 | The last night of Pompeii ; a poem : and lays and legends |  |
LAYS AND LEGENDS.
HIPPIAS, THE TRAITOR OF MARATHON.
Hipparchus and Hippias, called the Pisistratidæ, the sons of Pisistratus, who during the latter years of Solon, through artifice and treachery, acquired the sovereignty of Athens, by many acts of arbitrary exaction and cruelty, had awaked the vengeance of the Athenians. Harmodius and Aristogiton led the revolt, (indeed the inhabitants of Athens had never acknowledged the authority of Pisistratus or his sons,) and slew Hipparchus, while Hippias escaped into the castle of the Acropolis, and exercised, for three years after, the most atrocious severities upon all, whom by fraud or violence, he could seize and torture. I have supposed Harmodius dead, and Aristogiton living, till the battle of Marathon, though the anachronism is obvious enough. Clisthenes, who contributed so much to expel Hippias, afterwards invented the ostracism, and was himself the first sufferer. The Panathenea, which the Athenians are supposed to be celebrating, in the first part of the Poem, was the most splendid festival of Attica: and the month Hecatombæon, in which it was solemnized, being the period of the accession of the Archons and Thesmothetæ to office, would naturally awaken the people to the assertion of their rights.
Autumnal twilight on the Zephyr's wing
Hovered o'er Athens, and its iris hues
Blended with ether's vestal blue, breathed o'er
By the favonian airs, and with the clouds
Pavilioned in the heavens, or diamond stars
Now in their lustrous beauty coming forth.
They myrtle and rose-flowered acacia flung
Their vesper fragrance on the mellow breeze;
The illumined sea, dimpling with smiles, sent up
The gentlest music to the parting light
And dawning Pleiades, and, man might dream,
The tritons with Poseidon, in a heaven
Beneath the emerald billows, mid strange flowers,
O'erclustering coral temples, dwelt and sung.
The vales of Arcady, from meads of thyme
And hallowed fountains, for dim oracles
Renowned, uplifted evening orisons,
With forest hymns of the hoar hills, whose brows
Gleamed in the earliest and latest light,
Rejoicing in the loveliness of eve.
And many a woodland pipe and cithern hailed
Familiar constellations, as the blaze
Of the divine Hyperion left the skies
To the dominion of Love's blessed stars.
Hovered o'er Athens, and its iris hues
Blended with ether's vestal blue, breathed o'er
By the favonian airs, and with the clouds
Pavilioned in the heavens, or diamond stars
Now in their lustrous beauty coming forth.
They myrtle and rose-flowered acacia flung
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The illumined sea, dimpling with smiles, sent up
The gentlest music to the parting light
And dawning Pleiades, and, man might dream,
The tritons with Poseidon, in a heaven
Beneath the emerald billows, mid strange flowers,
O'erclustering coral temples, dwelt and sung.
The vales of Arcady, from meads of thyme
And hallowed fountains, for dim oracles
Renowned, uplifted evening orisons,
With forest hymns of the hoar hills, whose brows
Gleamed in the earliest and latest light,
Rejoicing in the loveliness of eve.
And many a woodland pipe and cithern hailed
Familiar constellations, as the blaze
Of the divine Hyperion left the skies
To the dominion of Love's blessed stars.
Yet 'mid the pomp of luxuries, within
Athena's citadel, in broidered robes,
And tossing on his purple banquet couch
In torture, lay the racked but noble form
Of one who cursed the sunlight, and shut out
The holy influences of the heaven,
Loathing the beauty passion in his soul
Had darkened with its midnight, and in wrath
Shunning the spirit of magnificence
He felt not in his bosom's depth of gloom.
Among the splendors of a power, erewhile
By treachery grasped, yet ministered with thoughts
Of grandeur, lay the last, least-gifted heart
Whose pulses bounded with the glowing blood
Of Pisistratus: o'er his lofty brow,
And lips of beauty—which disdained the soul
That mocked them with its weak and evil powers—
The chill dews of an agony, that shook
Aside the veil that masked it to the world,
Gushed, and in dark lines o'er his countenance
The tempest of a foiled ambition fell.
From burnished shield, statue and gleaming lance,
Gem-hilted sabre and the pictured tomes
Of Scio's deathless bard, and all the pomp
Of pillared porticoes, he turned and breathed
Quick, panting execrations, as the breeze
Rustled the olives of the Parthenon,
Or with the orange leaves, like oreads, played.
Listening with the intensest hope and fear,
He rose upon the couch and forward leaned;
His pale lips writhed as if their scorpion curves
Could fill his curse with venom—and his brow,
Convulsed by pangs of guilt, e'en now in youth
Burned with the ghastly light of blasted fame.
Athena's citadel, in broidered robes,
And tossing on his purple banquet couch
In torture, lay the racked but noble form
Of one who cursed the sunlight, and shut out
The holy influences of the heaven,
Loathing the beauty passion in his soul
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Shunning the spirit of magnificence
He felt not in his bosom's depth of gloom.
