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NESCIO QUID MEDITANS NUGARUM.
129
LEGEND OF THE WILD RIDER.
On a morning of early June,
The wind lay cradled in leaves,
And the throstles sang a harmonious tune,
In the ivy upon the eaves.
The wind lay cradled in leaves,
And the throstles sang a harmonious tune,
In the ivy upon the eaves.
The silver brooks were singing
Sweet music in the grass,
As the faint tones of an organ
Swell at the evening mass.
Sweet music in the grass,
As the faint tones of an organ
Swell at the evening mass.
The velvet sward, like a smooth, green sea,
Glittered and flashed incessantly,
With dewy diamonds of the dawn,
Through which went springing the spotted fawn,
And the snake lay idly across the path,
That wound amid the vibrating swath.
Glittered and flashed incessantly,
With dewy diamonds of the dawn,
Through which went springing the spotted fawn,
And the snake lay idly across the path,
That wound amid the vibrating swath.
Within the deep-green heavy glooms,
Were beds of orange and crimson blooms,
Whose sweet perfume and odor stole
To the inmost cells of the grateful soul,
Like harmonies faintly heard, that seem
The sweet, faint memories of a dream.
Were beds of orange and crimson blooms,
Whose sweet perfume and odor stole
To the inmost cells of the grateful soul,
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The sweet, faint memories of a dream.
The lily grew in the shade,
And the dewdrop lay in its blossom,
Like a rosy diamond, laid
On a virgin's snowy bosom.
And the dewdrop lay in its blossom,
Like a rosy diamond, laid
On a virgin's snowy bosom.
The heart of the crimson rose was blushing
At the kisses of the sun;
Like the cheek of a timid maiden, flushing
After her heart is won.
At the kisses of the sun;
Like the cheek of a timid maiden, flushing
After her heart is won.
A Hermit sat before his cell,
And he wept, and beat his breast;
A foaming torrent near him fell,
That had no stay or rest.
And he wept, and beat his breast;
A foaming torrent near him fell,
That had no stay or rest.
A snowy mountain, close behind,
Shot upward like a flame,
And thence, like a rushing stream of wind,
The flashing river came.
Shot upward like a flame,
And thence, like a rushing stream of wind,
The flashing river came.
The Hermit, like a second Cain,
Sate weeping by his cell;
The tears ran down his cheeks like rain,
And into the torrent fell.
Sate weeping by his cell;
The tears ran down his cheeks like rain,
And into the torrent fell.
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The woodlark, from her low nest, toward
The sky shot like a dart;
Merrily singing as she soared
Into the heaven's blue heart.
The sky shot like a dart;
Merrily singing as she soared
Into the heaven's blue heart.
And still the Hermit counted his beads,
Telling them o'er and o'er,
Like one that sits and steadily reads
A book of ancient lore.
Telling them o'er and o'er,
Like one that sits and steadily reads
A book of ancient lore.
His hair was neither white nor gray,
But black as black can be;
And a gloom upon his forehead lay,
Like a thunder-cloud on the sea.
But black as black can be;
And a gloom upon his forehead lay,
Like a thunder-cloud on the sea.
A sound came rushing by,
Like the sound of an iron hoof;
And the Hermit raised his glittering eye,
And dashed the hot tears off.
Like the sound of an iron hoof;
And the Hermit raised his glittering eye,
And dashed the hot tears off.
The eagle shot from the snowy drift,
Where he sat like a king on his throne;
And high he flew, where the sunlight through
His dark gray plumage shone;
Unfolded his heart in a wild scream there,
And fanned with his wings the morning air.
Where he sat like a king on his throne;
And high he flew, where the sunlight through
His dark gray plumage shone;
Unfolded his heart in a wild scream there,
And fanned with his wings the morning air.
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A great steed came, like a mighty rain,
Down the great mountain's side;
Thick as a storm his flowing mane,—
A horse for a Prince to ride.
He stopped before the Hermit's cell,
Like a statue of stone, immovable.
Down the great mountain's side;
Thick as a storm his flowing mane,—
A horse for a Prince to ride.
He stopped before the Hermit's cell,
Like a statue of stone, immovable.
And near this courser stood
A black hound, with fresh blood
About his feet and upon his jaws;
His teeth were long, and sharp, and white,
Left by his curling lips in sight;
His strong feet fanged with claws.
A black hound, with fresh blood
About his feet and upon his jaws;
His teeth were long, and sharp, and white,
Left by his curling lips in sight;
His strong feet fanged with claws.
He bayed not, and he made no moan,
But beside the steed he sat like stone,
And looked in the Hermit's eye:
What want they with the Hermit,
That on him thus they stare,—
That hound so fiery-eyed, that steed,—
A stern and silent pair?
But beside the steed he sat like stone,
And looked in the Hermit's eye:
What want they with the Hermit,
That on him thus they stare,—
That hound so fiery-eyed, that steed,—
A stern and silent pair?
The Hermit shuddered at the sight,
But now no tear sheds he;
Why, why is he so shaken, as
With a great agony?
But now no tear sheds he;
Why, why is he so shaken, as
With a great agony?
He glides up to the ebon steed,
Mechanically slow,
As though he'd give his life to stay,
But cannot choose but go.
Mechanically slow,
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But cannot choose but go.
One spring! He's on his coursers back,
Saddle and bridle none;
The hound has risen, and, baying loud,
Down the green hill has gone.
Saddle and bridle none;
The hound has risen, and, baying loud,
Down the green hill has gone.
Uprose the sun; the steed fled on,
His hoofs the green sward tore;
O'er stream and hill, through brake and dell,
While the hound bayed on before.
His hoofs the green sward tore;
O'er stream and hill, through brake and dell,
While the hound bayed on before.
He came to a river broad and deep;
Its waves ran high, its banks were steep;
He made nor stop nor stay,
But, plunging in, through the loud din
Of its rapids stretched away.
Its waves ran high, its banks were steep;
He made nor stop nor stay,
But, plunging in, through the loud din
Of its rapids stretched away.
Over sharp rocks and hillsides bald,
Where the spotted adder sleeps,—
Through forests as green as emerald,—
As the tyrannous tempest sweeps,
Where the spotted adder sleeps,—
Through forests as green as emerald,—
As the tyrannous tempest sweeps,
All day, all day, he stretched away,
And the tramp of his hoofs was heard,
Like an Earthquake's foot, when his fiery heart
In his adamant caves is stirred.
And the tramp of his hoofs was heard,
Like an Earthquake's foot, when his fiery heart
In his adamant caves is stirred.
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All day, all day, he stretched away,
Till the gentle morn uprose,
And her soft, pale rays kissed Night's sweet face,
The firs and the mountain snows.
Till the gentle morn uprose,
And her soft, pale rays kissed Night's sweet face,
The firs and the mountain snows.
And then he was heard careering up
That mountain's rocky side;
The eternal ice-crags crowned its top,
And the streams that poured from the Giant's cup,
Rushed foaming down his side.
That mountain's rocky side;
The eternal ice-crags crowned its top,
And the streams that poured from the Giant's cup,
Rushed foaming down his side.
And now he follows the black sleuth-hound,
On a glacier's frozen sea,
Grinding to snow with his iron hoof
Its still, green waves' transparent woof,
That, since God gave the world its form,
Defies the lightning and the storm.
On a glacier's frozen sea,
Grinding to snow with his iron hoof
Its still, green waves' transparent woof,
That, since God gave the world its form,
Defies the lightning and the storm.
Midnight! midnight! The horse has stopped;
The moon stands still, likewise;
Without a mist, without a cloud,
The stars have shut their eyes.
The moon stands still, likewise;
Without a mist, without a cloud,
The stars have shut their eyes.
The black hound circles round the steed,
Loud baying,—long and loud;
The Hermit sits as pale as Death,
But his eye is hard and proud.
Loud baying,—long and loud;
The Hermit sits as pale as Death,
But his eye is hard and proud.
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A spectre comes athwart the moon;
Her light gleams through its bones:
A cold wind rushes swiftly by,
All eddying with groans.
Her light gleams through its bones:
A cold wind rushes swiftly by,
All eddying with groans.
The mist of its long yellow hair
Floats like a ragged cloud;
What does the skeleton, without
A winding-sheet or shroud?
Floats like a ragged cloud;
What does the skeleton, without
A winding-sheet or shroud?
Out springs the great black hound again;
Once more the scent is won;
Leap after leap, bay after bay:
He and the horse stretch far away;—
They hunt the skeleton!
Once more the scent is won;
Leap after leap, bay after bay:
He and the horse stretch far away;—
They hunt the skeleton!
Day comes at last. The night is past,
But still the hunt holds on;
On hound and horse and spectre shine
The red rays of the sun.
But still the hunt holds on;
On hound and horse and spectre shine
The red rays of the sun.
Slow, slow as Death, Time draws his breath;
'Tis a weary space to noon;
And high and high the sun's red eye
Shines, shadowy, like the moon.
'Tis a weary space to noon;
And high and high the sun's red eye
Shines, shadowy, like the moon.
136
A desert stretches every way;
Dawn's crimson and dusk Evening's gray
Rest upon either edge;
The wind above it sighs alway,
Like the sighing of thin sedge.
Dawn's crimson and dusk Evening's gray
Rest upon either edge;
The wind above it sighs alway,
Like the sighing of thin sedge.
In the middle of the desert
The horse and hound have stopped;
The hunted skeleton, likewise,
Upon the earth has dropped.
The horse and hound have stopped;
The hunted skeleton, likewise,
Upon the earth has dropped.
The hound lies panting by its side,
With his red nostrils opened wide;
His eyes like torches glare:
The rider, too, has left his steed,
And sitteth speechless there.
With his red nostrils opened wide;
His eyes like torches glare:
The rider, too, has left his steed,
And sitteth speechless there.
Through his long hair the sharp wind moans,
But all beside is still;
He cannot choose but gaze upon
The green bones of the skeleton,
Through which the breezes thrill.
But all beside is still;
He cannot choose but gaze upon
The green bones of the skeleton,
Through which the breezes thrill.
All day they sat in the desert,
Till the sun slid down the sky,
And in the west his lids of mist
Were folded over his eye.
Till the sun slid down the sky,
And in the west his lids of mist
Were folded over his eye.
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Then in the west a shape appeared,
Between them and the sun;
Nearer and nearer yet it drew,
Until an arméd man it grew,
A mail-clad destrier on.
Between them and the sun;
Nearer and nearer yet it drew,
Until an arméd man it grew,
A mail-clad destrier on.
“What dost thou here with hound and horse,
Without a shield or spear?
And why dost watch that skeleton,
So mossy, green, and sere?
Without a shield or spear?
And why dost watch that skeleton,
So mossy, green, and sere?
“What dost thou here? Twilight draws near;
The weary Day recedes;
Night's pilots her dark galley steer
Among the trembling stars; while here
Thou tellest o'er thy beads:—
The weary Day recedes;
Night's pilots her dark galley steer
Among the trembling stars; while here
Thou tellest o'er thy beads:—
“What dost thou here?” “Alight and learn;
'Tis long to mirk midnight;
Another sun will set, before
Thou seest thy lady bright.
'Tis long to mirk midnight;
Another sun will set, before
Thou seest thy lady bright.
“Alight! I have a tale to tell,
It will profit thee to hear;—
That will vibrate in thy memory
For many a long, long year.”
It will profit thee to hear;—
That will vibrate in thy memory
For many a long, long year.”
138
The Knight has leaped from his destrier,
And sits by the Hermit's side,
And listens to a strange, wild tale,
There in the desert wide.
And sits by the Hermit's side,
And listens to a strange, wild tale,
There in the desert wide.
“A chase was held, long years ago,
On a sunny day of June,
Where a hundred noble horsemen rode,
From morning till high noon,
On a sunny day of June,
Where a hundred noble horsemen rode,
From morning till high noon,
“With wanton glee and revelry,
While the hounds before them ran;
For, clad in steel, on strong, fleet steeds,
They chased an outlawed man.
While the hounds before them ran;
For, clad in steel, on strong, fleet steeds,
They chased an outlawed man.
“For many an hour we chased the game;
Hound after hound fell back,
Till, man by man, I passed them all,
And my strong hound led the pack.
Hound after hound fell back,
Till, man by man, I passed them all,
And my strong hound led the pack.
“All night led on the deep-mouthed hound,
And all night followed I;
The wayward moon went slowly down,
The white stars left the sky.
And all night followed I;
The wayward moon went slowly down,
The white stars left the sky.
“Uprose the sun; my hound kept on,
My good horse faltered not;
And when the sun was in the south,
I reached this desert spot.
My good horse faltered not;
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I reached this desert spot.
“The Heretic lay here. Ah, God!
That I that sight should see!
His dead, dead eyes were opened wide,
And fearfully glared at me.
That I that sight should see!
His dead, dead eyes were opened wide,
And fearfully glared at me.
“His flesh was torn, his bones were bare,
All mangled was his head,
And by his side my gaunt sleuth-hound
Lay, with his jaws blood-red.
All mangled was his head,
And by his side my gaunt sleuth-hound
Lay, with his jaws blood-red.
“I sate down by the dead man's side;
I had no power to go;
Methought that Time also was dead,
His feet went by so slow.
I had no power to go;
Methought that Time also was dead,
His feet went by so slow.
“My good hound fawned upon my breast,
And kindly too I him caressed;
My tears did freely flow;
I thought he was my only friend,
And God himself my foe.
And kindly too I him caressed;
My tears did freely flow;
I thought he was my only friend,
And God himself my foe.
“Alas! that weary afternoon!
Nor sight nor sound came by;
Only the lonesome wind, that through
The dead man's hair did sigh.
Nor sight nor sound came by;
Only the lonesome wind, that through
The dead man's hair did sigh.
