University of Virginia Library

It was on a peerless night,
When the Autumn sky was clear,
And the young moon's gentle light,
Trembled in the balmy air;
In a hall, where lamps were bright,
Gather'd many a form, and there
Were the gay and gallant met,
In a circle, seldom yet,
For rich lips and eyes of jet,
Youthful charms and proud array,
Rivalled in our nether sphere.
There were lords and ladies gay—
Gentle maids, in early prime,
Never breathed upon by Time,
Clustering, like young roses, lay—
Lips, to tempt the Anchorite
From his cold and cheerless cell;
Eyes, in whose meridian light,
Gather'd many a spell!
Vainly would my humble lyre,
Of each crowning influence speak;
Tho' each feeling sense were fire,
Dumb were rapture to inspire—
Language dull and weak.

Gaily lit was that saloon,
And amid the columns wide—
Through the trees, the yellow moon
Flung her gentle beams beside:—
And upon the watchful ear,
Trilled a trickling fountain near;
Vagrant zephyrs, through the trees,
Made the softest melodies;
From a village cot, afar,
Tinkled light, a rude guitar—
And the song that with it rose,
Heard, at every trembling close,
In a sad and fitful tone,
Was as gentle as its own.

Such the scene, and joyful they,
In that glad assembly were;
Nature, all around, was gay,
And they felt with her:
Pleasing sports of gentlest power,
Won away the rapid hour—
Hearts—true hearts—were then united
Vows—true vows—again were plighted—
Love, for once, had laid aside,
Golden bow and fatal dart,
And with weapon, won his bride,
Meet for young and tender heart—
Tokens treasured near the breast,
Kindred to that throbbing part,
In the passion they confess'd,
Made some other wearer bless'd.
Generous Mirth, his garner'd store,
Fruits that Aden held before,
Lavish'd with profusive mood,
'Midst that happy multitude.
Every cold restraint had fled,
Formal breeding—illy-bred—
Chill decorum—bigot sense;
And their places filled, instead,
With sweet ease and confidence.

Hark! a murmur fills the air—
Wild and sweet the strain that rose,
As if, when some planet sphere
By some fatal destiny,
Driven from its station high,
Through the dim and troubled sky
Wails and murmurs, ere it goes.
And a spell it had o'er all,
In that gay and happy hall,
That had power, at once, to still,
As by some proud monarch's will,
Every murmur to repose.
Lo, the flying dancers pause
In their rapid glad career,
Crowding forth to learn the cause
Of the anthem streaming there.
And the tambourine is mute,
Breathless is the breathing flute;
And the youthful lovers steal
From each close and ivied bower;
Taught, though wrapt in dreams, to feel,
The strong magic of that power.

High, amid the clustering crowd,
Standing on the marble floor—
Rung the song and music loud,
Of a youthful Troubadour.
He was but a boy in years,
And of tender make and look—
With a heart that throbb'd with fears,
And a form, that, though it be
Firm and graceful, as the tree
Growing on high Lebanon,
With his deep emotion, shook.
Yet his spirit was not one,
To desert him at his need;
Well its secret pow'r was known,
And, with gathering thought, at length,
He hath marshall'd up his strength.
Musical as any reed,
He hath bade each maiden gay,
Now, to mute attention, won,
Listen to his lay.

Pictured in his witching strain,
Rose upon the enamour'd glance,
The high rule and proud domain,
Well-fill'd city, smiling plain,
Of the glorious realm of France!
Region of the Conqueror,
Whatsoe'er the name he bears—
Where are now the spoils she wore,
Gather'd in the strife of years!
True, that Beauty still hath pow'r,
In each tesselated bower;
And the Muses, prompt to pay,
Wild Devotion's burning lay—
Linger o'er the gentle lute,
While the song is never mute.
There the painter, wooed by taste,
Won by homage, still hath dyes,
Bright and glowing, such as haste,
Fleetly o'er the ev'ning skies.
Minstrelsy and Eloquence
There, alike, their pow'rs combine,
In a language, so intense,
Feeling deems them both divine.
Such the picture that he drew—
But it had its shadows too!
For in sad, and hurried strain,
As if struck by sudden pain,
Murmur'd forth, a requiem came
For the promise of that morn;
Day of splendour, set in shame,
That in victory was born.