Among the splendors of a power, erewhile
By treachery grasped, yet ministered with thoughts
Of grandeur, lay the last, least-gifted heart
Whose pulses bounded with the glowing blood
Of Pisistratus: o'er his lofty brow,
And lips of beauty—which disdained the soul
That mocked them with its weak and evil powers—
The chill dews of an agony, that shook
Aside the veil that masked it to the world,
Gushed, and in dark lines o'er his countenance
The tempest of a foiled ambition fell.
From burnished shield, statue and gleaming lance,
Gem-hilted sabre and the pictured tomes
Of Scio's deathless bard, and all the pomp
Of pillared porticoes, he turned and breathed
Quick, panting execrations, as the breeze
Rustled the olives of the Parthenon,
Or with the orange leaves, like oreads, played.
Listening with the intensest hope and fear,
He rose upon the couch and forward leaned;
His pale lips writhed as if their scorpion curves
Could fill his curse with venom—and his brow,
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Burned with the ghastly light of blasted fame.
“The Egyptian could not err—the Acropolis
Hath never fail'd its master! yet the yells
Of the wild faction—the dust-eaters—daunt
My spirit—and I feel the spear-point glide
Along my heart, whene'er Hipparchus' doom
Darkens the mirror of fierce memories!”
Thus in his solitude the tyrant spake.
“A footfall echoes on the corridor!
Was't not a voice beneath? he comes to bring
The soldiers of the isles unto my aid.
Ay, shout, and shriek, and with your torchlight glare
Affright the heavens, ye faithless herd of serfs!
I know ye merciless—can I be less?
Howl in your wild Panathenea, howl!
Your festival may close with unhoped feasts,
Your saturnalia with the clank of chains!
My trusted Medon comes with tidings fit
To soothe my ear shocked by your Teian oaths.
A nearer step—and a white banner borne
Proudly—he comes with succor in his smile!”
A lofty shadow crossed the vestibule,
And in the purple twilight silent stood
Before the tyrant, who but ill discerned
Through the vast hall of revelries the face
That with a marble sternness searched his soul.
“Speak, Medon! will the isles avenge our cause,
And crush the rebel slaves that seek our death?”
Hath never fail'd its master! yet the yells
Of the wild faction—the dust-eaters—daunt
My spirit—and I feel the spear-point glide
Along my heart, whene'er Hipparchus' doom
Darkens the mirror of fierce memories!”
Thus in his solitude the tyrant spake.
“A footfall echoes on the corridor!
Was't not a voice beneath? he comes to bring
The soldiers of the isles unto my aid.
Ay, shout, and shriek, and with your torchlight glare
Affright the heavens, ye faithless herd of serfs!
I know ye merciless—can I be less?
Howl in your wild Panathenea, howl!
Your festival may close with unhoped feasts,
Your saturnalia with the clank of chains!
My trusted Medon comes with tidings fit
To soothe my ear shocked by your Teian oaths.
A nearer step—and a white banner borne
Proudly—he comes with succor in his smile!”
A lofty shadow crossed the vestibule,
And in the purple twilight silent stood
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Through the vast hall of revelries the face
That with a marble sternness searched his soul.
“Speak, Medon! will the isles avenge our cause,
And crush the rebel slaves that seek our death?”
“Gaze with a better judgment, Hippias! once
Clothed with a power thou dost no longer hold.
Thou seest no Medon! but the herald-king
Of the Amphyctions—who thus, from them
Bids thee resign the citadel, and part
For ever from the shores thy crimes have cursed—
Or struggle with the vengeance thou hast raised!”
Clothed with a power thou dost no longer hold.
Thou seest no Medon! but the herald-king
Of the Amphyctions—who thus, from them
Bids thee resign the citadel, and part
For ever from the shores thy crimes have cursed—
Or struggle with the vengeance thou hast raised!”
“Ha! 't is a gracious message, and I thank
The artizans of Athens for their love;
But what my father builded and the blood
Of bold Hipparchus sanctified, I keep;
Daring the Thesmothetæ and their host
Of burden-bearers in their worst assault.”
The artizans of Athens for their love;
But what my father builded and the blood
Of bold Hipparchus sanctified, I keep;
Daring the Thesmothetæ and their host
Of burden-bearers in their worst assault.”
“The oppressor skills not in the lore of life,
His grandeur is the sea-foam—and his power
The gossamer a zephyr bears away.
Beware thy answer, 't is the very last
The desperation of the land allows.
Hast thou forgot Lenæa on the rack?
She spat her gory tongue at thee, and died
Defying tyrants to make traitors, son
Of the destroyer of the chainless Right!
Aristogiton and brave Clisthenes
May teach thee wisdom ere thy Medon comes!”
His grandeur is the sea-foam—and his power
The gossamer a zephyr bears away.
Beware thy answer, 't is the very last
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Hast thou forgot Lenæa on the rack?
She spat her gory tongue at thee, and died
Defying tyrants to make traitors, son
Of the destroyer of the chainless Right!
Aristogiton and brave Clisthenes
May teach thee wisdom ere thy Medon comes!”
