 | The battle of Niagara |  |
82
BATTLE OF NIAGARA.
CANTO I.
Eagle ..... troop of mounted Americans appear ..... disappear ..... leader ..... sunset ..... imagery ..... seen again on the summit of the hill ..... indistinctly ..... descend and pass the spectator ..... reflections ..... night ..... cut their way through a small encampment of the British .....American camp .... midnight expedition ..... The time employed is three days.
83
CANTO I.
THERE'S a fierce gray Bird—with a sharpened beak;
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek:
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow—
Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow—
That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splintered point of a shivered peak—
Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp—
Bald-headed and stripped!—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stained—while scattering—bright,
Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare—
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!—
Like the crest of a warrior thinned in the fight,
And shorn—and bristling—see her! where
She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding—
And kindling eye—as if her prey
Had—suddenly—been snatched away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!
With an angry eye, and a startling shriek:
That nurses her brood where the cliff-flowers blow,
On the precipice-top—in perpetual snow—
Where the fountains are mute, or in secrecy flow—
That sits—where the air is shrill and bleak,
On the splintered point of a shivered peak—
Where the weeds lie close—and the grass sings sharp,
To a comfortless tune—like a wintry harp—
Bald-headed and stripped!—like a vulture torn
In wind and strife!—with her feathers worn,
And ruffled and stained—while scattering—bright,
Round her serpent-neck—that is writhing, bare—
Is a crimson collar of gleaming hair!—
Like the crest of a warrior thinned in the fight,
And shorn—and bristling—see her! where
She sits in the glow of the sun-bright air!
With wing half-poised—and talons bleeding—
And kindling eye—as if her prey
Had—suddenly—been snatched away—
While she was tearing it, and feeding!
84
A Bird that is first to worship the sun,
When he gallops in flame—'till the cloud tides run
In billows of fire—as his course is done:
Above where the fountain is gushing in light;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprisoned blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair!
Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright,
Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky—
With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair!
When he gallops in flame—'till the cloud tides run
In billows of fire—as his course is done:
Above where the fountain is gushing in light;
Above where the torrent is forth in its might—
Like an imprisoned blaze that is bursting from night!
Or a lion that springs—with a roar—from his lair!
Bounding off—all in foam—from the echoing height—
Like a rank of young war-horses—terribly bright,
Their manes all erect!—and their hoofs in the air!
The earth shaking under them—trumpets on high—
And banners unfurling away in the sky—
With the neighing of steeds! and the streaming of hair!
Above where the silvery flashing is seen—
The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,
And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning's eye
Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky:
The striping of waters, that skip o'er the green,
And soft, spongy moss, where the fairies have been,
Bending lovely and bright in the young Morning's eye
Like ribands of flame—or the bow of the sky:
Above that dark torrent—above the bright stream—
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard—of the Thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
The gay ruddy fount, with the changeable gleam,
Where the lustre of heaven eternally plays—
The voice may be heard—of the Thunderer's bird,
Calling out to her god in a clear, wild scream,
As she mounts to his throne and unfolds in his beam;
While her young are laid out in his rich red blaze;
And their winglets are fledged in his hottest rays:
Proud Bird of the cliff! where the barren-yew springs—
Where the sun shine stays—and the wind harp sings,
Where the heralds of battle sit—pluming their wings—
A scream!—she's awake!—over hill-top and flood;
A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood—
Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood!
That Bird is abroad—in the van of her brood!
Where the sun shine stays—and the wind harp sings,
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A scream!—she's awake!—over hill-top and flood;
A crimson light runs!—like the gushing of blood—
Over valley and rock!—over mountain and wood!
That Bird is abroad—in the van of her brood!
O ye, that afar in the blue-air, have heard—
As out of the sky—the approach of that Bird—
Have ye seen her—half-famished—and up—and away—
Her wings in a blaze, with the shedding of day—
Like a vulture on fire!—in the track of her prey—
When aloft—what is that?—light footsteps near us!
And whispers—and breathing!—they may o'erhear us.
As out of the sky—the approach of that Bird—
Have ye seen her—half-famished—and up—and away—
Her wings in a blaze, with the shedding of day—
Like a vulture on fire!—in the track of her prey—
When aloft—what is that?—light footsteps near us!
And whispers—and breathing!—they may o'erhear us.
Ah—now let us gaze:—what a wonderful sky!—
How the robe of the god, in its flame-coloured dye—
Goes ruddily—flushingly—sweepingly by.
The spots that you see?—they are tents—and the air—
All alive with the rustling of flags that are there—
Nay speak—did you ever behold such a night—
While the winds blew about—and the waters were bright—
The sun rolling home in an ocean of light—
But hush!—there is musick away in the sky—
Some creatures of magick are charioting by—
Now it comes!—what a sound—'tis as cheerful and wild,
As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child:
Ah yes!—they are here—see away to your left,
Where the sun has gone down—where the mountains are cleft—
How the robe of the god, in its flame-coloured dye—
Goes ruddily—flushingly—sweepingly by.
The spots that you see?—they are tents—and the air—
All alive with the rustling of flags that are there—
Nay speak—did you ever behold such a night—
While the winds blew about—and the waters were bright—
The sun rolling home in an ocean of light—
But hush!—there is musick away in the sky—
Some creatures of magick are charioting by—
Now it comes!—what a sound—'tis as cheerful and wild,
As the echo of caves to the laugh of a child:
Ah yes!—they are here—see away to your left,
Where the sun has gone down—where the mountains are cleft—
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A troop of tall horsemen!—how fearless they ride!
'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side.
Careering they come, like a band of young knights,
That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites;
With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests;
With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-covered breasts;
With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride
Of their high mettled steeds, as they galloping ride
In glitter and pomp:—with their housings of gold—
With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold,
Flashing changeable light—like a banner unrolled.
Now they burst on the eye in their martial array!
And now they have gone!—like a vision of day:
In a streaming of splendour they came—but they wheeled;
And instantly all the bright show was concealed!
As if 'twere a tournament held in the sky,
Betrayed by some light passing suddenly by:
Some band by the flashing of torches revealed,
As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield,
Or banners and blades in the darkness concealed.
They came like a cloud that is passing the light,
That brightens and blazes—and fades from the sight:
They came like a dream—and as swiftly they fled,
As the shadows that pass o'er the sun's dying red—
And one has returned! 'twas the first of the band;
On the top of the cliff he has taken his stand,
And the tread of his barb, as he leans in his strength,
And loosens his mane in the flow of its length,
Declares he is reined by a masterly hand!
While he rears o'er the rich-rolling clouds of that height
Like a pageant upraised by the wonders of light:
A warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!
See his helm feathers glance in the clear setting sun,
While his sabre is forth, o'er the cliff he has won,
With a waving of strength, and an air of command!
'Tis a perilous path o'er that steep mountain's side.
Careering they come, like a band of young knights,
That the trumpet of morn to the tilting invites;
With high-nodding plumes, and with sun-shiny vests;
With wide-tossing manes, and with mail-covered breasts;
With arching of necks, and the plunge and the pride
Of their high mettled steeds, as they galloping ride
In glitter and pomp:—with their housings of gold—
With their scarlet and blue, as their squadrons unfold,
Flashing changeable light—like a banner unrolled.
Now they burst on the eye in their martial array!
And now they have gone!—like a vision of day:
In a streaming of splendour they came—but they wheeled;
And instantly all the bright show was concealed!
As if 'twere a tournament held in the sky,
Betrayed by some light passing suddenly by:
Some band by the flashing of torches revealed,
As it fell o'er the boss of an uplifted shield,
Or banners and blades in the darkness concealed.
They came like a cloud that is passing the light,
That brightens and blazes—and fades from the sight:
They came like a dream—and as swiftly they fled,
As the shadows that pass o'er the sun's dying red—
And one has returned! 'twas the first of the band;
On the top of the cliff he has taken his stand,
And the tread of his barb, as he leans in his strength,
And loosens his mane in the flow of its length,
Declares he is reined by a masterly hand!
While he rears o'er the rich-rolling clouds of that height
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A warrior of flame!—on a courser of night!
See his helm feathers glance in the clear setting sun,
While his sabre is forth, o'er the cliff he has won,
With a waving of strength, and an air of command!
He is gone—and the brown, where the sunset reposes,
Grows warm as the bloom on the bosom of roses;
The herbage is crimson'd, and sprinkled with light;
And purple and yellow are busy and bright:
On the precipice-crown, and the sceptre of green,
That the forest-tree heaves, a red lustre is seen,
In a wreathing of fire: 'tis a garland that they,
Whose blossoms are plucked at the closing of day,
Have dropp'd from their laps in their rioting play:
The summer leaf reddens and deepens its dyes:
Its scarlet and green all unite, as it lies
In the breath of the vapour, and hue of the skies:
The young gushing fount ripples tenderly red;
And a blush, like the sighing of blossoms is shed,
O'er the green shiny moss, that around it is spread:
A glow like enchantment is seen o'er the lake,
Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake,
And o'er its dull-bosom their soft plumage shake:
Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away.
Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day:
The richness and mist of the tints that were there
Are melting away like the bow of the air:
The blue-bosom'd water heaves darker and bluer:
The cliffs and the trees are seen bolder and truer,
The landscape has less of enchantment and light;
But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight:
The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye,
Seemed loosened and passing away in the sky,
And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue,
Like the violet that's melting away in its dew,
But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue.
The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky
Grow fainter, and fainter:—the wonders all die.
Grows warm as the bloom on the bosom of roses;
The herbage is crimson'd, and sprinkled with light;
And purple and yellow are busy and bright:
On the precipice-crown, and the sceptre of green,
That the forest-tree heaves, a red lustre is seen,
In a wreathing of fire: 'tis a garland that they,
Whose blossoms are plucked at the closing of day,
Have dropp'd from their laps in their rioting play:
The summer leaf reddens and deepens its dyes:
Its scarlet and green all unite, as it lies
In the breath of the vapour, and hue of the skies:
The young gushing fount ripples tenderly red;
And a blush, like the sighing of blossoms is shed,
O'er the green shiny moss, that around it is spread:
A glow like enchantment is seen o'er the lake,
Like the flush of the sky, when the day heralds wake,
And o'er its dull-bosom their soft plumage shake:
Now the warmth of the heaven is fading away.
Young Evening comes up in pursuit of the Day:
The richness and mist of the tints that were there
Are melting away like the bow of the air:
The blue-bosom'd water heaves darker and bluer:
The cliffs and the trees are seen bolder and truer,
88
But it lies the more steady and firm in the sight:
The lustre-crown'd peaks, while they dazzled the eye,
Seemed loosened and passing away in the sky,
And the far-distant hills, in their tremulous blue,
Like the violet that's melting away in its dew,
But baffled the eye, as it dwelt on their hue.
The light of the hill, and the wave, and the sky
Grow fainter, and fainter:—the wonders all die.
The visions have gone! they have vanished away,
Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day.
The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight:
And fountains were gushing like wine in its light:
And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight—
A moment—and all was enveloped in night!
'Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart,
They come but to blaze—and they blaze to depart:
Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide
The chilling of sorrow, or burning of pride:
They come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell,
Like bright birds over ocean—but never to dwell.
Unobserved in their change, like the bliss of a day.
The rainbows of heaven were bent in our sight:
And fountains were gushing like wine in its light:
And seraphs were wheeling around in their flight—
A moment—and all was enveloped in night!
'Tis thus with the dreams of the high-heaving heart,
They come but to blaze—and they blaze to depart:
Their gossamer wings are too thin to abide
The chilling of sorrow, or burning of pride:
They come, but to brush o'er its young gallant swell,
Like bright birds over ocean—but never to dwell.
Observed ye the cloud on that mountain's dim green?
So heavily hanging?—as if it had been
The tent of the Thunderer—the chariot of one,
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?
'Tis descending to earth! and some horsemen are now,
In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow:
'Tis a helmeted band! from the hills they descend,
Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend,
No scimitars swing as they gallop along:
No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong:
No trumpet is filled, and no bugle is blown:
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown:
No shoutings are heard—and no cheerings are given:
No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven:
No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reigns:
No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes:
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing—
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing:
But they speed like coursers, whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod:
Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf,
Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf,
Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weeping,
And young, gallant hearts in their sepulchres sleeping:
Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon,
While the Nights muffled horn plays a low windy tune,
Are seen to come down from the height of the skies,
By the warrior, that on the red battle-field lies,
And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field,
And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheel'd;
When the dying half raise themselves up in a trance,
And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance,
And wonder to see the dread battle renewed,
On the turf, where themselves and their comrades had stood.
Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they ride
O'er the thunder-reft mount—on its ruggedest side:
From the precipice top, they circle and leap,
Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep:
Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies,
Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes,—
With gestures more threatening and fierce 'till he dies:
And away they have gone, with a motionless speed,
Like Demons abroad on some dreadful deed.
The last one hath gone: they have all disappear'd;
Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard:
For still, tho' they passed like no steeds of the earth,
The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth;
Your heart would lie still 'till it numbered the last;
And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen past:
So swiftly—so mutely—so darkly they went,
Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent,
That ye felt their approach, and might guess their intent:
Your hero's stern-bosom will oftentimes quake,
Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake,
Before the cool marching that comes in the night—
Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light;
Subduing the heart with a nameless affright—
When that would swell strongly, and this would appear,
If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear,
Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day,
When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her prey.
So heavily hanging?—as if it had been
The tent of the Thunderer—the chariot of one,
Who dare not appear in the blaze of the sun?
'Tis descending to earth! and some horsemen are now,
In a line of dark mist, coming down from its brow:
'Tis a helmeted band! from the hills they descend,
Like the monarchs of storm, when the forest trees bend,
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No clattering hoof falls sudden and strong:
No trumpet is filled, and no bugle is blown:
No banners abroad on the wind are thrown:
No shoutings are heard—and no cheerings are given:
No waving of red-flowing plumage to heaven:
No flashing of blades, and no loosening of reigns:
No neighing of steeds, and no tossing of manes:
No furniture trailing, or warrior helms bowing—
Or crimson and gold-spotted drapery flowing:
But they speed like coursers, whose hoofs are shod
With a silent shoe from the loosened sod:
Like the steeds that career o'er the billowy surf,
Or stretch like the winds o'er the untrodden turf,
Where the willow and yew in their darkness are weeping,
And young, gallant hearts in their sepulchres sleeping:
Like the squadrons, that on the pale light of the moon,
While the Nights muffled horn plays a low windy tune,
Are seen to come down from the height of the skies,
By the warrior, that on the red battle-field lies,
And wave their cloud-helmets, and charge o'er the field,
And career o'er the tracks where the living had wheel'd;
When the dying half raise themselves up in a trance,
And gaze on the show, as their thin banners glance,
And wonder to see the dread battle renewed,
On the turf, where themselves and their comrades had stood.
Like these shadows, in swiftness and darkness they ride
O'er the thunder-reft mount—on its ruggedest side:
90
Like the warriors of air, that are seen in our sleep:
Like the creatures that pass where a bleeding man lies,
Their heads muffled up to their white filmy eyes,—
With gestures more threatening and fierce 'till he dies:
And away they have gone, with a motionless speed,
Like Demons abroad on some dreadful deed.
The last one hath gone: they have all disappear'd;
Their dull-echoed trampings no longer are heard:
For still, tho' they passed like no steeds of the earth,
The fall of their tread gave some hollow-sounds birth;
Your heart would lie still 'till it numbered the last;
And your breath would be held till the rear horsemen past:
So swiftly—so mutely—so darkly they went,
Like the spectres of air to the sorcerer sent,
That ye felt their approach, and might guess their intent:
Your hero's stern-bosom will oftentimes quake,
Your gallant young warrior-plume oftentimes shake,
Before the cool marching that comes in the night—
Passing by, like a cloud in the dim troubled light;
Subduing the heart with a nameless affright—
When that would swell strongly, and this would appear,
If the sound of one trumpet saluted the ear,
Like some scarlet-wing'd bird, that is nurs'd in the day,
When she shakes her red plumage in wrath o'er her prey.
For be they the horsemen of earth, or of heaven,
No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given;
No roll of the drum—and no cry of the fife;
No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife—
Is half so terrifick to full swelling hearts,
As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs,
With echoless armour—with motionless plume:
With ensigns all furled—in the trappings of gloom—
Parading, like those who came up from the tomb,
In silence and darkness—determined and slow;
And dreadfully calm—as the murderer's brow,
When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow,
'Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow!
No blast that the trumpet of Slaughter hath given;
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No neighing of steeds in the bloodiest strife—
Is half so terrifick to full swelling hearts,
As the still, pulseless tramp of a band that departs,
With echoless armour—with motionless plume:
With ensigns all furled—in the trappings of gloom—
Parading, like those who came up from the tomb,
In silence and darkness—determined and slow;
And dreadfully calm—as the murderer's brow,
When his dagger is forth!—and ye see not the blow,
'Till the gleam of the blade shows your heart in its flow!
O, say what ye will!—the dull sound that awakes,
When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit aches
With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far,
Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war.
It is the cold summons that comes from the ground,
When a sepulchre answers pour light, youthful bound,
And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound,
Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear,
When the banners of death in their splendours appear,
And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear!
The low, sullen moans, that so feebly awake,
At midnight—when one is alone—on some lake,
Compar'd to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls,
From the bosom of space, to the uttermost poles!
Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud—
The talking of those who go by in a cloud;
To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud!
'Tis the light that is seen to burst under the wave—
The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave,
To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red,
And farewells are discharg'd o'er a young soldier's bed!
To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way,
When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray!
When the night breeze is down, and the chill spirit aches
With its measureless thought, is more dreadful by far,
Than the burst of the trump, when it peals for the war.
It is the cold summons that comes from the ground,
When a sepulchre answers pour light, youthful bound,
And loud joyous laugh, with its chill fearful sound,
Compared to the challenge that leaps on the ear,
When the banners of death in their splendours appear,
And the free golden bugle sings freshly and clear!
The low, sullen moans, that so feebly awake,
At midnight—when one is alone—on some lake,
Compar'd to the Thunderer's voice, when it rolls,
From the bosom of space, to the uttermost poles!
Like something that stirs in the weight of a shroud—
The talking of those who go by in a cloud;
To the cannon's full voice, when it wanders aloud!
92
The pale, fitful omen, that plays o'er a grave,
To the rushing of flame, where the turf is all red,
And farewells are discharg'd o'er a young soldier's bed!
To the lightnings that blaze o'er the mariner's way,
When the storm is in pomp, and the ocean in spray!
Dark and chill is the sky; and the clouds gather round;
There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound;
As if something were near, that would pass unobserved,
O, if 'tis that band—may their right-arms be nerved!
Hark!—a challenge is given!—a rash charger neighs!
And a trumpet is blown!—and lo, there's a blaze!
And a clashing of sabres is heard—and a shout,
Like a hurried order—goes passing about!
And unfurling banners are tossed to the sky,
As struggling to float on the wind passing by—
And unharness'd war-steeds are crowding together;
The horseman's thick plume—and the foot soldier's feather—
The battle is up! and the thunder is pealing!
And squadrons of cavalry coursing and wheeling!
And line after line, in their light are revealing!
One troop of high helms thro' the fight urge their way,
Unbroken and stern—like a ship thro' the spray:
Their pistols speak quick—and their blades are all bare,
And the sparkles of steely encounter are there.
There's nought to be seen, yet there comes a low sound;
As if something were near, that would pass unobserved,
O, if 'tis that band—may their right-arms be nerved!
Hark!—a challenge is given!—a rash charger neighs!
And a trumpet is blown!—and lo, there's a blaze!
And a clashing of sabres is heard—and a shout,
Like a hurried order—goes passing about!
And unfurling banners are tossed to the sky,
As struggling to float on the wind passing by—
And unharness'd war-steeds are crowding together;
The horseman's thick plume—and the foot soldier's feather—
The battle is up! and the thunder is pealing!
And squadrons of cavalry coursing and wheeling!
And line after line, in their light are revealing!
One troop of high helms thro' the fight urge their way,
Unbroken and stern—like a ship thro' the spray:
Their pistols speak quick—and their blades are all bare,
And the sparkles of steely encounter are there.
Away they still speed!—with one impulse they bound;
With one impulse alike, as their foes gather round.
Undismayed—undisturbed—and above all the rest,
One rides o'er the strife, like a mane o'er its crest;
And holds on his way thro' the scimitars there,
All plunging in light!—while the slumbering air
Shakes wide with the rolling artillery-peal—
The tall one is first, and his followers deal
Around, and around, their desperate blows,
Like the army of shadows above, when it goes
With the smiting of shields, and the clapping of wings;
When the red-crests shake—and the storm-pipe sings:
When the cloud-flag unfurls—and the death-bugles sound—
When the monarchs of space on their dark-chargers bound—
And the shock of their cavalry comes in the night,
With furniture flashing!—and weapons of light!—
So travelled this band in its pomp and its might.
With one impulse alike, as their foes gather round.
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One rides o'er the strife, like a mane o'er its crest;
And holds on his way thro' the scimitars there,
All plunging in light!—while the slumbering air
Shakes wide with the rolling artillery-peal—
The tall one is first, and his followers deal
Around, and around, their desperate blows,
Like the army of shadows above, when it goes
With the smiting of shields, and the clapping of wings;
When the red-crests shake—and the storm-pipe sings:
When the cloud-flag unfurls—and the death-bugles sound—
When the monarchs of space on their dark-chargers bound—
And the shock of their cavalry comes in the night,
With furniture flashing!—and weapons of light!—
So travelled this band in its pomp and its might.
Away they have gone!—and their path is all red,
Hedged in by two lines of the dying and dead;
By bosoms, that burst unrevenged in the strife—
By swords, that yet shake in the passing of life—
For so swift had that pageant of darkness sped—
So like a trooping of cloud-mounted dead—
That the flashing reply of the foe that was cleft,
But fell on the shadows those troopers had left
Far and away, they are coursing again,
O'er the clouded hill, and the darkened plain,
Now choosing the turf for their noiseless route;
Now, where the wet sand is strown thickest about,
Streams their long line!—like a mist troop they ride,
In a winding cloud, o'er the near mountain's side;
While a struggling moon throws a lustre as dim
As a sepulchre's lamp, and the vapours that swim,
O'er the hills and the heavens, divide as they fly:—
The videttes of winds that are stationed on high!