And with a high commanding skill,
Not such is often met on earth,
He bade that hall, at once, be still,
And hush'd its voice of mirth.
Strung by a deep and holy power,
With visions dread, he filled the hour—
He bade the past return once more,
And all its captive spoils restore;
The battle field, the fight, the pain,
His wizard music brought again—
With touch, so vivid to the view,
The magic picture that he drew,
That, not an eye within that hall,
But felt and saw and knew it all.

And first the Imperial sway he sung,
The purple torn, the sceptre wrung,
To glut the Bourbon's pride,
From one, who, in his grasp intense,
Defied the very elements,
As he had earth defied.
But thrown and bound by foreign power,
Ascends the throne in evil hour,
With Albion's mightier aid,
The despot to the Priest allied,
With many a cringing slave beside,
In his high state, arrayed.
Then Charles, the imbecile and tool,
Of juggling scheme and Jesuit school,
Assumes the crown and wields the rule—
Drunk with the spoil he had not won,
And driven by bigot phrensy on,
To dark design, and tyrant aim,
Begun in crime and closed in shame,
And evil time for France:
But vengeance has its day, tho' far,
And he who wakes, shall wail, the war—
And God, the Universal King,
In his appointed hour shall bring,
To make the land, that Tyrants mar,
A fit deliverance!

No more the voice of mirth is heard,
For Paris, in her hour of gloom,
Can utter forth no single word,
Save that of vengeance, long prefer'd—
She seems her own vast tomb.
Hath not her monarch, sworn to sway,
As her own rights should still require,
Cast down the laws he should obey,
And mock'd his people's fond desire.
Long had they mark'd, how, pace by pace,
The Tyrant fill'd each guardian place;
O'erthrew the statues, sacred there
To Freedom, and with daring hand,
Built up unnumber'd forms of fear,
That shook, with terror, all the land.
Nor here, alone, content to pause—
Still held, as yet, inviolate,
The charter of her sacred laws,
He destined to an equal fate.
But here, her guardian Genius came,
And when, with ruthless force he stood—
And in his recklessness of shame,
Call'd for his children's blood—
When daring still the smother'd fire,
He trampled on the sacred press;
And in his impotent desire,
To blight the land, he could not bless,
Betray'd his spirit's littleness—
When, like a most unnatural sire,
He bade his gallant subjects bleed,
Heading a low and foreign band,
And, to each sanguinary deed,
Guiding each hireling hand—
Uprose that guardian Genius then,
And marshall'd round her, there they stood
A patriot host of noble men,
True hearts and fearless blood!—
And high the spirit ruling there,
And dread the vengeance of despair;
And fearful, was the warning given,
By that wrong'd people in their might,
To all who claim the gift of heaven,
To sanction crime and trample right.

And now the song, whose witching tone
Spoke but the soul of gentleness,
To one full burst of phrensy grown,
Rung thro' that listening hall, until
Re-echoed music, wild and shrill,
Went up, from each surrounding hill,
Thro' the aerial wilderness.
Heaved then the close and laboring breast
With the strong accent scarce suppress'd,
And told that minstrel's power, how deep—
Yet, in his dream of song intense,
Unconscious of his influence,
Still did his lyre its burden keep—
And he, who woke its proudest tone,
Of all that gather'd crowd, alone,
He shed no tear, he had no thought
Of all the spell that still he wrought
O'er every heart around—
But wrapt, as one in musing mood,
Who walks the hidden solitude
Unconscious of a sound,
His spirit seem'd to soar away,
Even from his own sweet lay.