“And I may teach it thee, unmannered slave
Of men, who, while they envy me, aspire
To gain the masterdom by fawns and smiles
Flung on the vile democracies of Greece!
The trusted may betray—the ruthless foe
Assail—and famine be my only guest—
Danger my only guard—despair, the pulse
That throbs me on to death—but I to none
Will render back my heritage! away!”
Of men, who, while they envy me, aspire
To gain the masterdom by fawns and smiles
Flung on the vile democracies of Greece!
The trusted may betray—the ruthless foe
Assail—and famine be my only guest—
Danger my only guard—despair, the pulse
That throbs me on to death—but I to none
Will render back my heritage! away!”
“One word, proud Hippias! thou may'st depart
With thine own Rhodope and all thy wealth,
To any realm thou wilt—but hear me, lord!
Aristogiton with Platæan troops
Leads on the squadrons of brave Clisthenes!
The Spartan and the Alcmæonidæ
Are banded with Arcadia to o'erwhelm—”
With thine own Rhodope and all thy wealth,
To any realm thou wilt—but hear me, lord!
Aristogiton with Platæan troops
Leads on the squadrons of brave Clisthenes!
The Spartan and the Alcmæonidæ
Are banded with Arcadia to o'erwhelm—”
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“And let them come! it shall be joy, whate'er
The gods resolve, to dip my hand in hearts
That clove my brother's! Did I rightly hear—
Aristogiton? that thy place were his!
I would abscind a whole Olympiad
From being but to quench that thirst! he slew
Hipparchus! and he will be deified!
If ghosts are gods, my hand should make him one!
Away! begone! the citadel is mine!”
The gods resolve, to dip my hand in hearts
That clove my brother's! Did I rightly hear—
Aristogiton? that thy place were his!
I would abscind a whole Olympiad
From being but to quench that thirst! he slew
Hipparchus! and he will be deified!
If ghosts are gods, my hand should make him one!
Away! begone! the citadel is mine!”
Slowly the herald, spurning the dust, retired
Unto the assembling host that through the gates
Poured o'er the city, while thronged galleys lay
In the Piræus, and the cries of wrath
From the Munychian fortress hastened on
The assaulters of the tyrant's citadel.
That night, festivities and liberal mirth,
Accustomed at the nation's gayest feast,
When all in Athens banqueted and sang,
Wanted their worshippers; for human hearts,
Goaded and gashed by wanton tyranny,
Hurled their oppressions and oppressors forth,
And robed their wounds with justice! every clime
Hath had its crowned and sceptred torturers,
Its diadems and dungeons—every clime
May have its armed avengers, if the mind
Feels its immortal majesty, and bathes
The brand of bondage with the monarch's tears.
Unto the assembling host that through the gates
Poured o'er the city, while thronged galleys lay
In the Piræus, and the cries of wrath
From the Munychian fortress hastened on
The assaulters of the tyrant's citadel.
That night, festivities and liberal mirth,
Accustomed at the nation's gayest feast,
When all in Athens banqueted and sang,
Wanted their worshippers; for human hearts,
Goaded and gashed by wanton tyranny,
Hurled their oppressions and oppressors forth,
And robed their wounds with justice! every clime
Hath had its crowned and sceptred torturers,
Its diadems and dungeons—every clime
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Feels its immortal majesty, and bathes
The brand of bondage with the monarch's tears.
The battle-cries—the rush—the trumpet's voice—
The glare of torchlight combat—the dismay
And triumph—dinted shields and shattered helms—
And broken palisades, and trampled halls
Of desolated splendor—all are o'er!
Deserted in his peril by the shades
Of his past glory, Hippias, through the gloom
Of tangled wilds and shaggy caverns, groped
His lonely path to banishment—amidst
The forests, crags and torrents and defiles
Of his wronged country—on the toppling peak,
And in the voiceless grotto—danger—fear,
And hopelessness and hunger, breathing one,
One deep, remorseless passion, born of Hate
And Agony—Revenge! Revenge for all!
With ravening thirst of vengeance, borne for years,
Through mountain gorges and o'er deserts fled
The banished Hippias to the eastern king.
The glare of torchlight combat—the dismay
And triumph—dinted shields and shattered helms—
And broken palisades, and trampled halls
Of desolated splendor—all are o'er!
Deserted in his peril by the shades
Of his past glory, Hippias, through the gloom
Of tangled wilds and shaggy caverns, groped
His lonely path to banishment—amidst
The forests, crags and torrents and defiles
Of his wronged country—on the toppling peak,
And in the voiceless grotto—danger—fear,
And hopelessness and hunger, breathing one,
One deep, remorseless passion, born of Hate
And Agony—Revenge! Revenge for all!
With ravening thirst of vengeance, borne for years,
Through mountain gorges and o'er deserts fled
The banished Hippias to the eastern king.
Amidst the beauty and magnificence,
The pomp and perfumes of the Sophi's court
The outcast tyrant bow'd, while satraps laid
Their foreheads in the dust and magi waved,
From golden censers, odors o'er the throne
Of Persia's King, in conquered Babylon.