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“The moon uprist, swathed in gray mist,
And up the heaven stole,
While from the dead man's eyes her light
Pierced to my inmost soul.
And up the heaven stole,
While from the dead man's eyes her light
Pierced to my inmost soul.
“The cold wind swept across the plain,
And savored of the sea;
It came from my dear sunny home,
Lost like a dream to me.
And savored of the sea;
It came from my dear sunny home,
Lost like a dream to me.
“The corse's pale lips then unclosed,
His teeth in the moonlight shone,
I sat and wept and beat my breast,
Till close upon night's noon.
His teeth in the moonlight shone,
I sat and wept and beat my breast,
Till close upon night's noon.
“Out of the chalice of the east
Dark clouds began to rise,
Mass upon mass, and broad and fast,
Red currents crossed the skies.
Dark clouds began to rise,
Mass upon mass, and broad and fast,
Red currents crossed the skies.
“And a moaning sound grew up afar,
Like music in the air;
It circled round and round the dead,
And wailed and murmured there.
Like music in the air;
It circled round and round the dead,
And wailed and murmured there.
“A star slid down from heaven's roof,
And nestled by his head;
I knew it was his spirit, come
With me to watch the dead.
And nestled by his head;
I knew it was his spirit, come
With me to watch the dead.
141
“And by its light,—oh, sad, sad sight!
Two shadows I could see;
One sate on either side, both gazed
By turns on him and me.
Two shadows I could see;
One sate on either side, both gazed
By turns on him and me.
“A soft light from their snowy hair
Fell on his dead pale face;
They were his mother and his sire,
Come from their heavenly place,
To watch their dead, dead, mangled son,
The last of all their race.
Fell on his dead pale face;
They were his mother and his sire,
Come from their heavenly place,
To watch their dead, dead, mangled son,
The last of all their race.
“Ah, God! those eyes did search my soul,
So calm and sad they were;
They were a conscience unto me,
And yet I could not stir.
So calm and sad they were;
They were a conscience unto me,
And yet I could not stir.
“The dark clouds folded o'er the moon,
Like a wild rushing river,
The lightning in the stormy east
From bank to bank did quiver.
Like a wild rushing river,
The lightning in the stormy east
From bank to bank did quiver.
“Peal upon peal the thunder spoke,—
Ah! joyful sound it was!
The hot tears from my heart it shook,
Like an old schoolmate's voice.
Ah! joyful sound it was!
The hot tears from my heart it shook,
Like an old schoolmate's voice.
142
“That star still shone, in light or gloom,
Like light in a dead man's eye;
Those white-haired shadows never stirred,
But still sat calmly by.
Like light in a dead man's eye;
Those white-haired shadows never stirred,
But still sat calmly by.
“Again I had the power to move,
And I turned away mine eye;
Between me and the clouds I saw
A troop come hurrying by.
And I turned away mine eye;
Between me and the clouds I saw
A troop come hurrying by.
“With eager course they, man and horse,
Like the wind of a tempest pressed;
The lightning glittered through their shapes,
As it glitters through the mist.
Like the wind of a tempest pressed;
The lightning glittered through their shapes,
As it glitters through the mist.
“This shadowy army of the dead,
Rushed by me like the wind,
Before, the thunder-hounds did bay,
And a tempest howled behind.
Rushed by me like the wind,
Before, the thunder-hounds did bay,
And a tempest howled behind.
“And, as they rushed by me, I knew
Each wan and ghastly face;
Oh, God! how changed, since I and they
Began that awful chase!
Each wan and ghastly face;
Oh, God! how changed, since I and they
Began that awful chase!
“The corse's spirit-star was quenched,
As they came hurtling past,
And he uprose as if alive,
And before the crowd fled fast.
As they came hurtling past,
And he uprose as if alive,
And before the crowd fled fast.
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“My hound sprang forward on the track
Of the dead, bay after bay,
My horse, too, joined the spectral band,
And madly dashed away.
Of the dead, bay after bay,
My horse, too, joined the spectral band,
And madly dashed away.
“All night the fierce storm roared around,
And the thunder's constant roll;
But still the gray-haired shadows' voice,
Was heard above the tempest's noise,
Like moans within the soul.
And the thunder's constant roll;
But still the gray-haired shadows' voice,
Was heard above the tempest's noise,
Like moans within the soul.
“And every year, this very night,
That chase is held again;
Again the skeleton flits fast
Before that phantom train.
That chase is held again;
Again the skeleton flits fast
Before that phantom train.
“And every year, the very day
When we began the chase,
No matter where my weary heart
Has found a resting-place;
When we began the chase,
No matter where my weary heart
Has found a resting-place;
“No matter where I dwell, my horse
And hound come back to me;
I cannot choose but mount, and thus
The horrid hunt have we.
And hound come back to me;
I cannot choose but mount, and thus
The horrid hunt have we.
“And here, yea, even here, the chase
Fails never to be stopped;
And here, this day, these mouldering bones,
Moss-grown and green, have dropped.
Fails never to be stopped;
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Moss-grown and green, have dropped.
“I am a wretched, lonely man,
No friend, no home, no God;
Who many a year, through many a clime,
My weary way have trod,—
Alas! I would that I could lay
My head beneath the sod!
No friend, no home, no God;
Who many a year, through many a clime,
My weary way have trod,—
Alas! I would that I could lay
My head beneath the sod!
“The white hair of those parents lies
Like a shadow on my soul;
In dreams his sightless eyeballs burn
My worn heart like a coal.
Like a shadow on my soul;
In dreams his sightless eyeballs burn
My worn heart like a coal.
“I pray to Heaven by night and day,
My tears flow like the rain;
And yet my useless cries procure
No peace: I pray in vain.
My tears flow like the rain;
And yet my useless cries procure
No peace: I pray in vain.
“I dream that I was once a child,
No bird more blithe and gay;
My young heart, like a honey-bee,
That hums the livelong day:
But now it is a maiméd bird,
That mourns its life away.”
No bird more blithe and gay;
My young heart, like a honey-bee,
That hums the livelong day:
But now it is a maiméd bird,
That mourns its life away.”
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“God help thee, man! Thy crime was great,
But in the eye of Heaven,
Repentance may atone for all,
Thy great sin be forgiven.
But in the eye of Heaven,
Repentance may atone for all,
Thy great sin be forgiven.
“So we must dig a grave, and lay
These mouldering bones therein,—
Perhaps they there may rest, until
The great assize begin.
These mouldering bones therein,—
Perhaps they there may rest, until
The great assize begin.
“And we must pray to God on high
And his beloved Son,
To shed their gentle genial rain
Of love thy heart upon.
And his beloved Son,
To shed their gentle genial rain
Of love thy heart upon.
“So shall thy great sin be atoned,
The murdered so forgive;
And like the dead man touched by Christ,
Thou shalt arise and live.”
The murdered so forgive;
And like the dead man touched by Christ,
Thou shalt arise and live.”
With sword and battle-axe, the twain
Full earnestly did work,
While round them from the eastern caves
Night gathered, thick and mirk.
Full earnestly did work,
While round them from the eastern caves
Night gathered, thick and mirk.
The moon arose, the gentle stars
Opened their lustrous eyes;
The spirit-star sate near the dead,
The shadows came likewise.
Opened their lustrous eyes;
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The shadows came likewise.
Before the moon fared overhead,
The grave was hollowed deep,
And earnestly they cried to Heaven,
To pardon and to keep
The soul whose sin had been so great,
And its remorse so deep.
The grave was hollowed deep,
And earnestly they cried to Heaven,
To pardon and to keep
The soul whose sin had been so great,
And its remorse so deep.
The Hermit kneeled by the skeleton,
His thick tears wet the bones,
Like echoes from his inmost soul,
He uttered earnest moans.
His thick tears wet the bones,
Like echoes from his inmost soul,
He uttered earnest moans.
His tears fell on the spirit-star,
And it blazed like a shaft of fire;
While music stole from the shadows' lips
Like the murmuring of a lyre.
And it blazed like a shaft of fire;
While music stole from the shadows' lips
Like the murmuring of a lyre.
They laid the bones within the grave,
They piled the sods thereon,
And many a fervent prayer they prayed,
After this toil was done.
They piled the sods thereon,
And many a fervent prayer they prayed,
After this toil was done.
The white star circled thrice around
The sodded grave above,
And the Hermit felt a load of woe
From his anguished heart remove;
For the light of the shadows' glittering hair,
Sank into his soul and nestled there,
Like a dream of gentle love.
The sodded grave above,
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From his anguished heart remove;
For the light of the shadows' glittering hair,
Sank into his soul and nestled there,
Like a dream of gentle love.
The moon that stood right overhead,
Was quenched as 'twere a lamp,
And a cold wind woke, and flitted by,
Its dark wings chill and damp.
Was quenched as 'twere a lamp,
And a cold wind woke, and flitted by,
Its dark wings chill and damp.
Afar upon the east rang out,
A wild, fierce, startling bay,
And through the misty fields of foam,
Careered the wild array.
A wild, fierce, startling bay,
And through the misty fields of foam,
Careered the wild array.
Till near the grave, like a rushing wave,
The spectral huntsmen halt,
And circling round, each shadowy hound
Bays loudly, as at fault.
The spectral huntsmen halt,
And circling round, each shadowy hound
Bays loudly, as at fault.
The star arising from the grave
Slowly towards Heaven soared,
And from it a great snowy light
Upon the Hermit poured.
Slowly towards Heaven soared,
And from it a great snowy light
Upon the Hermit poured.
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Faint music from the pale, sad lips
Of the gray-haired shadows stole,
And filled the mute, delighted air,
And soothed the Hermit's soul.
Of the gray-haired shadows stole,
And filled the mute, delighted air,
And soothed the Hermit's soul.
Shrill cries were heard, the air was stirred,
As if wings rustled there,
And the spectral huntsmen melted, like
Thin shadows, into air.
As if wings rustled there,
And the spectral huntsmen melted, like
Thin shadows, into air.
Then through the lonely desert rung
The Æolian harps of Heaven,
And angel-voices sweetly sung,
“The guilty is forgiven;
Calm, calm thy troubled soul to peace!
Thy chains of woe are riven.”
The Æolian harps of Heaven,
And angel-voices sweetly sung,
“The guilty is forgiven;
Calm, calm thy troubled soul to peace!
Thy chains of woe are riven.”
1836.
156
TO SPRING.
Oh, thou delicious Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Raining from clouds exhaled from dews that cling
To odorous beds of rare and fragrant flowers,
And honeysuckle bowers,
That over grassy walks their tendrils fling:—
Come, gentle Spring!
Nursed in the lap of thin and subtle showers,
Raining from clouds exhaled from dews that cling
To odorous beds of rare and fragrant flowers,
And honeysuckle bowers,
That over grassy walks their tendrils fling:—
Come, gentle Spring!
Thou lover of soft winds!
That wander from the invisible upper sea
Whose foam the clouds are, when young May unbinds
Her dewy hair, and with sweet sympathy
Makes crisp leaves dance with glee,
Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,
Winter unkind.
That wander from the invisible upper sea
Whose foam the clouds are, when young May unbinds
Her dewy hair, and with sweet sympathy
Makes crisp leaves dance with glee,
Even in the teeth of that old sober hind,
Winter unkind.
Come to us! for thou art
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring,
Filling with delicate pleasure the lone heart:
Or like a modest virgin's welcoming;
And thou dost bring
Fair skies, soft breezes, bees upon the wing,
Low murmuring.
Like the fine love of children, gentle Spring,
Filling with delicate pleasure the lone heart:
Or like a modest virgin's welcoming;
157
Fair skies, soft breezes, bees upon the wing,
Low murmuring.
Red Autumn, from the South,
Contends with thee. What beauty can he show?
What are his purple-stained and rosy mouth,
And nut-brown cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,
And exquisite, fresh glow,
Thy timid flowers in their sweet virgin growth
And modest youth?
Contends with thee. What beauty can he show?
What are his purple-stained and rosy mouth,
And nut-brown cheeks, to thy soft feet of snow,
And exquisite, fresh glow,
Thy timid flowers in their sweet virgin growth
And modest youth?
Hale Summer follows thee,
But not with beauty delicate as thine;—
All things that live rejoice thy face to see;
But when he comes, they pant for heat, and pine
For Arctic ice, and wine
Thick frozen, sipped under a shady tree,—
With dreams of thee.
But not with beauty delicate as thine;—
All things that live rejoice thy face to see;
But when he comes, they pant for heat, and pine
For Arctic ice, and wine
Thick frozen, sipped under a shady tree,—
With dreams of thee.
Come, sit upon our hills,
Wake the chilled brooks, and send them down their side,
To make the valleys smile with sparkling rills;
And when the stars into their places glide,
And Dian sits in pride,
I, too, will breathe thine influence, that thrills
The grassy hills.
Wake the chilled brooks, and send them down their side,
To make the valleys smile with sparkling rills;
And when the stars into their places glide,
And Dian sits in pride,
I, too, will breathe thine influence, that thrills
The grassy hills.
158
Alas, sweet Spring! Not long
Wilt thou remain, lament thee as we may;
For, as rude Summer waxes stout and strong,
Thou wilt grow thin and pale, and fade away
As dreams flit, scared at day;
Thou wilt no more to us or earth belong,
Except in song.
Wilt thou remain, lament thee as we may;
For, as rude Summer waxes stout and strong,
Thou wilt grow thin and pale, and fade away
As dreams flit, scared at day;
Thou wilt no more to us or earth belong,
Except in song.
So I, who sing, shall die,
Worn thin and pale, perhaps, by care and sorrow;
And, fainting, with a soft, unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body that I borrow,
A long good-bye, to-morrow
To enjoy, I trust, eternal Spring on high,
Beyond the sky.