Hedged in by two lines of the dying and dead;
By bosoms, that burst unrevenged in the strife—
By swords, that yet shake in the passing of life—
For so swift had that pageant of darkness sped—
So like a trooping of cloud-mounted dead—
That the flashing reply of the foe that was cleft,
But fell on the shadows those troopers had left
Far and away, they are coursing again,
O'er the clouded hill, and the darkened plain,
Now choosing the turf for their noiseless route;
Now, where the wet sand is strown thickest about,
94
In a winding cloud, o'er the near mountain's side;
While a struggling moon throws a lustre as dim
As a sepulchre's lamp, and the vapours that swim,
O'er the hills and the heavens, divide as they fly:—
The videttes of winds that are stationed on high!
Speak—would you know why woke that desperate fray?
Why battle moved in night, and shunned the day?
And who the leader of that sullen band,
Whose march was destiny?—whose stern command
Went thrilling to the heart:—while not a word
He uttered in his march—and nought was heard,
But the deep, dreadful sound, of hearts that burst—
Of arms that smote in death, and lips that cursed?
Who gave no cheering to his troops—as they
Wheeled—charged—and smote—and gallopped in array!
But shook his naked falchion in his might,
And scattered o'er his path its meteor light?
Then, like the bolt of heaven, it flash'd, and fell
On blades and helms, that shattered in their knell!
How firm and high he sat!—all bone—all strength—
His charger stretching at his utmost length!
Why battle moved in night, and shunned the day?
And who the leader of that sullen band,
Whose march was destiny?—whose stern command
Went thrilling to the heart:—while not a word
He uttered in his march—and nought was heard,
But the deep, dreadful sound, of hearts that burst—
Of arms that smote in death, and lips that cursed?
Who gave no cheering to his troops—as they
Wheeled—charged—and smote—and gallopped in array!
But shook his naked falchion in his might,
And scattered o'er his path its meteor light?
Then, like the bolt of heaven, it flash'd, and fell
On blades and helms, that shattered in their knell!
How firm and high he sat!—all bone—all strength—
His charger stretching at his utmost length!
'Tis lighter now: the troops are seen again,
Passing at length before a tented plain:
The moon is up, and brightening o'er their road;
Their steeds come bravely round beneath their load,
And slacken to a trot—and snorting loudly,
Strain their dark necks, with far manes floating proudly;
Thickening their tramps approach—they near the blaze
Of Freedom's camp, where her loose drapery plays—
Breaking in lustre—thick with starry light;
And crimson stripes opposed to gleamy white:
Symbols of battle and of peace—the dye
Of blood—and flash of lilied purity:
Passing at length before a tented plain:
The moon is up, and brightening o'er their road;
Their steeds come bravely round beneath their load,
And slacken to a trot—and snorting loudly,
Strain their dark necks, with far manes floating proudly;
95
Of Freedom's camp, where her loose drapery plays—
Breaking in lustre—thick with starry light;
And crimson stripes opposed to gleamy white:
Symbols of battle and of peace—the dye
Of blood—and flash of lilied purity:
The leader halts—the broad red light shows well
His stately outline, and his charger's swell.
How like a shade the horse and rider seem!
Like the dark trooper of a troubled dream.
His sabre is abroad—they gather round—
Back!—back it waves!—and hark!—the bugles sound:
Swiftly he wheels!—his arm is stretched again—
Some gather round, and some behind remain:
Forth, and all free! a chosen escort spring;
Unsheath their hangers, while their scabbards ring:
Leap to their places, and at speed depart,
While the rough trumpets on the night-wind start:
Away they stretch at length! as when they've met
In chase upon the mountain-tops, while yet
The morning gems are thick, and all the turf is wet.
His stately outline, and his charger's swell.
How like a shade the horse and rider seem!
Like the dark trooper of a troubled dream.
His sabre is abroad—they gather round—
Back!—back it waves!—and hark!—the bugles sound:
Swiftly he wheels!—his arm is stretched again—
Some gather round, and some behind remain:
Forth, and all free! a chosen escort spring;
Unsheath their hangers, while their scabbards ring:
Leap to their places, and at speed depart,
While the rough trumpets on the night-wind start:
Away they stretch at length! as when they've met
In chase upon the mountain-tops, while yet
The morning gems are thick, and all the turf is wet.
Again they stay their march—and one's ahead;
His fire-eyed charger halts with angry tread;
His black limbs bathed in foam—his reaching mane,
Rising and sinking, as he feels the rein:
Now rings the harness!—from the saddle, bounds
The red-plumed chief—erect, and lightly sounds
A free-toned bugle to the distant hills;
Singing and pealing clear—like horn that Echo fills:
And oh!—an answer!—how it faintly dies
In sweet, calm melody along the skies,
As if it were a challenge lightly given,
From golden trumpets on a summer even!
Now springing merrily upon the ear,
As if some infant trumpeter were near—
Like songs ye hear at evening o'er the main—
Like bells upon the wind—that come and go again.
His fire-eyed charger halts with angry tread;
His black limbs bathed in foam—his reaching mane,
Rising and sinking, as he feels the rein:
Now rings the harness!—from the saddle, bounds
The red-plumed chief—erect, and lightly sounds
A free-toned bugle to the distant hills;
Singing and pealing clear—like horn that Echo fills:
96
In sweet, calm melody along the skies,
As if it were a challenge lightly given,
From golden trumpets on a summer even!
Now springing merrily upon the ear,
As if some infant trumpeter were near—
Like songs ye hear at evening o'er the main—
Like bells upon the wind—that come and go again.
‘Halt here!’ the chieftain said—‘halt here awhile:’
His cheek burned deeper—and a soldier smile
Played sternly o'er his features, as he laid,
His martial hand upon his rattling blade,
And gathered up his cloak, and strode amid the shade.
His cheek burned deeper—and a soldier smile
Played sternly o'er his features, as he laid,
His martial hand upon his rattling blade,
And gathered up his cloak, and strode amid the shade.
98
CANTO II.
The first night continues through the whole of this canto ..... Ontario described ..... Appearances .... Reflections ..... Apostrophe ...... Resemblances ...... American Indian ..... Apollo ..... Corruption and refinement ..... Hero appears ..... Indian ..... Both surprised ..... Combat ...... Hero visits his family ..... description.
99
COME, sit thou with me!—what a heavenly night!
The winds blowing fresh—and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
So respectful and still:—and the scenery there—
How it moves up and down in the dim, holy air!
'Tis a midnight of awe—and a sabbath of love.
O lift up thine eyes—see the firmament spreading
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue—
Rolling on—rolling on—through infinity—shedding
For ever—its oceans of lustre and dew.
The winds blowing fresh—and the beautiful light
Shedding out such a luminous dampness above!—
So respectful and still:—and the scenery there—
How it moves up and down in the dim, holy air!
'Tis a midnight of awe—and a sabbath of love.
O lift up thine eyes—see the firmament spreading
A moveable vault of the deepest of blue—
Rolling on—rolling on—through infinity—shedding
For ever—its oceans of lustre and dew.
Come, sit thou with me!—we shall both learn to feel,
Like the men of old times—when Jehovah was near—
Come, sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here.
And the breezes that come—and the branches that bow—
To the clouds trailing by—they shall all teach us how,
In past years, when these woods started green from the earth;
And that shore—and this hill—and that water had birth,
Their inhabitants held their communion with heaven—
In worship and trembling—like children forgiven—
How they knelt down alone, while the whole world slept,
Their hearts overburthened with pleasure—and wept.
Like the men of old times—when Jehovah was near—
Come, sit thou with me!—and together we'll kneel,
And pour out our hearts to the God that is here.
And the breezes that come—and the branches that bow—
To the clouds trailing by—they shall all teach us how,
In past years, when these woods started green from the earth;
And that shore—and this hill—and that water had birth,
Their inhabitants held their communion with heaven—
In worship and trembling—like children forgiven—
100
Their hearts overburthened with pleasure—and wept.
Here sleeps Ontario. Old Ontario, hail!
Unawed by conquering prow, or pirate sail:
Still heaving in thy freedom—still unchained—
Still swelling to the skies—still unprofaned—
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle—when the swift canoe—
From every shore, went dipping o'er the tide—
Like birds, that stooping from the far cliff ride—
A moment on the billow—shriek and rise,
With loaded talons wheeling to the skies.
The heaven's blue counterpart!—the murmuring home
Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam—
Reflector of the arch that's o'er thee bent;
Thou watery sky!—thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude—
The wild festoon—the cliff—the hanging wood—
The soaring eagle—and the wing of light—
The sunny plumage—and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus, may thy free waters flow,
In their rude loveliness!—thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar
Of thine own deep! thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men, in their journeying—
The savage chant—the panther's smothered cry—
That, from her airy height, goes thrilling by!
Be ever thus—as now—magnificent—
In savage Nature's pomp—unbowed—unbent,
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!
Be ever unapproachable—and free:
The home of Indians and of Liberty.—
But let thy woods be bowed—their sceptres shorn:
Thy blooming streamers from thy ramparts torn;
Thy fountains hushed—and the luxuriant green
Of oozy turf, that o'er thy haunt is seen,
Be trampled on and opened to the sun—
And all thy rich exuberance is done:
Let but the white man's summons once be heard,
And gone, for ever, is thy guardian Bird:
Be once thy torrents stilled—the shiny moss,
Thy grotto-hangings, that the dews emboss;
Thy glittering halls laid open to the light—
Thy mysteries revealed to the unholy sight:
Thy secret places to the sun betrayed;
And, in thy temples, men of blood arrayed;
The curtain of thy sanctuary rent—
Thy dwellings opened to the firmament:
Thy solitudes disturbed—thine altars stained:
Thy heights polluted, and thy depths profaned
With Indian blood, and thy dark offspring chained:
Thy battlements of rocks, and cliffs, and clouds—
Stripped of their garland flags, and hung with shrouds,
And bright with glittering spires: thine altars down—
Then what art thou? and where thy thrones? and crown?
Thy sceptres? and thy hosts?—for ever gone!
And thou—a savage in the world!—alone:
A naked monarch—sullen, stern, and rude,
Amid a robed and plumed multitude:
Sublime and motionless—but impotent—
Stripped of his arrows, and with bow unbent.
Who feels that terror of the Indian then,
Such as he felt in night and darkness, when
That Indian walked alone, the conqueror of men?
Unawed by conquering prow, or pirate sail:
Still heaving in thy freedom—still unchained—
Still swelling to the skies—still unprofaned—
As when thy earliest, freest children flew
Like hawks to battle—when the swift canoe—
From every shore, went dipping o'er the tide—
Like birds, that stooping from the far cliff ride—
A moment on the billow—shriek and rise,
With loaded talons wheeling to the skies.
The heaven's blue counterpart!—the murmuring home
Of spirits shipwrecked in the ocean-foam—
Reflector of the arch that's o'er thee bent;
Thou watery sky!—thou liquid firmament!
Mirror of garland-weaving Solitude—
The wild festoon—the cliff—the hanging wood—
The soaring eagle—and the wing of light—
The sunny plumage—and the starry flight
Of dazzling myriads in a cloudless night.
Peace to thy bosom, dark Ontario!
For ever thus, may thy free waters flow,
In their rude loveliness!—thy lonely shore
For ever echo to the sullen roar
Of thine own deep! thy cliffs for ever ring
With calling wild men, in their journeying—
The savage chant—the panther's smothered cry—
That, from her airy height, goes thrilling by!
Be ever thus—as now—magnificent—
101
And thou wilt ever be omnipotent!
Be ever unapproachable—and free:
The home of Indians and of Liberty.—
But let thy woods be bowed—their sceptres shorn:
Thy blooming streamers from thy ramparts torn;
Thy fountains hushed—and the luxuriant green
Of oozy turf, that o'er thy haunt is seen,
Be trampled on and opened to the sun—
And all thy rich exuberance is done:
Let but the white man's summons once be heard,
And gone, for ever, is thy guardian Bird:
Be once thy torrents stilled—the shiny moss,
Thy grotto-hangings, that the dews emboss;
Thy glittering halls laid open to the light—
Thy mysteries revealed to the unholy sight:
Thy secret places to the sun betrayed;
And, in thy temples, men of blood arrayed;
The curtain of thy sanctuary rent—
Thy dwellings opened to the firmament:
Thy solitudes disturbed—thine altars stained:
Thy heights polluted, and thy depths profaned
With Indian blood, and thy dark offspring chained:
Thy battlements of rocks, and cliffs, and clouds—
Stripped of their garland flags, and hung with shrouds,
And bright with glittering spires: thine altars down—
Then what art thou? and where thy thrones? and crown?
Thy sceptres? and thy hosts?—for ever gone!
And thou—a savage in the world!—alone:
A naked monarch—sullen, stern, and rude,
Amid a robed and plumed multitude:
102
Stripped of his arrows, and with bow unbent.
Who feels that terror of the Indian then,
Such as he felt in night and darkness, when
That Indian walked alone, the conqueror of men?
True, he may walk with his own fearless tread;
With out-stretched arm, and high uplifted head,
Of one familiar with the pathless wood,
The caverned chase, the haunts of solitude—
The midnight storm—the thunder-clap—and sleep
On jutting cliff—above a tumbling deep:
But where will be that reverential dread,
That hung upon the wild man, in his tread
Within his own dominions?—it is gone!—
And he stands there undreaded and alone.
With out-stretched arm, and high uplifted head,
Of one familiar with the pathless wood,
The caverned chase, the haunts of solitude—
The midnight storm—the thunder-clap—and sleep
On jutting cliff—above a tumbling deep:
But where will be that reverential dread,
That hung upon the wild man, in his tread
Within his own dominions?—it is gone!—
And he stands there undreaded and alone.
Such were thy children—Indian princes—now
Each stands subdued—with yet a monarch's brow.
But rend him from his home, and place him where
The heaven's bright blue is hidden—and the air
Breathes thick with pestilence—and there he dies,
With few to fear and none to sympathize.
Each stands subdued—with yet a monarch's brow.
But rend him from his home, and place him where
The heaven's bright blue is hidden—and the air
Breathes thick with pestilence—and there he dies,
With few to fear and none to sympathize.
Rest like the midnight, Mighty One!—and throw—
Thy shadow o'er thy children of the bow:
Who, in the wilderness, can calmly go
To do their worship in a lonely place,
By altars reeking with the she-wolf's trace:
And gaze intrepidly upon the skies,
While the red lightning in its anger flies—
When white men, in their terror, close their eyes:
For man is there sublime—he is a god!
Great Nature's master-piece! like him who trod
The banks of paradise, and stood alone,
The wonder of the skies—erect upon his throne.
Thy shadow o'er thy children of the bow:
Who, in the wilderness, can calmly go
To do their worship in a lonely place,
By altars reeking with the she-wolf's trace:
And gaze intrepidly upon the skies,
While the red lightning in its anger flies—
103
For man is there sublime—he is a god!
Great Nature's master-piece! like him who trod
The banks of paradise, and stood alone,
The wonder of the skies—erect upon his throne.
Not like the airy god of moulded light,
Just stepping from his chariot on the sight;
Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud,
With arm outstretched and bow-string twanging loud:
And arrows singing as they pierce the air,
With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair;
As if he paused upon his bounding way,
And loosened his fierce arrows—all in play;
But like that angry god, in blazing light
Bursting from space! and standing in his might:
Revealed in his omnipotent array—
Apollo of the skies! and Deity of Day!
In god-like wrath! piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go:
Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle, and with sunny wings,
When heavenly musick murmurs from his strings—
A buoyant vision—an embodied dream
Of dainty Poesy—and boyishly supreme:
Just stepping from his chariot on the sight;
Poising his beauties on a rolling cloud,
With arm outstretched and bow-string twanging loud:
And arrows singing as they pierce the air,
With tinkling sandals, and with flaming hair;
As if he paused upon his bounding way,
And loosened his fierce arrows—all in play;
But like that angry god, in blazing light
Bursting from space! and standing in his might:
Revealed in his omnipotent array—
Apollo of the skies! and Deity of Day!
In god-like wrath! piercing his myriad-foe
With quenchless shafts, that lighten as they go:
Not like that god, when up in air he springs,
With brightening mantle, and with sunny wings,
When heavenly musick murmurs from his strings—
A buoyant vision—an embodied dream
Of dainty Poesy—and boyishly supreme:
Not the thin spirit waked by young Desire,
Gazing o'er heaven till her thoughts take fire:
Panting and breathless in her heart's wild trance—
Bright, shapeless forms—the godlings of Romance:
Not that Apollo—not resembling him,
Of silver bow, and woman's nerveless limb:
But man!—all man!—the monarch of the wild!
Not the faint spirit that corrupting smil'd
On soft, lascivious Greece—but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase! with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red Bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping!
Thus springing to the skies!—a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight—
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen, but by the Indian sight;
His robe and hair upon the wind at length,
A creature of the hills!—all grace and strength;
All muscle and all flame—his eager eye
Fixed on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky.
Not that Apollo!—not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun,—
But this—the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent—cliff, and wood—
Nurslings of cloud and storm—the desert's fiery brood.
Gazing o'er heaven till her thoughts take fire:
Panting and breathless in her heart's wild trance—
Bright, shapeless forms—the godlings of Romance:
Not that Apollo—not resembling him,
Of silver bow, and woman's nerveless limb:
104
Not the faint spirit that corrupting smil'd
On soft, lascivious Greece—but Nature's child,
Arrested in the chase! with piercing eye
Fix'd in its airy lightning on the sky,
Where some red Bird goes languid, eddying, drooping,
Pierced by his arrows in her swiftest stooping!
Thus springing to the skies!—a boy will stand
With arms uplifted and unconscious hand
Tracing his arrow in its loftiest flight—
And watch it kindling, as it cleaves the light
Of worlds unseen, but by the Indian sight;
His robe and hair upon the wind at length,
A creature of the hills!—all grace and strength;
All muscle and all flame—his eager eye
Fixed on one spot, as if he could descry
His bleeding victim nestling in the sky.
Not that Apollo!—not the heavenly one,
Voluptuous spirit of a setting sun,—
But this—the offspring of young Solitude,
Child of the holy spot, where none intrude
But genii of the torrent—cliff, and wood—
Nurslings of cloud and storm—the desert's fiery brood.
Great Nature's man!—and not a thing—all light:
Etherial vision of distempered sight;
But mingled cloud and sunshine—flame and night.
With arrows—not like his of sport—that go
In light and musick from a silver bow:
But barbed with flint—with feather—reeking red,
The heart-blood that some famished wolf hath shed!
Etherial vision of distempered sight;
But mingled cloud and sunshine—flame and night.
With arrows—not like his of sport—that go
In light and musick from a silver bow:
But barbed with flint—with feather—reeking red,
The heart-blood that some famished wolf hath shed!
105
Thou home of gallant men—Ontario—
I would, but cannot leave thee—I would go,
But thy great spirit holds me—may no sial
Ever unfold against thy mountain gale!
Thy waters were thus spread in cloudy blue,
But for thy white fowl and the light canoe.
Should once the smooth dark lustre of thy breast
With mightier burthens, ever be oppressed—
Farewell to thee! and all thy loveliness!
Commerce will rear her arks—and Nature's dress
Be scattered to the winds: thy shores will bloom,
Like dying flow'rets sprinkled o'er a tomb:
The feverish, fleeting lustre of the flowers,
Burnt into life in Art's unnatural bowers;
Not the green—graceful—wild luxuriance
Of Nature's garlands, in their negligence:
The clambering jasmine, and the flushing rose
That in the wilderness their hearts disclose;
The dewy violet, and the bud of gold,
Where drooping lilies on the wave unfold;
Where nameless flowers hang fainting on the air,
As if they breathed their lovely spirits there;
Where heaven itself is bluer, and the light
Is but a coloured fragrance—floating—bright;
Where the sharp note—and whistling song is heard,
Of many a golden beak, and sunny sparkling bird:
I would, but cannot leave thee—I would go,
But thy great spirit holds me—may no sial
Ever unfold against thy mountain gale!
Thy waters were thus spread in cloudy blue,
But for thy white fowl and the light canoe.
Should once the smooth dark lustre of thy breast
With mightier burthens, ever be oppressed—
Farewell to thee! and all thy loveliness!
Commerce will rear her arks—and Nature's dress
Be scattered to the winds: thy shores will bloom,
Like dying flow'rets sprinkled o'er a tomb:
The feverish, fleeting lustre of the flowers,
Burnt into life in Art's unnatural bowers;
Not the green—graceful—wild luxuriance
Of Nature's garlands, in their negligence:
The clambering jasmine, and the flushing rose
That in the wilderness their hearts disclose;
The dewy violet, and the bud of gold,
Where drooping lilies on the wave unfold;
Where nameless flowers hang fainting on the air,
As if they breathed their lovely spirits there;
Where heaven itself is bluer, and the light
Is but a coloured fragrance—floating—bright;
Where the sharp note—and whistling song is heard,
Of many a golden beak, and sunny sparkling bird:
There the tame honeysuckle will arise;
The gaudy hot-house plant will spread its dyes,
In flaunting boldness to the sunny skies:
And sickly buds, as soon as blown, will shed
Their fainting leaves o'er their untimely bed;
Unnatural violets in the blaze appear—
With hearts unwet by youthful Flora's tear;
And the loose poppy with its sleepy death,
And flashy leaf: the warm and torpid breath
Of lazy garlands, over crawling vines;
The tawdry wreath that Fashion intertwines,
To deck her languid brow: the streamy gold,
And purple flushing of the tulip's fold;
And velvet buds, of crimson, and of blue,
Unchangeable and lifeless, as the hue
Of Fashion's gaudy wreaths, that ne'er were wet with dew.
The gaudy hot-house plant will spread its dyes,
In flaunting boldness to the sunny skies:
106
Their fainting leaves o'er their untimely bed;
Unnatural violets in the blaze appear—
With hearts unwet by youthful Flora's tear;
And the loose poppy with its sleepy death,
And flashy leaf: the warm and torpid breath
Of lazy garlands, over crawling vines;
The tawdry wreath that Fashion intertwines,
To deck her languid brow: the streamy gold,
And purple flushing of the tulip's fold;
And velvet buds, of crimson, and of blue,
Unchangeable and lifeless, as the hue
Of Fashion's gaudy wreaths, that ne'er were wet with dew.