The diamond diadem, the Tyrrhene robes
Girded by broidered zones of gems and gold,
The violet colored turbans thronging round
The sceptre that awed Asia, and the dread
Of the adoring crowd—o'er Hippias threw
No fear and veneration fitting herds
Who grovel through the gloom of vassalage
To breathe a glory they can never share.
Might, majesty, the usages of kings,
Palace and temple, and the matchless mind
Of Greece had left the unsceptred wanderer now
No admiration of barbaric pomp.
The pomp and perfumes of the Sophi's court
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Their foreheads in the dust and magi waved,
From golden censers, odors o'er the throne
Of Persia's King, in conquered Babylon.
The diamond diadem, the Tyrrhene robes
Girded by broidered zones of gems and gold,
The violet colored turbans thronging round
The sceptre that awed Asia, and the dread
Of the adoring crowd—o'er Hippias threw
No fear and veneration fitting herds
Who grovel through the gloom of vassalage
To breathe a glory they can never share.
Might, majesty, the usages of kings,
Palace and temple, and the matchless mind
Of Greece had left the unsceptred wanderer now
No admiration of barbaric pomp.
“What wouldst thou, son of Pisistratus?” said
Royal Hystaspes.—“Refuge and Revenge!”
Replied the unfaltering prince.—“The first is thine,
In Susa, by Choaspes, or the bowers
Of fair Persopolis—or any dome
Of all our empire that hath held a king,
Till such time as the greatness of our cares
Permits us further to discourse of thine.
Thou shalt not lack our solace for the woes
Revolt hath stirred within thy bosom, Prince!
Nor our fit aid to wrest from rebel hordes
A ransom such as Babylon has paid
For treason and Zopyrus—when time serves.
Thou comest not alone?”
“My Rhodope,
For we are childless, is the only charm
That lingers round my desolated path,
Great sovereign of the Orient! and she,
Worn by our perilled flight, awaits, in grief.
The edict of the monarch's gracious will.”
Royal Hystaspes.—“Refuge and Revenge!”
Replied the unfaltering prince.—“The first is thine,
In Susa, by Choaspes, or the bowers
Of fair Persopolis—or any dome
Of all our empire that hath held a king,
Till such time as the greatness of our cares
Permits us further to discourse of thine.
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Revolt hath stirred within thy bosom, Prince!
Nor our fit aid to wrest from rebel hordes
A ransom such as Babylon has paid
For treason and Zopyrus—when time serves.
Thou comest not alone?”
“My Rhodope,
For we are childless, is the only charm
That lingers round my desolated path,
Great sovereign of the Orient! and she,
Worn by our perilled flight, awaits, in grief.
The edict of the monarch's gracious will.”
“O Mythra! doth it come to this, at last?
That a frail woman—like a summer cloud
Upon the desert, is the only shade
For the brave man in agony—the flower
That with its fragrant leaves shadows the brow
Which burns in Passion's fever—that our pride
And pleasure and renown and majesty
Are vanities beneath her starlight smile!
Well, thou art happy, Hippias! in thy love.
Choose from our regal mansions as thou wilt—
And Peace, like the cool fountain's music, shed
Her gladness round thee till we meet again!”
When Freedom, phrenzied by the scorn and wrong
Of purple power, tears from the place of guilt
The Atlas of the crushed heart's agonies
The sceptre trembles in each monarch hand
O'er the glad earth—the brightest crown-gems fade,
And battled legions—mercenary hosts—
Are cast like avalanches, o'er the realm
That doubts the archangel sanctitude of kings.
So goodly sympathies expand, and crime
Becomes impolicy, and shedded blood
Lamented chance, and princely palaces
In other kingdoms shield the despot, cells
Of darkness in his own should carcerate.
That a frail woman—like a summer cloud
Upon the desert, is the only shade
For the brave man in agony—the flower
That with its fragrant leaves shadows the brow
Which burns in Passion's fever—that our pride
And pleasure and renown and majesty
Are vanities beneath her starlight smile!
Well, thou art happy, Hippias! in thy love.
Choose from our regal mansions as thou wilt—
And Peace, like the cool fountain's music, shed
Her gladness round thee till we meet again!”
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Of purple power, tears from the place of guilt
The Atlas of the crushed heart's agonies
The sceptre trembles in each monarch hand
O'er the glad earth—the brightest crown-gems fade,
And battled legions—mercenary hosts—
Are cast like avalanches, o'er the realm
That doubts the archangel sanctitude of kings.
So goodly sympathies expand, and crime
Becomes impolicy, and shedded blood
Lamented chance, and princely palaces
In other kingdoms shield the despot, cells
Of darkness in his own should carcerate.
Time is but thought; and o'er the ill or good,
It flies or lingers as their spirits will,
Soothing misfortune, or to nurtured hate,
Adding dark torrents of feigned injuries.