Then, as the occasion grew more strong,
And foster'd by repeated wrong,
More daring in his insolence,
That Tyrant sought to overthrow,
The bulwarks raised in their defence
'Gainst foreign and domestic foe,
By patriot hearts, that could not be,
While thought was high and freedom dear
The willing tools of Tyranny.
The instruments of fear—
Then rose the hymn of vengeance high,
And in his glowing song portray'd,
Were seen the sons of Liberty,
In panoply array'd.
Yet buckled they no armour then,
But with the hearts of freeborn men,
The unmailed breast, the shout of glee,
The anthem of the daring free,
They gather'd to the fight;—
What banner'd pomp of hireling Swiss
Can force a bulwark firm as this?
The pass of hearts and human right—
Thermopylæ of souls, that stood,
Sure bulwarks in whatever land,
With strong and superhuman might—
Though drench'd and dabbled deep in blood,
That stood, and shall forever stand.

And thus—he sung, with aspect proud,
On that eventful day when first,
The cataracts of vengeance burst,
And came that furious crowd—
Mix'd in the throng, I saw them rise,
As to a mighty sacrifice,
That grateful seem'd to earth and skies,
In one vast ocean blent.
Solemn their aspect then, and still,
As nature, ere the volcan roars;
Marshall'd along, as some fierce will,
Whose flood, dyked in, and sternly pent,
Has overleapt its narrow shores,
And bounds to meet the firmament.
Roll'd they along in desperate mood,
To where the armed Tyrant stood,
His banner'd slaves around;
Nor daunted at the martial glare,
Of those leagued hireling soldiers there,
Did then, that fearless multitude,
Yield up a foot of ground.
Sternly they claim those ancient rights,
The trophies of a thousand fights,
Their freedom, now debarr'd—
With scorn the Tyrant heard the claim,
And heedless of the pregnant shame,
Advance!—he cried,—my guard!
Oh! Freedom, in thy gathering store
Of hoarded vengeance, boiling o'er,
Hadst thou not one of deadlier birth,
One fitting blow, one meet reward,
To strike that Tyrant down to earth!
True to their ruthless trade, that band,
Of mercenaries, paid and bought,
Obey'd, at once, the dread command—
And in their very homes, and nigh
The altars, rear'd to Liberty—
In streets, for which, their sires had fought,
In homes, endear'd by many a tie,
Of pride and kindred sympathy,
The people were hewn down, and Death,
Shook high his purple flag, imbrued,
In Freedom's own and choicest blood.
But in their proud and parting breath,
Went up the fearful cry of wrath,
Nor rose that cry in vain:
Repulsed, they fled, but not afar,
To gather, for the coming war,
And recompense the slain.
Grim Vengeance, with ensanguined brow,
Bound them, by many a fearful vow—
And, as his gory locks he shook,
Above that crowd, all silent now,
A fatal oath they took.
An oath of dread—and he who heard,
Repeated oft, the solemn word,
Till, in that city's walls, there stood
No single form of human life,
That pledged not then its living blood,
For vengeance in that field of strife.
'Tis midnight, but on high, the moon,
Careering, seeks her highest noon,
Without one speck or cloud, to blight
The passing glory of her light—
Her gentle smile and searching ray,
To man still compensates the day,
With such a pure and quiet grace,
O'er earth and in the realm of space,
Wherein, a throned Queen, she keeps
Her silent sway, while nature sleeps,
No eye can watch her spirit sphere,
And know, it too must pass away,
Nor feel one tear-drop gathering there!