Worn thin and pale, perhaps, by care and sorrow;
And, fainting, with a soft, unconscious sigh,
Bid unto this poor body that I borrow,
A long good-bye, to-morrow
To enjoy, I trust, eternal Spring on high,
Beyond the sky.
1829.
163
FRAGMENTS FROM “THE BRIGAND,” A POEM.
[Canto I]
“Bring the wine-cup, companions! and let it go round!
At its bottom good humor and mirth will be found;
Bring the cup!—we'll drink deep to the spirit of wine,
The true inspiration and nectar divine.
At its bottom good humor and mirth will be found;
Bring the cup!—we'll drink deep to the spirit of wine,
The true inspiration and nectar divine.
Boy! take round a draught to the brave Lanzador;
Ere another sun sets we his loss may deplore.
Pass not the Tuerto! His sword is as good
As the best, and has drunken as deeply of blood.
Ere another sun sets we his loss may deplore.
Pass not the Tuerto! His sword is as good
As the best, and has drunken as deeply of blood.
Take the cup to San Pablo! He seemeth to wink,—
His saintship has well earned a license to drink;
For his children, the priests, he has oft helped to heaven,
By many a penance and stripe he has given.
His saintship has well earned a license to drink;
For his children, the priests, he has oft helped to heaven,
By many a penance and stripe he has given.
No offence to El Padre!—oh, no! for his hand
Is acceptable, armed with the cup or the brand:
Drink deep to his health! and whenever we die,
In the camp or the field, may El Padre be nigh!
Is acceptable, armed with the cup or the brand:
Drink deep to his health! and whenever we die,
In the camp or the field, may El Padre be nigh!
164
One draught to ourselves! To the League of the Free!
To the band that is feared from the hills to the sea!
Let the proud Viceroy fume! we his thunders defy,
And his treasures we confiscate under his eye.
To the band that is feared from the hills to the sea!
Let the proud Viceroy fume! we his thunders defy,
And his treasures we confiscate under his eye.
The panther-trod mountains encircle our camp,
We descend like the wind at our bold leader's stamp;
And who would exchange the free life that he leads,
For the patter of prayers, and the counting of beads?
We descend like the wind at our bold leader's stamp;
And who would exchange the free life that he leads,
For the patter of prayers, and the counting of beads?
Drink deep to our captain, the brave and the true!
To the heart that chill fear and weak parley ne'er knew!
To him whose black plume, and the flame of whose brand,
Are watchwords of terror and fear through the land.
To the heart that chill fear and weak parley ne'er knew!
To him whose black plume, and the flame of whose brand,
Are watchwords of terror and fear through the land.
Valverde! Valverde!—The pale cowards quake,
And the rock-wallen cities and fortresses shake,
When his name rings around like the roar of the sea;—
Valverde! Valverde! The Sword of the Free.”
And the rock-wallen cities and fortresses shake,
When his name rings around like the roar of the sea;—
Valverde! Valverde! The Sword of the Free.”
Such was the song that foamed along the rocks,
And echoed from the thunder-rifted blocks,
In many tongues. Such was the festal song
Of the Bandits.
The rugged cliffs among
They had their camp. On every side uplifted
Precipitous mountains, hoary with white foam sifted
Eternally upon their barren crowns
For ever braving the fierce Storm-God's frowns,
And the Sun's laugh. No foot, in all the time
Since the world's making, had essayed to climb
The mountains there, so steep and rough were they.
And here, encircled so on all sides lay
Sleeping within, an oval, verdant vale,
From which descended but one narrow trail,
A rocky pass, leading to where, below,
The plains spread out;—and through that crooked pass,
Fed in the vale by fountains brimmed with grass
And golden flowers, a silver streamlet ran.
The mountain-breezes never failed to fan
That narrow pass, and that most fertile vale.
And echoed from the thunder-rifted blocks,
In many tongues. Such was the festal song
Of the Bandits.
The rugged cliffs among
They had their camp. On every side uplifted
Precipitous mountains, hoary with white foam sifted
165
For ever braving the fierce Storm-God's frowns,
And the Sun's laugh. No foot, in all the time
Since the world's making, had essayed to climb
The mountains there, so steep and rough were they.
And here, encircled so on all sides lay
Sleeping within, an oval, verdant vale,
From which descended but one narrow trail,
A rocky pass, leading to where, below,
The plains spread out;—and through that crooked pass,
Fed in the vale by fountains brimmed with grass
And golden flowers, a silver streamlet ran.
The mountain-breezes never failed to fan
That narrow pass, and that most fertile vale.
The sun was down; but heaven had not grown pale,
For over it there flushed the million hues,
In rainbow cradles, of the misty dews.
Here, on the summits of far-reaching hills,
The snow was stained with all those sunset thrills;
And there, thick-shaded, had a dim and gray
And misty look, as though dusk Eve did stray,
Before her time, out from her eastern cave.
Around the mountain-bases thick did wave
Funereal firs; and in the vale there stood
A haughty and magnificent old brood
Of giant pines.
Watch-fires around were built,
And here and there stood, leaning on the hilt
Of his good brand, a bearded sentinel,
Stern and immovable, while thickly fell,
The shouts of revelry upon his ear.
Caution was there, although no sign of fear;
And if the eye glanced round among the crags,
It might perceive, behind projecting jags,
Dark forms, half-hidden, all along the pass,
Still as though portions of the mountain-mass.
Here stood a lance, there lay a spotted blade
Upon the sod,—plain emblems of the trade
Of those who revelled; each of whom yet wore
His pistols in his belt; while, close before
A watch-fire, stood some bulky stacks of arms,
Ready for grasping by the owners' palms.
Some, massive muskets of the Tower stamp,
And some the truer rifle. Through the camp,
There was an air of watchful discipline,
Most stern and strict; such as is rarely seen
With those who have no law but their own will.
For over it there flushed the million hues,
In rainbow cradles, of the misty dews.
Here, on the summits of far-reaching hills,
The snow was stained with all those sunset thrills;
And there, thick-shaded, had a dim and gray
And misty look, as though dusk Eve did stray,
Before her time, out from her eastern cave.
Around the mountain-bases thick did wave
Funereal firs; and in the vale there stood
A haughty and magnificent old brood
Of giant pines.
166
And here and there stood, leaning on the hilt
Of his good brand, a bearded sentinel,
Stern and immovable, while thickly fell,
The shouts of revelry upon his ear.
Caution was there, although no sign of fear;
And if the eye glanced round among the crags,
It might perceive, behind projecting jags,
Dark forms, half-hidden, all along the pass,
Still as though portions of the mountain-mass.
Here stood a lance, there lay a spotted blade
Upon the sod,—plain emblems of the trade
Of those who revelled; each of whom yet wore
His pistols in his belt; while, close before
A watch-fire, stood some bulky stacks of arms,
Ready for grasping by the owners' palms.
Some, massive muskets of the Tower stamp,
And some the truer rifle. Through the camp,
There was an air of watchful discipline,
Most stern and strict; such as is rarely seen
With those who have no law but their own will.
[OMITTED]
Above, and where the narrow, flowering vale
Grew narrower, and where a shifting sail
Of mist, was floating up among the rough
And rugged branches of the giant trees;
And where a tall, gray, overhanging bluff
Gave shelter to the dim obscurities,
That cowered beneath, dreading the evening breeze,
Sat the stern chief. A broad and gnarled root
Lent him a seat, where, at the mountains foot,
He rested, hearing not the shouts below,
Wherewith the winds were burdened, that did blow,
Drowning the voice, murmuring and musical,
Of the swift brook and slender waterfall,
That babbled near him, fed by faithful springs,
And by cold waters, dropping from the wings
Of crystalled snow. He had let fall his head
Upon his hands, as though he sadly fed
His memory with almost forgotten dreams,
Or wingéd Hopes, wherewith the Fancy teems.
And so he kept, until the crimson flush
Had vanished, at the Night-God's westward rush,
And the still stars began to tread the sky,
With their white feet, desiring to espy
The gentle moon in the far orient.
Why was the chieftain, like an old man, bent?
Why shook his frame with many a stifled sigh?
Why paled still more that pallid face? His eye,
Why is it dimmed with tears that will not fall,
As if the tenderness that unto all
Will cling, though far within the deepest nook
And inmost chambers of the dark heart, shook
His form, and raised the warm dew from his heart
Into his eyes?
When night and day did part,
Lingeringly, on the occidental marge,
And the sweet moon her silver orb did charge
With the sun's love; and shyly lifting not
Her eye, as yet, up from the shadowy grot
Behind the mountains, still shot up her spirit
Over their crowns; and the fair Star of Love,
Like some ethereal boat, when angels steer it,
Beamed brilliantly through the tall, gloomy grove
Of graceful firs that crowned the western hill;
Like a clear beacon set upon blue waves,
To lighten sailors' hearts that fear cold graves;
He seemed to wander in the tangled maze
Of his own thoughts, as in a wilderness,
And on the glories of the Heavens gaze,
Like one who looks at things, but nothing sees,
Mingling them all in one misshapen blot;
Or, if he sees them, making them a part
Of the one thought, on which the burning heart
Is all concentered, till it is all thought.
Grew narrower, and where a shifting sail
Of mist, was floating up among the rough
And rugged branches of the giant trees;
And where a tall, gray, overhanging bluff
Gave shelter to the dim obscurities,
167
Sat the stern chief. A broad and gnarled root
Lent him a seat, where, at the mountains foot,
He rested, hearing not the shouts below,
Wherewith the winds were burdened, that did blow,
Drowning the voice, murmuring and musical,
Of the swift brook and slender waterfall,
That babbled near him, fed by faithful springs,
And by cold waters, dropping from the wings
Of crystalled snow. He had let fall his head
Upon his hands, as though he sadly fed
His memory with almost forgotten dreams,
Or wingéd Hopes, wherewith the Fancy teems.
And so he kept, until the crimson flush
Had vanished, at the Night-God's westward rush,
And the still stars began to tread the sky,
With their white feet, desiring to espy
The gentle moon in the far orient.
Why was the chieftain, like an old man, bent?
Why shook his frame with many a stifled sigh?
Why paled still more that pallid face? His eye,
Why is it dimmed with tears that will not fall,
As if the tenderness that unto all
Will cling, though far within the deepest nook
And inmost chambers of the dark heart, shook
His form, and raised the warm dew from his heart
Into his eyes?
When night and day did part,
168
And the sweet moon her silver orb did charge
With the sun's love; and shyly lifting not
Her eye, as yet, up from the shadowy grot
Behind the mountains, still shot up her spirit
Over their crowns; and the fair Star of Love,
Like some ethereal boat, when angels steer it,
Beamed brilliantly through the tall, gloomy grove
Of graceful firs that crowned the western hill;
Like a clear beacon set upon blue waves,
To lighten sailors' hearts that fear cold graves;
He seemed to wander in the tangled maze
Of his own thoughts, as in a wilderness,
And on the glories of the Heavens gaze,
Like one who looks at things, but nothing sees,
Mingling them all in one misshapen blot;
Or, if he sees them, making them a part
Of the one thought, on which the burning heart
Is all concentered, till it is all thought.
[OMITTED]
There is an old walled city standing near
The broad Pacific's curving, sandy verge;
Whose very walls are sometimes, by the surge,
Whitened with foam. Great palaces are there,
That glitter in the clear Peruvian air;
And grand cathedrals, with old towering spires,
Reflecting from gold ornaments the fires
Of the eternal sun. Along the streets
By day and night without cessation beats
The pulse of life, and flows the living tide,
Of pomp and poverty, and woe and pride.
There shaven monk and proud Hidalgo walk,
Or roll in state; and like the lamp-eyed flock
Of Houris that in Paradise are met
By all who truly worship Mahomet,
Fair women congregate, of pleasant eves,
When the bland sea-breeze stirs the orange leaves,
With delicate ankles, round, full, graceful forms,
And eyes as deeply black as midnight storms,
Lighted by lightning; and a gait that shames
Old Andalusia's slender-footed dames.
On all sides of the city, far and near,
Tall mansions, rich with Spanish pomp, appear;
And promenades, o'erarched with flowering trees,
Dropping their blooms at every passing breeze,
Or bent with olives. All the air is sweet,
For the light sea-winds, with their fairy feet,
Go in and out the honeyed orange-blooms,
And through the thick pomegranates' purple glooms,
Becoming partners with the thievish bees,
In bearing off rich odors.
Here was born
Ramon Valverde. Ere his head had worn
The weight of seven summers, he was sent
To gain, upon the mother continent
An education from her ponderous tomes,
And giant intellects, amid the homes
Of his dead ancestors, in fair Seville.
His name was not Valverde then: he bore
A prouder name and title, now no more.
There passed some dozen years, while he did fill
His brain with knowledge, such as few obtain,
And then his father called him home again.
Just when his youth bordered on manhood, ere
One hope, one spark of confidence had fainted
In his young soul; while every scene was painted
With golden hues, he left Seville the fair,
And crossed the ocean to his native land,
Glad on the well-known shores once more to stand.
He stood there at the season when the soul
Is most impassioned; when the brilliant goal
Of hope looms up and seems within our reach;
Ere yet experience has begun to teach
His bitter lessons to the wounded heart:
Ere Time has chilled one feeling, in the mart
Of ruined hopes and shattered destinies.
Just at the time when that strange prism, romance,
Lures the glad soul to sunny reveries,
And makes life seem to youth's bold, ardent glance,
All happiness and joy: when Faith and Trust
Have lost not one of all their sunny plumes;
Before the generous nature has been cursed
With dark suspicion, or the frowning glooms
Of stern misanthropy.
Thus was Ramon:
And when he stepped his native shore upon,
His father was a bankrupt. Men whom he
Had trusted as true friends, had ruined him.
Alas! this friendship and this treachery!
How many an eye doth perjured friendship dim!—
It is the fortune of the honest man
To trust and be deceived. It almost seems
Wiser to float upon the troubled streams
Of the world alone, and give and ask no aid.
