, a low game, by mutes and mummers played!
Existence measured by the church-clock's chime!—
But, take a “little fact,” some years before my time.
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THE PENITENTS.
At Padre Caravita's, during Lent,The Friars dress in sackcloth, trimmed with ashes;
Lights are put out, and every penitent,
Credits himself to Heaven, some dozen lashes;
(The walls and pillars getting all the slashes;)
The flogger setting up a pious moan,
At every item of the bill he cashes;
Still working desperately at the stone,
But, giving not a touch to his own flesh and bone!
XLI
One evening, as they sang their “Miserere,”With half the city listening at the door,
(I think this famous chorus dull and dreary,)
Was heard a yell within, 'twas soon a roar,
Then, a pitched battle on the holy floor;
Screams to the Virgin, howls to every saint!
All thought the Fiend had come to claim his score.
The men began to fly, the sex to faint;
I leave the rest, to some new Fuseli, to paint.
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XLII
And still the battle raged, the howls came thicker;Matters seemed looking black for “Church and State.”
Up marched the pursy guards of Rome's “Grand Vicar,”
Heroes, not much inclined to tempt their fate,
For, not a soul of them would touch the gate.
At last, out burst the Penitents, all whipped;
Roaring at this new payment of “Church Rate.”
The truth transpired—An Englishman, equipped
In cowl and gown, within the Padre's porch had slipped.
XLIII
He waited, till the holy farce began;All stript; all dark; not even a taper's smoke:
Then, marking a fat Friar for his man,
And taking a stout horsewhip from his cloak,
On his broad back he laid a hearty stroke!
The victim shrieked, as if he felt a sabre;
John Bull amazingly enjoyed the joke!
Proceeding, all the mummers to belabour,
While, each revenged the stripes upon his naked neighbour!
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XLIV
Yet when I left, Chartreuse, thy stately gate,And bade the men of silent shrugs, good bye,
(First having dropt my tribute in their plate,)
And, from the hill-top, saw the convent lie,
So calm below, beneath the broad, bright sky;
It almost struck me, that, in Life's rough game,
The frozen monk may throw the winning die;
Escaping wealth's hard work, ambition's flame,—
His life-long sleep unbroke by hope, or fear, or fame.
IGNAVIÆ ENCOMIUM.
What 's Fame?—a wind that never blows a week,Yet sets the world all pecking at your name.
What 's Fame?—a bubble, which all long to break!
A horse, that all the “knowing ones” vote “lame!”—
I 've known some fifty “lions,” all grown tame!
Five hundred “heroes,” quiet as their mothers!
(Fashion gone off, to hunt some newer game.)
Glory, like gipsies, its own offspring smothers.
I 've seen Pitt, Fox, Tom Thumb , Guizot, and Richard Brothers !
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XLVI
Must earth be toil, and be for ever toil?Must War, and Want, and Cold, and Clay—be Man?
Year upon year but changes of turmoil;
Hearts sick, and faces with heartsickness wan!
I wish some hand, alert at the trepan,
Would give my brain a “bump” for gown or cowl;
A taste for monkism; life without a plan;
The nearest to the status of an owl;
Yet, what is human life?—the odds are for the fowl!
XLVII
What if your owl has neither child nor wife?Per contra, he has all his own dear will!
What if he leads a somewhat mopish life?
He pays no income-tax, no Bond-street bill;
No monarch sends him to be killed, or kill!
What if his wing with midnight walks is wet?
No magistrate can send him to “the mill.”
He has no hard-worked conscience—“to be let!”
Your owl is never drunk, in dudgeon, or in debt!
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XLVIII
'Tis true, he now and then sits rather late;But, 'tis for business, and that business sport!
He never hears a sixteen hours' debate
On herrings, hogsheads, and the price of port.
He 'scapes Whig wit, and Treasury retort;
(Owl as he is, he 's not in parliament!)