Years drearily meandered o'er the heart
Of Hippias amidst the loveliest bloom
And verdure of the lote and myrtle groves,
The Aurora and the vesper hymn of streams,
The chequered shadows of the Zagros hills,
The magic, love, romance and revelries
Of his own beautiful and glittering home.
Humiliation panted for revenge—
Shame summoned demon pride—lost powers called up
The faded apparitions of his hour
Of homage and dominion; and he sued
By starbeam and by sunlight, through the years
Of banishment, to satraps at his feasts,
And princes in their palaces to lead
The vast hosts of the east against the land
Where, tyraat once and traitor now, his soul
Exulted to inflict its hoarded wrath.
His head was hoary and his countenance
Trench'd o'er, and charr'd by evil thoughts, ere forth
The heralds of the Medes and Persians passed,
To bid Arcadia to the Persian bow.
And Hippias buried time, till one returned.
“Brings't thou the earth and water? fear they not?”
Astarte save me! I alone am left;
The Grecians hurled my fellows from the rocks
Into the abysses—saying ‘Take your fill!’”
It flies or lingers as their spirits will,
Soothing misfortune, or to nurtured hate,
Adding dark torrents of feigned injuries.
Years drearily meandered o'er the heart
Of Hippias amidst the loveliest bloom
And verdure of the lote and myrtle groves,
The Aurora and the vesper hymn of streams,
The chequered shadows of the Zagros hills,
The magic, love, romance and revelries
Of his own beautiful and glittering home.
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Shame summoned demon pride—lost powers called up
The faded apparitions of his hour
Of homage and dominion; and he sued
By starbeam and by sunlight, through the years
Of banishment, to satraps at his feasts,
And princes in their palaces to lead
The vast hosts of the east against the land
Where, tyraat once and traitor now, his soul
Exulted to inflict its hoarded wrath.
His head was hoary and his countenance
Trench'd o'er, and charr'd by evil thoughts, ere forth
The heralds of the Medes and Persians passed,
To bid Arcadia to the Persian bow.
And Hippias buried time, till one returned.
“Brings't thou the earth and water? fear they not?”
Astarte save me! I alone am left;
The Grecians hurled my fellows from the rocks
Into the abysses—saying ‘Take your fill!’”
Mocked thus, Darius paused not, but arrayed
His armies for the conquest, and the waves
Of the Euphrates heard the shouts and songs
Of thousands following thousands to the war.
The barbs of Araby and towered elephants
Bore dusky chieftains panoplied; the waste
And mountain pass and plain with silken tents
And costliest pavilions, pillowed round,
Seemed an enchanted land; and instruments
Of softest music breathed their harmonies
On the spread camp and scattered wanton march.
Emblazoned shields no blood had ever dimmed,
And mirrored helmets ne'er a sword had left
A hero's witness on—and garments soiled
By no wild combat or untented sleep,
Glittered and waved around the royal pomp.
Beside the monarch in the centre rode
The mover of this pageantry, and oft
The doubting mind of Hippias, as he cast
His troubled glances o'er the motley host,
Betrayed the fear that, like a thraldom brand,
Seared his proud heart; yet dared he not arraign
The satrap's vaunted skill in high command.
So on they passed, and o'er the Ægean swept
The galleys of the Persian, and his bands,
Like sundered glaciers, poured upon the plain
Of deathless Marathon, leaving behind
Dark solitudes of smouldering flame and gore.
There stood Miltiades, mid the armed hearts
Of Arcady, and in the bristling van
Of the Platæans towered an aged form.
Unbroken by the harvest years of joy
And virtue; and the same heroic eye
Watched the o'ercrowding foe, that erst, along
The hallowed blade flashed on the cloven heart
Of dead Hipparchus; and the traitor's brow
Felt the pale shadows of the sepulchre,
As he beheld Aristogiton there!
His armies for the conquest, and the waves
Of the Euphrates heard the shouts and songs
Of thousands following thousands to the war.
The barbs of Araby and towered elephants
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And mountain pass and plain with silken tents
And costliest pavilions, pillowed round,
Seemed an enchanted land; and instruments
Of softest music breathed their harmonies
On the spread camp and scattered wanton march.
Emblazoned shields no blood had ever dimmed,
And mirrored helmets ne'er a sword had left
A hero's witness on—and garments soiled
By no wild combat or untented sleep,
Glittered and waved around the royal pomp.
Beside the monarch in the centre rode
The mover of this pageantry, and oft
The doubting mind of Hippias, as he cast
His troubled glances o'er the motley host,
Betrayed the fear that, like a thraldom brand,
Seared his proud heart; yet dared he not arraign
The satrap's vaunted skill in high command.
So on they passed, and o'er the Ægean swept
The galleys of the Persian, and his bands,
Like sundered glaciers, poured upon the plain
Of deathless Marathon, leaving behind
Dark solitudes of smouldering flame and gore.
There stood Miltiades, mid the armed hearts
Of Arcady, and in the bristling van
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Unbroken by the harvest years of joy
And virtue; and the same heroic eye
Watched the o'ercrowding foe, that erst, along
The hallowed blade flashed on the cloven heart
Of dead Hipparchus; and the traitor's brow
Felt the pale shadows of the sepulchre,
As he beheld Aristogiton there!