Who has not, at some season of his life,
Had hollow friends and false hearts to upbraid?—
Delayed by storms, Ramon did just arrive
In time to embrace his father while alive.
There was an age in that one parting grasp.
He watched his parent's last convulsive gasp,
And buried him, and mourned him many a day.
Thenceforth he struggled on his lonely way,
Friendless and poor. Men coldly looked him down:
For 'tis a virtue in the rich, to frown
Upon the poor, and keep him underneath:
It is beneficence to let him breathe
The same good air as they, and tread the soil
Which they tread daintily.
In constant toil
And wrestling with his fate, Ramon bore up
A year or two, nor murmured at the cup
Of bitterness. 'Twas very hard for one
Whose spring was brilliant with a cloudless sun,
Full of romance, high hopes and splendid dreams,
Proud, ardent feelings, generous impulses,
To be thus dealt with.
The broad Pacific's curving, sandy verge;
Whose very walls are sometimes, by the surge,
Whitened with foam. Great palaces are there,
That glitter in the clear Peruvian air;
And grand cathedrals, with old towering spires,
Reflecting from gold ornaments the fires
169
By day and night without cessation beats
The pulse of life, and flows the living tide,
Of pomp and poverty, and woe and pride.
There shaven monk and proud Hidalgo walk,
Or roll in state; and like the lamp-eyed flock
Of Houris that in Paradise are met
By all who truly worship Mahomet,
Fair women congregate, of pleasant eves,
When the bland sea-breeze stirs the orange leaves,
With delicate ankles, round, full, graceful forms,
And eyes as deeply black as midnight storms,
Lighted by lightning; and a gait that shames
Old Andalusia's slender-footed dames.
On all sides of the city, far and near,
Tall mansions, rich with Spanish pomp, appear;
And promenades, o'erarched with flowering trees,
Dropping their blooms at every passing breeze,
Or bent with olives. All the air is sweet,
For the light sea-winds, with their fairy feet,
Go in and out the honeyed orange-blooms,
And through the thick pomegranates' purple glooms,
Becoming partners with the thievish bees,
In bearing off rich odors.
Here was born
Ramon Valverde. Ere his head had worn
170
To gain, upon the mother continent
An education from her ponderous tomes,
And giant intellects, amid the homes
Of his dead ancestors, in fair Seville.
His name was not Valverde then: he bore
A prouder name and title, now no more.
There passed some dozen years, while he did fill
His brain with knowledge, such as few obtain,
And then his father called him home again.
Just when his youth bordered on manhood, ere
One hope, one spark of confidence had fainted
In his young soul; while every scene was painted
With golden hues, he left Seville the fair,
And crossed the ocean to his native land,
Glad on the well-known shores once more to stand.
He stood there at the season when the soul
Is most impassioned; when the brilliant goal
Of hope looms up and seems within our reach;
Ere yet experience has begun to teach
His bitter lessons to the wounded heart:
Ere Time has chilled one feeling, in the mart
Of ruined hopes and shattered destinies.
Just at the time when that strange prism, romance,
Lures the glad soul to sunny reveries,
And makes life seem to youth's bold, ardent glance,
171
Have lost not one of all their sunny plumes;
Before the generous nature has been cursed
With dark suspicion, or the frowning glooms
Of stern misanthropy.
Thus was Ramon:
And when he stepped his native shore upon,
His father was a bankrupt. Men whom he
Had trusted as true friends, had ruined him.
Alas! this friendship and this treachery!
How many an eye doth perjured friendship dim!—
It is the fortune of the honest man
To trust and be deceived. It almost seems
Wiser to float upon the troubled streams
Of the world alone, and give and ask no aid.
Who has not, at some season of his life,
Had hollow friends and false hearts to upbraid?—
Delayed by storms, Ramon did just arrive
In time to embrace his father while alive.
There was an age in that one parting grasp.
He watched his parent's last convulsive gasp,
And buried him, and mourned him many a day.
Thenceforth he struggled on his lonely way,
Friendless and poor. Men coldly looked him down:
For 'tis a virtue in the rich, to frown
Upon the poor, and keep him underneath:
It is beneficence to let him breathe
172
Which they tread daintily.
In constant toil
And wrestling with his fate, Ramon bore up
A year or two, nor murmured at the cup
Of bitterness. 'Twas very hard for one
Whose spring was brilliant with a cloudless sun,
Full of romance, high hopes and splendid dreams,
Proud, ardent feelings, generous impulses,
To be thus dealt with.
[OMITTED]
One starry night,
He told his love.
He told his love.
[OMITTED]
The young Ramon upon Antonia gazed,
As one might on an angel, that could give
Him immortality. He did not live
Beyond her presence; for his other life,
Out in the world, was but an evanescence,
A dream of pain and care, of toil and strife,
Lit with the image of that lovely presence,
That peopled his lone heart, and made its cold,
Dark desert once again a Paradise.
So gazing into her deep earnest eyes,
As I have said, his tale of love he told,
Weaving all thoughts, all wishes, all desire,
All hopes and passion into words of fire,
That fell upon her heart, with the intense
Appealing power of love's own eloquence,
And would have won her, had her heart not been
His own already.
There, amid the green
And living foliage of the sleeping trees,
Their faith was plighted. While the impassive stars,
With their eternal calm monotony,
Seemed the soul's echo, deeply, fervently,
They vowed to be each other's evermore;
A sacred vow, Heaven's primal shrine before.
How long and happy their sweet conference
Of loving words, or of that most intense
And eloquent silence which is only known
To Love and his young votaries! From her throne
The waxing moon had gone before they parted,
Each to delicious slumber, each light-hearted,
Buoyant with hope. Thence forward, day by day,
Their love grew more intense. When morning gray
Awoke, he found her at the window, reading,
And when pale Eve the flowers with dew was feeding,
She still was there, watching to see his form
Among the busy and incessant swarm
That filled the street. She lived in him alone;
He was her life, a twin-soul to her own:
And when to Heaven she kneeled at twilight dim
And sung her matin song or evening hymn,
To Mary Queen, be sure the words of it
Breathed from his soul, and by his pen were writ.
As one might on an angel, that could give
Him immortality. He did not live
Beyond her presence; for his other life,
Out in the world, was but an evanescence,
A dream of pain and care, of toil and strife,
Lit with the image of that lovely presence,
That peopled his lone heart, and made its cold,
Dark desert once again a Paradise.
So gazing into her deep earnest eyes,
As I have said, his tale of love he told,
Weaving all thoughts, all wishes, all desire,
All hopes and passion into words of fire,
173
Appealing power of love's own eloquence,
And would have won her, had her heart not been
His own already.
There, amid the green
And living foliage of the sleeping trees,
Their faith was plighted. While the impassive stars,
With their eternal calm monotony,
Seemed the soul's echo, deeply, fervently,
They vowed to be each other's evermore;
A sacred vow, Heaven's primal shrine before.
How long and happy their sweet conference
Of loving words, or of that most intense
And eloquent silence which is only known
To Love and his young votaries! From her throne
The waxing moon had gone before they parted,
Each to delicious slumber, each light-hearted,
Buoyant with hope. Thence forward, day by day,
Their love grew more intense. When morning gray
Awoke, he found her at the window, reading,
And when pale Eve the flowers with dew was feeding,
She still was there, watching to see his form
Among the busy and incessant swarm
That filled the street. She lived in him alone;
He was her life, a twin-soul to her own:
And when to Heaven she kneeled at twilight dim
And sung her matin song or evening hymn,
174
Breathed from his soul, and by his pen were writ.
[OMITTED]
Too soon
This dream of hope and happiness was broken:
It would have been by far too great a boon,
For Alvarez, the wealthy, pious-spoken,
Proud Hijo d'algo, to have given to one,
Poor as Ramon, his daughter. For the son
Of an old noble wooed her, through her sire,
And had his promise. Then the latent fire
That slumbers in the meekest bosoms woke,
And a new spirit in Antonia spoke
In resolute accents. She declared her love,
And gloried in 't, and vowed by Him above,
That neither prayers nor force should make her wed,
Save with Ramon, to whom her faith was plighted,
While life remained, unless her reason fled,
And she became like one that gropes, benighted
Along the terror-peopled waste of senseless dreams.
This dream of hope and happiness was broken:
It would have been by far too great a boon,
For Alvarez, the wealthy, pious-spoken,
Proud Hijo d'algo, to have given to one,
Poor as Ramon, his daughter. For the son
Of an old noble wooed her, through her sire,
And had his promise. Then the latent fire
That slumbers in the meekest bosoms woke,
And a new spirit in Antonia spoke
In resolute accents. She declared her love,
And gloried in 't, and vowed by Him above,
That neither prayers nor force should make her wed,
Save with Ramon, to whom her faith was plighted,
While life remained, unless her reason fled,
And she became like one that gropes, benighted
Along the terror-peopled waste of senseless dreams.
[OMITTED]
Henceforth Ramon was persecuted. He
Was represented by the priests to be
A favorer of things heretical.
Stoutly they toiled, bribed to effect his fall,
And to the councils did accuse the youth,
As one who was no votary of the truth,
But loved strange doctrines, and had learned to hate
The true belief, endangering the State.
By perjury the miscreants gained their ends.
The poor have seldom very many friends;
And he was soon condemned.
They chained him there,
And gave him to their alguazils to bear,
Into the mountains threescore leagues or so,
And leave him on the rocks or frozen snow,
Bound hand and foot, to live as best he might,
Or die and feed the wolves. So did they write
Their stern decree. It fell upon his ear,
But stirred no nerve. He shed no womanish tear,
When 'twas pronounced, or when, next day, he took,
Before they bore him off, his last long look
At the proud palace where his love was kept
As in a cloister; for his eyes had wept
Their last tear now. That was the hour that changed
His inmost nature. That short hour estranged
From him all tender feelings that before
Had fluttered in his heart. The blow that tore
His hopes away, gave him a heart of steel.
Thenceforth he hardly knew what 'twas to feel.
He had been gentle and affectionate,
Most bounteous, though but limited of late,
A shy and modest boy, a genial man:
And his warm blood, although it swiftly ran,
Still throbbed with sympathy, whene'er distress
Called for relief, or wrongs required redress.
But from that hour his heart became austere,
And cold and stern: no passion thence was dear,
Except revenge.
Was represented by the priests to be
A favorer of things heretical.
Stoutly they toiled, bribed to effect his fall,
And to the councils did accuse the youth,
As one who was no votary of the truth,
175
The true belief, endangering the State.
By perjury the miscreants gained their ends.
The poor have seldom very many friends;
And he was soon condemned.
They chained him there,
And gave him to their alguazils to bear,
Into the mountains threescore leagues or so,
And leave him on the rocks or frozen snow,
Bound hand and foot, to live as best he might,
Or die and feed the wolves. So did they write
Their stern decree. It fell upon his ear,
But stirred no nerve. He shed no womanish tear,
When 'twas pronounced, or when, next day, he took,
Before they bore him off, his last long look
At the proud palace where his love was kept
As in a cloister; for his eyes had wept
Their last tear now. That was the hour that changed
His inmost nature. That short hour estranged
From him all tender feelings that before
Had fluttered in his heart. The blow that tore
His hopes away, gave him a heart of steel.
Thenceforth he hardly knew what 'twas to feel.
He had been gentle and affectionate,
Most bounteous, though but limited of late,
A shy and modest boy, a genial man:
And his warm blood, although it swiftly ran,
176
Called for relief, or wrongs required redress.
But from that hour his heart became austere,
And cold and stern: no passion thence was dear,
Except revenge.
[OMITTED]
One windy afternoon
In chilly autumn, when the full red moon
Stood on the ramparts of the hills, to gaze
At the veiled sun, just setting in thick haze,
They flung Ramon down on the rocky slope
Of a bleak mountain, and rode swift away,
Leaving him, like a helpless clod, to cope
With death and his despair; and so he lay,
While they rode off with many a jeer and jibe,
The common fashion of the vulgar tribe.
And so he lay, silent and speechless, there,
On the wild sky fixing a steady stare
Of utter hopelessness. The sun dropped down,
As a torch is quenched. Night came with heavy frown,
And the gray haze grew thicker in the west,—
Sure indication that the restless ocean
Had sent forth tempest from his teeming breast,
To lash the winds and waters to commotion.
An hour or so the red moon labored through
The heavy masses of gray cloud that grew,
Weltering like billows, over the angry sky
Until these surges, running mountain-high,
Broke over her, and hid her struggling form,
As when a vessel founders in a storm.
The winds awoke, and madly reeled about,
Shrieking amid the cedars, driving out
The hidden darkness from the deepest caves,
To cover the sky: like great engulfing waves,
The fir trees roared and rocked; blue lightning flashed,
Licking the dark crags with its fiery tongue,
And on the cliffs the awful thunder crashed,
And, echoing, to the precipices clung
With a moaning roar. And then the rain broke out,
The sharp white hail, and the great waterspout,
Hurling the rocks down. Swollen rivers bounded
Rejoicingly from crag to crag, surrounded
By crashing trees that fell in splinters there.
Yet he lay helpless. The electric glare
Blinded his eyes; the white hail cut to his bones;
The thunder mocked his agonizéd moans;
And the storm lulled only to rave again.
The scared wolves, issuing from cave and den,
Blinded with fear, howled loudly as they ran;
And eagles flew so low, their wings did fan
His wounded face. All night the mighty Storm
Haunted the mountains; but his eyeless form
Fled when the sun rose. Dimly, in a cloud
That veiled his brightness like a great, black shroud,
He rose; but soon his fiery, flashing rays
Melted the mist, and then his potent blaze
Became a torture;—so that, all that day,
And its chill night, Ramon despairing lay.