Such flowers as travellers would not stop to bless,
Tho' seen by fountains in the wilderness:
Such heartless flowers, as Love would disavow;
And blooming Flora, if upon her brow
Their leaves had once been dropped, would feel as tho'
Pollution's lips were pressed upon its snow:
Not the white blossom, that beneath its green
And glossy shelter, like a star is seen;
Shrinking and closing from the beam of day—
A virgin flow'ret for the twilight ray:
Not the blue hare-bell, swelling o'er the ground,
And thinly echoing to the fairy bound
Of tripping feet, within its silky round:
Not the wild snow-leaf trembling to the moon,
But the tame sun-flower basking in the noon.
Tho' seen by fountains in the wilderness:
Such heartless flowers, as Love would disavow;
And blooming Flora, if upon her brow
Their leaves had once been dropped, would feel as tho'
Pollution's lips were pressed upon its snow:
Not the white blossom, that beneath its green
And glossy shelter, like a star is seen;
Shrinking and closing from the beam of day—
A virgin flow'ret for the twilight ray:
Not the blue hare-bell, swelling o'er the ground,
And thinly echoing to the fairy bound
Of tripping feet, within its silky round:
Not the wild snow-leaf trembling to the moon,
But the tame sun-flower basking in the noon.
107
Where now red Summer, in her sporting, weaves
Her brightest blossoms with her greenest leaves;
Where the wild grape hangs dropping in the shade,
O'er unfledged minstrels, that beneath are laid:
Where all is fragrant, breathing negligence;
And Nature's budding child, sweet Innocence;
Where now her treasures, and her mysteries—
Like shrouded diamonds—or like sleeping eyes,
Are only seen by those, who kneel and take
Their first bright beaming, when they first awake:
Where now, fresh streamlets answer to the hues
Of passing seraph-wings—and fiery dews,
Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes,
Like sprinkled flame; and all the green-wood shakes
With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung
Open her favourite tresses, while they swung,
And wantoned in the wind—henceforth will be
No lighted dimness, such as that you see,
In yonder faint, mysterious scenery,
Where all the woods keep festival—and seem
Beneath the midnight sky—and mellow beam
Of yonder breathing light—as if they were
Branches and leaves of unembodied air:
Where fountains sing and sparkle to the skies,
In all their sweetest desert melodies—
The prisoned water will be made to play
In one eternal glitter to the day:
Unnatural freshness—arbours will be seen—
And tortured festoons of fantastick green:
The heavy grotto—and the loaded bower:
The green and tepid pond: the pale wall-flower:
The tasteless mingling of the savage pine,
With the bright tendrils of the garden vine:
The stooping willow, with its braided light,
And feathery tresses, changeable and bright:—
The airy mountain ash—the elm—and oak
Rising triumphant from the Thunderer's stroke;—
In all their rich exuberance, shooting out
Their restless sceptres, to the winds about,
The lordly monarchs of the vigorous wood!
Placed by the towering—upstart-poplar brood—
And all the foppery of silly Taste,
That grieves to see wild Nature so unchaste,
That—in her modesty—would barely hint
‘That such and such a shade, and such a tint
‘Might mingle better, if a little care—
‘A little grouping here—and contrast there,
‘Were just to—but no matter,’—they all know
Better than Nature, how her flowers should blow;
How her sweet birds should sing and fountains flow—
And where her trees should stand—her cliffs should rise,
In scattered pointings to the glorious skies.
Leave such cold bosoms, Nature! to their fate;
And be thou grand—luxuriant—desolate—
As it best pleaseth thee. These wretched fools
Would have Creation work by lines and rules.
Theirs is the destiny—be theirs the curse,
In their improvements still—to mount from bad to worse.
Her brightest blossoms with her greenest leaves;
Where the wild grape hangs dropping in the shade,
O'er unfledged minstrels, that beneath are laid:
Where all is fragrant, breathing negligence;
And Nature's budding child, sweet Innocence;
Where now her treasures, and her mysteries—
Like shrouded diamonds—or like sleeping eyes,
Are only seen by those, who kneel and take
Their first bright beaming, when they first awake:
Where now, fresh streamlets answer to the hues
Of passing seraph-wings—and fiery dews,
Hang thick on every bush, when morning wakes,
Like sprinkled flame; and all the green-wood shakes
With liquid jewelry, that Night hath flung
Open her favourite tresses, while they swung,
And wantoned in the wind—henceforth will be
No lighted dimness, such as that you see,
In yonder faint, mysterious scenery,
Where all the woods keep festival—and seem
Beneath the midnight sky—and mellow beam
Of yonder breathing light—as if they were
Branches and leaves of unembodied air:
Where fountains sing and sparkle to the skies,
In all their sweetest desert melodies—
The prisoned water will be made to play
In one eternal glitter to the day:
Unnatural freshness—arbours will be seen—
And tortured festoons of fantastick green:
The heavy grotto—and the loaded bower:
108
The tasteless mingling of the savage pine,
With the bright tendrils of the garden vine:
The stooping willow, with its braided light,
And feathery tresses, changeable and bright:—
The airy mountain ash—the elm—and oak
Rising triumphant from the Thunderer's stroke;—
In all their rich exuberance, shooting out
Their restless sceptres, to the winds about,
The lordly monarchs of the vigorous wood!
Placed by the towering—upstart-poplar brood—
And all the foppery of silly Taste,
That grieves to see wild Nature so unchaste,
That—in her modesty—would barely hint
‘That such and such a shade, and such a tint
‘Might mingle better, if a little care—
‘A little grouping here—and contrast there,
‘Were just to—but no matter,’—they all know
Better than Nature, how her flowers should blow;
How her sweet birds should sing and fountains flow—
And where her trees should stand—her cliffs should rise,
In scattered pointings to the glorious skies.
Leave such cold bosoms, Nature! to their fate;
And be thou grand—luxuriant—desolate—
As it best pleaseth thee. These wretched fools
Would have Creation work by lines and rules.
Theirs is the destiny—be theirs the curse,
In their improvements still—to mount from bad to worse.
109
Be ever thus thou Wilderness! be wild
In thine own nakedness—young Nature's child!
Still hang her festoons o'er thy glittering caves:
Still far from thee the pageantry of slaves!
The dull cold blooming of the lifeless wreaths,
Plucked from the garden where Oppression breathes:
The misty poison of the sultry flowers,
That shed their sleep in artificial bowers:
May Architecture never rear her spires,
Or swell her domes to thy warm sunset fires;
Where now, o'er verdant pyramids and pines,
And dark green crowns, the crimson lustre shines!
Enough has now been done—thou art but free:
Art but a refuge now for Liberty—
E'en now the wakening thunder sometimes roars
Above thy prostrate oaks—the guardians of thy shores.
In thine own nakedness—young Nature's child!
Still hang her festoons o'er thy glittering caves:
Still far from thee the pageantry of slaves!
The dull cold blooming of the lifeless wreaths,
Plucked from the garden where Oppression breathes:
The misty poison of the sultry flowers,
That shed their sleep in artificial bowers:
May Architecture never rear her spires,
Or swell her domes to thy warm sunset fires;
Where now, o'er verdant pyramids and pines,
And dark green crowns, the crimson lustre shines!
Enough has now been done—thou art but free:
Art but a refuge now for Liberty—
E'en now the wakening thunder sometimes roars
Above thy prostrate oaks—the guardians of thy shores.
Roll not thy waves in light, Ontario!!
For ever darkly may thy waters flow!—
Through thy tall shores and blooming solitudes,
Sacred to loneliness—and caves—and woods:—
Roll not thy waves in light—or thou wilt see
Their bosoms heave no longer darkly free:
But whitening into foam beneath their load,
While Commerce ploughs upon her flashing road;
And thou mayest stand, and hearken to the cry
Of thy young genii mounting to the sky:
And feel the fanning of the last free wing,
That's shaken o'er thy brow, as it goes wandering:
And listen to the loud, tumultuous roar
Of martial thunders echoing from thy shore;
And thou—thy ramparts, cliffs, and citadels,
Where now Sublimity, with Freedom, dwells,
Will see thy conquerors on thy mountains rise,
With glittering banners rustling in the skies;
And see their streamers flash, and hear the song
Of victory o'er thee, go pealingly along.
For ever darkly may thy waters flow!—
Through thy tall shores and blooming solitudes,
Sacred to loneliness—and caves—and woods:—
Roll not thy waves in light—or thou wilt see
Their bosoms heave no longer darkly free:
But whitening into foam beneath their load,
While Commerce ploughs upon her flashing road;
And thou mayest stand, and hearken to the cry
Of thy young genii mounting to the sky:
And feel the fanning of the last free wing,
That's shaken o'er thy brow, as it goes wandering:
And listen to the loud, tumultuous roar
Of martial thunders echoing from thy shore;
110
Where now Sublimity, with Freedom, dwells,
Will see thy conquerors on thy mountains rise,
With glittering banners rustling in the skies;
And see their streamers flash, and hear the song
Of victory o'er thee, go pealingly along.
Hail, sleepless monarch! Old Ontario!
Thou, of the woods, and of the Indian bow,
I see thy glories in their dark blue flow!
A lake of wonders!—where the stars appear
In the fair deep, more luminous and clear,
For their confusion! All thy dim shores lie
In moonlight's sleepy, soft tranquillity.
The air is cool, but motionless; about
Is something of enchantment, awe and doubt—
As in the fleeting scenery of a dream,
When landscapes come—and vanish!—like the beam
That blue voluptuous eyes emit in tears,
That trembles—brightens—fades, and disappears!
Something mysterious—holy—like the air
Of caverns, when some spirit has been there;
While yet the breathing incense that was shed,
Is faint and floating round, like sighings o'er the dead.
Thou, of the woods, and of the Indian bow,
I see thy glories in their dark blue flow!
A lake of wonders!—where the stars appear
In the fair deep, more luminous and clear,
For their confusion! All thy dim shores lie
In moonlight's sleepy, soft tranquillity.
The air is cool, but motionless; about
Is something of enchantment, awe and doubt—
As in the fleeting scenery of a dream,
When landscapes come—and vanish!—like the beam
That blue voluptuous eyes emit in tears,
That trembles—brightens—fades, and disappears!
Something mysterious—holy—like the air
Of caverns, when some spirit has been there;
While yet the breathing incense that was shed,
Is faint and floating round, like sighings o'er the dead.
No sound is on the ear: no boatman's oar
Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore:
But all is listening, as it were, to hear
Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere,
And calling on the desert to express,
Its sense of Silence in her loveliness.
What holy dreaming comes in nights like these!
When, like yon wave—unruffled by a breeze,
The mirrors of the memory all are spread,
And fanning pinions sail around your head:
When all that man may love—alive or dead,
Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things,
And nestle on his heart with their young wings:
And all perchance may come, that he may fear,
And mutter doubtful curses in his ear:
Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain
With indistinct forbodings, dim—and vain—
Who has not felt the unexpected tear?
Who has not shaken with an awful fear,
When, in the wilderness—alone—he trod—
Where, since there walked the Everlasting God—
No living foot hath been? where boundless woods—
Where sanctuaries—waters—solitudes—
In dreadful stillness—vaulted round—are spread,
Like some appointed place—for judgment on the dead.
Drops its dull signal to the watchful shore:
But all is listening, as it were, to hear
Some seraph harper stooping from her sphere,
And calling on the desert to express,
Its sense of Silence in her loveliness.
111
When, like yon wave—unruffled by a breeze,
The mirrors of the memory all are spread,
And fanning pinions sail around your head:
When all that man may love—alive or dead,
Come murmuring sweet, unutterable things,
And nestle on his heart with their young wings:
And all perchance may come, that he may fear,
And mutter doubtful curses in his ear:
Hang on his loaded soul, and fill his brain
With indistinct forbodings, dim—and vain—
Who has not felt the unexpected tear?
Who has not shaken with an awful fear,
When, in the wilderness—alone—he trod—
Where, since there walked the Everlasting God—
No living foot hath been? where boundless woods—
Where sanctuaries—waters—solitudes—
In dreadful stillness—vaulted round—are spread,
Like some appointed place—for judgment on the dead.
The moon goes lightly up her thronging way,
And shadowy things are brightening into day;
And cliff, and shrub, and bank, and tree, and stone,
Now move upon the eye—and now are gone!
A dazzling tapestry is hung around:
A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground;
The willows glitter in the passing beam,
And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream:
And all the full, rich foliage of the shore,
Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er;
And dances at the faintest breath of night,
And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light.
And shadowy things are brightening into day;
And cliff, and shrub, and bank, and tree, and stone,
Now move upon the eye—and now are gone!
A dazzling tapestry is hung around:
A gorgeous carpeting bestrews the ground;
The willows glitter in the passing beam,
And shake their tangling lustres o'er the stream:
And all the full, rich foliage of the shore,
Seems with a quick enchantment frosted o'er;
112
And trembles like a plume of spangles in the light.
Far o'er the slumbering wave, amid the shade,
Millions of dancing lights are thick arrayed;
And interposing forms are seen to go,
With ceaseless step, unwearied, firm and slow—
In measured walking, like a cavalcade—
As if a band were marshalled for parade—
Before a line of fire, that redly throws
A glimmering richness, where that billow flows,
And some yet feebler lights are o'er the turf,
Like sea foam brightening faintly o'er the surf.
There, Pestilence hath breathed! within each tent
The midnight bow, with quenchless shaft—is bent;
And many a youthful hero wastes away,
In that—the worst of deaths—the death of slow decay.
Millions of dancing lights are thick arrayed;
And interposing forms are seen to go,
With ceaseless step, unwearied, firm and slow—
In measured walking, like a cavalcade—
As if a band were marshalled for parade—
Before a line of fire, that redly throws
A glimmering richness, where that billow flows,
And some yet feebler lights are o'er the turf,
Like sea foam brightening faintly o'er the surf.
There, Pestilence hath breathed! within each tent
The midnight bow, with quenchless shaft—is bent;
And many a youthful hero wastes away,
In that—the worst of deaths—the death of slow decay.
This dark, cool wave is bluer than the deep,
Where sailors—children of the tempest!—sleep;
And dropped with lights as pure—as still as those—
The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose,
Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray,
That Ocean's flashing surges send astray;
And when the foam comes loosely o'er its breast,
The sea-maid's bosom with its studded vest,
That mightier billows bear, is dark—is dull,
To this light silvery spray, so beautiful!
This is the mirror of dim Solitude,
On which unholy things may ne'er intrude;
That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear,
Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear;
Ontario's deeps are spread to multiply
But sunshine—stars—the moon—and clear-blue sky,
The ocean—when at peace—is but the place
Where those who rule the tempest—dwell in space—
Direct the thunder—rock the established hill—
And steadfast shore;—whose countless myriads fill
All heaven and earth—and air—are wont to dwell,
And calm themselves to sleep upon its boundless swell.
Where sailors—children of the tempest!—sleep;
And dropped with lights as pure—as still as those—
The wide-drawn hangings of the skies disclose,
Far lovelier than the dim and broken ray,
That Ocean's flashing surges send astray;
And when the foam comes loosely o'er its breast,
The sea-maid's bosom with its studded vest,
That mightier billows bear, is dark—is dull,
To this light silvery spray, so beautiful!
This is the mirror of dim Solitude,
On which unholy things may ne'er intrude;
That frowns and ruffles when the clouds appear,
Refusing to reflect their shapes of fear;
113
But sunshine—stars—the moon—and clear-blue sky,
The ocean—when at peace—is but the place
Where those who rule the tempest—dwell in space—
Direct the thunder—rock the established hill—
And steadfast shore;—whose countless myriads fill
All heaven and earth—and air—are wont to dwell,
And calm themselves to sleep upon its boundless swell.
No pirate barque was ever seen to ride,
With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide;
'Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang
With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang
Their clear—exulting—bold—triumphant strain,
'Till all the mountain echoes laughed again!
'Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply,
And heav'n's blue dome ring out the sprightly melody.
With blood-red streamer, chasing o'er that tide;
'Till late, no bugle o'er those waters sang
With aught but huntsman's orisons, that rang
Their clear—exulting—bold—triumphant strain,
'Till all the mountain echoes laughed again!
'Till caverns, depths, and hills, would all reply,
And heav'n's blue dome ring out the sprightly melody.
Within those depths no shipwrecked sailor lies,
Upon his foaming couch; whose dying eyes
Were closed amid the storm—with no one near,
To grasp his hand, or drop the manly tear:
With not one friend—one shipmate left to tell,
As 'tis in strife—how gallantly he fell.
Not one to tell the melancholy tale,
To her whose heart is on the rising gale.
Within that peaceful sanctuary sleep
No victim wanderers of the mighty deep;
No ocean-wreaths are there—no diadems,
Of bloody sea-weed, sprinkled o'er with gems,
That vanish when ye touch them, like the pearl
That glitters on the sea-maid's shining curl;
No wrecks of slaughter:—flags in battle rent;
By Victory scattered in the firmament:
Not one of all those trophies of the flood,
When ship encounters ship, and foams along in blood.
Upon his foaming couch; whose dying eyes
Were closed amid the storm—with no one near,
To grasp his hand, or drop the manly tear:
With not one friend—one shipmate left to tell,
As 'tis in strife—how gallantly he fell.
Not one to tell the melancholy tale,
To her whose heart is on the rising gale.
Within that peaceful sanctuary sleep
No victim wanderers of the mighty deep;
No ocean-wreaths are there—no diadems,
Of bloody sea-weed, sprinkled o'er with gems,
That vanish when ye touch them, like the pearl
That glitters on the sea-maid's shining curl;
114
By Victory scattered in the firmament:
Not one of all those trophies of the flood,
When ship encounters ship, and foams along in blood.
August amid this scene, unclouded, stand
The everlasting hills that guard our land:
And rear their rocky helmets, where the sky
Hath pitched their tent upon immensity.
These are our forts! our battlements! our holds!
Our bulwarks! our entrenchments! Here unfolds
The rainbow-banner, and its lights are forth
In sudden splendours, like the streaming north:
An outspread eaglet o'er each standard stoops,
With unclosed beak, and wing that never droops:
And stars are busy there—and through the night,
A constellation blazes on the sight-
Eagles! and stars! and rainbows! all abroad,
Beneath a boundless sky, upon a mountain road!
The everlasting hills that guard our land:
And rear their rocky helmets, where the sky
Hath pitched their tent upon immensity.
These are our forts! our battlements! our holds!
Our bulwarks! our entrenchments! Here unfolds
The rainbow-banner, and its lights are forth
In sudden splendours, like the streaming north:
An outspread eaglet o'er each standard stoops,
With unclosed beak, and wing that never droops:
And stars are busy there—and through the night,
A constellation blazes on the sight-
Eagles! and stars! and rainbows! all abroad,
Beneath a boundless sky, upon a mountain road!
And LIBERTY, from whose imperial eye,
Unfettered limb, and step of majesty,
Perpetual sunshine brightens all the air,
When undisturbed by man—in wrath is there!
And prostrate armies now, are kneeling round:
They see the rolling clouds! they hear the sound
Of pealing thunders! While her martial form
Lightens tremendous in the gathering storm!
They breathe that buoyant mountain atmosphere,
And kindling in their eyes those lights appear,—
Those quenchless lights!—that despots, tyrants dread,
When man comes forth in might, and lifts his head
Sublime in desperation; when they hear
The song of trumpets bursting on their ear!
The shock of armies! and, afar, behold
Rebellion's crimson standard all unrolled!
When slaves are men—are monarchs—and their tread
Comes like the resurrection of the dead!
Man bursts his fetters! shakes his sheathless sword—
Stands on his grave, and battles with his lord
For sepulture or freedom—eye to eye—
And swears to live his equal, or to die,
In glorious martyrdom—to glorious Liberty.
Unfettered limb, and step of majesty,
Perpetual sunshine brightens all the air,
When undisturbed by man—in wrath is there!
And prostrate armies now, are kneeling round:
They see the rolling clouds! they hear the sound
Of pealing thunders! While her martial form
Lightens tremendous in the gathering storm!
They breathe that buoyant mountain atmosphere,
And kindling in their eyes those lights appear,—
Those quenchless lights!—that despots, tyrants dread,
When man comes forth in might, and lifts his head
115
The song of trumpets bursting on their ear!
The shock of armies! and, afar, behold
Rebellion's crimson standard all unrolled!
When slaves are men—are monarchs—and their tread
Comes like the resurrection of the dead!
Man bursts his fetters! shakes his sheathless sword—
Stands on his grave, and battles with his lord
For sepulture or freedom—eye to eye—
And swears to live his equal, or to die,
In glorious martyrdom—to glorious Liberty.
Then let the trumpet of the battle sound!
Then let the shuddering challenge peal around!
'Till all our ruffled eaglets start and wake—
And scream aloud—and whet their beaks—and shake
Their guardian wings, o'er mountain, wood, and lake!
The blast will but disturb the spirit there;
But rouse the she-wolf from her bloody lair;
But wake the fiery-harnessed multitudes;
The dark battalions of untrodden woods;
Whose viewless chiefs shall gird their armour on.
And lighten o'er the fields their valour won:
'Twill 'waken echoes in that solitude,
Less welcome than the panther's cry for food:
Less earthly—than the voices heard, when Night
Collects her angels on some stormy height,
And airy trumps are blown! and o'er the heaven
Ten thousand fearful challenges are given!
Then let the shuddering challenge peal around!
'Till all our ruffled eaglets start and wake—
And scream aloud—and whet their beaks—and shake
Their guardian wings, o'er mountain, wood, and lake!
The blast will but disturb the spirit there;
But rouse the she-wolf from her bloody lair;
But wake the fiery-harnessed multitudes;
The dark battalions of untrodden woods;
Whose viewless chiefs shall gird their armour on.
And lighten o'er the fields their valour won:
'Twill 'waken echoes in that solitude,
Less welcome than the panther's cry for food:
Less earthly—than the voices heard, when Night
Collects her angels on some stormy height,
And airy trumps are blown! and o'er the heaven
Ten thousand fearful challenges are given!
Those star-crowned hills! the gathering will be there,
Of heaven's dim hordes, the squadrons of air!