Let me not feign a picture of that fight!
The sanctities of ages shroud its deeds.
It's name is glory, and the hero's fame,
Shrined in the pantheon of deathless thought!
It thrills the soul of childhood and inspires
The sage, the warrior, and the statesman, when
All other fields of triumph pass away!
The sanctities of ages shroud its deeds.
It's name is glory, and the hero's fame,
Shrined in the pantheon of deathless thought!
It thrills the soul of childhood and inspires
The sage, the warrior, and the statesman, when
All other fields of triumph pass away!
The earth became a reservior of blood,
And carnage loathed its banquet, ere the waves
Of war bore Hippias, crimsoned with the gore
Of his betrayed and groaning country, near
Its terrible avenger. “Art thou come,
Hoar tyrant traitor! to invoke thy doom
From him who gashed thy brother's perjured heart?
And heard Harmodius, in his torture, name
Thy parasites, his fellows in the death?
Come! let the trophy of my best days be
Thy head, upon the shield, that shall not save
Thy bosom—when thy country bids thee die!”
And carnage loathed its banquet, ere the waves
Of war bore Hippias, crimsoned with the gore
Of his betrayed and groaning country, near
Its terrible avenger. “Art thou come,
Hoar tyrant traitor! to invoke thy doom
From him who gashed thy brother's perjured heart?
And heard Harmodius, in his torture, name
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Come! let the trophy of my best days be
Thy head, upon the shield, that shall not save
Thy bosom—when thy country bids thee die!”
He grasped—he hurled him from his plunging steed—
And, linked like maddened scorpions they strove,
And on the earth struggled in the wild might
Of merciless and all-redeeming hate.
Aristogiton is above him now!
Strike for thy country! strike for human kind!
The sabre searched the tyrant's vitals then!
Ha! the blood bubbles from the ruthless heart!
Again—one other blow for Liberty!
Why roll thine eye-balls, patriot? oh, the blade
Of Hippias, by his dying anguish driven
With all his living hate, is in thy heart!
The red streams mingle—the deep rattling voice
Of Death exults in this last wild Revenge,
And the low prayer of gratitude, and sigh
Of love flow from the stiffening lips that breathed
Their latest blessing on Arcadia's realm.
And there, at eve, the searchers of the dead,
Locked breast to breast, and palled in darkened blood,
The tyrant and the avenging patriot found.
And, linked like maddened scorpions they strove,
And on the earth struggled in the wild might
Of merciless and all-redeeming hate.
Aristogiton is above him now!
Strike for thy country! strike for human kind!
The sabre searched the tyrant's vitals then!
Ha! the blood bubbles from the ruthless heart!
Again—one other blow for Liberty!
Why roll thine eye-balls, patriot? oh, the blade
Of Hippias, by his dying anguish driven
With all his living hate, is in thy heart!
The red streams mingle—the deep rattling voice
Of Death exults in this last wild Revenge,
And the low prayer of gratitude, and sigh
Of love flow from the stiffening lips that breathed
Their latest blessing on Arcadia's realm.
And there, at eve, the searchers of the dead,
Locked breast to breast, and palled in darkened blood,
The tyrant and the avenging patriot found.
229
URN BURIAL.
Give not the human temple of the mind
To the dead loathsome dust of ages gone,
In the cold, silent, glimmering vault consign'd
To the dark sceptre of Death's ebon throne;
Give not the quench'd and shattered shrine, whereon
Thought burned its incense, feeling breathed its prayer,
O'er which Hope, Faith, and Intellect have flown,
To the bleak, haunted darkness of despair—
Oblivion's utter gloom, where Love cannot repair.
To the dead loathsome dust of ages gone,
In the cold, silent, glimmering vault consign'd
To the dark sceptre of Death's ebon throne;
Give not the quench'd and shattered shrine, whereon
Thought burned its incense, feeling breathed its prayer,
O'er which Hope, Faith, and Intellect have flown,
To the bleak, haunted darkness of despair—
Oblivion's utter gloom, where Love cannot repair.
Time rends the ties which frail Earth briefly gives,
And the soul's visions vanish like the wind,
But love immortal in its glory lives,
And in elysium links blest mind with mind;
E'en now, wing'd angels, watching o'er their kind,
In parted beings old affection burns,
As hovering o'er the haunts of thought enshrined,
To the heart's home, that, once lost, ne'er returns,
They wander gladly back and breathe upon their urns.
And the soul's visions vanish like the wind,
But love immortal in its glory lives,
And in elysium links blest mind with mind;
230
In parted beings old affection burns,
As hovering o'er the haunts of thought enshrined,
To the heart's home, that, once lost, ne'er returns,
They wander gladly back and breathe upon their urns.
The seraph visitants, who dwelt in forms,
Redeemed by tears and hallowed by the grave,
Float o'er our thoughts in starlight and in storms,
And vainly languish for the love they gave;
While each loved bosom, to cold dust a slave,
Decays in darkness, and no eye looks down
Upon Earth's buried mysteries to save
The spirit's ark from sacrilege unknown,
Or bring affection back with the altar and the crown.