The next day came, with thirst, desire of death,
And restless dozing,—dreams of drinking seas,
Parched tongue, sharp headache, strained eyes, feverish breath,
And horrible pangs and spasms; and, by degrees,
Frenzy and madness. So that day crawled by,
And cold Night came with all her icy stars,
Radiant with freezing splendor in the sky,—
Dear to the sailor, when his shattered spars
Sweep by the Orkneys or bleak Hebrides,
Or where into mountains the salt waters freeze,
By the stormy Cape, or Straits of Magellan.
That night passed also. Morning came again,
And with it madness. Then he bruised and beat
His head against the rocks, and tried to eat
His wasted arms, and then would lie and smile
At his poor mangled limbs; and all the while
The hot sun scorched his maddened brain away.
Another night of frost! and then, as day
And sunrise came again, his feeble breath
Flickered upon his lips, and, chilled by Death,
The current of his blood stood still, and he
Lost all sensation. There some robbers found
What seemed a lifeless body. Two or three
Passed on and left him; but a stifled sound,
A faint, low gasp, scarce heard, induced one young,
Compassionate novice, to whose soul still clung
Some feeling of humanity, to pour
Wine in his mouth; and then he ran, and bore
From a cold running spring a draught of water
In his broad hat. His eyes unclosed once more;
And, though their trade was robbery and slaughter,
They raised him, fed him, bore him to their camp.
Who shall say wherefore? Ruffians of their stamp
Will do such things at times. They thought, perchance,
Thus to atone for some of their huge crimes;
For, after they had plied the sword and lance,
They told their beads, and chanted pious rhymes.
In chilly autumn, when the full red moon
Stood on the ramparts of the hills, to gaze
At the veiled sun, just setting in thick haze,
They flung Ramon down on the rocky slope
Of a bleak mountain, and rode swift away,
Leaving him, like a helpless clod, to cope
With death and his despair; and so he lay,
While they rode off with many a jeer and jibe,
The common fashion of the vulgar tribe.
And so he lay, silent and speechless, there,
On the wild sky fixing a steady stare
Of utter hopelessness. The sun dropped down,
As a torch is quenched. Night came with heavy frown,
And the gray haze grew thicker in the west,—
Sure indication that the restless ocean
Had sent forth tempest from his teeming breast,
To lash the winds and waters to commotion.
An hour or so the red moon labored through
The heavy masses of gray cloud that grew,
177
Until these surges, running mountain-high,
Broke over her, and hid her struggling form,
As when a vessel founders in a storm.
The winds awoke, and madly reeled about,
Shrieking amid the cedars, driving out
The hidden darkness from the deepest caves,
To cover the sky: like great engulfing waves,
The fir trees roared and rocked; blue lightning flashed,
Licking the dark crags with its fiery tongue,
And on the cliffs the awful thunder crashed,
And, echoing, to the precipices clung
With a moaning roar. And then the rain broke out,
The sharp white hail, and the great waterspout,
Hurling the rocks down. Swollen rivers bounded
Rejoicingly from crag to crag, surrounded
By crashing trees that fell in splinters there.
Yet he lay helpless. The electric glare
Blinded his eyes; the white hail cut to his bones;
The thunder mocked his agonizéd moans;
And the storm lulled only to rave again.
The scared wolves, issuing from cave and den,
Blinded with fear, howled loudly as they ran;
And eagles flew so low, their wings did fan
His wounded face. All night the mighty Storm
Haunted the mountains; but his eyeless form
178
That veiled his brightness like a great, black shroud,
He rose; but soon his fiery, flashing rays
Melted the mist, and then his potent blaze
Became a torture;—so that, all that day,
And its chill night, Ramon despairing lay.
The next day came, with thirst, desire of death,
And restless dozing,—dreams of drinking seas,
Parched tongue, sharp headache, strained eyes, feverish breath,
And horrible pangs and spasms; and, by degrees,
Frenzy and madness. So that day crawled by,
And cold Night came with all her icy stars,
Radiant with freezing splendor in the sky,—
Dear to the sailor, when his shattered spars
Sweep by the Orkneys or bleak Hebrides,
Or where into mountains the salt waters freeze,
By the stormy Cape, or Straits of Magellan.
That night passed also. Morning came again,
And with it madness. Then he bruised and beat
His head against the rocks, and tried to eat
His wasted arms, and then would lie and smile
At his poor mangled limbs; and all the while
The hot sun scorched his maddened brain away.
Another night of frost! and then, as day
And sunrise came again, his feeble breath
Flickered upon his lips, and, chilled by Death,
179
Lost all sensation. There some robbers found
What seemed a lifeless body. Two or three
Passed on and left him; but a stifled sound,
A faint, low gasp, scarce heard, induced one young,
Compassionate novice, to whose soul still clung
Some feeling of humanity, to pour
Wine in his mouth; and then he ran, and bore
From a cold running spring a draught of water
In his broad hat. His eyes unclosed once more;
And, though their trade was robbery and slaughter,
They raised him, fed him, bore him to their camp.
Who shall say wherefore? Ruffians of their stamp
Will do such things at times. They thought, perchance,
Thus to atone for some of their huge crimes;
For, after they had plied the sword and lance,
They told their beads, and chanted pious rhymes.
[OMITTED]
So life's book opened at another leaf.
Of his preservers he became the chief:
And soon his energy increased the band,
For many joined Valverde the Brigand.
Woe to the priests that met him in the way!
Small time he gave them to repent or pray;
Until his name into a war-cry grew,
Known, hated, dreaded, throughout all Peru.
For four long years he had pursued this trade,
And still victorious shone his flashing blade;
Prompt to resolve, and fitted to command,
Ready to plan, and readier his quick hand;
Cautious and bold, and wakeful as a deer,
He ruled his subjects less by love than fear.
Of his preservers he became the chief:
And soon his energy increased the band,
For many joined Valverde the Brigand.
Woe to the priests that met him in the way!
Small time he gave them to repent or pray;
Until his name into a war-cry grew,
Known, hated, dreaded, throughout all Peru.
180
And still victorious shone his flashing blade;
Prompt to resolve, and fitted to command,
Ready to plan, and readier his quick hand;
Cautious and bold, and wakeful as a deer,
He ruled his subjects less by love than fear.
[OMITTED]
Love's white star was down
Behind the hills, when slowly he returned,
And reached the camp. The watchfires brightly burned,
Casting their flickering light upon the trees,—
Those great, grim giants,—and upon the seas
Of darkness-haunted element above.
And still the sentries through the pillared grove
Paced their slow rounds. White tents the trees amid
Gleamed in the torchlight, half in shadow hid,
And brooding on the grass; and here and there
Were rows of huts, built of great limbs of pine;
And one huge tent blazed with the brilliant glare
Of a great light, where merriment and wine
Flashed into shout and song,—a canvass house,
Vast as a palace, where the band carouse.
Valverde was attracted by the din,
And, flinging back the folds, went calmly in.
From tree to tree the snowy canvass spread;
And silver lamps, swinging far overhead,
Fed with perfume from Cathay and Cashmere,
Flooded with light the mountain-atmosphere.
Round one great table thronged a hundred faces,
Stamped with the characters of many races,
Dark-bearded visages, stern, resolute;
The stout old veteran, and the young recruit.
All was rude splendor: massive plates of gold,
Which hoarding monks long since had ceased to hold;
Rich furniture of every costly wood,
Paid for with robber's price, the owner's blood;
Old tapestry of Spain; great gorgeous vases
Of lapis-lazuli and emerald, made to hold
Old wine of Xeres; bottles of beaten gold,
Wrought by quaint hands, embellished with saints' faces;
Tall crucifixes gleaming with costly stones;
Great piles of cushions, softer than kings' thrones;
Casks of old wine, bought for the sacrament,
But lost upon the way; rich armor, sent
By curious artisans to holy shrines,
Now swinging from unconsecrated pines;
Chains of gold beads, taken from devotees,
Now ornamenting sacrilegious trees;
Cups made of solid agate, for the lip
Of holy abbot, whence the robbers sip
The sacred vintage;—everything, in short,
Which art had made and ample wealth had bought,
Was heaped in strange confusion all around.
Behind the hills, when slowly he returned,
And reached the camp. The watchfires brightly burned,
Casting their flickering light upon the trees,—
Those great, grim giants,—and upon the seas
Of darkness-haunted element above.
And still the sentries through the pillared grove
Paced their slow rounds. White tents the trees amid
Gleamed in the torchlight, half in shadow hid,
And brooding on the grass; and here and there
Were rows of huts, built of great limbs of pine;
And one huge tent blazed with the brilliant glare
Of a great light, where merriment and wine
Flashed into shout and song,—a canvass house,
Vast as a palace, where the band carouse.
Valverde was attracted by the din,
And, flinging back the folds, went calmly in.
From tree to tree the snowy canvass spread;
And silver lamps, swinging far overhead,
181
Flooded with light the mountain-atmosphere.
Round one great table thronged a hundred faces,
Stamped with the characters of many races,
Dark-bearded visages, stern, resolute;
The stout old veteran, and the young recruit.
All was rude splendor: massive plates of gold,
Which hoarding monks long since had ceased to hold;
Rich furniture of every costly wood,
Paid for with robber's price, the owner's blood;
Old tapestry of Spain; great gorgeous vases
Of lapis-lazuli and emerald, made to hold
Old wine of Xeres; bottles of beaten gold,
Wrought by quaint hands, embellished with saints' faces;
Tall crucifixes gleaming with costly stones;
Great piles of cushions, softer than kings' thrones;
Casks of old wine, bought for the sacrament,
But lost upon the way; rich armor, sent
By curious artisans to holy shrines,
Now swinging from unconsecrated pines;
Chains of gold beads, taken from devotees,
Now ornamenting sacrilegious trees;
Cups made of solid agate, for the lip
Of holy abbot, whence the robbers sip
The sacred vintage;—everything, in short,
Which art had made and ample wealth had bought,
182
[OMITTED]
The wild, reckless rhyme,
With its quaint words of old Castilian,
That so Valverde chanted, hardly can
Be well translated in our rougher tongue;
But something so it ran:—
With its quaint words of old Castilian,
That so Valverde chanted, hardly can
Be well translated in our rougher tongue;
But something so it ran:—
Up with the Crescent! Away to the hills!
We'll die, or save Granada;
The virgin moon her first horn fills,
Her purest light from heaven distils
On the city, as if to guard her.
Away! away! ere the bloody spray
Pour into our fastness by rock and crag;
Ere the fiery Cross its wild brilliance toss,
And blaze on our hills while inertly we lag,
At the ramparts of Granada.
We'll die, or save Granada;
The virgin moon her first horn fills,
Her purest light from heaven distils
On the city, as if to guard her.
Away! away! ere the bloody spray
Pour into our fastness by rock and crag;
Ere the fiery Cross its wild brilliance toss,
And blaze on our hills while inertly we lag,
At the ramparts of Granada.
Up, up with the Crescent! If we are to die,
To die, or save Granada,
Two lives for one! be our battle-cry;
Each ounce of blood with a pound they shall buy;
We will fight, and die the harder.
Up, up, and on! Let the rising sun
See each a corse or a conqueror!
Up, spear and shield! The loud cymbal has pealed
And 'tis time for Mahomet's sons to stir,
From the ramparts of Granada.
To die, or save Granada,
Two lives for one! be our battle-cry;
Each ounce of blood with a pound they shall buy;
We will fight, and die the harder.
Up, up, and on! Let the rising sun
See each a corse or a conqueror!
Up, spear and shield! The loud cymbal has pealed
183
From the ramparts of Granada.
On, on with the Crescent! The Christians come,
They think to reach Granada;
And over the rocks to the beat of drum,
We hear their tramp and their busy hum;
Hush! silence! but on with ardor!
Now, sons of heaven, let their ranks be riven!
Revenge! Revenge! Do ye know the word?
Fight now like men, and the Crescent again,
Like the flap of the eagle's wing, shall be heard
From the ramparts of Granada.
They think to reach Granada;
And over the rocks to the beat of drum,
We hear their tramp and their busy hum;
Hush! silence! but on with ardor!
Now, sons of heaven, let their ranks be riven!
Revenge! Revenge! Do ye know the word?
Fight now like men, and the Crescent again,
Like the flap of the eagle's wing, shall be heard
From the ramparts of Granada.
[OMITTED]
CANTO II.
The silver horn of the advancing tide
Had ploughed its highest furrow in the sand,
And was retiring. Noon, with hasty stride,
Had passed by forest, beach, and rocky strand,
And golden City, and was on the sea,
Journeying westward. Every leafy tree
Began to cast long shadows to the east,
And from old Ocean's quiet, deep blue breast,
The evening breeze was lifting more and more,
And slowly drifting toward the longing shore.
The sea-fowls lay, like orbs of silver foam,
On the still surface of their hollow home;
And from the deep transparent element,
Like spiritual echoes faintly went
A slow, sad, plaintive psalm, as if it moaned
To the absent stars, and the great sun enthroned
In the empyrean, and its waves had tongues.
In the blue distance lay some misty throngs
Of green isles sleeping on the emerald sea,
Loveliest of Nature's delicate jewelry.
And one great solitary monument
Of the old fires that shook the Continent,
A thunder-shattered peak, shot up afar,
With snowy head that glittered like a star,
Towering above the ocean. Toward the shore
White sails now glided, running free before
The freshening breeze; and, anchored firm and fast,
Great ships their lengthening shadows landward cast.
The nautilus came up, and spread his sail
Proudly awhile before the gentle gale,
And then sank down like a dissolving dream,
Or bubble breaking on a dimpled stream.
