1. PART I.
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[I have attempted, below, a series of imitations of four of the leading classes of ancient measures; namely, the Dactylic (Elegiac), Iambic (including the Anacreontic), Anapestic, and Trochaic. The first I have adapted, after the manner of Tyrtæus, to the Patriotic Elegy; the Iambic proper (Trimeter), to a subject not unsuited to its tragic character; the Anacreontic, to its not inappropriate purpose, as a Dithyrambic. The Anapestic has the proper movement of a march; in the longer lines (Tetrameter), that of a dead march; in the shorter (Dimeter), that of an onset. The Trochaic I have adapted to the sentimental; in the longer lines (Tetrameter), to the more tender and pathetic; in the shorter (Dimeter), to the lighter and more exhilarant. Here, too, in lines of equal length, the character varies, as the measure is complete or incomplete (Acatalectic or Catalectic); in the former case, the movement being more gentle; in the latter, more spirited. I have aimed at classic imagery and sentiment in all these pieces, except the first Trochaic, the character of which is rather modern; but such is the dominant influence of the Subjective in modern poetry, that I am conscious I have not attained, as well as I could wish, to the purer Objective of the ancients.]
ELEGIAC.
O, it is great for our country to die, where ranks are contending!
Bright is the wreath of our fame; Glory awaits us for aye,—
Glory, that never is dim, shining on with a light never ending,—
Glory, that never shall fade, never, O, never away!
O, it is sweet for our country to die! How softly reposes
Warrior youth on his bier, wet by the tears of his love,
Wet by a mother's warm tears. They crown him with garlands of roses,
Weep, and then joyously turn, bright where he triumphs above.
Not to the shades shall the youth descend, who for country hath perished:
Hebe awaits him in heaven, welcomes him there with her smile;
There, at the banquet divine, the patriot spirit is cherished;
Gods love the young, who ascend pure from the funeral pile.
Not to Elysian fields, by the still, oblivious river;
Not to the isles of the blest, over the blue-rolling sea;
But on Olympian heights shall dwell the devoted for ever;
There shall assemble the good, there the wise, valiant, and free.
O, then, how great for our country to die, in the front rank to perish,
Firm with our breast to the foe, victory's shout in our ear!
Long they our statues shall crown, in songs our memory cherish;
We shall look forth from our heaven, pleased the sweet music to hear.
IAMBIC.
My heart is sad, my hope is gone, my light has fled;
I sit and mourn, in silent grief, the lingering day.
Ah! never more he comes, my love; among the dead,
O far, O far, his fleeting shade has flown away!
Far o'er the dark and dismal wave, whence no return,
In deepest night he wanders now, a shape of air:
He hears me not,—hears not the sighs, with love that burn;
I see no more that form, so bright, so young and fair.
O, bright and fair, as shapes that oft from Heaven descend,
And on Parnassus stand before the setting sun!
Bright, when he moved in shining arms, home to defend;
Bright, when, a champion strong, the eager race he run:
O fair, as rose and lily fair, when they entwine,
In asphodelian meads, their wreath of virgin bloom!
His heart was kind as brave; O, he was doubly mine!
But now I only weep beside his early tomb.
Death, with inverted torch, the young and gentle death,
Weeps o'er him now, and mourns the plucked and withered flower:
All bloom must fade;—the south-wind breathes its withering breath,
And the clear-blowing north sweeps on, with blasting power.
I too must soon be gone; in grief I glide away:
The rose has left my cheek; my eye looks dim through tears.
Come, gentle death! here with the youth in silence lay
My form, ere it has felt the icy touch of years.
ANACREONTIC.
Come, crown my cup with roses
With wine now brim it over:
My heart in joy reposes;
Around it pleasures hover.
The nectar sparkles brightly,
With light from love's full quiver:
Come, drain it, drain it lightly,
And shout: Io for ever!
With wreathen ivy crown me,
Dark-eyed Æolian maiden!
In sweet oblivion drown me,
Till deep with joy o'erladen.
I sink in blissful slumber,
And dream of love and Zoe;
Till, at some merry number,
I wake, and shout: Evoe!
I seize my lyre,—loud ringing,
It bounds beneath my fingers:
To frantic dances springing,
What heart so cold it lingers?
Toss, toss, the vine-clad thyrses!
Wine fires: extol the giver.
Shout, with a cry that pierces
The soul: Io for ever!
ANAPESTIC.
[I. In the silence of night, and in solemn array, by the glimmer of torches, is wheeling]
In the silence of night, and in solemn array, by the glimmer of torches, is wheeling,
Majestic, the funeral train, on its way, and its music is plaintively stealing,—
Is plaintively stealing, in echoes, afar, awaking emotions of sorrow;
It mourns, how the youth march to-day to the war, but return to us never to-morrow.