Redeemed by tears and hallowed by the grave,
Float o'er our thoughts in starlight and in storms,
And vainly languish for the love they gave;
While each loved bosom, to cold dust a slave,
Decays in darkness, and no eye looks down
Upon Earth's buried mysteries to save
The spirit's ark from sacrilege unknown,
Or bring affection back with the altar and the crown.
But there, pale tremblers o'er the prison tomb,
Where Death from each heart-thrilling feature springs.
The plumes of spirits quiver in the gloom,
And vain sighs murmur in their restless wings,
Uttering their deathless, doomed imaginings;
While life is stirring in the ardent veins
Of cheered survivors, and each daybreak brings
Fair gleams of hope and fresh Arcadian strains,
To gild the weeds of woe,—to hush Death's clanking chains.
Where Death from each heart-thrilling feature springs.
The plumes of spirits quiver in the gloom,
And vain sighs murmur in their restless wings,
Uttering their deathless, doomed imaginings;
While life is stirring in the ardent veins
Of cheered survivors, and each daybreak brings
Fair gleams of hope and fresh Arcadian strains,
To gild the weeds of woe,—to hush Death's clanking chains.
231
Nourished in loneliness by beam and dew,
The azure waters and the emerald shore,
Light from the mind, like Gods from Ida, flew,
And breathed the immortal seraph's holiest lore;
And, from the world's corruptings, thought would soar,
When twilight taught religion, not of creeds,
Beyond the power of evil, and deplore
Frailties, o'er which the burning bosom bleeds,
And guilt, that casts deep night where'er it wildly leads.
The azure waters and the emerald shore,
Light from the mind, like Gods from Ida, flew,
And breathed the immortal seraph's holiest lore;
And, from the world's corruptings, thought would soar,
When twilight taught religion, not of creeds,
Beyond the power of evil, and deplore
Frailties, o'er which the burning bosom bleeds,
And guilt, that casts deep night where'er it wildly leads.
Can this be Love's last refuge? this, the home
Of the heart's ardors and elysian charms?
To Death's cold mansion none of Time will come,
Where thou sit'st, Earth! thy dead ones in thine arms!
But shrinking fears and doubts and quick alarms
Pervade and agonize the soul, that shoots
Through the still dwelling, where no object warms
The frozen sea of memory, and the roots
Of Love decay, and leave sear trunk and blasted fruits.
Of the heart's ardors and elysian charms?
To Death's cold mansion none of Time will come,
Where thou sit'st, Earth! thy dead ones in thine arms!
But shrinking fears and doubts and quick alarms
Pervade and agonize the soul, that shoots
Through the still dwelling, where no object warms
The frozen sea of memory, and the roots
Of Love decay, and leave sear trunk and blasted fruits.
But, oh, how beautiful the olden rite!
The twilight burial and the spicewood pyre!
The asbestos robe, the witnesses of light
From the blue heavens beholding son or sire
Bearing the dead with torch, and urn, and lyre!
Hope, memory, feeling, adoration dwelt
Within the mind, that purified by fire
The form, which, late, earth's sin and sorrow felt,
Yet kept the dust beloved and with it gently dealt.
The twilight burial and the spicewood pyre!
The asbestos robe, the witnesses of light
From the blue heavens beholding son or sire
Bearing the dead with torch, and urn, and lyre!
232
Within the mind, that purified by fire
The form, which, late, earth's sin and sorrow felt,
Yet kept the dust beloved and with it gently dealt.
Imagination, pathless and alone,
Went with a soundless tread through being's sky,
Bounding the infinite, naming the unknown,
And blending mortal with what could not die:
No voice, no vision, no revealing eye
Restored man's error in his maze of dreams,
But, solitary in creations high,
He gave immortal thoughts to woods and streams,
Bathed death's cheek in young dew and filled death's eye with beams.
Went with a soundless tread through being's sky,
Bounding the infinite, naming the unknown,
And blending mortal with what could not die:
No voice, no vision, no revealing eye
Restored man's error in his maze of dreams,
But, solitary in creations high,
He gave immortal thoughts to woods and streams,
Bathed death's cheek in young dew and filled death's eye with beams.
Thus, mounting to the fount of life divine,
The spirit revelled in its visionries,
Creating in each star a sacred shrine—
Having its home in the blue evening skies!
Man's hallowed love of beauty never dies,
But, born with being, gleams along the track
Of life, and, shadowing human destinies,
Revokes the evelights of glad childhood back,
And throws the rainbow's hues along the dark cloud's rack.
The spirit revelled in its visionries,
Creating in each star a sacred shrine—
Having its home in the blue evening skies!
Man's hallowed love of beauty never dies,
But, born with being, gleams along the track
Of life, and, shadowing human destinies,
Revokes the evelights of glad childhood back,
And throws the rainbow's hues along the dark cloud's rack.