Just at the edge of these voluptuous seas,
Ran a green pathway, canopied by trees,
Winding in labyrinthine intricacies,
With nooks amid gray trunks, and open spaces
Where lovers could retire, beneath thick vines
And drooping branches, from the common sight,
And breathe their vows. The rich fruits now were bright
With the sun's spirit, and the grass was green,
Abundant, level, and luxuriant,
And slightly now swept wavingly aslant
By the voluptuous sea-breeze, that began,
Breathing from ocean's cooler bosom, to fan
The forehead of old Tellus, and shake down
The pulpy fruit from the encumbered crown
Of ancient trees, upon the flowery sward.
The sun was slowly verging oceanward,
And, braving now his eye, the dusky shades
Began to gather shyly underneath
Continuous trees. Here amorous, star-eyed maids,
Like lilies floating on blue lakes, enwreath
Their shapely arms, clustering in merry bands,
And interlocking their small, delicate hands,
With tempting looks from the mantilla glancing,
And little feet that never cease their dancing.
And many a one clings to her lover's side
Alone and trustingly; and some even hide
Themselves in natural grots of twisted vines,
Or of great trees that join their ponderous spines,
There listening to and whispering vows of love,
While ever and anon their bright eyes rove,
To see if any watch the stolen kiss,
And the succeeding blush.
In the abyss
Of apathy and care which men call life,
Who hath not passed such hours? Who looks not back
Through long, dull days, and sleepless nights, and strife,
To such sweet hours? Who doth not sometimes track
The pathway of the past, and once more stand
Between life's gates, with Memory hand-in-hand,
And feel that one such dear, delicious hour
Outweighs the rest of life? The heart will cower
With shame, regret, sadness, remorse, and pain,
When Memory calls back other hours again;
That one alone is like a pleasant dream
Long vanished, yet more exquisite. We seem
To catch a faint glimpse of a former life,
Among the stars, before our exile here.
Had ploughed its highest furrow in the sand,
And was retiring. Noon, with hasty stride,
Had passed by forest, beach, and rocky strand,
And golden City, and was on the sea,
Journeying westward. Every leafy tree
Began to cast long shadows to the east,
And from old Ocean's quiet, deep blue breast,
184
And slowly drifting toward the longing shore.
The sea-fowls lay, like orbs of silver foam,
On the still surface of their hollow home;
And from the deep transparent element,
Like spiritual echoes faintly went
A slow, sad, plaintive psalm, as if it moaned
To the absent stars, and the great sun enthroned
In the empyrean, and its waves had tongues.
In the blue distance lay some misty throngs
Of green isles sleeping on the emerald sea,
Loveliest of Nature's delicate jewelry.
And one great solitary monument
Of the old fires that shook the Continent,
A thunder-shattered peak, shot up afar,
With snowy head that glittered like a star,
Towering above the ocean. Toward the shore
White sails now glided, running free before
The freshening breeze; and, anchored firm and fast,
Great ships their lengthening shadows landward cast.
The nautilus came up, and spread his sail
Proudly awhile before the gentle gale,
And then sank down like a dissolving dream,
Or bubble breaking on a dimpled stream.
Just at the edge of these voluptuous seas,
Ran a green pathway, canopied by trees,
185
With nooks amid gray trunks, and open spaces
Where lovers could retire, beneath thick vines
And drooping branches, from the common sight,
And breathe their vows. The rich fruits now were bright
With the sun's spirit, and the grass was green,
Abundant, level, and luxuriant,
And slightly now swept wavingly aslant
By the voluptuous sea-breeze, that began,
Breathing from ocean's cooler bosom, to fan
The forehead of old Tellus, and shake down
The pulpy fruit from the encumbered crown
Of ancient trees, upon the flowery sward.
The sun was slowly verging oceanward,
And, braving now his eye, the dusky shades
Began to gather shyly underneath
Continuous trees. Here amorous, star-eyed maids,
Like lilies floating on blue lakes, enwreath
Their shapely arms, clustering in merry bands,
And interlocking their small, delicate hands,
With tempting looks from the mantilla glancing,
And little feet that never cease their dancing.
And many a one clings to her lover's side
Alone and trustingly; and some even hide
Themselves in natural grots of twisted vines,
Or of great trees that join their ponderous spines,
186
While ever and anon their bright eyes rove,
To see if any watch the stolen kiss,
And the succeeding blush.
In the abyss
Of apathy and care which men call life,
Who hath not passed such hours? Who looks not back
Through long, dull days, and sleepless nights, and strife,
To such sweet hours? Who doth not sometimes track
The pathway of the past, and once more stand
Between life's gates, with Memory hand-in-hand,
And feel that one such dear, delicious hour
Outweighs the rest of life? The heart will cower
With shame, regret, sadness, remorse, and pain,
When Memory calls back other hours again;
That one alone is like a pleasant dream
Long vanished, yet more exquisite. We seem
To catch a faint glimpse of a former life,
Among the stars, before our exile here.
[OMITTED]
Many of these fair maids had tried in vain
To see the face of one who mutely leaned
Against a gnarled old tree, and partly screened
With his full Spanish cloak, his countenance;
And one that somewhat nearer did advance,
A laughing girl, and merrier than wise,
Was so rebuked by his deep mournful eyes,
She shrunk away abashed.
To see the face of one who mutely leaned
Against a gnarled old tree, and partly screened
With his full Spanish cloak, his countenance;
And one that somewhat nearer did advance,
A laughing girl, and merrier than wise,
Was so rebuked by his deep mournful eyes,
187
[OMITTED]
There came a gentle, almost noiseless step,
Pressing the green grass softly as the lip
Of virgin love. A fair young girl it was,
With slow and painful gait, and frequent pause,
As if from sickness feeble.
From his face
The dark cloak dropped; a moment more he stood
Irresolute; then with quick footsteps strode
After the maiden. Wearied, she had stopped,
Leaning against an orange tree, that dropped
Its blossoms on her hair. She rose to fly,
With a faint cry of terror; but her eye
Timidly looked in his, her forehead flushed,
Her sweet lips parted, and at once she rushed
Into his arms; her single cry, “Ramon!”
The big tears rained from his full eyes upon
Her wan white cheek and forehead, as he pressed
Her slender form to his broad manly breast.
Her soft eyes closed, and fainting quite away,
Like a fair child upon that breast she lay.
But soon with kisses he brought back her life,
Called her his angel, his delight, his wife;
And, sitting on a rustic chair, long gazed
On her dear-face, till she her sweet eyes raised,
And murmured once again his treasured name,
And kissed his forehead, and his eyes, and laid
Her head again upon his breast, and said:—
Pressing the green grass softly as the lip
Of virgin love. A fair young girl it was,
With slow and painful gait, and frequent pause,
As if from sickness feeble.
From his face
The dark cloak dropped; a moment more he stood
Irresolute; then with quick footsteps strode
After the maiden. Wearied, she had stopped,
Leaning against an orange tree, that dropped
Its blossoms on her hair. She rose to fly,
With a faint cry of terror; but her eye
Timidly looked in his, her forehead flushed,
Her sweet lips parted, and at once she rushed
Into his arms; her single cry, “Ramon!”
The big tears rained from his full eyes upon
Her wan white cheek and forehead, as he pressed
Her slender form to his broad manly breast.
Her soft eyes closed, and fainting quite away,
Like a fair child upon that breast she lay.
But soon with kisses he brought back her life,
Called her his angel, his delight, his wife;
And, sitting on a rustic chair, long gazed
On her dear-face, till she her sweet eyes raised,
And murmured once again his treasured name,
188
Her head again upon his breast, and said:—
“They told me thou wast dead, and I
Believed the cunning, cruel lie.
They said the priests had borne thee, bound
To where the gloomy mountains frowned,
And left thee there, alone, to die;
To watch the dial of the sky
Measure thy fleeting hours of life;
To feel the keen and glittering knife
Of cold hail piercing to thy bones,
And fear to utter dying moans,
Lest to the fierce wolves thou shouldst call.
They told me this; they told me all
That cunning taught them would avail
To render plausible the tale.
I longed to seek thy poor remains,
But like a prisoner in chains,
Within my room was I confined,
Until for want of air I pined,
And wasted to a shadow there.
Like the pale flowers that, growing where
Light never ventures, in deep caves,
Above which thunder the hoarse waves,
Have neither color, scent, or hue,
Thus pale, and weak, and faint I grew;
And then they brought thy mouldering bones,
The liars said so, from the thrones
Of storm and snow; and with a din
Of joy and triumph flung them in
The depths of the eternal sea.
And then they once more set me free.
Believed the cunning, cruel lie.
They said the priests had borne thee, bound
To where the gloomy mountains frowned,
And left thee there, alone, to die;
To watch the dial of the sky
Measure thy fleeting hours of life;
To feel the keen and glittering knife
Of cold hail piercing to thy bones,
And fear to utter dying moans,
Lest to the fierce wolves thou shouldst call.
They told me this; they told me all
That cunning taught them would avail
To render plausible the tale.
I longed to seek thy poor remains,
But like a prisoner in chains,
Within my room was I confined,
Until for want of air I pined,
And wasted to a shadow there.
Like the pale flowers that, growing where
Light never ventures, in deep caves,
Above which thunder the hoarse waves,
Have neither color, scent, or hue,
Thus pale, and weak, and faint I grew;
189
The liars said so, from the thrones
Of storm and snow; and with a din
Of joy and triumph flung them in
The depths of the eternal sea.
And then they once more set me free.
[OMITTED]
But thou art greatly changed too. Yet
Thy pale cheeks with fresh tears are wet.”
Thy pale cheeks with fresh tears are wet.”
“'Tis true, Antonia, I have wept;
The fountains that so long were dry,
Have overflowed once more, and I
Am young again. Thine eyes still shine
Upon my own, thy lips kiss mine,
And our past agonies now seem
Only a half-remembered dream.
The heart has many mysteries,
For thou hast lived, to taste new bliss;
If it be life, indeed, to crave
A sanctuary in the grave;
To loathe the dawn and hate the sun,
As I did, as thou must have done.
I thought thy woman's heart would break,—
I know not why it has not broken,
With grief, despair, and woe unspoken.
For me, I had a thirst to slake,
Within that deep and burning lake,
Revenge, which would not let me die.”
The fountains that so long were dry,
Have overflowed once more, and I
Am young again. Thine eyes still shine
Upon my own, thy lips kiss mine,
And our past agonies now seem
Only a half-remembered dream.
The heart has many mysteries,
For thou hast lived, to taste new bliss;
If it be life, indeed, to crave
A sanctuary in the grave;
To loathe the dawn and hate the sun,
As I did, as thou must have done.
I thought thy woman's heart would break,—
I know not why it has not broken,
With grief, despair, and woe unspoken.
190
Within that deep and burning lake,
Revenge, which would not let me die.”
“Ah, dear Ramon!” she said, “shall I
Love thee again? We will not part,
Will we, Ramon? 'Twould break my heart.
Promise! and I no more shall feel
The sickness that so long doth steal
My life-blood and my life away.
Let us not part! Thou canst not stay
Here, in a city where thy head,
For ancient wrong, hatred half-fed,
And villany's continual fear,
If thou didst openly appear,
Would make a traitor's fortune. No!
Better the mountains and cold snow,
Better a frail canoe at sea,
Than danger, doubt, and treachery.
My stern, cold father entertains
All his old hatred; and the rains
Will sooner melt the dark basalt,
Than thou convince him of his fault,
Or soften him. Oh, let us flee
To some far island in the sea!
From care and pain and sorrow part,
Grow strong as giants at the heart,
With happy days and nights of love;
Build up our house in some thick grove,
And live as lovers lived of old.
Then in my arms will I enfold
And press thee, love; will watch thine eye,
And when thou sighest, I will sigh,
Will kiss thine eyes to placid sleep,
And danger from thy slumbers keep;
In life will I be always near,
Nor will I murmur, love, or fear,
Cold Death himself. We'll die together,
Like clouds that melt in summer weather:
The gentle wind and summer sea
Shall sing our dirge.”
Love thee again? We will not part,
Will we, Ramon? 'Twould break my heart.
Promise! and I no more shall feel
The sickness that so long doth steal
My life-blood and my life away.
Let us not part! Thou canst not stay
Here, in a city where thy head,
For ancient wrong, hatred half-fed,
And villany's continual fear,
If thou didst openly appear,
Would make a traitor's fortune. No!
Better the mountains and cold snow,
Better a frail canoe at sea,
Than danger, doubt, and treachery.
My stern, cold father entertains
All his old hatred; and the rains
Will sooner melt the dark basalt,
Than thou convince him of his fault,
Or soften him. Oh, let us flee
To some far island in the sea!
From care and pain and sorrow part,
Grow strong as giants at the heart,
191
Build up our house in some thick grove,
And live as lovers lived of old.
Then in my arms will I enfold
And press thee, love; will watch thine eye,
And when thou sighest, I will sigh,
Will kiss thine eyes to placid sleep,
And danger from thy slumbers keep;
In life will I be always near,
Nor will I murmur, love, or fear,
Cold Death himself. We'll die together,
Like clouds that melt in summer weather:
The gentle wind and summer sea
Shall sing our dirge.”
[OMITTED]
CANTO III.
The twenty-fifth had come; Peru awoke;
One cry for freedom from her green hills broke,
From her wide plains and valleys; and the ocean
Re-echoed it. It was the first emotion
And pulse of her young heart, for Liberty.
One cry for freedom from her green hills broke,
From her wide plains and valleys; and the ocean
Re-echoed it. It was the first emotion
And pulse of her young heart, for Liberty.
Oh, holy Freedom! When, ah, when, will be
Thy triumph everywhere? When will the moan
Of the chained nations cease? When will there groan
No slave beneath the broad expanse of heaven?
When will all fetters of the oppressed be riven,
And Tyranny flee, howling, to the caves
Of the bleak mountains; or the mighty waves
All vestige of old slavery overwhelm?