Erect and high, upon their stormy cars—
In meteor armour—rushing 'mid the stars,
The dusky champions of the earth and sky
Will seem encountering in their chivalry.
Yon moon-light tents, so gallantly outspread
By living hands, will then be filled with dead:
Whose home is space: the habitation, too,
Of yon perpetual host, that walk in blue:
That endless multitude! eternal source!
Of wonder and of worship in their course;
O, whither is your march? ye stars! and whence?
Ye blazing myriads of Omnipotence!
Ye suns! who burst from darkness with our earth,
Still coming forth in one continual birth!
Almighty miracles! who fill the air
With melody and light, as if ye were
A host of living harmonies,—ye roll,
Systems and worlds—all intellect and soul!
Interpreters of God! who've called to man,
From yon eternal vault, since time began:
Ye midnight travellers, who, nightly move
In everlasting pilgrimage above!
Ye blazonry of power! ye heraldry of love!
Of heaven's dim hordes, the squadrons of air!
116
In meteor armour—rushing 'mid the stars,
The dusky champions of the earth and sky
Will seem encountering in their chivalry.
Yon moon-light tents, so gallantly outspread
By living hands, will then be filled with dead:
Whose home is space: the habitation, too,
Of yon perpetual host, that walk in blue:
That endless multitude! eternal source!
Of wonder and of worship in their course;
O, whither is your march? ye stars! and whence?
Ye blazing myriads of Omnipotence!
Ye suns! who burst from darkness with our earth,
Still coming forth in one continual birth!
Almighty miracles! who fill the air
With melody and light, as if ye were
A host of living harmonies,—ye roll,
Systems and worlds—all intellect and soul!
Interpreters of God! who've called to man,
From yon eternal vault, since time began:
Ye midnight travellers, who, nightly move
In everlasting pilgrimage above!
Ye blazonry of power! ye heraldry of love!
There's one who stands to see that deep blue fold
Of glories—suns—and systems, all unrolled,
In speechless adoration,—with an eye
Of dampened light uplifted to the sky;
Who half forgets the signal that he gave,
And echoing answer o'er the distant wave:
For he is all alone upon the shore—
Alone—at night—what could he think of more?
He speaks not—moves not his uncovered brow,
If one might see—perchance is gathered now;
His attitude, so fixed, is that of thought—
Something of stern composure; as if wrought
With dangerous purpose to be done with speed,
Some quick-matured—but full-determined deed;
Now—o'er the dim blue waters you may see
His eye go flashing and impatiently:
And now his helm is shaken—and his hand
Is partly raised as if 'twere in command:
The dipping of an oar is heard—a boat so light,
It scarcely touched the wave, is now in sight:
Around the cliff it came, like some keen bird—
That passes by you 'ere her wing is heard;
Like the enchanted skiff that dreamers see,
Self-moved in moonlight breeze—light, swift, and cheerfully:
Of glories—suns—and systems, all unrolled,
117
Of dampened light uplifted to the sky;
Who half forgets the signal that he gave,
And echoing answer o'er the distant wave:
For he is all alone upon the shore—
Alone—at night—what could he think of more?
He speaks not—moves not his uncovered brow,
If one might see—perchance is gathered now;
His attitude, so fixed, is that of thought—
Something of stern composure; as if wrought
With dangerous purpose to be done with speed,
Some quick-matured—but full-determined deed;
Now—o'er the dim blue waters you may see
His eye go flashing and impatiently:
And now his helm is shaken—and his hand
Is partly raised as if 'twere in command:
The dipping of an oar is heard—a boat so light,
It scarcely touched the wave, is now in sight:
Around the cliff it came, like some keen bird—
That passes by you 'ere her wing is heard;
Like the enchanted skiff that dreamers see,
Self-moved in moonlight breeze—light, swift, and cheerfully:
An Indian springs on shore: his light canoe
Hath vanished like a spectre from the view:
Something he murmurs in the sullen tone
Of one who is abandoned: all alone—
Left to contend with many; and his eye,
So rooted—deadly, bodes some danger nigh:
Hush! hush—a rustling—and a fearful pause—
A sword is half unsheathed—the Indians draws
His arrow to the head; but why?—no sound—
Of thundering tread, is echoing on the ground:
No footstep comes—no cautious—stealing foe—
The garland-float is heard, and watery-flow—
And nothing else, o'er blue Ontario.
One rapid glance! his soul is all revealed;
Battle is near—his swarthy brow is sealed
With Indian-meaning, and his serpent eye
Is black and glittering with a changeless dye;
The stranger too—as if he scarcely breathed,
Stands stooping—listening—with his blade unsheathed;
Silent as death they are; one glance—a single glance
Was but exchanged—in their deep, pulseless trance—
One glance! it was enough—and each was sure
Of all his fellow would perform—endure.
Yet—none of that of companionship is here,
The union of the vulgar, when in fear:
No talk—no whisper—but the steady eye
Of dangerous-boding—stern tranquillity:
The strong, cool brow—the upright, martial tread
Of planted strength—the boldly lifted head.
One glance! a white man's glance—the Indian feels
What none but Nature's savage man conceals—
The swell of sympathy—of brotherhood,
In danger and in death—in solitude.
Hath vanished like a spectre from the view:
Something he murmurs in the sullen tone
Of one who is abandoned: all alone—
Left to contend with many; and his eye,
So rooted—deadly, bodes some danger nigh:
118
A sword is half unsheathed—the Indians draws
His arrow to the head; but why?—no sound—
Of thundering tread, is echoing on the ground:
No footstep comes—no cautious—stealing foe—
The garland-float is heard, and watery-flow—
And nothing else, o'er blue Ontario.
One rapid glance! his soul is all revealed;
Battle is near—his swarthy brow is sealed
With Indian-meaning, and his serpent eye
Is black and glittering with a changeless dye;
The stranger too—as if he scarcely breathed,
Stands stooping—listening—with his blade unsheathed;
Silent as death they are; one glance—a single glance
Was but exchanged—in their deep, pulseless trance—
One glance! it was enough—and each was sure
Of all his fellow would perform—endure.
Yet—none of that of companionship is here,
The union of the vulgar, when in fear:
No talk—no whisper—but the steady eye
Of dangerous-boding—stern tranquillity:
The strong, cool brow—the upright, martial tread
Of planted strength—the boldly lifted head.
One glance! a white man's glance—the Indian feels
What none but Nature's savage man conceals—
The swell of sympathy—of brotherhood,
In danger and in death—in solitude.
Now—o'er the waters ye may faintly see
A shadowy vision coming silently:
A rushing now is heard—and spreading large
With sail upon the wind—there comes a barge:
And yet, methinks, its lightly lifted prow,
Upon its glossy path, goes wondrous slow;
It comes—as drifting from the guarded strand,
And looks as tho' in peace—unarmed—unmanned:
This has a quite aspect—but that sail
Is sharply trimmed, as if it might prevail,
In ruder nights than this, against a fiercer gale.
A shadowy vision coming silently:
119
With sail upon the wind—there comes a barge:
And yet, methinks, its lightly lifted prow,
Upon its glossy path, goes wondrous slow;
It comes—as drifting from the guarded strand,
And looks as tho' in peace—unarmed—unmanned:
This has a quite aspect—but that sail
Is sharply trimmed, as if it might prevail,
In ruder nights than this, against a fiercer gale.
A bird of prey, perhaps—that folds its wing—
And sits upon the wave in slumbering;
That stoops at night—but stay! she goes about—
Is that a signal?—there!—that light thrown out?
By heaven 'tis answered!—answered from the land!
From yonder beetling steep is stretched a brand!
The waters foam—up comes the boat in pride!
Leaving a path of light along the tide;
And 'ere the soldier can put forth his blade,
He is a prisoner!—Round him are arrayed
A hidden band, that started from their shade:
A band with bayonets levelled at his breast—
The circle narrows—nods each threatening crest:
Contracting slowly, they approach—as they
Still feared a single warrior, when at bay:
‘Yield,’ cries the foremost, loudly,—fiercely—‘yield!’
The stranger would reply—but sees concealed
Beneath a stooping oak, his dark ally,
With bended bow—and cool, and patient eye,—
He waves his hand—the arrow's point is dropp'd—
The death shaft of a foe, upon its flight, is stopp'd;
The summons is repeated: ‘Yield!’ he cries,
With anger flashing from his youthful eyes:
A pause—a change of attitude betrays
A naked blade to his imperious gaze.
A backward step—‘a dagger—thus revealed’—
What could he think?—‘Stranger!—that point concealed!’
‘Concealed!’ the stranger echoed—and it came,
With startling emphasis, and kindling flame;
Then—turning silently, he shook his head
In calm disdain, and with his lordly tread,
And gathered cloak, he stood—as one who feels
That every spirit round him, prostrate kneels:
He grasps his trusty hilt:—he moves away:
The circle widens:—all who meet, obey
The calm command—firm step—intrepid eye
Of one familiar with such victory:
Amid the working of that mighty spell
He had escaped—but some low murmurs fell,
And each arose in heart: their wandering eyes
Now lowered in silent threat—now sought their prize:
The charm was broken, and their strength returned;
And each reproached his comrade, while he burned
To wipe away, for ever, this disgrace,
And meet his foe, once more!—but face to face.
'Tis done—their prayer is granted—their pursuit
Is short indeed. Again they all are mute;
He stands too proudly—and is found too near,
To leave them their last hope—that he had fled in fear.
And sits upon the wave in slumbering;
That stoops at night—but stay! she goes about—
Is that a signal?—there!—that light thrown out?
By heaven 'tis answered!—answered from the land!
From yonder beetling steep is stretched a brand!
The waters foam—up comes the boat in pride!
Leaving a path of light along the tide;
And 'ere the soldier can put forth his blade,
He is a prisoner!—Round him are arrayed
A hidden band, that started from their shade:
A band with bayonets levelled at his breast—
The circle narrows—nods each threatening crest:
Contracting slowly, they approach—as they
Still feared a single warrior, when at bay:
‘Yield,’ cries the foremost, loudly,—fiercely—‘yield!’
The stranger would reply—but sees concealed
Beneath a stooping oak, his dark ally,
With bended bow—and cool, and patient eye,—
He waves his hand—the arrow's point is dropp'd—
The death shaft of a foe, upon its flight, is stopp'd;
120
With anger flashing from his youthful eyes:
A pause—a change of attitude betrays
A naked blade to his imperious gaze.
A backward step—‘a dagger—thus revealed’—
What could he think?—‘Stranger!—that point concealed!’
‘Concealed!’ the stranger echoed—and it came,
With startling emphasis, and kindling flame;
Then—turning silently, he shook his head
In calm disdain, and with his lordly tread,
And gathered cloak, he stood—as one who feels
That every spirit round him, prostrate kneels:
He grasps his trusty hilt:—he moves away:
The circle widens:—all who meet, obey
The calm command—firm step—intrepid eye
Of one familiar with such victory:
Amid the working of that mighty spell
He had escaped—but some low murmurs fell,
And each arose in heart: their wandering eyes
Now lowered in silent threat—now sought their prize:
The charm was broken, and their strength returned;
And each reproached his comrade, while he burned
To wipe away, for ever, this disgrace,
And meet his foe, once more!—but face to face.
'Tis done—their prayer is granted—their pursuit
Is short indeed. Again they all are mute;
He stands too proudly—and is found too near,
To leave them their last hope—that he had fled in fear.
Their angry leader is the first to break
The sullen loneliness; the first to wake
Some sound—he cares not what—so it be life;
Something less awful—be it even strife.
‘Stranger!’ he cries again, ‘your arms! your sword!—
‘Or’—pausing faintly—‘or’—the evening word.
The stranger smiled—advanced his foot,—and said;
While all stood awe-struck at his martial tread,
And something rustled in the neighbouring shade—
‘Where is your leader?—let him take my blade!’
‘I am the leader!’—
‘You! and by what right
‘Arrest ye thus a traveller at night?’
They marked his port—his keen, unshifting eye;
His half-raised lip, and stand of majesty—
His calm—serene—and almost taunting tone—
And yet—they knew their prize!—he was alone.
‘A traveller!—yes—and 'ere to-morrow's light
He will be hanged for travelling thus at night.’
The stranger's hand fell sudden on his hip,
‘Hanged!’ he replied, and higher curled his lip,
And lightnings left his eye!—and forth he stood
Like something raised within that solitude
By some unholy rite—upraised in wrath,
By some unhallowed step upon his path;
He struggled—heaved as if he gasped for breath—
And all was silent then, as in the hour of death.
The sullen loneliness; the first to wake
121
Something less awful—be it even strife.
‘Stranger!’ he cries again, ‘your arms! your sword!—
‘Or’—pausing faintly—‘or’—the evening word.
The stranger smiled—advanced his foot,—and said;
While all stood awe-struck at his martial tread,
And something rustled in the neighbouring shade—
‘Where is your leader?—let him take my blade!’
‘I am the leader!’—
‘You! and by what right
‘Arrest ye thus a traveller at night?’
They marked his port—his keen, unshifting eye;
His half-raised lip, and stand of majesty—
His calm—serene—and almost taunting tone—
And yet—they knew their prize!—he was alone.
‘A traveller!—yes—and 'ere to-morrow's light
He will be hanged for travelling thus at night.’
The stranger's hand fell sudden on his hip,
‘Hanged!’ he replied, and higher curled his lip,
And lightnings left his eye!—and forth he stood
Like something raised within that solitude
By some unholy rite—upraised in wrath,
By some unhallowed step upon his path;
He struggled—heaved as if he gasped for breath—
And all was silent then, as in the hour of death.
At last the swelling of his chest subsides—
The lightnings pass away—a cold smile rides
Upon the writhing of his mighty brow,
And glittering breast—from which his mantle's flow
Is opening in the tumult of his heart,—
Like the last splendours of the storm, that part,
And o'er the rolling clouds in softness sleep—
Or tender moon-light on the troubled deep;
‘Hanged!’ he repeated—‘hang a soldier—no!—
‘Soldiers are never hanged.’—Forth stepped his foe:—
‘No more—your arms!—a dastard midnight spy
‘Should never—never—like a soldier die!’
‘A spy!—enough’—and forth his faulchion flew;
A shrill, quick summons to his band he blew—
Threw off his cloak—against the high rock stood,
And bade him take his sword, who ‘dared and would!’
Charge!’ cried the leader, ‘charge!’ and drew his brand;
‘Already they encounter, hand to hand—
But pause—for lo!—they meet with men and steeds—
An arrow from the distant shade proceeds—
The foremost falls—an Indian rushes out,
And mingles with the horsemen's furious shout,
And sabres streaming clash—his thrilling cries:
Short is the conflict—half the foot band dies.
‘Secure them,’ cried the chief—I must away—
‘Speed to the camp—return by break of day.
The lightnings pass away—a cold smile rides
Upon the writhing of his mighty brow,
And glittering breast—from which his mantle's flow
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Like the last splendours of the storm, that part,
And o'er the rolling clouds in softness sleep—
Or tender moon-light on the troubled deep;
‘Hanged!’ he repeated—‘hang a soldier—no!—
‘Soldiers are never hanged.’—Forth stepped his foe:—
‘No more—your arms!—a dastard midnight spy
‘Should never—never—like a soldier die!’
‘A spy!—enough’—and forth his faulchion flew;
A shrill, quick summons to his band he blew—
Threw off his cloak—against the high rock stood,
And bade him take his sword, who ‘dared and would!’
Charge!’ cried the leader, ‘charge!’ and drew his brand;
‘Already they encounter, hand to hand—
But pause—for lo!—they meet with men and steeds—
An arrow from the distant shade proceeds—
The foremost falls—an Indian rushes out,
And mingles with the horsemen's furious shout,
And sabres streaming clash—his thrilling cries:
Short is the conflict—half the foot band dies.
‘Secure them,’ cried the chief—I must away—
‘Speed to the camp—return by break of day.
The barge hath fled—the Indian, where is he?
The savage man—the naked—he is free!
Again appears the skimming light canoe—
Forth from its covert, o'er the watery blue,
With wondrous impulse now, it swiftly flies,
Like some young spirit o'er the wintry skies:
Now underneath the cliff—now up a stream
Of ruffled shade, it passes like a dream:
The savage man—the naked—he is free!
Again appears the skimming light canoe—
Forth from its covert, o'er the watery blue,
With wondrous impulse now, it swiftly flies,
Like some young spirit o'er the wintry skies:
Now underneath the cliff—now up a stream
Of ruffled shade, it passes like a dream:
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Now shooting 'thwart a tranquil, lovely sheet
Of shining light, as it goes as still and fleet,
As that ethereal bark that sails on high,
Amid the lustre of a dark blue sky:
Now on the flowery bank a light appears—
A cottage nestles:—and an oak uprears,
With all its giant branches, wide outspread,
Above the lonely cot—its thunder-blasted head.
And there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—
As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood.
Of shining light, as it goes as still and fleet,
As that ethereal bark that sails on high,
Amid the lustre of a dark blue sky:
Now on the flowery bank a light appears—
A cottage nestles:—and an oak uprears,
With all its giant branches, wide outspread,
Above the lonely cot—its thunder-blasted head.
And there the stranger stays: beneath that oak,
Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke
Of heaven's own thunder—yet it proudly heaves
A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves—
As though it dared the elements, and stood
The guardian of that cot—the monarch of that wood.
Beneath its venerable vault he stands:
And one might think, who saw his out-stretched hands,
That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touched him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air
Had called upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—
The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—
All!—all are gathering on his dampened sight.
His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window, on the turfare laid:
The panes are ruddy thro' the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,
O'er flower-embosomed roof led wandering.
His pulses quicken—for a rude old door
Is opened by the wind: he sees the floor
Strewed with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles—and assign a place
To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell—
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell,
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.
And one might think, who saw his out-stretched hands,
That something more than soldiers e'er may feel,
Had touched him with its holy, calm appeal:
That yonder wave—the heaven—the earth—the air
Had called upon his spirit for her prayer.
His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene:
The oak—the cot—the wood—the faded green—
The moon—the sky—the distant moving light—
All!—all are gathering on his dampened sight.
His warrior-helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade
Beneath a window, on the turfare laid:
The panes are ruddy thro' the clambering vines
And blushing leaves, that Summer intertwines
In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant Spring,
O'er flower-embosomed roof led wandering.
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Is opened by the wind: he sees the floor
Strewed with white sand, on which he used to trace
His boyhood's battles—and assign a place
To charging hosts—and give the Indian yell—
And shout to hear his hoary grandsire tell,
How he had fought with savages, whose breath
He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death.
Hark!—that sweet song!—how full of tenderness!
O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow—
It is as if some holy—lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring,
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now—on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes—
As tender as the blue of weeping skies
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue,
When sunset glitters on its falling dew;
With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:
A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ah—a mother's song is lulling it to rest!
O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press
Of lulling thoughts!—so soothing and so low;
Like singing fountains in their faintest flow—
It is as if some holy—lovely thing,
Within our very hearts were murmuring,
The soldier listens, and his arms are prest
In thankfulness, and trembling on his breast:
Now—on the very window where he stands,
Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands:
And now—ah heaven!—blessings on that smile!—
Stay, soldier stay—O, linger yet awhile!
An airy vision now appears, with eyes—
As tender as the blue of weeping skies
Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue,
When sunset glitters on its falling dew;
With form—all joy and dance—as bright and free
As youthful nymph of mountain Liberty:
Or naked angels dreamt by poesy:
A blooming infant to her heart is prest;
And ah—a mother's song is lulling it to rest!
125
A youthful mother! God of heaven! is there
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!
A thing beneath the skies, so holy or so fair!
A single bound!—our chief is standing by,
Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy—
‘Bless thee!’—at length he murmured—‘bless thee, love!
‘My wife!—my boy:’—Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone:
A choking transport drowns his manly tone:
He sees the closing of a mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:
His glorious boy springs freshly from its sleep;
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap,
As half in fear—along the stranger's dress—
Then—half advancing—yields to his caress:—
Then—peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.
Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy—
‘Bless thee!’—at length he murmured—‘bless thee, love!
‘My wife!—my boy:’—Their eyes are raised above.
His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone:
A choking transport drowns his manly tone:
He sees the closing of a mild, blue eye,
His bosom echoes to a faint low cry:
His glorious boy springs freshly from its sleep;
Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eye-beams leap,
As half in fear—along the stranger's dress—
Then—half advancing—yields to his caress:—
Then—peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye,
With the clear look of radiant infancy,
The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky.
The stranger now, is kneeling by the side
Of that young mother;—watching for the tide
Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow
Goes—faintly—slowly—o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast—like twilight's melting clouds—
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.
Of that young mother;—watching for the tide
Of her returning life:—it comes—a glow
Goes—faintly—slowly—o'er her cheek and brow:
A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds
A snowy breast—like twilight's melting clouds—
In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays
The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze.
She lives! she lives—see how her feelings speak,
Thro' what transparency of eye and cheek!
Her colour comes and goes, like that faint ray,
That flits o'er lilies at the close of day.
O nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh—
That youthful mother, in her ecstacy,
Feels but the wandering of a husband's eye.
Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast
Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest.
Thro' what transparency of eye and cheek!
126
That flits o'er lilies at the close of day.
O nature, how omnipotent!—that sigh—
That youthful mother, in her ecstacy,
Feels but the wandering of a husband's eye.
Her lip now ripens, and her heaving breast
Throbs wildly in its light, and now subsides to rest.
And now a father grasps his martial hand;
A mother and a sister leaning stand—
A mother—in her adoration—there!—
With clasped hands and wildly streaming hair:
A sister—with a lip of pulpy red,
Swelling and trembling at his martial tread;
A father—and a soldier! one who feels
All that a father may—and yet his heart conceals.
A mother and a sister leaning stand—
A mother—in her adoration—there!—
With clasped hands and wildly streaming hair:
A sister—with a lip of pulpy red,
Swelling and trembling at his martial tread;
A father—and a soldier! one who feels
All that a father may—and yet his heart conceals.
There they all stand! and thro' their gathering tears,
The smile of gratitude and pride appears;
While o'er his manly form their glances fall;
To see his lordly height—so full—so tall;
The gallant bearing of hi swelling chest;
The lofty brow—commanding—and at rest!