Spear and buckler reversed, slow the army moves on, its standards and banners low trailing:
Not a shout now is heard for the victory won; all is hushed, but the flute softly wailing.
Light and still glide their steps, and in unison all, attuned to their solemn emotion;
One faint, hollow murmur is heard at each fall, like the far-echoed roar of the ocean.
Home, in urns, they are bearing the dust of the dead, dark veils o'er each urn low depending:
How sacred the relics of those who have bled, for hearth and for altar contending!
Not a trophy they rear, till they lay in the tomb, the ashes that sleep there in glory,—
Till their pæans are sung, and the words that illume, transmit their proud record to story.
So on through the streets of the city they move, and the old and the young there attend them:
They meet them with greetings of sorrow and love,—fondly welcome the brave who defend them;
And they weep from their hearts, as each urn passes by, a child or a parent enclosing:
As he left them, his patriot bosom beat high; now in death he is darkly reposing.
[II. O, waken the music of battle]
O, waken the music of battle!
Let the clash of the cymbals ring loudly,
As the spears on the shields dash and rattle,
When onward the youth rushes proudly:
Let the horn and the trumpet, resounding
In long rolling echoes, inspire us,
Till our hearts like the billow are bounding,
And omens of victory fire us.
Hark the shout!—far its echo is rolling;
Eleleu! Eleleu! swells it onward:
Sword and shield clang in time, high controlling
Each hero, quick hurrying vanward.
On the foe moves in line, firm and steady,
To the soft breath of flutes slow advancing;
Drawn each sword, poised each spear, all are ready;
Bright the sun on their plumed helms is glancing.
To the charge! like the rush of the ocean,—
Like torrents, from mountain-tops dashing
Down the gulf, where, in mingled commotion,
Crag and wood 'mid the white flood are crashing.
Hark the shock! shield on shield rings, rebounding:
As a rock firmly set, they repel it.
On again, louder Eleleus sounding;
Ours such fire, not the Spartan can quell it.
TROCHAIC.
[I. Softly sweet the song is stealing, softly through the night afar]
Softly sweet the song is stealing, softly through the night afar;
Faint and low the bell is pealing; dim, through haze, the light of star;
Hushed and still is all around me; cold and still my brooding heart:
Sure some magic spell hath bound me,—bid, O bid the spell depart!
O, that song, so softly breathing,—how it flows into my soul!
Memory then her twine unwreathing, tears of young emotion roll:
And, as far the knell is tolling, how my spirit floats away,
Over years, like billows, rolling, to the scenes where youth was gay!
But the night, so hushed around me, and the sky, so dim above,
In a lonely trance have bound me,—trance of mingled grief and love.
Still on early fondness dwelling, faded bloom of vernal years;
All I hear, the sigh faint swelling; all I feel, my trickling tears.
[II. Maids are sitting by the fountain]
Maids are sitting by the fountain;
Bright the moon o'er yonder mountain
O'er her shepherd watching lonely,
On his sleep she looketh only.
Softly whispering by the fountain,
Oft they look unto the mountain,
Think how, through the midnight hours,
There the shepherd sleeps on flowers.
Clear the fountain wave is gleaming;
Still the happy youth is dreaming:
Chastest love is watching o'er him;
Crouched his faithful dog before him.
Now the bubbling wave is sparkling;
Now beneath a shadow darkling:
O'er the moon a cloud is stealing;
Passes now, her light revealing.
Night-winds o'er the fountain blowing,
Like Æolian music flowing,
Far their warbled breath is gliding,
Swelling, trembling, then subsiding.
Of the shepherd on the mountain
Sing the maids beside the fountain:
Each then seems in air to hover,
Watching o'er her sleeping lover.
[III. See the bounding bark afloat]
See the bounding bark afloat!
Steady blows the willing gale!
Joy, with merry, merry note,
Hoists and spreads the purple sail.
Far away, O far away!
I must cross the dashing sea;
So, my dearest, do not stay,—
Boldly cross the wave with me.
To the far Elysian isles,
'Mid the ocean, in the west,
Where the sky for ever smiles,
All the year one halcyon rest,—
Shall we thither speed our flight?
Only cross the wave with me,
I shall find, my love and light,
All Elysian with thee.
On the dark Cimmerian strand,
Where eternal shadows reign;
Where Caucasian summits stand,
Towering o'er the untrodden plain;
Where, along the fatal shore,
Music lulls the soul to death;
Wastes, that hear the lion's roar;
Sands, where kills the dragon's breath:
Or in flowery gardens, where
Bends the lotus, passing sweet;
Vales, where roses fill the air;
Meads, where silent waters meet,
Lingering on through asphodel;—
With thee, all alike would be:
If with me thou deign to dwell,
All Elysian smiles to me.