When wilt thou sit, fair Freedom! at the helm
Of the whirling earth, and steer that mighty bark
Now manned by mariners austere and dark,
With cruel eyes, and wearing golden crowns,
Through the wild seas of chaos, where the frowns
Of savage clouds cast shadows on the waves,
Threatening the sailors with unwelcome graves?
Beneath those waves will then be seen the ruin
Of thrones and dominations, there bestrewing
The sandy floor of that engulfing sea,
Peopled with Fear, mad Terror, Agony,
And gaunt Destruction; steering over which,
Into calm bays and golden seas, will reach
The wingéd bark, where her storm-shattered sails,
No more will front the lightnings and the gales
Of Tyranny and Kinghood. When? oh, when?—
'Tis sad to read the history of men,
And of men's strife for freedom,—see them rise
From the black gulfs of slavery, and flash
The lightnings of their anger in the eyes
Of trembling kings;—perhaps their tyrants dash,
Bleeding, beneath their feet, amid the crash
Of Bastilles and great palaces; and then
Sink like a wave to anarchy again.
Greece once was free:—how long? Rome, too, that wrote
Her name upon the front of nations, smote
Barbarian empires with unsparing hand,
And bent the world's will to her stern command.
Venice and England, France and Spain, in turn,
Have seen the golden fires of freedom burn,
On hill and plain, on rock and citadel;
In their large light have seen great armies swell,
And dash against the troops of Tyranny.
How often have these waves of Freedom's sea
Been baffled and borne back? How often has
Some stern avenger of the People's cause
On Despotism and Kings, himself become
A sterner lord! How often, from the foam
Of tumult and commotion, red with blood,
Some one has risen to ride the furious flood
Of the roused people's rage! How often hath
Some foreign tyrant, mighty in his wrath,
Swept quite away the ramparts of the free,
And trampled them to dust! Dost thou not see,
Oh, Freedom! in thy scroll of bloody names,
Of tiger-hearted men, whose fearful fames
Were from thy children won, wet with thy tears,
Philip and Cæsar, Cromwell, and that man,
Mightier than all, the wondrous Corsican?
Futurity! hast thou a scourge like these
In store for us? Are stern Fate's dark decrees
Implacable? The cowering tiger-fiends
Are muttering even now, like restless winds,
Within the dim abysses where they brood,—
Tyranny, Priestcraft, Anarchy, and Feud;
And ever and anon they turn and writhe,
Like agonizéd serpents, long and lithe,
Pressed down by mountains. Even now the storm
Of discontent is gathering in the warm
And sunny South. Great clouds the orient clasp,
Rearing their stormy crests, where the white asp
Of lightning quivers, angrily alive:
Freemen are seen too willingly to dive
In the accursed gulf of frantic treason, while
The foes of liberty recline and smile
Within the shadows of old hoary thrones,
Lulled by the music of starved paupers' groans.
Oh, holy Freedom! leave not yet our bark
To drift without a pilot on the dark
And stormy seas of anarchy, and then
To sink for ever from the pleasant ken
Of these fair skies and sunny fields, to the home
Of nations tyrant-wrecked, states overthrown,
Republics self-slain! Our great fathers bled
And died for thee, and thy high altar fed
With the red incense of their own stout hearts;
And ere our rights are sold in the blank marts
And dens of tyranny, there yet are left
Many to die for thee and thy dear gift.
Thy triumph everywhere? When will the moan
Of the chained nations cease? When will there groan
192
When will all fetters of the oppressed be riven,
And Tyranny flee, howling, to the caves
Of the bleak mountains; or the mighty waves
All vestige of old slavery overwhelm?
When wilt thou sit, fair Freedom! at the helm
Of the whirling earth, and steer that mighty bark
Now manned by mariners austere and dark,
With cruel eyes, and wearing golden crowns,
Through the wild seas of chaos, where the frowns
Of savage clouds cast shadows on the waves,
Threatening the sailors with unwelcome graves?
Beneath those waves will then be seen the ruin
Of thrones and dominations, there bestrewing
The sandy floor of that engulfing sea,
Peopled with Fear, mad Terror, Agony,
And gaunt Destruction; steering over which,
Into calm bays and golden seas, will reach
The wingéd bark, where her storm-shattered sails,
No more will front the lightnings and the gales
Of Tyranny and Kinghood. When? oh, when?—
'Tis sad to read the history of men,
And of men's strife for freedom,—see them rise
From the black gulfs of slavery, and flash
The lightnings of their anger in the eyes
Of trembling kings;—perhaps their tyrants dash,
Bleeding, beneath their feet, amid the crash
193
Sink like a wave to anarchy again.
Greece once was free:—how long? Rome, too, that wrote
Her name upon the front of nations, smote
Barbarian empires with unsparing hand,
And bent the world's will to her stern command.
Venice and England, France and Spain, in turn,
Have seen the golden fires of freedom burn,
On hill and plain, on rock and citadel;
In their large light have seen great armies swell,
And dash against the troops of Tyranny.
How often have these waves of Freedom's sea
Been baffled and borne back? How often has
Some stern avenger of the People's cause
On Despotism and Kings, himself become
A sterner lord! How often, from the foam
Of tumult and commotion, red with blood,
Some one has risen to ride the furious flood
Of the roused people's rage! How often hath
Some foreign tyrant, mighty in his wrath,
Swept quite away the ramparts of the free,
And trampled them to dust! Dost thou not see,
Oh, Freedom! in thy scroll of bloody names,
Of tiger-hearted men, whose fearful fames
Were from thy children won, wet with thy tears,
Philip and Cæsar, Cromwell, and that man,
Mightier than all, the wondrous Corsican?
194
In store for us? Are stern Fate's dark decrees
Implacable? The cowering tiger-fiends
Are muttering even now, like restless winds,
Within the dim abysses where they brood,—
Tyranny, Priestcraft, Anarchy, and Feud;
And ever and anon they turn and writhe,
Like agonizéd serpents, long and lithe,
Pressed down by mountains. Even now the storm
Of discontent is gathering in the warm
And sunny South. Great clouds the orient clasp,
Rearing their stormy crests, where the white asp
Of lightning quivers, angrily alive:
Freemen are seen too willingly to dive
In the accursed gulf of frantic treason, while
The foes of liberty recline and smile
Within the shadows of old hoary thrones,
Lulled by the music of starved paupers' groans.
Oh, holy Freedom! leave not yet our bark
To drift without a pilot on the dark
And stormy seas of anarchy, and then
To sink for ever from the pleasant ken
Of these fair skies and sunny fields, to the home
Of nations tyrant-wrecked, states overthrown,
Republics self-slain! Our great fathers bled
And died for thee, and thy high altar fed
195
And ere our rights are sold in the blank marts
And dens of tyranny, there yet are left
Many to die for thee and thy dear gift.
The cause which made Leonidas eterne,
Embalming his great name within the urn
Of the world's heart,—which made Miltiades,
Pelopidas, and Hampden, and of these,
The twice ten thousand brothers, through all time,
Immortal in stern annal and sweet rhyme,—
This cause aroused, and fired all young Peru.
The banner of the Liberators threw
Its eagle shadow on the sunburnt plain,
Now peopled by a small but warlike train
Of Freedom's children. Blas was there, with some
Five hundred men. Bernal had left his home
Amid the mountains, with eight hundred more;
Barbon and Gomez to the plain did pour,
Each with his gallant regiment, of old
And veteran Catalonians, firm and bold.
Alvarez brought a thousand men, a part
Bold mountaineers, skilled in the hunter's art,
A part stout husbandmen, that tilled the plains,
And some old veterans who had stood through rains
Of lead and iron 'gainst Napoleon.
With them had also gathered many a one
Of smaller note; and, in the whole, the force
Amounted to five thousand, foot and horse.
Pepina still was absent, and the band
Held in the mountains by the brave Brigand;
And long and anxiously through all that day,
The leaders looked to see him make his way
Into the plain;—vainly!—for until night
Nothing of him or his appeared in sight;
And when the stars near the young moon were met,
And round the camp the sentinels were set,
Still no troops came, and nothing more was known,
Except that he had failed them; haply, thrown
His weight into the Viceroy's serried ranks,
To obtain thereby pardon, perhaps, and thanks.
For four days all was conference and delay,
But on the thirtieth, just at break of day,
The scouts reported that the foe was near.
Embalming his great name within the urn
Of the world's heart,—which made Miltiades,
Pelopidas, and Hampden, and of these,
The twice ten thousand brothers, through all time,
Immortal in stern annal and sweet rhyme,—
This cause aroused, and fired all young Peru.
The banner of the Liberators threw
Its eagle shadow on the sunburnt plain,
Now peopled by a small but warlike train
Of Freedom's children. Blas was there, with some
Five hundred men. Bernal had left his home
Amid the mountains, with eight hundred more;
Barbon and Gomez to the plain did pour,
Each with his gallant regiment, of old
And veteran Catalonians, firm and bold.
Alvarez brought a thousand men, a part
Bold mountaineers, skilled in the hunter's art,
A part stout husbandmen, that tilled the plains,
And some old veterans who had stood through rains
Of lead and iron 'gainst Napoleon.
With them had also gathered many a one
196
Amounted to five thousand, foot and horse.
Pepina still was absent, and the band
Held in the mountains by the brave Brigand;
And long and anxiously through all that day,
The leaders looked to see him make his way
Into the plain;—vainly!—for until night
Nothing of him or his appeared in sight;
And when the stars near the young moon were met,
And round the camp the sentinels were set,
Still no troops came, and nothing more was known,
Except that he had failed them; haply, thrown
His weight into the Viceroy's serried ranks,
To obtain thereby pardon, perhaps, and thanks.
For four days all was conference and delay,
But on the thirtieth, just at break of day,
The scouts reported that the foe was near.
There were a few small hillocks in the rear,
Forming a broken ridge that faced the west:
Upon the left, this naked ridge did rest
On a sharp spur of the Andes, that there jutted
Into the plain; and on the right abutted
On a thick wood, protecting that extreme:
Along the front ran a small, boggy stream.
To this ground they retired, and there displayed
Their troops in order for the battle, led
By Alvarez, whose trade it was of old;
And there, like one determined, cool and bold,
He waited for the enemy. Bernal
Was placed upon the right, behind some small
And ragged cedars. Blas was on the left,
His cavalry withdrawn behind a drift
Of granite boulders, from the mountain rent.
The veteran Gomez, with his regiment,
And old Barbon with his, the centre held.
One half the men of Alvarez were placed
With Blas, the other with Bernal. In haste
This being done, Alvarez took his post
Of leader, in the centre of the host.
Forming a broken ridge that faced the west:
Upon the left, this naked ridge did rest
On a sharp spur of the Andes, that there jutted
Into the plain; and on the right abutted
On a thick wood, protecting that extreme:
Along the front ran a small, boggy stream.
To this ground they retired, and there displayed
Their troops in order for the battle, led
197
And there, like one determined, cool and bold,
He waited for the enemy. Bernal
Was placed upon the right, behind some small
And ragged cedars. Blas was on the left,
His cavalry withdrawn behind a drift
Of granite boulders, from the mountain rent.
The veteran Gomez, with his regiment,
And old Barbon with his, the centre held.
One half the men of Alvarez were placed
With Blas, the other with Bernal. In haste
This being done, Alvarez took his post
Of leader, in the centre of the host.
They came like torrents swelling in the spring,
Those brave and proven servants of the king;
In all the gaudy trappings of their trade,
Gay banners flying, bayonet and blade.
There was the Andalusian Regiment,
With dark green uniform; and near them went
Battalions from Galicia, and the brave
Biscayan cavalry; the old and grave
Artillery from Cordova;—troops, in fine,
From Spain's most eastern to her western line;
Their trumpets sounding an old Moorish tune.
Their leader, an old, gray-haired Catalun,
Who had learned tactics in Napoleon's school,
Threw out his heavy cavalry, to charge
The enemy's centre. Dashing out they came,
Lances and sabres glittering like keen flame.
Charge upon charge they resolutely made,
But were repulsed. Old Gomez, undismayed,
Stood stern as a rock, and poured his heavy fire
Into the squadrons with destruction dire.
And now the heavy infantry marched down,
And charged right on the centre. Brightly shone
The gleaming bayonets, as, still and swift,
It came, the muskeeters' unbroken drift.
Gomez fell wounded, at the first fierce crash,
But still Barbon poured in his steady flash.
Bernal wheeled out, and charged in flank the foe,
And Blas poured down, and did upon them throw
His veteran cavalry, but all in vain.
Bernal was scattered; Blas attacked again,
And still again; and still he was repulsed.
Still the old Catalun urged on his men
Against the centre. Alvarez had fought
Like a mad lion hemmed in his own den;
Provided all that his collected thought
Told him was needed; cheered his faltering troops;
Charged singly on the very thickest groups
Of the enemy: yet all in vain! Still back
And back they pushed him; while his arm grew slack
With constant havoc, and his sight gew dim,
And by his side hung useless his left limb,
Struck by a sword whose owner struck no more.
Over red heaps, through puddles of dark gore,
The foe pressed onward. Hark! behind the hills
A single trumpet! At the echoing thrills
There was a pause; and sword and bayonet
Ceased their fierce work. Another trumpet yet!
And like the roar of a pine forest, came
A thousand horsemen. Many a heart grew tame
With doubt and fear. Not long was the delay,
For, as they came, like the hoarse thunder's bay,
A thousand voices shouted “Libertad!”
Blas and Bernal their shattered squadrons led
To either side, and down the horsemen came.
Alvarez knew that eye of flashing flame
That glittered in the front, and grew again
Strong as a lion maddened by sharp pain.
Two leaders came careering in the front,
Foremost to meet the battle's fiery brunt.
The one he knew: the other, who was he?
On the black squadrons came: that charge of fire
What troops could stand? Not those who there withstood.
That coal-black steed was soon streaked o'er with blood;
Those serried riders rode down horse and man,
As trees are crushed before the hurricane.