His springing port—his strong, determined tread,
That sounded like a threat—the colour spread,
In health's effulgent brownness, o'er his cheek;
The glance of fire, in which there seemed to speak
The tamelessness of one, who'd spend his life
In battle and in storm—in tempest and in strife.
The smile of gratitude and pride appears;
While o'er his manly form their glances fall;
To see his lordly height—so full—so tall;
The gallant bearing of hi swelling chest;
The lofty brow—commanding—and at rest!
His springing port—his strong, determined tread,
That sounded like a threat—the colour spread,
In health's effulgent brownness, o'er his cheek;
The glance of fire, in which there seemed to speak
The tamelessness of one, who'd spend his life
In battle and in storm—in tempest and in strife.
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There stands the man of blood! now search his eye;
See ye aught there of that cool mastery,
That dwells on danger with untroubled look?
Aught of that deadly calmness, that will brook
No flame of challenge in another's gaze?
Aught of that desperate meaning, which betrays
The eye that is familiar with the deed
Of midnight battle, where the mighty bleed?
When valour—manhood—perish by the blow
From unseen hands, that lay the coward low?
No—ye may not. That youthful glance, less tame
Than the quick flashing of a meteor flame—
Is yet of generous omen—not the light
That burns vindictive on the blasted sight:
That streams from bloody falchions—lights the field
Of midnight slaughter, where the mighty yield
Their spirits to their God, in silent fight—
The war of murderers—wakened but in night!
His is the flashing eye that courts the day—
The pawing steed—the horn—the full display
Of columns—banners—martial minstrelsy—
The drums of earth—the echoes of the sky—
The trumpet-song of Death and cannon pealing high!
See ye aught there of that cool mastery,
That dwells on danger with untroubled look?
Aught of that deadly calmness, that will brook
No flame of challenge in another's gaze?
Aught of that desperate meaning, which betrays
The eye that is familiar with the deed
Of midnight battle, where the mighty bleed?
When valour—manhood—perish by the blow
From unseen hands, that lay the coward low?
No—ye may not. That youthful glance, less tame
Than the quick flashing of a meteor flame—
Is yet of generous omen—not the light
That burns vindictive on the blasted sight:
That streams from bloody falchions—lights the field
Of midnight slaughter, where the mighty yield
Their spirits to their God, in silent fight—
The war of murderers—wakened but in night!
His is the flashing eye that courts the day—
The pawing steed—the horn—the full display
Of columns—banners—martial minstrelsy—
The drums of earth—the echoes of the sky—
The trumpet-song of Death and cannon pealing high!
‘My son,’ the old man said, ‘to-morrow night—
‘I learn ye mingle in a glorious fight.
‘Remember then my words. This form, so old,
‘Once moved in blood, where mighty Battle tolled
‘The warrior-knell in storm. In that dread hour
‘My heart was always sad. The sinewy power
‘That strung my arm, was not the gallant tide
‘That leaps at the far trump in rushing pride.
‘The blaze that wrapped my eye, was not the fire
‘That kindles redly at the battle quire.
‘Religion, and my country nerved my arm,
‘Fed my young heart, and kept my eye-beam warm.
‘My gallant boy—I know thou art full brave,
‘That evening battle ground—may be thy bloody grave!’
‘I learn ye mingle in a glorious fight.
‘Remember then my words. This form, so old,
‘Once moved in blood, where mighty Battle tolled
‘The warrior-knell in storm. In that dread hour
‘My heart was always sad. The sinewy power
128
‘That leaps at the far trump in rushing pride.
‘The blaze that wrapped my eye, was not the fire
‘That kindles redly at the battle quire.
‘Religion, and my country nerved my arm,
‘Fed my young heart, and kept my eye-beam warm.
‘My gallant boy—I know thou art full brave,
‘That evening battle ground—may be thy bloody grave!’
‘Oh no!’ the mother cries:—and now they weep
And pray—as we will pray when we're asleep,
With ashy lip—a suffocating prayer—that dies
In broken murmurs, and in struggling sighs:
As we will pray, when thro' the brooding shade
Unholy sights, by Terror's torch betrayed,
Come thronging, darkly, in delirium—
With heavy wing—with cloudy breath—and hum
Of one unceasing knell: in lonely woe—
In sullen boding—like the heavy flow
Of far, far waves, where one we love is sleeping—
When we are set—we know not how—a weeping.
And pray—as we will pray when we're asleep,
With ashy lip—a suffocating prayer—that dies
In broken murmurs, and in struggling sighs:
As we will pray, when thro' the brooding shade
Unholy sights, by Terror's torch betrayed,
Come thronging, darkly, in delirium—
With heavy wing—with cloudy breath—and hum
Of one unceasing knell: in lonely woe—
In sullen boding—like the heavy flow
Of far, far waves, where one we love is sleeping—
When we are set—we know not how—a weeping.
The young wife stoops,—as she would hide her tears;
And smile with hope, while bowing down with fears:
With heart that pants and flutters to be free,
Like some young nestling, stolen from its tree,
That heaves its bosom—shakes its dazzling plume,
A pulse of light and life, entrapped within a tomb!
And smile with hope, while bowing down with fears:
With heart that pants and flutters to be free,
Like some young nestling, stolen from its tree,
That heaves its bosom—shakes its dazzling plume,
A pulse of light and life, entrapped within a tomb!
Hark!—from the distant shore far trumpets sweep!
One last embrace: once more they meet and weep:
Around that dear, loved group, once more is shed
A farewell smile—a parting tear: then sped
The husband to the war! With unhung brand,
And helmeted for strife, he joins his band!
One last embrace: once more they meet and weep:
129
A farewell smile—a parting tear: then sped
The husband to the war! With unhung brand,
And helmeted for strife, he joins his band!
This was stolen—I confess it,—from the “unrolling glory” in the Airs of Palestine. I do not strike it out—because I conceive it to be the noblest compliment that I can pay any man, to let it remain.
130
CANTO III.
Same night continues ..... general appearances of night at all seasons assembled ..... midnight ..... daylight ...... sunrise ..... second day ...... Americans parade on the heights .... British on the march ..... Canadians ..... British chief ..... incidents ..... associations ..... evening ..... Niagara.
131
THERE are harps that complain to the presence of night,
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by—
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky—
And breathed out a blessing—and flown!
To the presence of night alone—
In a near and unchangeable tone—
Like winds, full of sound, that go whispering by—
As if some immortal had stooped from the sky—
And breathed out a blessing—and flown!
Yes!—harps that complain to the breezes of night;
To the breezes of night alone—
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright,
The sun rolls aloft, in his drapery of light—
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair,
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air:
Burning crimson and gold,
On the clouds that unfold—
Breaking onward in flame!—while an ocean divides
On his right and his left—So the Thunderer rides!
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides;
Rolling on—and erect—in a charioting throne!
To the breezes of night alone—
Growing fainter and fainter, as ruddy and bright,
The sun rolls aloft, in his drapery of light—
Like a conqueror, shaking his brilliant hair,
And flourishing robe, on the edge of the air:
Burning crimson and gold,
On the clouds that unfold—
Breaking onward in flame!—while an ocean divides
On his right and his left—So the Thunderer rides!
When he cuts a bright path through the heaving tides;
Rolling on—and erect—in a charioting throne!
Yes!—strings that lie still in the gushing of day;
That awake, all alive!—to the breezes of night—
There are hautboys and flutes too, for ever at play,
When the evening is near, and the sun is away—
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played:—
By spirits—unseen—and unknown—
But thick as the stars!—all this musick is made—
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone—
Are ever blown
For ever and for ever;
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round,
In ringing caves—while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-musick falls,
And rival minstrels meet!
That awake, all alive!—to the breezes of night—
132
When the evening is near, and the sun is away—
Breathing out the still hymn of delight.
These strings by invisible fingers are played:—
By spirits—unseen—and unknown—
But thick as the stars!—all this musick is made—
And these flutes, alone,
In one sweet dreamy tone—
Are ever blown
For ever and for ever;
The live-long night ye hear the sound,
Like distant waters flowing round,
In ringing caves—while heaven is sweet
With crowding tunes, like halls
Where fountain-musick falls,
And rival minstrels meet!
'Tis dark abroad. The majesty of Night
Bows down superbly from her utmost height:
Stretches her starless plumes across the world;
And all the banners of the wind are furled.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom!
As if we slumbered in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour,
When life is helpless, and the dead have power:
When solitudes are peopled: when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course; and all the hills
Are bright with armour:—when the starry vests
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
Of moon-light sentinels, are sparkling round,
And all the air is one rich floating sound:
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts: and every bird
That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower,
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower:
When every lovely—every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandaled pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go:
When watery tunes are richest—and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around;
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground.
Sweet drowsy distant musick! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.
Bows down superbly from her utmost height:
Stretches her starless plumes across the world;
And all the banners of the wind are furled.
How heavily we breathe amid such gloom!
As if we slumbered in creation's tomb.
It is the noon of that tremendous hour,
When life is helpless, and the dead have power:
When solitudes are peopled: when the sky
Is swept by shady wings that, sailing by,
Proclaim their watch is set; when hidden rills
Are chirping on their course; and all the hills
Are bright with armour:—when the starry vests
And glittering plumes, and fiery twinkling crests
133
And all the air is one rich floating sound:
When countless voices, in the day unheard,
Are piping from their haunts: and every bird
That loves the leafy wood, and blooming bower,
And echoing cave, is singing to her flower:
When every lovely—every lonely place,
Is ringing to the light and sandaled pace
Of twinkling feet; and all about, the flow
Of new-born fountains murmuring as they go:
When watery tunes are richest—and the call
Of wandering streamlets, as they part and fall
In foaming melody, is all around;
Like fairy harps beneath enchanted ground.
Sweet drowsy distant musick! like the breath
Of airy flutes that blow before an infant's death.
It is that hour when listening ones will weep
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,—
Unconscious where we are—or what is near,
'Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gathered in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then—as if our sins were all forgiven—
And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven!
And know not why: when we would gladly sleep
Our last—last sleep; and feel no touch of fear,—
Unconscious where we are—or what is near,
'Till we are startled by a falling tear,
That unexpected gathered in our eye,
While we were panting for yon blessed sky:
That hour of gratitude—of whispering prayer,
When we can hear a worship in the air:
When we are lifted from the earth, and feel
Light fanning wings around us faintly wheel,
And o'er our lids and brow a blessing steal:
And then—as if our sins were all forgiven—
And all our tears were wiped—and we in heaven!
134
It is that hour of quiet ecstacy,
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers are betrayed!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute
Is touched amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light:
When every cave and grot—and bower and lake,
And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim
In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim:
When all the holy sentinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.
When every ruffling wind, that passes by
The sleeping leaf, makes busiest minstrelsy;
When all at once! amid the quivering shade,
Millions of diamond sparklers are betrayed!
When dry leaves rustle, and the whistling song
Of keen-tuned grass, comes piercingly along:
When windy pipes are heard—and many a lute
Is touched amid the skies, and then is mute:
When even the foliage on the glittering steep,
Of feathery bloom—is whispering in its sleep:
When all the garlands of the precipice,
Shedding their blossoms, in their moonlight bliss,
Are floating loosely on the eddying air,
And breathing out their fragrant spirits there:
And all their braided tresses fluttering—bright,
Are sighing faintly to the shadowy light:
When every cave and grot—and bower and lake,
And drooping floweret-bell, are all awake:
When starry eyes are burning on the cliff
Of many a crouching tyrant too, as if
Such melodies were grateful even to him:
When life is loveliest—and the blue skies swim
In lustre, warm as sunshine—but more dim:
When all the holy sentinels of night
Step forth to watch in turn, and worship by their light.
Such is the hour!—the holy, breathless hour,
When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power:
When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day
Can never rival, in its fierce display:
Such is the hour—yet not a sound is heard;
No sights are seen—no melancholy bird
Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air
Is thick and motionless—as if it were
A prelude to some dreadful tragedy;
Some midnight drama of an opening sky!
When such sweet minstrelsy hath mightiest power:
When sights are seen, that all the blaze of day
Can never rival, in its fierce display:
135
No sights are seen—no melancholy bird
Sings tenderly and sweet; but all the air
Is thick and motionless—as if it were
A prelude to some dreadful tragedy;
Some midnight drama of an opening sky!
The Genius of the mountain, and the wood;
The stormy Eagle, and her rushing brood;
The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave;
The gallant spirit of the roaring wave;
The star-crowned messengers that ride the air;
The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair,
Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill;
The shaking cascade—and the merry rill
Are hushed to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still.
The stormy Eagle, and her rushing brood;
The fire-eyed tenant of the desert cave;
The gallant spirit of the roaring wave;
The star-crowned messengers that ride the air;
The meteor watch-light, with its streamy hair,
Threatening and sweeping redly from the hill;
The shaking cascade—and the merry rill
Are hushed to slumber now—and heaven and earth are still.
And now the daylight comes!—slowly it rides,
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,
Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast;
Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;
The morning Breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake
Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugles ready cry: the labouring drum:
The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum
That the bright tenants of the forest send:
The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their song of praise, while Ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark;
While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the winged idolaters of day:
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!
Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky—
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of Poesy!
In ridgy lustre o'er the cloudy tides,
Like the soft foam upon the billow's breast;
Or feathery light upon a shadowy crest;
The morning Breezes from their slumbers wake,
And o'er the distant hill-tops cheerly shake
Their dewy locks, and plume themselves, and poise
Their rosy wings, and listen to the noise
Of echoes wandering from the world below:
The distant lake, rejoicing in its flow:
The bugles ready cry: the labouring drum:
The neigh of steeds—and the incessant hum
136
The sunrise gun: the heave—the wave—and bend
Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves
Rustle their song of praise, while Ruin weaves
A robe of verdure for their yielding bark;
While mossy garlands—rich, and full, and dark,
Creep slowly round them. Monarchs of the wood!
Whose mighty sceptres sway the mountain brood!
Whose aged bosoms, in their last decay,
Shelter the winged idolaters of day:
Who, 'mid the desert wild, sublimely stand,
And grapple with the storm-god hand to hand!
Then drop like weary pyramids away;
Stupendous monuments of calm decay!
As yet the warring thunders have not rent
The swimming clouds, the brightening firmament,
The lovely mists that float around the sky—
Ruddy and rich with fresh and glorious dye,
Like hovering seraph wings—or robe of Poesy!
Now comes the sun forth! not in blaze of fire:
With rain-bow-harnessed coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter thro' heaven and earth their fiery spray.
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings:
And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance:
No airy minstrels in the flush light glance:
No rushing melody comes strong and deep:
And far away no fading winglets sweep:
No boundless hymning o'er the blue-sky rings,
In hallelujahs to the King of Kings:
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash,
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash,
While starry crowns, and constellations fade
Before the glories of that cavalcade,
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven,
Embroidered thickly on the clouds of even.
With rain-bow-harnessed coursers, that respire
An atmosphere of flame. No chariot whirls
O'er reddening clouds. No sunny flag unfurls
O'er rushing smoke. No chargers in array
Scatter thro' heaven and earth their fiery spray.
No shouting charioteer, in transport flings
Ten thousand anthems, from tumultuous strings:
And round and round, no fresh-plumed echoes dance:
No airy minstrels in the flush light glance:
137
And far away no fading winglets sweep:
No boundless hymning o'er the blue-sky rings,
In hallelujahs to the King of Kings:
No youthful hours are seen. No riband lash,
Flings its gay stripings like a rainbow flash,
While starry crowns, and constellations fade
Before the glories of that cavalcade,
Whose trappings are the jewelry of heaven,
Embroidered thickly on the clouds of even.
No!—no!—he comes not thus in pomp, and light!
A new creation bursting out of night!
But he comes darkly forth! in storm arrayed—
Like the red Tempest marshalled in her shade,
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round,
Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound.
A new creation bursting out of night!
But he comes darkly forth! in storm arrayed—
Like the red Tempest marshalled in her shade,
When mountains rock; and thunders travelling round,
Hold counsel in the sky—and midnight trumps resound.
Hark! the deep drums again;—the echoing drums!
Their rousing loudly through the clear air comes.
And trumpets dread hourra!—its plunging blast
Left every heart—a-heaving—as it past.
In that wild threatening cry, how much of life!
Of martial song:—the minstrelsy of strife.
A flash!—a vapour! from yon fading cloud
The cannon's voice comes suddenly aloud:
Now bursts the smothered war! and proudly rise
Fresh plumes and banners, blazing to the skies!
And further still, the loud artillery rolls
Uninterrupted thunder to the poles!
Their rousing loudly through the clear air comes.
And trumpets dread hourra!—its plunging blast
Left every heart—a-heaving—as it past.
In that wild threatening cry, how much of life!
Of martial song:—the minstrelsy of strife.
A flash!—a vapour! from yon fading cloud
The cannon's voice comes suddenly aloud:
Now bursts the smothered war! and proudly rise
Fresh plumes and banners, blazing to the skies!
And further still, the loud artillery rolls
Uninterrupted thunder to the poles!
138
That morning sun uprose o'er swelling hearts,
That e'er the evening sun once more departs,
Shall cease to swell on earth. That trumpet's voice
For the last time hath called them to rejoice:
Yes—many a pulse now fiercely throbbing there,
Hath heard its requiem in the morning air.
That e'er the evening sun once more departs,
Shall cease to swell on earth. That trumpet's voice
For the last time hath called them to rejoice:
Yes—many a pulse now fiercely throbbing there,
Hath heard its requiem in the morning air.
A horseman!—surely we have seen that steed—
His reaching step—his flowing mane—his speed:
The rein is loosened—upward to the heaven,
He leaps, as if the battle blast were given!
That youthful rider—what an awful brow!—
How calm and grand!—and now he nods—and now—
Faith,—'tis a glorious vision! how his hair
Is blown about his cheek, as if it were
A living richness clustering in the air!
His chest is heaving, and his sunny eye
Goes bright and fearless o'er the clear blue sky:
That lip—that brow, that ardent, piercing look
In battle's wildest uproar never shook:
No frowning—and no effort—always bright,
And always careless—always—even in fight:
And yet that smile of his, that waving hand,
And nodding plume, among his chosen band,
Have a determined and despotick sway,
O'er hearts and souls,—that never would obey
The lordliest frown that ever sat in cloud;
The stormiest voice that ever raged aloud:
The darkest helm that ever nodded proud:
His is a spirit of that mighty power,
That moves the calmest in the troubled hour:
An eye that, even in danger, threatens not;
Calm—frank and generous—ne'er to be forgot,
That, even in strife, looks forth with beams of peace,
And brightens as the thunders of the battle cease.
His reaching step—his flowing mane—his speed:
The rein is loosened—upward to the heaven,
He leaps, as if the battle blast were given!
That youthful rider—what an awful brow!—
How calm and grand!—and now he nods—and now—
Faith,—'tis a glorious vision! how his hair
Is blown about his cheek, as if it were
A living richness clustering in the air!
His chest is heaving, and his sunny eye
Goes bright and fearless o'er the clear blue sky:
That lip—that brow, that ardent, piercing look
In battle's wildest uproar never shook:
No frowning—and no effort—always bright,
And always careless—always—even in fight:
And yet that smile of his, that waving hand,
And nodding plume, among his chosen band,
Have a determined and despotick sway,
O'er hearts and souls,—that never would obey
The lordliest frown that ever sat in cloud;
The stormiest voice that ever raged aloud:
The darkest helm that ever nodded proud:
His is a spirit of that mighty power,
That moves the calmest in the troubled hour:
139
Calm—frank and generous—ne'er to be forgot,
That, even in strife, looks forth with beams of peace,
And brightens as the thunders of the battle cease.
His march was victory—and his charger's tread
Hath been familiar with the warrior's bed—
The battle field! His brow was always bare,
His head thrown back—his right arm in the air!
His charger leaping—plunging—as he came,
And went amid the battle wrapped in flame;
While o'er him waved the star-flag, thick with smoke;
Unharmed he sat—and like the thunder spoke:
Nodding his tall plumes to the trumpet-blast
The fiercest in the strife, but when 'twas past,
The first to sheathe his blade—to leave the battle, last.
Hath been familiar with the warrior's bed—
The battle field! His brow was always bare,
His head thrown back—his right arm in the air!
His charger leaping—plunging—as he came,
And went amid the battle wrapped in flame;
While o'er him waved the star-flag, thick with smoke;
Unharmed he sat—and like the thunder spoke:
Nodding his tall plumes to the trumpet-blast
The fiercest in the strife, but when 'twas past,
The first to sheathe his blade—to leave the battle, last.
The drum is rolled again. The bugle sings;
And far upon the wind the cross flag flings
A radiant challenge to its starry foe,
That floats—a sheet of light!—away—below,
Where troops are forming—slowly in the night
Of mighty waters; where an angry light
Bounds from the cataract, and fills the skies
With visions—rainbows—and the foamy dyes,
That one may see at morn in youthful poet's eyes.
And far upon the wind the cross flag flings
A radiant challenge to its starry foe,
That floats—a sheet of light!—away—below,
Where troops are forming—slowly in the night
Of mighty waters; where an angry light
Bounds from the cataract, and fills the skies
With visions—rainbows—and the foamy dyes,
That one may see at morn in youthful poet's eyes.
Niagara! Niagara! I hear
Thy tumbling waters. And I see thee rear
Thy thundering sceptre to the clouded skies:
I see it wave—I hear the ocean rise,
And roll obedient to thy call. I hear
The tempest-hymning of thy floods in fear:
The quaking mountains and the nodding trees—
The reeling birds—and the careering breeze—
The tottering hills, unsteadied in thy roar:
Niagara! as thy dark waters pour,
One everlasting earthquake rocks thy lofty shore!
Thy tumbling waters. And I see thee rear
Thy thundering sceptre to the clouded skies:
I see it wave—I hear the ocean rise,
140
The tempest-hymning of thy floods in fear:
The quaking mountains and the nodding trees—
The reeling birds—and the careering breeze—
The tottering hills, unsteadied in thy roar:
Niagara! as thy dark waters pour,
One everlasting earthquake rocks thy lofty shore!
There spreads the red cross-banner, far and wide,
Flapping its dark blue, as 'tis wont to ride
O'er the red tempest, on the mountain-tide.