Nor cares a bean who 's “in,” or “out,” at court;
Nor trembles, if the funds fall cent. per cent.;
Nor, like your Irish lords, gets bullets for his rent!
XLIX
Yes, give me but my choice, I 'd be a bird;But, it must be an osprey—a sea-king!
Wherever gale awoke, or billow stirred,
Breasting the tempest; ever on the wing!
Steering, when Winter frowned, to seek the Spring,
By “vext Bermoothes,” or some Indian shore.
Then, tired of sunshine, on the whirlwind fling
My broad black pinion, for my sail and oar,
Till once again I heard my northern surges roar.
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L
Then, I should colonize; choose some bright spot,Some nobler Kilda, in some mightier main;
Where, though man might be eaten, birds might not;
Nor idle lordlings filled their bags with slain.
Then, looking down, with dignified disdain,
On man, the wretch!—the sport of winds and waves!
Throned on my promontory's granite chain,
Scoff at the world's unfeathered tribe of slaves,
Toiling to find, at best, but coroneted graves!
LI
Or, I should take my tour—that tour, the World!My road the clouds; my gallopers the wind!
What were your boilers, to my plumes unfurled,
Making five hundred miles before I dined?
No beggar passport my bold path to bind,
(That pettiest privilege of petty kings;
Those well-dressed men, whom all conspire to blind:)
Taking my “bird's-eye” view of men and things,
Teaching the world the grand supremacy of wings!
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FREDERICSHALL.
How seldom have Earth's living thunderbolts,Her Warrior-kings, burnt out upon their pillow!
Their lives all battles, treasons, feuds, revolts;
Their end in murder, madness, or the billow;
Or, worst of all, Napoleon and his willow!
—To climb, and then, be tumbled from, a throne!
Their fall empois'ning every peccadillo;
With every hand prepared to throw the stone.—
“Restez tranquille.” I say, to all—“Let well alone.”
LIII
I sometimes visit scenes, where famous menHave dropped that restless particle, the soul.
This led me, Fredericshall, to thy wild glen,
The field of battle nearest to the Pole,
Where Charles the hero, found the warrior's goal.
You make the land, by Norway's storm-beat beach.
Up-helm; and follow, where the Ocean's roll
Bursts roaring through a mountain's marble breach;
All, thundering surge without,—within, a dark, deep Reach.
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LIV
You wind along, and all is loneliness;One almost strikes the rock on either hand;
Huge walls of rock above you seem to press.
Again light gleams;—the dim ravines expand,
You see a wild, sweet scene of Fairy-land:
Forests of branching oak, and towering pine,
Circle bright waters, edged with silver sand,
And, dashing down the mountain's coloured chine,
Like cataracts from the clouds, a hundred torrents shine.
LV
Now, climb the hill-top! In the vale below,Lies, like a group of molehills, Fredericshall,
The shattered guardian of its realm of snow;
No longer worth the waste of shell and ball.
A simple pillar marks his nameless fall,
Whose name once made the ears of Europe ring.
Oh, Fame, thou jilt of jilts! and is this all?
His all, who clipped the Russian Eagle's wing;
The man of iron soul—Ay, “every inch a King?”
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LVI
His end was sudden;—yet it might be worse:—Sebastian perished
The King of Portugal, defeated in a battle against the Moors; his return is said to be still expected by the peasantry. Charles the Fifth died in partial idiotcy, attended by monks and nuns. The Lutzen King, Gustavus of Sweden, was shot in the victory of Lutzen, probably assassinated by one of his officers. Charles the Twelfth of Sweden was shot at the siege of Fredericshall, in Norway, and also supposed to have been assassinated.
Luther's old Cæsar, with a nun for nurse;
The Lutzen King, by pistol or by pike;
Others by poison, spleen, or what you like.
But thine, bold Charles, was death without a groan,
Thy hand upon thy sword, in act to strike;
Thy forehead to the foe.—Thy spirit flown;
Escaping, at one gasp, gout, heartache, and—a throne!
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