233
These lofty thoughts around the dead became
Soarings of tenderness, of Love that brought
Electric union of the deeds and name,
The flesh and the far being of the thought;
High Intellect hath even shrunk from NOUGHT,
With loathing chill, and fashioned, at desire,
Worlds, where the fever, famine, ice, and drought,
Can slay no more—where friendship and the lyre
May hail, from ashes urned, the souls their songs inspire.
Soarings of tenderness, of Love that brought
Electric union of the deeds and name,
The flesh and the far being of the thought;
High Intellect hath even shrunk from NOUGHT,
With loathing chill, and fashioned, at desire,
Worlds, where the fever, famine, ice, and drought,
Can slay no more—where friendship and the lyre
May hail, from ashes urned, the souls their songs inspire.
But who will weep when I shall be no more?
Who to my manes offer life's regret!
The barque departs from being's desert shore—
The storm-veiled sun of saddened mind hath set!
Few are the hearts my wayward fate hath met
Which mine could fold as heaven unto my soul,
And these Earth shrouds or treachery's poison net;
And thus, alone, to Death's world-darkened goal,
Friendless, I haste and leave the orphans to their dole.
Who to my manes offer life's regret!
The barque departs from being's desert shore—
The storm-veiled sun of saddened mind hath set!
Few are the hearts my wayward fate hath met
Which mine could fold as heaven unto my soul,
And these Earth shrouds or treachery's poison net;
And thus, alone, to Death's world-darkened goal,
Friendless, I haste and leave the orphans to their dole.
Dread not thy doom as mindless vassals fear
The tyrant's lash and torture, but, through all
The hours allotted to thy action here,
Thy deeds, as incense, rise above man's fall!
So wisdom redes: but man is feeling's thrall.
Shudders to part from gifts and blessings shrined
In his unfathomed soul, and, most, to call
In vain, along the boundless realms of mind,
For them who were his bliss mid thankless humankind.
The tyrant's lash and torture, but, through all
The hours allotted to thy action here,
Thy deeds, as incense, rise above man's fall!
So wisdom redes: but man is feeling's thrall.
234
In his unfathomed soul, and, most, to call
In vain, along the boundless realms of mind,
For them who were his bliss mid thankless humankind.
In the grey dawn of Time, when high decrees
Were uttered by each bosom's pulse of pride,
When waters and dim woods had deities,
Oreads in the air and tritons on the tide,
And Nature's spirits o'er the heart did glide
Like most familiar friends—each thought and deed
Lifted exulting man, and purified
The stain and taint of crime, till all his creed
Was love to being's God and charity in need.
Were uttered by each bosom's pulse of pride,
When waters and dim woods had deities,
Oreads in the air and tritons on the tide,
And Nature's spirits o'er the heart did glide
Like most familiar friends—each thought and deed
Lifted exulting man, and purified
The stain and taint of crime, till all his creed
Was love to being's God and charity in need.
With what a passion, through all human things,
Frail hearts have panted in their pain to know
The mysteries that fold their midnight wings
Around the daring spirit! but earth's woe,
Like the lone upas fountain's poison flow,
Utters alone the oracles that thrill
The soul, and, like the moaning ocean's glow,
Quiver along the waves of good and ill,
That rush towards the gulph where all is cold and still.
Frail hearts have panted in their pain to know
The mysteries that fold their midnight wings
Around the daring spirit! but earth's woe,
Like the lone upas fountain's poison flow,
Utters alone the oracles that thrill
The soul, and, like the moaning ocean's glow,
Quiver along the waves of good and ill,
That rush towards the gulph where all is cold and still.
235
Inspired by grief, and guided by lone love,
The seers and sages of a better time
Gave beauty to the dead in every grove,
And household sanctity in every clime,
And fellowship and faith and hope sublime.
The deeds of years were, as Love's offering given,
To the dread manes of their sires, and crime
Fled from the Dead's Tribunal, wildly driven,—
Daring not souls on earth whose home and throne were heaven.
The seers and sages of a better time
Gave beauty to the dead in every grove,
And household sanctity in every clime,
And fellowship and faith and hope sublime.
The deeds of years were, as Love's offering given,
To the dread manes of their sires, and crime
Fled from the Dead's Tribunal, wildly driven,—
Daring not souls on earth whose home and throne were heaven.
Thus intellect and feeling gave to form
Undying action; to the eye and brow
The shadows of divinity; thus warm
From the deep fount came thoughts that lift us now
From earth, and wreathe our hopes with heaven's own bow!
Thus could our living meditations dwell
On doom, left fearless by the light and flow
Of life and hearthlight commune, Death's farewell
Might on the closing ear like songs of seraphs swell!
Undying action; to the eye and brow
The shadows of divinity; thus warm
From the deep fount came thoughts that lift us now
From earth, and wreathe our hopes with heaven's own bow!
Thus could our living meditations dwell
On doom, left fearless by the light and flow
Of life and hearthlight commune, Death's farewell
Might on the closing ear like songs of seraphs swell!
| The last night of Pompeii ; a poem : and lays and legends | |