The troops of Wellington are there; a band—
Nursed by stern Glory in her favourite land:
The guardians of the Spaniard, when subdued,
And trampled in the dust: a band that stood
Forth with that banner, floating like a shroud,
And battled on the mountain—in a cloud—
With high—stupendous Gaul, until her genius bowed.
Flapping its dark blue, as 'tis wont to ride
O'er the red tempest, on the mountain-tide.
The troops of Wellington are there; a band—
Nursed by stern Glory in her favourite land:
The guardians of the Spaniard, when subdued,
And trampled in the dust: a band that stood
Forth with that banner, floating like a shroud,
And battled on the mountain—in a cloud—
With high—stupendous Gaul, until her genius bowed.
Stern eyes are lifted to it, as it leans
Away upon the breeze: and long past scenes
Of home and country, o'er the heaving main—
Of fire-side peace, are conjured up again:
Parents—and wife—and children—and young eyes
Of weeping love, are looking from the skies:
And murmuring prayers are near again: and dreams
Of parting lips: and many a dark eye beams
Upon its soldier's heart, as it had done,
When they had parted—parted!—all alone;
And every friend he had, was going one by one.
Away upon the breeze: and long past scenes
Of home and country, o'er the heaving main—
Of fire-side peace, are conjured up again:
Parents—and wife—and children—and young eyes
Of weeping love, are looking from the skies:
And murmuring prayers are near again: and dreams
Of parting lips: and many a dark eye beams
Upon its soldier's heart, as it had done,
When they had parted—parted!—all alone;
And every friend he had, was going one by one.
141
From the horizon now, a gathering cloud
Comes darkly o'er the hills; and now a crowd
Of mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers, friends,
Come forth to pray for those whom Glory sends,
In pomp and fever to the field of death;
A throng, who came to pour their erring breath,
To him—the GOD OF PEACE!—who sits on high;
To pray that he will bless the fiery eye;
And bloody hand, that smites in iron wrath
A brother to the dust!—and light the path
Of him who rides in battle and in blood,
Carving that brother for the shrieking brood,
That snuff the coming war, and drink the vital flood.
Comes darkly o'er the hills; and now a crowd
Of mothers, fathers, sisters, lovers, friends,
Come forth to pray for those whom Glory sends,
In pomp and fever to the field of death;
A throng, who came to pour their erring breath,
To him—the GOD OF PEACE!—who sits on high;
To pray that he will bless the fiery eye;
And bloody hand, that smites in iron wrath
A brother to the dust!—and light the path
Of him who rides in battle and in blood,
Carving that brother for the shrieking brood,
That snuff the coming war, and drink the vital flood.
Yonder on snow-white charger, treading proud,
A red-cross chieftain goes to meet that crowd:
An aged warrior, and a valiant one:
A hero of the battles that are done.
The fife sounds cheerly! and their steady tread,
And long, firm steppings, as their columns spread;
Their glancing splendours o'er the distant hill:
Their flapping banners—and their horns that fill
All heaven, and earth, and air with martial song,
As their proud foot-line winds its length along,
Would seem the pageantry of Peace, instead
Of battle cavalcade by Slaughter led.
A red-cross chieftain goes to meet that crowd:
An aged warrior, and a valiant one:
A hero of the battles that are done.
The fife sounds cheerly! and their steady tread,
And long, firm steppings, as their columns spread;
Their glancing splendours o'er the distant hill:
Their flapping banners—and their horns that fill
All heaven, and earth, and air with martial song,
As their proud foot-line winds its length along,
Would seem the pageantry of Peace, instead
Of battle cavalcade by Slaughter led.
Who is that drooping one with snowy breast;
Shrinking like virgins when they're first carest;
With full, dark eye, and melancholy smile,
And glistening lash, that's standing there the while
That aged man comes up? How pale that cheek!
And yet how eloquent! O, she can speak,
With that dark lash and that slow dropping tear,
Unutterable thoughts—when one is near,
In solitude and silence—that is dear.
But see!—she moves—and now her wild, dark ey
Is flashing—lifted: something passes by:
A youth in armour! what a glorious face!
And now he reins his barb: with what a grace—
He waves his snowy helmet—and his hand—
How full of noble spirit and command!
A gallant glorious form—but yet a boy:
An eye of terror and a lip of joy;
Sure he has lost the rein!—his fiery steed
Goes plunging so, with such a fearful speed:
He has! he has!—a shriek! he has indeed!
That waving of his helm—that loosened rein—
O God—the precipice!—it is in vain—
Yet stay—what death-like silence—now he wheels!
And every heart breathes out: and every bosom feels
The cool air coming freshly—can it be!
Is that the fiery steed? can this be he?
The rider—that was bending o'er the mane?
This the fierce steed that caught the loosened rein?
Foaming he comes, with glossy neck arched high,
And stately step, and wildly rolling eye—
Rattling his bits, and reaching with his head—
This that fierce steed? why, how composed his tread.
The horseman too, how steady, light and high
Sits the young spirit with his lightning eye,
And smiling lip. See how his panting breast
Is heaving yet beneath his studded vest:
The gathered rein—the firm, elastick seat
Of airy grace: how young—yet how complete!
Forth flies his blade—the aged warrior comes—
Bow the high banners! roll the answering drums!
Shrinking like virgins when they're first carest;
With full, dark eye, and melancholy smile,
And glistening lash, that's standing there the while
142
And yet how eloquent! O, she can speak,
With that dark lash and that slow dropping tear,
Unutterable thoughts—when one is near,
In solitude and silence—that is dear.
But see!—she moves—and now her wild, dark ey
Is flashing—lifted: something passes by:
A youth in armour! what a glorious face!
And now he reins his barb: with what a grace—
He waves his snowy helmet—and his hand—
How full of noble spirit and command!
A gallant glorious form—but yet a boy:
An eye of terror and a lip of joy;
Sure he has lost the rein!—his fiery steed
Goes plunging so, with such a fearful speed:
He has! he has!—a shriek! he has indeed!
That waving of his helm—that loosened rein—
O God—the precipice!—it is in vain—
Yet stay—what death-like silence—now he wheels!
And every heart breathes out: and every bosom feels
The cool air coming freshly—can it be!
Is that the fiery steed? can this be he?
The rider—that was bending o'er the mane?
This the fierce steed that caught the loosened rein?
Foaming he comes, with glossy neck arched high,
And stately step, and wildly rolling eye—
Rattling his bits, and reaching with his head—
This that fierce steed? why, how composed his tread.
The horseman too, how steady, light and high
Sits the young spirit with his lightning eye,
143
Is heaving yet beneath his studded vest:
The gathered rein—the firm, elastick seat
Of airy grace: how young—yet how complete!
Forth flies his blade—the aged warrior comes—
Bow the high banners! roll the answering drums!
And now amid a throng of sparkling eyes
In terror lifted to the bright blue skies,
Slow tears of thankfulness and joy are flowing;
And round about a languid cheek are flowing,
Rich silkiness and shade: and faintly—slow,
A lovely hand goes o'er a brow of snow—
In woman's meekest—loveliest helplessness—
The lifeless grace of beauty in distress:
But see! she wakes—and forth with glittering eye,
And burning cheek—and form erect and high,
She steps in light! That melancholy maid
Stands like Minerva for the war arrayed!
How altered! yet how lovely in her change!
How sudden and complete—indeed 'tis strange
That such a transformation should be wrought
So instantaneously—'twas brief as thought.
Now banners float, and 'mid the tented plain
She and the warrior meet: and o'er the mane
Of his white steed, he bows and smiles—and now,
Presses his old lip to her snowy brow;
‘Farewell, my child—farewell!’ the warrior says,
His high plume shaking in the sunny blaze:
And glancing to her heart its cheerful dye,
As hurrying—faultering—with averted eye—
That tells for whom the silent prayer is made—
While on her heart one trembling hand is laid,
She waves the other as they speed away,
Where the keen streamers of the Briton play.
A tear came slowly in her wandering eye;
The parting seemed so sad—she knew not why—
As far upon the wind the white steed flew,
Like grey hound brushing off the heather's morning dew.
In terror lifted to the bright blue skies,
Slow tears of thankfulness and joy are flowing;
And round about a languid cheek are flowing,
Rich silkiness and shade: and faintly—slow,
A lovely hand goes o'er a brow of snow—
In woman's meekest—loveliest helplessness—
The lifeless grace of beauty in distress:
But see! she wakes—and forth with glittering eye,
And burning cheek—and form erect and high,
She steps in light! That melancholy maid
Stands like Minerva for the war arrayed!
How altered! yet how lovely in her change!
How sudden and complete—indeed 'tis strange
That such a transformation should be wrought
So instantaneously—'twas brief as thought.
Now banners float, and 'mid the tented plain
She and the warrior meet: and o'er the mane
Of his white steed, he bows and smiles—and now,
Presses his old lip to her snowy brow;
‘Farewell, my child—farewell!’ the warrior says,
His high plume shaking in the sunny blaze:
And glancing to her heart its cheerful dye,
As hurrying—faultering—with averted eye—
144
While on her heart one trembling hand is laid,
She waves the other as they speed away,
Where the keen streamers of the Briton play.
A tear came slowly in her wandering eye;
The parting seemed so sad—she knew not why—
As far upon the wind the white steed flew,
Like grey hound brushing off the heather's morning dew.
Yon sick man, bending to the earth, hath been
In the red strife himself—hath often seen
In other days, a flashing helm laid low,
While yet it shook in triumph o'er its foe:
In that gay band whose tramp is passing far,
That go in revelry and song to war,
That sick man has a brother—young and brave;
That brother!—he is riding to his grave.
A farewell swinging of his martial band
Tells to his heart—what soldiers understand—
That he will conquer!—or will bravely lie
With cloven crest and bosom to the sky,
And never tinge his cheek, altho' he dim his eye.
In the red strife himself—hath often seen
In other days, a flashing helm laid low,
While yet it shook in triumph o'er its foe:
In that gay band whose tramp is passing far,
That go in revelry and song to war,
That sick man has a brother—young and brave;
That brother!—he is riding to his grave.
A farewell swinging of his martial band
Tells to his heart—what soldiers understand—
That he will conquer!—or will bravely lie
With cloven crest and bosom to the sky,
And never tinge his cheek, altho' he dim his eye.
‘My last—last hope!’ a mother cries, and kneels,
While o'er the hills a sound of tumult reels;
Is it the war-song rushing in the breeze?
Parents and friends, it is the bending trees.
Go speed ye home, and spend your day in prayer;
To-morrow's sun may wake ye to despair.
Go kneel ye on some desert rock, and pray,
Unceasingly and deep, the live-long day,
To Him whose angels calm the stormy fray:
The time is coming when your troubled sleep
Shall throng with bloody ghosts; when ye shall weep
Whene'er the thunders roll—or lightnings stream;
Whene'er the storm is loud—or panthers scream;
And fancy 'tis the strife, and feel the battle dream.
While o'er the hills a sound of tumult reels;
Is it the war-song rushing in the breeze?
Parents and friends, it is the bending trees.
Go speed ye home, and spend your day in prayer;
To-morrow's sun may wake ye to despair.
145
Unceasingly and deep, the live-long day,
To Him whose angels calm the stormy fray:
The time is coming when your troubled sleep
Shall throng with bloody ghosts; when ye shall weep
Whene'er the thunders roll—or lightnings stream;
Whene'er the storm is loud—or panthers scream;
And fancy 'tis the strife, and feel the battle dream.
The cavalcade went by. The day hath gone!
And yet the soldier lives: his cheerful tone
Rises in boisterous song: while slowly calls
The monarch spirit of the mighty falls.
Soldiers be firm!—and mind your watch fires well:
Sleep not to-night—there comes a distant swell,
Like the approaching step of toiling steeds,
Encountering on the hills: and far behind us speeds.
And yet the soldier lives: his cheerful tone
Rises in boisterous song: while slowly calls
The monarch spirit of the mighty falls.
Soldiers be firm!—and mind your watch fires well:
Sleep not to-night—there comes a distant swell,
Like the approaching step of toiling steeds,
Encountering on the hills: and far behind us speeds.
Low stooping from his arch, the glorious sun
Hath left the storm with which his course begun;
And now, in rolling cloud, goes calmly home,
In heavenly pomp—a-down the far blue dome.
In sweet-toned minstrelsy is heard the cry,
All clear and smooth, along the echoing sky,
Of many a fresh blown bugle, full and strong,
The soldier's instrument! the soldier's song!
Niagara too, is heard: his thunder comes
Like far-off battle—hosts of rolling drums.
All o'er the western heaven, the flaming clouds
Detach themselves, and float like hovering shrouds:
Loosely unwoven, and far unfurled,
A sunset canopy enwraps the world.
The vesper hymn grows soft. In parting day
Wings flit about. The warblings die away,
The shores are dizzy, and the hills look dim,
The cataract falls deeper and the landscapes swim.
Hath left the storm with which his course begun;
And now, in rolling cloud, goes calmly home,
In heavenly pomp—a-down the far blue dome.
In sweet-toned minstrelsy is heard the cry,
All clear and smooth, along the echoing sky,
Of many a fresh blown bugle, full and strong,
The soldier's instrument! the soldier's song!
Niagara too, is heard: his thunder comes
Like far-off battle—hosts of rolling drums.
All o'er the western heaven, the flaming clouds
Detach themselves, and float like hovering shrouds:
146
A sunset canopy enwraps the world.
The vesper hymn grows soft. In parting day
Wings flit about. The warblings die away,
The shores are dizzy, and the hills look dim,
The cataract falls deeper and the landscapes swim.
147
CANTO IV.
Evening continued ..... preparations for battle ..... British occupy an eminence ..... Americans approach ..... battle on the wings ..... Americans carry the British artillery at the point of the bayonet ..... three successive attempts made by the British to dislodge the Americans, and regain the height .....Americans remain in possession ..... Niagara.
149
AWAY, away,—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle, in wrath, is coming!
A flock of young vultures are poising their wings
And the untrodden solitude rings,
With voices—and trumpets—and drumming!
From away in the cloudless air,
Where all is so soft and serene—
That never a speck can be seen,
There comes a cry,
As if it were
Some unseen eaglet in the sky,
Stooping down on her shrieking, invisible prey;
And the dim arch of heaven is bright
With the luminous flight,
Of birds—flocking upward—all red
With the bloodiest tint that the sun ever shed:
Swarming out from the mist—where the water rolls white—
And scaling away in the changeable light,
As if warmed into life by the sun-setting ray:
Coming out from the clouds—they emerge—
Like the birds of the sea from the surge,
When they trim their bright wings on the billow verge;
And dashing their plumes in the brilliant foam—
Arch their necks in the sun, as he stoops to his home—
All lovely in light—and sublime in display!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle, in wrath, is coming!
A flock of young vultures are poising their wings
And the untrodden solitude rings,
With voices—and trumpets—and drumming!
From away in the cloudless air,
Where all is so soft and serene—
That never a speck can be seen,
There comes a cry,
As if it were
Some unseen eaglet in the sky,
Stooping down on her shrieking, invisible prey;
And the dim arch of heaven is bright
With the luminous flight,
Of birds—flocking upward—all red
With the bloodiest tint that the sun ever shed:
Swarming out from the mist—where the water rolls white—
And scaling away in the changeable light,
As if warmed into life by the sun-setting ray:
150
Like the birds of the sea from the surge,
When they trim their bright wings on the billow verge;
And dashing their plumes in the brilliant foam—
Arch their necks in the sun, as he stoops to his home—
All lovely in light—and sublime in display!
Now the rising air brings
The faint touching of strings,
From caverns—where harpers have never been heard;
As if—in each green silent place,
Where ancient bards had been interred,
Their spirits rose again to trace,
In low—prophetic murmurings,
Just like the soft approach of wings,
The fate of yonder host, that come—
Unhallowed—to intrude—
With banner—blade—and horn and drum—
Upon their charmed solitude:
The faint touching of strings,
From caverns—where harpers have never been heard;
As if—in each green silent place,
Where ancient bards had been interred,
Their spirits rose again to trace,
In low—prophetic murmurings,
Just like the soft approach of wings,
The fate of yonder host, that come—
Unhallowed—to intrude—
With banner—blade—and horn and drum—
Upon their charmed solitude:
As if—each seated on his tomb,
And stooping o'er his shadowy lyre—
With trembling fingers tore away
The tendrils that ran wild in bloom,
Encumbering each golden wire—
And faultering—touched the awful lay—
All energy, and fire—
That visions of the war inspire:—
When all the heaven is opening round,
And battles dimly seen—
Like clouds—in passing o'er the ground—
Are shadowed on its green.
When all the future trembles—when—
Unseen but by the gifted eye—
Tumultuous air sweeps o'er the sky—
Wheeling like coursers giddily—
When every holy spot on earth,
Is heaving with some awful birth,
And every grot and hermitage,
And every lonely place, again—
Is filled with shapes of armed men—
And echoes to their stormy rage—
Reproachful sounds—while they engage.
And stooping o'er his shadowy lyre—
With trembling fingers tore away
The tendrils that ran wild in bloom,
Encumbering each golden wire—
And faultering—touched the awful lay—
All energy, and fire—
That visions of the war inspire:—
When all the heaven is opening round,
And battles dimly seen—
151
Are shadowed on its green.
When all the future trembles—when—
Unseen but by the gifted eye—
Tumultuous air sweeps o'er the sky—
Wheeling like coursers giddily—
When every holy spot on earth,
Is heaving with some awful birth,
And every grot and hermitage,
And every lonely place, again—
Is filled with shapes of armed men—
And echoes to their stormy rage—
Reproachful sounds—while they engage.
When all their ancient spirits hear
The neigh of steeds encountering near;
The uproar of the battle—and
The sweep of the unsparing brand,
Dealt whistling with immortal force—
Unchannelling the blood of those
That nature never meant for foes—
E'en at the fountain of its course:—
Of men—who if they met at all—
Should meet in places, such as these—
Embracing heart and soul—and fall
In worship on their bended knees—
And speak—not with the battle shout—
As if their souls were bursting out—
But faint—and whispering—as they were
Assembled by their God in prayer:
Oh yes—and they should ever come,
When in such holy spots they meet—
Not with the horn—not with the drum—
And not with mailed—but naked feet!
But if they come in armour—they
Should lose the very wish to slay—
And dash their helmets down, and kneel
Unharnessed to the influence there—
Not stain and crush its spongy green
With crimson tracks, like what are seen,
Where panthers and where wolves have been,
Tainting the cool and holy air—
Not with the warrior step—but tread
Of men—intruding on the dead;
Not helmeted and mailed around—
But with their gallant hair unbound,
And fiery eye upon the ground—
Like pilgrims when they bow—alone
Upon some consecrated stone—
With tufted mossing all overgrown—
And washed with tears of men unknown—
By altars—rocky—hung in green,
With shelly, bright entablatures,
Enduring on, while time endures,
And brightening every hour;
Still thickening—clustering—more and more—
All pillared, and enamelled o'er;
With arched roof and glimmering floor,
Bestrewed with every brilliant flower,
That ever bloomed in secret, where
The sunset shows the golden path
That leads you to the sea-maid's bath,
Where they—all naked—glittering—bright,
With radiant tresses—limbs as white,
As they were shaped of moulded light,
Stand combing out their glorious hair;
Or, on the oily billows play—
And one by one then disappear,
Like creatures vanishing away—
And melting in the hues of day—
When—some dim earthly thing is near.
The neigh of steeds encountering near;
The uproar of the battle—and
The sweep of the unsparing brand,
Dealt whistling with immortal force—
Unchannelling the blood of those
That nature never meant for foes—
E'en at the fountain of its course:—
Of men—who if they met at all—
Should meet in places, such as these—
Embracing heart and soul—and fall
In worship on their bended knees—
And speak—not with the battle shout—
As if their souls were bursting out—
But faint—and whispering—as they were
Assembled by their God in prayer:
152
When in such holy spots they meet—
Not with the horn—not with the drum—
And not with mailed—but naked feet!
But if they come in armour—they
Should lose the very wish to slay—
And dash their helmets down, and kneel
Unharnessed to the influence there—
Not stain and crush its spongy green
With crimson tracks, like what are seen,
Where panthers and where wolves have been,
Tainting the cool and holy air—
Not with the warrior step—but tread
Of men—intruding on the dead;
Not helmeted and mailed around—
But with their gallant hair unbound,
And fiery eye upon the ground—
Like pilgrims when they bow—alone
Upon some consecrated stone—
With tufted mossing all overgrown—
And washed with tears of men unknown—
By altars—rocky—hung in green,
With shelly, bright entablatures,
Enduring on, while time endures,
And brightening every hour;
Still thickening—clustering—more and more—
All pillared, and enamelled o'er;
With arched roof and glimmering floor,
Bestrewed with every brilliant flower,
That ever bloomed in secret, where
The sunset shows the golden path
That leads you to the sea-maid's bath,
153
With radiant tresses—limbs as white,
As they were shaped of moulded light,
Stand combing out their glorious hair;
Or, on the oily billows play—
And one by one then disappear,
Like creatures vanishing away—
And melting in the hues of day—
When—some dim earthly thing is near.
But away!—away!—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle in wrath is coming!
See how their moving tents arise—
With a snowy gleam, in the purple skies,
Like pavilions of glittering light—
Those tents are struck!—the signal given!
And now—along the verge of heaven
With trumpeting and drumming,
They're harnessing for fight!
And now their opening flags arise,
Unfurling bravely to the skies:
With your banners of flame, and give them play!
The battle in wrath is coming!
See how their moving tents arise—
With a snowy gleam, in the purple skies,
Like pavilions of glittering light—
Those tents are struck!—the signal given!
And now—along the verge of heaven
With trumpeting and drumming,
They're harnessing for fight!
And now their opening flags arise,
Unfurling bravely to the skies:
And now!—against the red orb spreading
Their broad, dark banners—they appear,
All tinged with blood—their distant rear,
Against the light, the sun is shedding,
Along the blue-edged heaven, stand,
In flaming armour—like a band
Of giants, downward treading
While all the moving forest trees,
Upon yon hilly summits seem
Approaching in the misty breeze,—
And o'er the burning clouds that gleam
Away behind—as if they were
A swinging fret-work—rich—and rare
Embroidered on the flaming air;
A light, fantastick edging given
By magick to the clouds of heaven.