'Tis midnight—but the murmuring din,
Proclaims that Paris does not rest;
She holds a fearful craft within,
Her wide and laboring breast.
And ringing arms, and hissing lead,
And threats, of more than human dread,
Attest the rising vengeance there.—
The quiet moonlight, tho' it falls,
With sweetest grace, among her walls,
And lights each gloomy street, and yields
A nameless glory to her fields—
And silvers o'er each rippling water,
That, ere the coming night, shall wear,
The purple hue of slaughter—
Accords not, in its gentler sway,
That mild, and unobtrusive ray,
With those fell spirits which now brood
O'er many a deed of glory done;
The vengeance of the multitude,
The tempests wrath, the ocean's mood,
Less deadly than the angry feud,
Already, more than half begun.
For in its season, slumbering long,
'Neath silent fraud and open wrong,
Even Liberty, though born of love,
And social order, mild as they,
Must now no more its weakness prove,
Must lose the temper of the dove,
And, like the vulture, strike its prey!
With desperate haste they buckle on,
The weapon for the coming toil;
The grey hair'd sire, the beardless son,
And woman too, will she not shun,
The terrors of that coil?
Her soul, for other thought, was made
Than well befits the warlike trade—
And worse than death, beneath her eye,
To see the loved and valiant die—
Her heart was framed in gentler mood,
What would she in a field of blood!
Yet—ready as her aged sire,
She joins the preparation dread;
Prepares the steel and builds the fire,
And pours and moulds the melted lead.
Her kindled eye and glowing cheek,
A common cause of glory, speak;
Nor shrinks she back, with hurried breath,
From each dread instrument of death—
But, in the breathless hour of strife,
Fearless, as at each other hour,
She does not shrink, tho' dangers low'r,
Through fear of death or love of life.
She bids her lover forth, in tears,
Yet buckles on, the brand he wears;
And, with a look, which well repays,
Each struggle of his after-days,
She bids him seek the field of fight,
And strike the foe—and if it need,
For freedom, that a victim bleed,
Himself, to offer for the right.

Morn breaks, and with th' awak'ning day,
Begins, anew, the fatal fray,
More deadly than before;
The hoarded wrath of years reveal'd,
Unburied long, yet still conceal'd,
Brings many a spirit to the field,
With vengeance boiling o'er.
Long slumb'ring hate, th' undying mood,
O'er which the trampled soul will brood,
'Till each foul insult, roused anew,
Darkly, terrifically true,
Starts up before the awakened sense,
And claims a deadly recompense.
Thus roused, all Paris firmly stands,
And in the pray'r, to heaven, for aid,
In Freedom's oft-renew'd crusade,
Lifts up her hundred thousand hands.
Each street sends forth its countless host,
Tho' little order now they boast,
Yet marshall'd with a fire intense,
A strong and undivided aim,
Their tools of toil and implements,
Are now, the warlike instruments
Of vengeance and of Fame.
One impulse to ne course must guide,
And headlong leaps the living tide,
Unyielding, unrestrained;
Onward, with newer force each hour,
'Till borne along with furious pow'r,
Each soaring height is gain'd.
What can resist that torrent deep,
That wave, that in its pathway fierce,
Has swept, and in its course, shall sweep,
While Tyrants rule, and nations weep,
The broad and boundless universe.
And, hark! from old Saint Germain, hear
The tolling of its awful bell;
Its tones of terror, on the ear,
Come down, with dismal spell.
A warning sound, it wakes anew
The memory of that dreadful knell,
It rung on Saint Bartholomew!
A fearful day, yet scarce more dread,
Than now, with such infuriate din
To vengeance fit, to terror bred,
It felly, fiercely, ushers in!
And who, that hears its note of fear,
Salute his half-awakened ear,
Like some uncharnell'd spirit's tone,
That mutters in his chamber lone,
When still prevails the midnight hour,
And fills it with a solemn pow'r—
Starts not, from out his sluggard lair,
And pants and trembles to be there;
And in the vague, mysterious mood,
That thwarts and thickens all his blood,
And with a dim abstraction, wrought,
Deeply into the sense of thought,
That buckles on his sword and gropes,
Still torn by warring fears and hopes,
With fluttering sense, to where, the crowd,
Still gather at the summons loud.
That voice has waken'd Paris,—lo!
The reckless thousands come and go,
And shouts of fear, and furious cries,
Of death and vengeance, fill the skies.—
While, from the tower of Notre Dame,
The tocsin rolls its warning tones,
And beckons on, with dread acclaim,
The countless sappers of the thrones.