Their broad, dark banners—they appear,
All tinged with blood—their distant rear,
Against the light, the sun is shedding,
Along the blue-edged heaven, stand,
In flaming armour—like a band
Of giants, downward treading
154
Upon yon hilly summits seem
Approaching in the misty breeze,—
And o'er the burning clouds that gleam
Away behind—as if they were
A swinging fret-work—rich—and rare
Embroidered on the flaming air;
A light, fantastick edging given
By magick to the clouds of heaven.
But away!—away!—to the winds away!
With your banners of flame—in their red display—
The battle in pomp is coming!
The trumpet plays,
And the drums are rolled;
The war-horse neighs,
And the flags unfold;
And the distant hills are bright
With warriors—up in their might—
The crimson mane of their helmets stream,
Like fiery steeds, when their long hairs gleam,
In the fearful light
Of a reddening fight,
In flakes and folds!—like the awful beam
Of broadswords—ground in blood;
They are up!—they are up!—'tis a thrilling sight;
With their chargers reined—
Each muscle strained—
Tossing their foam on the winds away,
As the waves of the ocean fling their spray—
With their heads in air,
Like steeds that bear
Young warriors thro' a flood;
While their voices break—
(And their nostrils shake,
And the loud horns blow,
And the banners flow—)
Like a trumpet heard at night!
With a thrilling neigh—as if to cheer,
The warriors that are thundering near:
With your banners of flame—in their red display—
The battle in pomp is coming!
The trumpet plays,
And the drums are rolled;
The war-horse neighs,
And the flags unfold;
And the distant hills are bright
With warriors—up in their might—
The crimson mane of their helmets stream,
Like fiery steeds, when their long hairs gleam,
In the fearful light
Of a reddening fight,
In flakes and folds!—like the awful beam
Of broadswords—ground in blood;
They are up!—they are up!—'tis a thrilling sight;
With their chargers reined—
Each muscle strained—
Tossing their foam on the winds away,
As the waves of the ocean fling their spray—
155
Like steeds that bear
Young warriors thro' a flood;
While their voices break—
(And their nostrils shake,
And the loud horns blow,
And the banners flow—)
Like a trumpet heard at night!
With a thrilling neigh—as if to cheer,
The warriors that are thundering near:
Then away!—away!—to the winds away!
Through the cloud of battle rouse your prey!
Through the cloud of battle rouse your prey!
Fresher and fresher comes the air. The blue
Of yonder high pavilion swims in dew.
The boundless hum that sunset waked in glee;
The dark wood's vesper-hymn to Liberty—
Hath died away. A deep outspreading hush
Is on the air—the heavy watery rush
Of far off lake-tides, and the weighty roll
Of tumbling deeps, that fall upon the soul
Like the strong lulling of the ocean wave,
In dying thunder o'er the sailor's grave;
And now and then a blueish flare is spread
Faint o'er the western heaven, as if 'twere shed
In dreadful omen to the coming dead.
As if—amid the skies, some warrior form
Revealed his armour thro' a robe of storm!
Of yonder high pavilion swims in dew.
The boundless hum that sunset waked in glee;
The dark wood's vesper-hymn to Liberty—
Hath died away. A deep outspreading hush
Is on the air—the heavy watery rush
Of far off lake-tides, and the weighty roll
Of tumbling deeps, that fall upon the soul
Like the strong lulling of the ocean wave,
In dying thunder o'er the sailor's grave;
And now and then a blueish flare is spread
Faint o'er the western heaven, as if 'twere shed
In dreadful omen to the coming dead.
As if—amid the skies, some warrior form
Revealed his armour thro' a robe of storm!
The shadows deepen. Now the leaden tramp
Of stationed sentry—far—and flat—and damp—
Sounds like the measured death-step, when it comes
With the deep minstrelsy of unstrung drums:
In heavy pomp—with pauses—o'er the grave
Where soldiers bury soldiers: where the wave
Of sable plumes—and darkened flags are seen—
And trailing-steeds—with funeral lights between:—
And folded arms—and boding horns—and tread
Of martial feet, descending to the bed,
Where Glory—Fame—Ambition lie in state,
To give the nuptial clasp, and wreath that Fate
Wove in the battle-storm, their brows to decorate.
Of stationed sentry—far—and flat—and damp—
156
With the deep minstrelsy of unstrung drums:
In heavy pomp—with pauses—o'er the grave
Where soldiers bury soldiers: where the wave
Of sable plumes—and darkened flags are seen—
And trailing-steeds—with funeral lights between:—
And folded arms—and boding horns—and tread
Of martial feet, descending to the bed,
Where Glory—Fame—Ambition lie in state,
To give the nuptial clasp, and wreath that Fate
Wove in the battle-storm, their brows to decorate.
Listen!—O, listen!—there's a wandering shout,
A sound, as if a challenge passed about:
A gun is heard! O, can it be indeed
That on a night, like this, brave men may bleed!
Now comes,—all rushing—with a fiery start—
The struggling neigh of steeds, as if they part,
Upon the mountain tops, where cloud-tides break,
And rear upon the winds! and plunge, and shake
Their voices proudly o'er a sleeping lake.
A heavy walk is heard. They come, indeed;
They come, the Star-troops! while the Eagle-breed
Flap loudly o'er each helm, and o'er each foaming steed.
A sound, as if a challenge passed about:
A gun is heard! O, can it be indeed
That on a night, like this, brave men may bleed!
Now comes,—all rushing—with a fiery start—
The struggling neigh of steeds, as if they part,
Upon the mountain tops, where cloud-tides break,
And rear upon the winds! and plunge, and shake
Their voices proudly o'er a sleeping lake.
A heavy walk is heard. They come, indeed;
They come, the Star-troops! while the Eagle-breed
Flap loudly o'er each helm, and o'er each foaming steed.
Here, by our side, the red-cross troop is placed:
A lordly banner, never yet disgraced
By that young gallant troop. Beneath its fold
Of blue magnificence, so wide unrolled,
They've bowed, and sworn upon a naked blade,
That banner, there! shall never be betrayed.
They've sworn to bathe it in their heart's best blood:
To loosen 'neath its fold their reddest flood.
No threats escape their lips—that blue flag flies
O'er the dark lowering of young British eyes.
They know the post they hold they know the hour
Is sternly coming that shall try their power:
They know the Eagle troops: they hear their tread:
And each more proudly heaves his youthful head:
They see the starry banner floating wide:
And fiercer shines their meteor in its pride:
Each plants his foot: and each with steady eye
And hard drawn breath—and forehead to the sky—
Looks on the coming host for life or death—
The glittering laurel crown, or weeping cypress wreath.
A lordly banner, never yet disgraced
By that young gallant troop. Beneath its fold
Of blue magnificence, so wide unrolled,
157
That banner, there! shall never be betrayed.
They've sworn to bathe it in their heart's best blood:
To loosen 'neath its fold their reddest flood.
No threats escape their lips—that blue flag flies
O'er the dark lowering of young British eyes.
They know the post they hold they know the hour
Is sternly coming that shall try their power:
They know the Eagle troops: they hear their tread:
And each more proudly heaves his youthful head:
They see the starry banner floating wide:
And fiercer shines their meteor in its pride:
Each plants his foot: and each with steady eye
And hard drawn breath—and forehead to the sky—
Looks on the coming host for life or death—
The glittering laurel crown, or weeping cypress wreath.
They come! they come!—the starry flag is bright;
Shaking its splendours in the parting light:
Right martial is their step. Their heads are high.
Their chests heave full. Their look is on the sky.
Before his column with a brow serene,
Upon his stately barb, a chief is seen:
His head uncovered;—while his flashing eye,
And echoed word, along the far ranks fly,
With flash and sound as brief as counted musketry.
Shaking its splendours in the parting light:
Right martial is their step. Their heads are high.
Their chests heave full. Their look is on the sky.
Before his column with a brow serene,
Upon his stately barb, a chief is seen:
His head uncovered;—while his flashing eye,
And echoed word, along the far ranks fly,
With flash and sound as brief as counted musketry.
Now roar the joyous drums! the trumpet-song
Comes swelling—rending—bursting—all along!
Like the dread summons by the Whirlwind cast,
When she sings fiercely in the coming blast.
The leader waves his sword! the standards bow,
And now unrol upon the wind—and now,
Borne silently aloft, they flash away,
Upon the distant wings, like heralds of the day.
Comes swelling—rending—bursting—all along!
Like the dread summons by the Whirlwind cast,
When she sings fiercely in the coming blast.
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And now unrol upon the wind—and now,
Borne silently aloft, they flash away,
Upon the distant wings, like heralds of the day.
Their columns now unfold. Their martial tread
Is firm and steady as they wheel and spread.
Now one deep phalanx in their strength advance;
Silent as death. Dimmed is the banner glance:
The ringing harness and the sabre's swing—
No shouting stirs the blood—no waving plume
Gives Glory's signal in the thickening gloom:
But forward—forward!—with unshaken tread,
With Battle's earthquake march, when shuddering dead
Feel every step that falls above their head.
Is firm and steady as they wheel and spread.
Now one deep phalanx in their strength advance;
Silent as death. Dimmed is the banner glance:
The ringing harness and the sabre's swing—
No shouting stirs the blood—no waving plume
Gives Glory's signal in the thickening gloom:
But forward—forward!—with unshaken tread,
With Battle's earthquake march, when shuddering dead
Feel every step that falls above their head.
The soldiers of the red-cross, on the hill
Wave high their matches!—And they stand as still
As if they knew they stood upon their tomb:
And some deep lips and cheeks now lose their bloom
But not from fear—or if they did—what then?
Their courage is the soul's!—they are the men
That ye may trust to in the hour of need:
Their lips may fade 'tis true, but they will bleed,
Where'er they set their foot, until their souls are freed.
Wave high their matches!—And they stand as still
As if they knew they stood upon their tomb:
And some deep lips and cheeks now lose their bloom
But not from fear—or if they did—what then?
Their courage is the soul's!—they are the men
That ye may trust to in the hour of need:
Their lips may fade 'tis true, but they will bleed,
Where'er they set their foot, until their souls are freed.
Now peals the thronged artillery!—Far and wide,
Beyond the starry flag its thunders ride!
No answer from the foe—
His steady tread
Paused not a moment as that volley sped.
Beyond the starry flag its thunders ride!
No answer from the foe—
His steady tread
Paused not a moment as that volley sped.
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Again the tempest pours! In rushing fire,
Again the thunders roll!
But all the higher
Floats the striped flag—in triumph and in pride;
Like the red rainbow o'er the glimmering tide.
Again the thunders roll!
But all the higher
Floats the striped flag—in triumph and in pride;
Like the red rainbow o'er the glimmering tide.
Still onward come its guards: determined—slow:
Mounting as if to grapple with their foe
Within his cloud: While their battalions spread,
And close, and open with the same strong tread,
Revealed in light. That tempest light!—it strays
In one wide sheet: uninterrupted blaze!
Mounting as if to grapple with their foe
Within his cloud: While their battalions spread,
And close, and open with the same strong tread,
Revealed in light. That tempest light!—it strays
In one wide sheet: uninterrupted blaze!
Still onward come this band. Still no reply:
Withholding all their might till, eye to eye,
They tread the summit of that quaking mount,
To quench that stormy light—that Ætnean fount:
Then will the clouds depart, and ye will see
The Eagle-standard floating far and free;
And gallant warriors, on the naked ground,
In prostrate adoration—to the sound
Of bursting trumpets, and of neighing steeds:
And waving helms, whose reeking plumage bleeds
With life of gallant hearts, that heave around
In agony to hear the brazen trumpet's sound.
Withholding all their might till, eye to eye,
They tread the summit of that quaking mount,
To quench that stormy light—that Ætnean fount:
Then will the clouds depart, and ye will see
The Eagle-standard floating far and free;
And gallant warriors, on the naked ground,
In prostrate adoration—to the sound
Of bursting trumpets, and of neighing steeds:
And waving helms, whose reeking plumage bleeds
With life of gallant hearts, that heave around
In agony to hear the brazen trumpet's sound.
Now comes the bursting strife. The answer peals!
Forth, in a blaze of fire, their squadron wheels!
Now rolls the battle! Fades the lightning sheet!
The charge is given! Bayonets with bayonets meet:
And struggling hearts with hearts: and fiercely rise
Contending shouts and spirits to the skies.
Neighings grow faint. The cannon's thunder dies:
Red Slaughter shakes her storm-plumes o'er the slain,
And flaps her reeking flag—but all in vain—
For standards bow!—and steeds fly o'er the plain!
'Tis done: the strife is o'er. The clouds are gone—
The starry flag is floating there alone.
Forth, in a blaze of fire, their squadron wheels!
Now rolls the battle! Fades the lightning sheet!
The charge is given! Bayonets with bayonets meet:
And struggling hearts with hearts: and fiercely rise
Contending shouts and spirits to the skies.
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Red Slaughter shakes her storm-plumes o'er the slain,
And flaps her reeking flag—but all in vain—
For standards bow!—and steeds fly o'er the plain!
'Tis done: the strife is o'er. The clouds are gone—
The starry flag is floating there alone.
And is the battle won? the struggle o'er?
O, no!—the trumpet song and cannon-roar
Have but begun;—the night shall wear away
E'er banners blazing in their red display,
And flashing plumes, and helmets glancing bright,
Reveal the conquerors to the dazzled sight.
Then ye shall see the shattered warrior-blade—
The banner rent;—quenched plume—and steed, that neighed,
Like the fierce trumpet, when the battle pealed,
With all his furniture upon the field,
Bedimmed in gallant blood! Then ye may know
Who were the conquered;—they will all lie low.
O, no!—the trumpet song and cannon-roar
Have but begun;—the night shall wear away
E'er banners blazing in their red display,
And flashing plumes, and helmets glancing bright,
Reveal the conquerors to the dazzled sight.
Then ye shall see the shattered warrior-blade—
The banner rent;—quenched plume—and steed, that neighed,
Like the fierce trumpet, when the battle pealed,
With all his furniture upon the field,
Bedimmed in gallant blood! Then ye may know
Who were the conquered;—they will all lie low.
Far now the wet folds of the red-cross wave;
Still leaning towards the strife—full, high, and brave;
Still rolls the wide artillery;—still the light
Rushes in boding thickness from that height—
But other hands direct its thunder now;
The rainbow flag is there, with sheeted flow,
And they with silent tread, and cool, determined brow.
Still leaning towards the strife—full, high, and brave;
Still rolls the wide artillery;—still the light
Rushes in boding thickness from that height—
But other hands direct its thunder now;
The rainbow flag is there, with sheeted flow,
And they with silent tread, and cool, determined brow.
Amid the fading light on that red ground,
An aged warrior lies, and pours a sound
That tells of battle yet; and feebly tries
To staunch his ebbing wound; to clear his eyes;
And think once more, distinctly, of his home:
But all in vain! a dark, and darker foam
Comes from his heart; and now his dying hand
Is once more stretched—but not as in command—
No!—not as if it dealt a warrior's brand—
And lightened thro' the war!—but more in prayer—
As if some child, that he would bless, were there:
Convulsive—sudden—grasping!—towards the heaven
'Tis reached—like one—whose last, last stay is riven:
Not waving—no!—but closing as it goes,
As if it sought another's—not a foe's!
And now it feebler drops—and now, again,—
'Tis lifted as in prayer; but all in vain;
He cannot bless his child!—his strength is gone—
The damps of death are on his brow;—his tone
Of murmuring supplication—dies away—
And both his bloody hands are in his locks of grey.
An aged warrior lies, and pours a sound
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To staunch his ebbing wound; to clear his eyes;
And think once more, distinctly, of his home:
But all in vain! a dark, and darker foam
Comes from his heart; and now his dying hand
Is once more stretched—but not as in command—
No!—not as if it dealt a warrior's brand—
And lightened thro' the war!—but more in prayer—
As if some child, that he would bless, were there:
Convulsive—sudden—grasping!—towards the heaven
'Tis reached—like one—whose last, last stay is riven:
Not waving—no!—but closing as it goes,
As if it sought another's—not a foe's!
And now it feebler drops—and now, again,—
'Tis lifted as in prayer; but all in vain;
He cannot bless his child!—his strength is gone—
The damps of death are on his brow;—his tone
Of murmuring supplication—dies away—
And both his bloody hands are in his locks of grey.
And near him—planted—with the glittering eye,
Of sudden madness—rolling awfully,—
A youthful form is seen—with hands that press
Upon his bosom—fixed and motionless!
Now staring on the armour strown around,
As in a trance: now listening to the sound
Of ruffling banners, as they loosely wave,
Like one that rises—armed—from his grave
In fierce rebuke. And now—have mercy heaven!
He staggers—waves his arm—his white brow riven,
And streaming with his blood! And oh, that nod!—
He moves again in light, as if he trod
Upon the battle's verge—and heaves his brow
Of bleeding nakedness, as if e'en now,
It wore the meteor signal for the fight:
The tall plume nodding in its snowy white!
And now he stands as if he would express
Some princely thought, and felt his helplessness:
And hark!—a shout!—a sudden, thrilling cry—
Of fearful energy—‘they fly! they fly!’
Again he waves his arm—and shouts!—again
He stands as if he grasped some charger's mane,
Some struggling barb—and strove to mount in vain:—
Again he shouts!—again he feebly tries
To look once more upon the passing skies—
Clasps his young hands, and reels, and falls, and dies.
Of sudden madness—rolling awfully,—
A youthful form is seen—with hands that press
Upon his bosom—fixed and motionless!
Now staring on the armour strown around,
As in a trance: now listening to the sound
Of ruffling banners, as they loosely wave,
Like one that rises—armed—from his grave
In fierce rebuke. And now—have mercy heaven!
He staggers—waves his arm—his white brow riven,
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He moves again in light, as if he trod
Upon the battle's verge—and heaves his brow
Of bleeding nakedness, as if e'en now,
It wore the meteor signal for the fight:
The tall plume nodding in its snowy white!
And now he stands as if he would express
Some princely thought, and felt his helplessness:
And hark!—a shout!—a sudden, thrilling cry—
Of fearful energy—‘they fly! they fly!’
Again he waves his arm—and shouts!—again
He stands as if he grasped some charger's mane,
Some struggling barb—and strove to mount in vain:—
Again he shouts!—again he feebly tries
To look once more upon the passing skies—
Clasps his young hands, and reels, and falls, and dies.
There flutters round him many a gallant soul—
For the last time too, many dim eyes roll;—
And gasping—swelling—in the sulphurous air
Sobs many a broken cry, and many a prayer.
Soldiers, and great ones—are around him laid,
Who dealt their broad swords, like the gleaming blade
That the Destroyer wields, when heaven is wrapped in shade.
For the last time too, many dim eyes roll;—
And gasping—swelling—in the sulphurous air
Sobs many a broken cry, and many a prayer.
Soldiers, and great ones—are around him laid,
Who dealt their broad swords, like the gleaming blade
That the Destroyer wields, when heaven is wrapped in shade.
The battle comes again. The charging host
Are Britons—chosen ones—their army's boast.
Reddening they come, in martyrdom to Fame;
Shaking their snowy plumes in cloud and flame.
rav ely their banner is abroad outspread—
Alive their meteor, and their shroud when dead.
The tumult deepens. Swell conflicting cries—
Neigh the loud steeds, and hurried sobs arise.
Shakes the dark hill with cataracts of fire:
Up go that army to their blazing pyre!
The cannon's voice is mute. The lightning sheet
Grows dim again. Warriors with warriors meet;
And wrestle fiercely in their rolling cloud.
Again the mountain shakes! again the light
Comes thundering loudly down—the starry flight
Of spotted drapery is abroad again,
And neighing—plunging—o'er the clouded plain,
Goes many a fiery barb with crimson reeking mane:
Again the meteors of the war are bowed:
Again the mountain heaves beneath its shroud:
Gushes with quenchless light, and shakes and storms aloud.
Are Britons—chosen ones—their army's boast.
Reddening they come, in martyrdom to Fame;
Shaking their snowy plumes in cloud and flame.
rav ely their banner is abroad outspread—
Alive their meteor, and their shroud when dead.
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Neigh the loud steeds, and hurried sobs arise.
Shakes the dark hill with cataracts of fire:
Up go that army to their blazing pyre!
The cannon's voice is mute. The lightning sheet
Grows dim again. Warriors with warriors meet;
And wrestle fiercely in their rolling cloud.
Again the mountain shakes! again the light
Comes thundering loudly down—the starry flight
Of spotted drapery is abroad again,
And neighing—plunging—o'er the clouded plain,
Goes many a fiery barb with crimson reeking mane:
Again the meteors of the war are bowed:
Again the mountain heaves beneath its shroud:
Gushes with quenchless light, and shakes and storms aloud.
So darkly clouded was that hill with smoke,
Save when the vast artillery-day-light broke,
It seemed a midnight altar. From its gloom
There came the noise of strife—as from a tomb.
And then, distinct, amid the spreading light,
Were seen the struggling champions of the fight,
In silent—desperate—dreadful bayonet strife;
The midnight slaughter! when the hero's life—
The high—stern summons that he gives his band—
His waving falchion—and extended hand—
His towering plume—his charger's bloody mane—
The battle-anthem and the bugle strain—
Are beamless—lifeless! heard and seen no more:
Thus 'tis when bayonets hush the cannon's roar.
The blazing would be gone! and with it, lo!
These darkly wrestling groups would come and go,
Like wizard shapes at night—upon the snow—
That glitters to the moon, upon some mountain's brow.
Save when the vast artillery-day-light broke,
It seemed a midnight altar. From its gloom
There came the noise of strife—as from a tomb.
And then, distinct, amid the spreading light,
Were seen the struggling champions of the fight,
In silent—desperate—dreadful bayonet strife;
The midnight slaughter! when the hero's life—
The high—stern summons that he gives his band—
His waving falchion—and extended hand—
His towering plume—his charger's bloody mane—
The battle-anthem and the bugle strain—
Are beamless—lifeless! heard and seen no more:
Thus 'tis when bayonets hush the cannon's roar.
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These darkly wrestling groups would come and go,
Like wizard shapes at night—upon the snow—
That glitters to the moon, upon some mountain's brow.
So stood the battle. Bravely it was fought.
Lions and Eagles met. That hill was bought,
And sold, in desperate combat. Wrapped in flame,
Died these idolaters of bannered Fame.
Three times that meteor hill was bravely lost—
Three times 'twas bravely won; while madly tost,
Encountering red plumes in the dusky air—
While Slaughter shouted in her bloody lair—
And spectres blew their horns, and shook their whistling hair.
Lions and Eagles met. That hill was bought,
And sold, in desperate combat. Wrapped in flame,
Died these idolaters of bannered Fame.
Three times that meteor hill was bravely lost—
Three times 'twas bravely won; while madly tost,
Encountering red plumes in the dusky air—
While Slaughter shouted in her bloody lair—
And spectres blew their horns, and shook their whistling hair.
A long and dreadful pause. No sound is heard
But the fresh rustling of a mighty Bird,
That sat upon the banner of that host:
That Eagle of the strife!—when tempest tost,
The boy, that rides sublime the mountain waves,
Looks on that Bird in prayer. The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipped falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
Or sleeps upon the wing—amid the ray
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch:
Soars wheeling thro' the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play:
Broods with her arrows in the hurricane:
Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain—
And sails around the skies, and o'er the rolling deeps,
With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps.
But the fresh rustling of a mighty Bird,
That sat upon the banner of that host:
That Eagle of the strife!—when tempest tost,
The boy, that rides sublime the mountain waves,
Looks on that Bird in prayer. The Bird that laves
Her sounding pinions in the sun's first gush—
Drinks his meridian blaze and sunset flush:
Worships her idol in his fiercest hour:
Bathes her full bosom in his hottest shower:
Sits amid stirring stars, and bends her beak,
Like the slipped falcon—when her piercing shriek
Tells that she stoops upon her cleaving wing,
To drink anew some victim's clear-red spring.
That monarch Bird! that slumbers in the night
Upon the lofty air-peak's utmost height:
165
Of steady—cloudless—everlasting day!
Rides with the Thunderer in his blazing march:
And bears his lightnings o'er yon boundless arch:
Soars wheeling thro' the storm, and screams away
Where the young pinions of the morning play:
Broods with her arrows in the hurricane:
Bears her green laurel o'er the starry plain—
And sails around the skies, and o'er the rolling deeps,
With still unwearied wing, and eye that never sleeps.
The rustling of the silk alone is heard,
Where burns that soldier idol—mountain Bird!
And the deep groans of dying men, who heave
Their last sad prayer; of those who bleed and grieve,
In shattered manhood, on the bloody path,
That led where Glory sat in stormy wrath;
The faint, low watchword—and the thronging tramp—
The ringing harness of the distant camp:
And the flood anthem on the night winds blown,
Sullen and heavy as the Thunderer's tone,
When far amid the Alps his chariot rolls,
And the high mountain quakes: and the far poles
Rock in their outspread canopy of cloud—
When seas heave darkly in their tempest shroud,
And everlasting hills are echoing aloud.
Where burns that soldier idol—mountain Bird!
And the deep groans of dying men, who heave
Their last sad prayer; of those who bleed and grieve,
In shattered manhood, on the bloody path,
That led where Glory sat in stormy wrath;
The faint, low watchword—and the thronging tramp—
The ringing harness of the distant camp:
And the flood anthem on the night winds blown,
Sullen and heavy as the Thunderer's tone,
When far amid the Alps his chariot rolls,
And the high mountain quakes: and the far poles
Rock in their outspread canopy of cloud—
When seas heave darkly in their tempest shroud,
And everlasting hills are echoing aloud.
166
CANTO V.
Morning ..... appearance of the field ..... funeral honours ...... parade ..... interment ..... camp ..... death of the Hero ..... his father and wife.
167
THE battle is o'er!—and the night is past—
The battle is o'er!
The clouds that were rolling away on the blast,
With the warrior-helm, and the steed's red mane;
Have vanished away,
With the coming of day,
Or lie all along on the verge of the plain,
And are seen no more.
The battle is o'er!
The battle is o'er!
And the men—and the steeds—and the banners there—
Crowding and thronging in the blazing air,
Have all disappeared in its crimson glare—
The battle is o'er!
And the morning comes,
With the cannon roar,
And the roll of drums;
With the furling of flags—and the stooping of helms—
With weltering manes—like steeds that have past
A torrent at night—exhausted—cast
On the shore—with those—that the night overwhelms,
With floating reins,
And clotted manes,
And harness stained—and dark with blood;
With a ridge of foam—on each courser's chest—
As if—in the fight—they had plunged to the breast,
In some crimson foaming flood.
But the war is o'er!
On that silent shore,
And the vulture that shrieked in the night is gone—
And glutted—hath fled
From the banquet of dead—
The trumpets are hushed—and the battle is done.
No more ye'll hear the furious drum
Rolling aloud delirium—
But the steeds that have neighed through the night—
That stand with their sinews quivering yet,
Their trappings entangled—and wet—
Shall go forth undisturbed—
Unharnessed—uncurbed—
For ever and aye to the fight!
The battle is o'er!
The clouds that were rolling away on the blast,
With the warrior-helm, and the steed's red mane;
Have vanished away,
With the coming of day,
Or lie all along on the verge of the plain,
And are seen no more.
The battle is o'er!
The battle is o'er!
And the men—and the steeds—and the banners there—
Crowding and thronging in the blazing air,
Have all disappeared in its crimson glare—
The battle is o'er!
And the morning comes,
With the cannon roar,
And the roll of drums;
With the furling of flags—and the stooping of helms—
With weltering manes—like steeds that have past
A torrent at night—exhausted—cast
168
With floating reins,
And clotted manes,
And harness stained—and dark with blood;
With a ridge of foam—on each courser's chest—
As if—in the fight—they had plunged to the breast,
In some crimson foaming flood.
But the war is o'er!
On that silent shore,
And the vulture that shrieked in the night is gone—
And glutted—hath fled
From the banquet of dead—
The trumpets are hushed—and the battle is done.
No more ye'll hear the furious drum
Rolling aloud delirium—
But the steeds that have neighed through the night—
That stand with their sinews quivering yet,
Their trappings entangled—and wet—
Shall go forth undisturbed—
Unharnessed—uncurbed—
For ever and aye to the fight!
Young Morning comes again! with garments blown
Abroad upon the wind; and flow'rets thrown
In garland tresses o'er her opening breast;
With diamonds dropping from her airy crest.
Young Morning comes again! with laughing eye,
With bustling cherubs thronging up the sky;
And pulling thro' the air by braided flowers
Sweet Nature's wicker work! her wild-wood bowers!
Young Morning comes again! in floating car
Of tangled roses: o'er the hill of war
She throws her mantle, kindling on the sight,
With all the hues of heaven's own rainbow-light:
Of woven jasper—threaded sapphire—gold:
And sunshine—pearls—embossed upon its fold—
And thickening gems: a diamond flag unrolled!
Abroad upon the wind; and flow'rets thrown
In garland tresses o'er her opening breast;
With diamonds dropping from her airy crest.
Young Morning comes again! with laughing eye,
With bustling cherubs thronging up the sky;
And pulling thro' the air by braided flowers
Sweet Nature's wicker work! her wild-wood bowers!
Young Morning comes again! in floating car
Of tangled roses: o'er the hill of war
169
With all the hues of heaven's own rainbow-light:
Of woven jasper—threaded sapphire—gold:
And sunshine—pearls—embossed upon its fold—
And thickening gems: a diamond flag unrolled!
The sheathless weapon glimmers on the sight:
Pale cheeks and sunken eyes once more are bright—
But not with life, O, no!—their souls have flown:
Their last dread trump amid the fight was blown.
Their feathers glance again; an idle red
Burns o'er their prostrate forms and bloody bed.
Here was the deadliest strife! this youthful group
Are the last remnants of a martyred troop.
Here their young banner waved! and here—they fell!
There lies that banner!—let its fragments tell,
Yet grasped in death—if 'twas defended well.
The rich, green sward is scarred with leaping hoofs;
And all along the field are seen the proofs
Of soldier rivalry. And where ye tread
Along the hill, the very turf turns red,
As 'twere surcharged with blood:—while all about—
As from an o'er-pressed sponge, there issues out
A thickening purple—settling—eddying where
The print of charging hoofs have laid the green all bare,
Filling the footsteps of unwounded men
With blood—dark blood—that's ne'er absorbed again,
And round about—opposing plumes and crests
Of snow and crimson lie—the reeking tests,
That prove where soldiers met—and strove—and died!
In pairs they lie—embracing—side by side.
A strong, strong death is in their hard-clenched hands;
Their mingled trappings, and their hiltless brands:—
The desperate grasp—the half raised form!—and eye
Yet glaring with the threat of agony:
The bleeding banner and the dripping crest:
The dying war-horse, with his heaving chest,
Yet struggling to arise, and o'er the plain
Blaze forth in dimmed caparisons again—
And loosen to the wind his crimson streaming mane!
Pale cheeks and sunken eyes once more are bright—
But not with life, O, no!—their souls have flown:
Their last dread trump amid the fight was blown.
Their feathers glance again; an idle red
Burns o'er their prostrate forms and bloody bed.
Here was the deadliest strife! this youthful group
Are the last remnants of a martyred troop.
Here their young banner waved! and here—they fell!
There lies that banner!—let its fragments tell,
Yet grasped in death—if 'twas defended well.
The rich, green sward is scarred with leaping hoofs;
And all along the field are seen the proofs
Of soldier rivalry. And where ye tread
Along the hill, the very turf turns red,
As 'twere surcharged with blood:—while all about—
As from an o'er-pressed sponge, there issues out
A thickening purple—settling—eddying where
The print of charging hoofs have laid the green all bare,
Filling the footsteps of unwounded men
With blood—dark blood—that's ne'er absorbed again,
And round about—opposing plumes and crests
Of snow and crimson lie—the reeking tests,
That prove where soldiers met—and strove—and died!
In pairs they lie—embracing—side by side.
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Their mingled trappings, and their hiltless brands:—
The desperate grasp—the half raised form!—and eye
Yet glaring with the threat of agony:
The bleeding banner and the dripping crest:
The dying war-horse, with his heaving chest,
Yet struggling to arise, and o'er the plain
Blaze forth in dimmed caparisons again—
And loosen to the wind his crimson streaming mane!
O, there's no mockery like the morning light,
Smiling o'er relicks of a bloody night;
Like a red lustre on a barren mount:
Like the rich moon-beam o'er a silent fount,
Swimming in feverish splendour, while it tells,
But the more certain, where the turf-home swells—
Where Hope is stretched in death, and Desolation dwells.
Smiling o'er relicks of a bloody night;
Like a red lustre on a barren mount:
Like the rich moon-beam o'er a silent fount,
Swimming in feverish splendour, while it tells,
But the more certain, where the turf-home swells—
Where Hope is stretched in death, and Desolation dwells.
As on a mountain altar, thick are laid,
These midnight victims to the Battle-shade:
Slain in the darkness, by an unseen hand—
With eye half closed—dead hair—and shivered brand:
In solitude they lie!—with no friend near:
Not stretched in soldier pomp upon the bier,
With the high casque—and crimson plume—and sword,
With blow of trumpets—roll of drums—and word
Of slow command—and dragging tramp of steeds—
And all the pageantry the dead man needs—
The banner stretching dark, and float of dusky weeds.
These midnight victims to the Battle-shade:
Slain in the darkness, by an unseen hand—
With eye half closed—dead hair—and shivered brand:
In solitude they lie!—with no friend near:
Not stretched in soldier pomp upon the bier,
With the high casque—and crimson plume—and sword,
With blow of trumpets—roll of drums—and word
Of slow command—and dragging tramp of steeds—
And all the pageantry the dead man needs—
The banner stretching dark, and float of dusky weeds.
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Hear ye that sound? 'twould make the stoutest quail:
It is the morning—lamentation—wail
Of outbreathed hearts, that load the morning air;
Of those who kneel among the dead in prayer,—
Collecting relicks—locks of bloody hair.
Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds
Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds
On this sad—still—and melancholy morn,
As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn
Came dancing on the winds; and pealed to heaven!
In gone-by hours, before the battle-even?
The very horses move with halting pace:
No more they heave their manes with fiery grace—
With plunge—and reach—and step that leaves no trace:
No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling
Their light hoofs on the air! The bugles sing;
And yet the meteor mane, and rolling eye
Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy.
No more their housings blaze: no more the gold,
Or purple, flashes from the opening fold:
No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride
Of changing hues all—all!—is crimson-dyed.
They move with slow—far step: they hear the tread
That measures out the tombing of the dead:
The cannon speaks: but now, no longer rolls
In heavy thunders to the answering poles.
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies—
At breathless intervals along the skies,—
As if some viewless sentinel were there,
Whose challenge peals at midnight thro' the air;
Each sullen steed goes on—nor heeds its roar:
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more:
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head—
And slowly wheeling—with a cautious tread—
Shuns—as in reverence—the mighty dead:
Or—rearing suddenly!—with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies—he passes by.
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh—and gazes round—
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This!—while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughtered men, and never drop a tear.
And only—when he meets a comrade there—
Stretched calmly out—with brow and bosom bare—
And stiffened hand uplifted in the air,—
With lip still curled—and open, glassy eye,
Fixed on the pageant that is passing by;—
And only then—in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength—less lordly in his pride.
It is the morning—lamentation—wail
Of outbreathed hearts, that load the morning air;
Of those who kneel among the dead in prayer,—
Collecting relicks—locks of bloody hair.
Who thinks of battle now? The stirring sounds
Spring lightly from the trumpet, yet who bounds
On this sad—still—and melancholy morn,
As he was wont to bound, when the fresh horn
Came dancing on the winds; and pealed to heaven!
In gone-by hours, before the battle-even?
The very horses move with halting pace:
No more they heave their manes with fiery grace—
With plunge—and reach—and step that leaves no trace:
No more they spurn the bit, and sudden fling
Their light hoofs on the air! The bugles sing;
And yet the meteor mane, and rolling eye
Lighten no longer at their minstrelsy.
No more their housings blaze: no more the gold,
Or purple, flashes from the opening fold:
No rich-wrought stars are glittering in their pride
Of changing hues all—all!—is crimson-dyed.
They move with slow—far step: they hear the tread
That measures out the tombing of the dead:
The cannon speaks: but now, no longer rolls
In heavy thunders to the answering poles.
But bursting suddenly, it calls, and flies—
At breathless intervals along the skies,—
As if some viewless sentinel were there,
Whose challenge peals at midnight thro' the air;
172
Nor pauses when its voice is heard no more:
But snuffs the tainted breeze, and lifts his head—
And slowly wheeling—with a cautious tread—
Shuns—as in reverence—the mighty dead:
Or—rearing suddenly!—with flashing eye,
Where some young war-horse lies—he passes by.
Then, with unequal step, he smites the ground,
Utters a startling neigh—and gazes round—
And wonders that he hears no answering sound.
This!—while his rider can go by the bier
Of slaughtered men, and never drop a tear.
And only—when he meets a comrade there—
Stretched calmly out—with brow and bosom bare—
And stiffened hand uplifted in the air,—
With lip still curled—and open, glassy eye,
Fixed on the pageant that is passing by;—
And only then—in decency will ride
Less stately in his strength—less lordly in his pride.
Now shouts the trump again! The muskets ring!
Drums travel loud!—and merry bugles sing!
And once more, in the breeze, the rainbow banners swing!
Drums travel loud!—and merry bugles sing!
And once more, in the breeze, the rainbow banners swing!
Such sounds are wanted, when the morning red
Comes warm and richly o'er unburied dead:
The brawling drum must roll: the keen-toned fife,
Must sting the sluggish pulses into life;
Or all that had survived would kneel in prayer;
And pour their hearts out in the morning air:
And consecrate their bloody swords to peace;
And call for mercy, loud; and never cease
Their supplications, till the God of Heaven
Had offered them some sign that murder was forgiven.
Comes warm and richly o'er unburied dead:
The brawling drum must roll: the keen-toned fife,
Must sting the sluggish pulses into life;
Or all that had survived would kneel in prayer;
And pour their hearts out in the morning air:
173
And call for mercy, loud; and never cease
Their supplications, till the God of Heaven
Had offered them some sign that murder was forgiven.
Come, Glory, come! Let's chant the soldier's dirge:
Step from thy thrones, and from thy clouds emerge!
Bring thy black cypress clotted in the shade:
Of weeping-willow let a wreath be made,
To crown the warrior-brow, that lately sought
Thy battle-laurel: him who lately fought
Reddest and fiercest, where the war-god sung:
Where the loud death-sobs came, and falchions rung;
Twine him a heavy garland! steep it well;
And mutter o'er its gloom thy darkest spell;
With broken heart-strings, be it twisted round;
Tread it in wrath upon the soaking ground;
And where the stagnant blood lies deepest, there
Complete thy curse—the chaplet of despair!
Call back his spirit from the eternal bar:
Show him that clotted foliage—talk of war;
Wake thy swift bugle, let it sing away
Freshly and clear, like clarion of the day!
Loosen thy banners on the mountain winds!
Call up thy thunders!—while thy hot hand binds,
That wreath around his mad, consuming brain—
Tell him 'tis his reward!—will he complain
Of wasted life—of bloody hand arrayed
In sacrifice for thee?—when blade met blade;
And man met man, and like the desert beast,
That bleeds and battles 'till his breath has ceased;
Toiled dark upon the mount to spread the vultures, feast.
Step from thy thrones, and from thy clouds emerge!
Bring thy black cypress clotted in the shade:
Of weeping-willow let a wreath be made,
To crown the warrior-brow, that lately sought
Thy battle-laurel: him who lately fought
Reddest and fiercest, where the war-god sung:
Where the loud death-sobs came, and falchions rung;
Twine him a heavy garland! steep it well;
And mutter o'er its gloom thy darkest spell;
With broken heart-strings, be it twisted round;
Tread it in wrath upon the soaking ground;
And where the stagnant blood lies deepest, there
Complete thy curse—the chaplet of despair!
Call back his spirit from the eternal bar:
Show him that clotted foliage—talk of war;
Wake thy swift bugle, let it sing away
Freshly and clear, like clarion of the day!
Loosen thy banners on the mountain winds!
Call up thy thunders!—while thy hot hand binds,
That wreath around his mad, consuming brain—
Tell him 'tis his reward!—will he complain
Of wasted life—of bloody hand arrayed
In sacrifice for thee?—when blade met blade;
And man met man, and like the desert beast,
174
Toiled dark upon the mount to spread the vultures, feast.
A solemn march is heard: a measured tread:—
Banners are furled again—and o'er the dead,
By martial hands, the crimson pall is spread.
A band on foot approach, they bear a form,
Like the rent mountain oak, that braves the storm—
Heaves its young branches to the raging skies—
Receives the Thunderer's bolt—and prostrate lies!
Whence is that band—and whose the form they bear
With high—pale brow, and darkly clustered hair?
That hair is wet—but not with dews of night;
Its lifeless length was loaded in the fight.
Disfigured—motionless—with bosom bare—
And arm—still stretched abroad!—he slumbers there.
He was careering in the hottest fight;
His black barb leaping in his stormy might;
His banner—floating loudly on the ear,
As if some mighty Bird were hovering near:
His starry troops were conquering at his side;
Their plumes were blazing in their fiercest pride—
When suddenly—his heart!—its lordly swell
Was gone for ever!—as he dimly fell,
His hand once stretched his sabre to his foes!
His form dilated!—more erect he rose!—
His dark eye flashed once more!—but flashed in vain:
His wounded charger felt the loosened rein:—
Felt the strong hand that grasped his bloody mane—
And sprang to bear him off!—One desperate bound—
One gallant neigh he gave!—and on the ground
Stretched his dark limbs—triumphantly—and died!
On the wide battle field—in warrior pride;
Far from the noise of strife, and by his master's side.
Banners are furled again—and o'er the dead,
By martial hands, the crimson pall is spread.
A band on foot approach, they bear a form,
Like the rent mountain oak, that braves the storm—
Heaves its young branches to the raging skies—
Receives the Thunderer's bolt—and prostrate lies!
Whence is that band—and whose the form they bear
With high—pale brow, and darkly clustered hair?
That hair is wet—but not with dews of night;
Its lifeless length was loaded in the fight.
Disfigured—motionless—with bosom bare—
And arm—still stretched abroad!—he slumbers there.
He was careering in the hottest fight;
His black barb leaping in his stormy might;
His banner—floating loudly on the ear,
As if some mighty Bird were hovering near:
His starry troops were conquering at his side;
Their plumes were blazing in their fiercest pride—
When suddenly—his heart!—its lordly swell
Was gone for ever!—as he dimly fell,
His hand once stretched his sabre to his foes!
His form dilated!—more erect he rose!—
His dark eye flashed once more!—but flashed in vain:
His wounded charger felt the loosened rein:—
Felt the strong hand that grasped his bloody mane—
And sprang to bear him off!—One desperate bound—
175
Stretched his dark limbs—triumphantly—and died!
On the wide battle field—in warrior pride;
Far from the noise of strife, and by his master's side.
Know ye that form—those features—and that air?
Have ye e'er seen that thickly clustered hair?
That!—was the brown-cheeked youth, with eye of fire,
Who rode a courser like the winds. His sire
Bows proudly o'er his course. His bloody bier
With precious dew is bathed—the cold sad tear—
The heart's last offering! o'er those ruins fall,
That lie concealed beneath a bleeding pall:
And one is there, whose trembling hands are prest
In desperate calmness on her swelling breast:
Whose mute—pale lip—whose sadly wandering eye
Speaks more than sorrow—suffering—agony!—
While gazing tearless on the form before her;
Father of Mercies! Father! Oh, restore her!
Have ye e'er seen that thickly clustered hair?
That!—was the brown-cheeked youth, with eye of fire,
Who rode a courser like the winds. His sire
Bows proudly o'er his course. His bloody bier
With precious dew is bathed—the cold sad tear—
The heart's last offering! o'er those ruins fall,
That lie concealed beneath a bleeding pall:
And one is there, whose trembling hands are prest
In desperate calmness on her swelling breast:
Whose mute—pale lip—whose sadly wandering eye
Speaks more than sorrow—suffering—agony!—
While gazing tearless on the form before her;
Father of Mercies! Father! Oh, restore her!
| The battle of Niagara | |