They gather at the call—they leap,
As angry billows of the deep,
And, as the foremost waves subside,
Still, others swell the desperate tide—
Then rose above that deadly flood,
A fearful voice, that cried for blood!
For vengeance on the slaves, who dared,
To overturn, in wanton mood,
The altars, which so long had stood,
Secure, mid'st many a deadly feud—
They were employed to guard!
That voice found many an echo then—
The hearts of fifty thousand men,
Responded to the cry—
The ancient towers whose iron jaws
Had minister'd to Tyranny—
Whose sullen womb, had held so long,
The fearless, who in freedom's cause,
Had battled with the strong—
At once, as by an earthquake rent,
Now rock'd in every battlement.
Then shook the Tyrant in his seat,
And crouch'd the bloodhounds at his feet;
The Hydra of uncharter'd pow'r,
Ungorged, and seeking to devour,
That, with a foul and poisonous breath,
Went onward, as the blight of day,
And belch'd forth chains and death—
Supine, recumbent, lay!
The Ithuriel spear of Truth, whose stroke,
The spell of the enchanter broke,
Was fasten'd, with unswerving aim,
And rising spirit, nought could tame,
Upon the writhing monster's throat.
Vain then, his venomous ire, and vain
The wrath which wrung, and idly smote,
But could not break the enduring chain,
Which bridled in the hellish mood
That panted still, and cried for blood.
Then, with its own infernal hate,
Denied o'er other forms to prey
That on the spot, where then it lay,
Struck deep, into its desperate brain,
Soon for itself—for man—too late,
Defrauding the avenging fate!
Then rose the shout of freedom high,
And, from the Hydra's grasp, releas'd,
Sprung up, each son of liberty—
His spirit high, his form erect,
And waving arms, and step, uncheck'd,
And glad, as at a glorious feast.
Ay for the feast!—the feast where Death,
Drinks in his draughts of living breath;
Where Freedom bears the flame that guides,
And Vengeance, all the cheer, provides:—
Where myriads throng the golden gates,
And where no cringing vassal waits;
Where man, with kindred man may meet,
Nor crouch before an equal's feet;
And in his God's, and fellow's sight,
May hold his own, and claim his right;
And prove, but one allegiance given,
To freedom and o'er ruling heaven;
Nor, at the shrine, for which his sires,
Have freely bled, and fairly fought,
Withhold the speech that truth inspires,
Or crush one high and generous thought.

Thus glorious in the sight of Heaven,
Shall still the march of Nature be,
Her chains, shall from her wrists, be riven,
And all her children shall be free.
No more the sullen prostitute,
Abased by God and man alike,
She shall throw off the Tyrant's foot,
And all her hands be raised to strike.
The trickling waters shall not hear,
Nor shall the melancholy breeze,
Bear wide, her ineffectual pray'r,
For vengeance, o'er the groaning seas.
But every land, however remote
Its winds shall rise and waters roll,
Shall bear the glorious truth, blood-wrote,
Of freedom to the immortal soul.
The bird, that sings 'mid forest trees,
The maiden, by the blue lake's side,
The man, who dwells, where waters freeze,
Unwarm'd by any living tide—
And he, who 'neath a generous sun,
Where rolls the Guadalatian wave,
Shall own the truth, unfelt by none,
Man was not made, by Heaven, a slave—
To wear a chain, to bend a knee,
Upon that spot of still loved earth,
Which made, but did not keep him, free,
From the first instant of his birth.
Ay, tho' protracted be the hour,
When man, on every shore, shall rise,
He owns, and will exert the power,
And claim the glorious sacrifice.
Already, hark! the tocsin hear,
Slow booms its strong and dreadful voice,
And o'er each land, and in each ear,
It utters man's and freedom's choice.
A few short hours of mortal time,
A few more thoughts—and there shall be,
A quenchless light for every clime,
A beacon o'er the wildest sea!