In silence did they their fierce work of death,—
No shout, no cry, no wasting idle breath,—
But sudden wheel and fiery charge wherever
Their leader motioned,—he whose sabre never
Struck vainly in that fight,—whose arm ne'er slacked;
Whose course with dead and wounded wide was tracked.
Short was the contest: Alvarez once more
The shattered foe his bayonets drove before;
And Blas had gathered quickly in the rear
Of the black squadrons, and was charging near
Their silent captain; till, like foam and spray,
Melting before the tempest's wrath away,
The routed foe at all points fought no more,
But fled the field, in utter rout, before
The bloody tide of battle.
Those brave and proven servants of the king;
In all the gaudy trappings of their trade,
Gay banners flying, bayonet and blade.
There was the Andalusian Regiment,
With dark green uniform; and near them went
Battalions from Galicia, and the brave
Biscayan cavalry; the old and grave
Artillery from Cordova;—troops, in fine,
From Spain's most eastern to her western line;
Their trumpets sounding an old Moorish tune.
Their leader, an old, gray-haired Catalun,
198
Threw out his heavy cavalry, to charge
The enemy's centre. Dashing out they came,
Lances and sabres glittering like keen flame.
Charge upon charge they resolutely made,
But were repulsed. Old Gomez, undismayed,
Stood stern as a rock, and poured his heavy fire
Into the squadrons with destruction dire.
And now the heavy infantry marched down,
And charged right on the centre. Brightly shone
The gleaming bayonets, as, still and swift,
It came, the muskeeters' unbroken drift.
Gomez fell wounded, at the first fierce crash,
But still Barbon poured in his steady flash.
Bernal wheeled out, and charged in flank the foe,
And Blas poured down, and did upon them throw
His veteran cavalry, but all in vain.
Bernal was scattered; Blas attacked again,
And still again; and still he was repulsed.
Still the old Catalun urged on his men
Against the centre. Alvarez had fought
Like a mad lion hemmed in his own den;
Provided all that his collected thought
Told him was needed; cheered his faltering troops;
Charged singly on the very thickest groups
Of the enemy: yet all in vain! Still back
And back they pushed him; while his arm grew slack
199
And by his side hung useless his left limb,
Struck by a sword whose owner struck no more.
Over red heaps, through puddles of dark gore,
The foe pressed onward. Hark! behind the hills
A single trumpet! At the echoing thrills
There was a pause; and sword and bayonet
Ceased their fierce work. Another trumpet yet!
And like the roar of a pine forest, came
A thousand horsemen. Many a heart grew tame
With doubt and fear. Not long was the delay,
For, as they came, like the hoarse thunder's bay,
A thousand voices shouted “Libertad!”
Blas and Bernal their shattered squadrons led
To either side, and down the horsemen came.
Alvarez knew that eye of flashing flame
That glittered in the front, and grew again
Strong as a lion maddened by sharp pain.
Two leaders came careering in the front,
Foremost to meet the battle's fiery brunt.
The one he knew: the other, who was he?
On the black squadrons came: that charge of fire
What troops could stand? Not those who there withstood.
That coal-black steed was soon streaked o'er with blood;
Those serried riders rode down horse and man,
As trees are crushed before the hurricane.
200
No shout, no cry, no wasting idle breath,—
But sudden wheel and fiery charge wherever
Their leader motioned,—he whose sabre never
Struck vainly in that fight,—whose arm ne'er slacked;
Whose course with dead and wounded wide was tracked.
Short was the contest: Alvarez once more
The shattered foe his bayonets drove before;
And Blas had gathered quickly in the rear
Of the black squadrons, and was charging near
Their silent captain; till, like foam and spray,
Melting before the tempest's wrath away,
The routed foe at all points fought no more,
But fled the field, in utter rout, before
The bloody tide of battle.
[OMITTED]
Valverde's day at last had come;
And every hot and hissing bomb,
That flew as if in savage glee,
Into the city of the sea,
Filled with fierce triumph his wild heart.
Shortly that proud and gorgeous mart,
The King's last stronghold in the land,
Was one wide wreck and ruin, and
They took it one bright day by storm.
And every hot and hissing bomb,
That flew as if in savage glee,
Into the city of the sea,
Filled with fierce triumph his wild heart.
Shortly that proud and gorgeous mart,
The King's last stronghold in the land,
Was one wide wreck and ruin, and
They took it one bright day by storm.
[OMITTED]
Through the long, dreary solitudes
Of the wide streets all day there fell
The tramp of the stern sentinel,
Who kept his steady pace among
The broken rafters, and the throng,
Of lifeless corpses; and thick smoke,
Which from the smouldering ruins broke,
O'er wounded men, whose piteous moans,
Rose from blood-dabbled pavement stones.
Valverde's victory was won,
And he had wreaked his will upon
The golden city, which had flung
Him out to starve and die among
The icy mountains.
Such, oh War!
Thy triumphs and thy trophies are!
Such are the things that earn men fame.
Oh, it should make Ambition tame,
Cause it to strew its starry crown
With dust and ashes; to sit down
And weep the triumphs it has won.
When will such curse be rained upon
This free and happy land of ours?
When will mad Tumult's thunder-showers
Crush our proud cities to the ground?
When the wild cry of Plunder sound
Along our streets?—our dead be piled
Round burning shrines; our hands defiled
With the abomination of
A brother's gore? Oh, God of love!
Avert the day! Thou hast thus far
Warded from our bright natal star
The clouds of suicidal war.
Desert it not, good God! but let
It still in peaceful heavens be set,
To shine upon our homes, and be
A beacon to the struggling free,
Until the last great fight is won,—
Till kings no more fear Liberty,
Nor men remember Washington.
201
The tramp of the stern sentinel,
Who kept his steady pace among
The broken rafters, and the throng,
Of lifeless corpses; and thick smoke,
Which from the smouldering ruins broke,
O'er wounded men, whose piteous moans,
Rose from blood-dabbled pavement stones.
Valverde's victory was won,
And he had wreaked his will upon
The golden city, which had flung
Him out to starve and die among
The icy mountains.
Such, oh War!
Thy triumphs and thy trophies are!
Such are the things that earn men fame.
Oh, it should make Ambition tame,
Cause it to strew its starry crown
With dust and ashes; to sit down
And weep the triumphs it has won.
When will such curse be rained upon
This free and happy land of ours?
When will mad Tumult's thunder-showers
Crush our proud cities to the ground?
When the wild cry of Plunder sound
Along our streets?—our dead be piled
Round burning shrines; our hands defiled
202
A brother's gore? Oh, God of love!
Avert the day! Thou hast thus far
Warded from our bright natal star
The clouds of suicidal war.
Desert it not, good God! but let
It still in peaceful heavens be set,
To shine upon our homes, and be
A beacon to the struggling free,
Until the last great fight is won,—
Till kings no more fear Liberty,
Nor men remember Washington.
[OMITTED]
Some days had passed. The city was at rest,
After the tumults that had torn its breast.
Carnage no more through street and palace hurried;
The ruins were removed, the dead were buried.
The living tide of busy human life
Again rolled on. Again the streets were rife
With splendor, wealth, pomp, beauty, as before.
The eagle flag was waving proudly o'er
Its domes and palaces; and here and there,
In the large squares stood the rude barracks, where
The soldiers quartered; and at every turn,
You met a sentinel, grim, silent, stern:
While now and then a sudden trumpet told
The city it was conquered.
From the cold
And snowy hills the golden sun had risen;
His rays rejoiced on dome and spire to glisten,
And danced into Antonia's chamber, through
The painted panes, taking therefrom a hue
Of soft, voluptuous, tender melancholy,
Such as we see within the dim and holy
Monotony of old cathedrals, where
The sanctity seems visible in the air;
Or in those fine old paintings, where you tell
At once the work of Titian or Raffaelle.
After the tumults that had torn its breast.
Carnage no more through street and palace hurried;
The ruins were removed, the dead were buried.
The living tide of busy human life
Again rolled on. Again the streets were rife
With splendor, wealth, pomp, beauty, as before.
The eagle flag was waving proudly o'er
Its domes and palaces; and here and there,
In the large squares stood the rude barracks, where
The soldiers quartered; and at every turn,
You met a sentinel, grim, silent, stern:
While now and then a sudden trumpet told
The city it was conquered.
From the cold
203
His rays rejoiced on dome and spire to glisten,
And danced into Antonia's chamber, through
The painted panes, taking therefrom a hue
Of soft, voluptuous, tender melancholy,
Such as we see within the dim and holy
Monotony of old cathedrals, where
The sanctity seems visible in the air;
Or in those fine old paintings, where you tell
At once the work of Titian or Raffaelle.
In her own room Antonia sate once more
In listless silence. Her pale face still wore
The same sad look of utter desolation,
But there was something of stern elevation
And calm despair in her large, lustrous eyes,
A hopeless calm, that Fate's worst blows defies.
Her maiden dressed her for the bridal there,
And busied in the long, luxuriant hair
Her taper fingers, till she massed it round
A simple comb, and placed a rose or two
Amid the folds, whose white and creamy hue
Made the hair darker. Then Antonia spoke:
In listless silence. Her pale face still wore
The same sad look of utter desolation,
But there was something of stern elevation
And calm despair in her large, lustrous eyes,
A hopeless calm, that Fate's worst blows defies.
Her maiden dressed her for the bridal there,
And busied in the long, luxuriant hair
Her taper fingers, till she massed it round
A simple comb, and placed a rose or two
Amid the folds, whose white and creamy hue
Made the hair darker. Then Antonia spoke:
“Give over, sweet Rosita! 'Tis enough!
Thy gentle hands, to-night, seem all too rough:
Perhaps it may have been my own poor head
That made me fancy pain. I go to wed
With one who heeds not looks, or else he had
But little judgment in selecting me,
So thin, so wan, so very pale and sad:
He careth not for beauty in a bride.
Nay! let it go so! He hath little pride,
And mighty love,—this future lord of mine.
It needeth not that dextrous art of thine;
When I am married, I shall get good looks,
And health and strength. 'Tis reading in sad books
Makes maidens thin.”
Thy gentle hands, to-night, seem all too rough:
204
That made me fancy pain. I go to wed
With one who heeds not looks, or else he had
But little judgment in selecting me,
So thin, so wan, so very pale and sad:
He careth not for beauty in a bride.
Nay! let it go so! He hath little pride,
And mighty love,—this future lord of mine.
It needeth not that dextrous art of thine;
When I am married, I shall get good looks,
And health and strength. 'Tis reading in sad books
Makes maidens thin.”
“What books, my lady?”
“Those
Of the deep heart. When wedded, I shall close
The pages up, and will again be well.
I have lost too much sleep of late. The cell
To which I soon shall go hath sleep enough.
Nay, girl! I do not think thy hands are rough:
Weep not at that.”
Of the deep heart. When wedded, I shall close
The pages up, and will again be well.
I have lost too much sleep of late. The cell
To which I soon shall go hath sleep enough.
Nay, girl! I do not think thy hands are rough:
Weep not at that.”
“Lady, it pains my heart
To see one, sweet and gentle as thou art,
So pale and thin, and using these sad words.
'Tis like the wild note of the anguished birds,
When their hearts break that they have lost their young.”
To see one, sweet and gentle as thou art,
So pale and thin, and using these sad words.
'Tis like the wild note of the anguished birds,
205
“Weep on, then! I have wept, but long since flung
The last poor tear-drop from my heart; and now
I cannot weep. Weep on, Rosita! Thou
Art not a bride, or thou wouldst shed no tear.
Nay, thou wouldst laugh, as the glad hour drew near.
See! I can laugh, and do!”
The last poor tear-drop from my heart; and now
I cannot weep. Weep on, Rosita! Thou
Art not a bride, or thou wouldst shed no tear.
Nay, thou wouldst laugh, as the glad hour drew near.
See! I can laugh, and do!”
“Dear lady! change
The tenor of thy words! Thy looks are strange;
Thine eyes are brighter, too, than is their wont.
Ah! why do grief and sorrow ever hunt
The best and fairest?”
The tenor of thy words! Thy looks are strange;
Thine eyes are brighter, too, than is their wont.
Ah! why do grief and sorrow ever hunt
The best and fairest?”
“Hunted!—yes! 'tis so:—
By many wild-eyed hounds. Rosita! know
I have had strange surmisings in my brain
About my reason; and at times I fain
Could wish for madness, that my utter woe
Might be forgotten in its frenzies. Oh!
Madness would be indeed a very heaven!
For then the sad and tortured heart might even
Moulder away, nor know its swift decline.
Perhaps in frenzy this poor brain of mine
Might entertain sweet dreams, and in them lose
The bitter memory of its many woes.
Oh! I could pray for madness!”
By many wild-eyed hounds. Rosita! know
I have had strange surmisings in my brain
About my reason; and at times I fain
Could wish for madness, that my utter woe
Might be forgotten in its frenzies. Oh!
Madness would be indeed a very heaven!
For then the sad and tortured heart might even
Moulder away, nor know its swift decline.
Perhaps in frenzy this poor brain of mine
Might entertain sweet dreams, and in them lose
The bitter memory of its many woes.
206
[OMITTED]
He said; and, with one mute obeisance more,
Passed from the Palace, towards the curving shore
Of the great sea turning his thoughtful course.
Night was upon the waters, and the hoarse
Voice of the ocean urged the unquiet winds
To dash upon her like vindictive fiends,
And rend her azure bosom. Far in the west
Tempest and storm sat brooding on her breast;
Clouds lowered along the horizon's gloomy verge,
Like shadowy waves, cresting the thunder-surge,
And constantly the quick, unquiet tongue
Of lightning ran from crest to crest. There rung
No voice of thunder. The white gulls were out,
Wheeling in circles. All betokened storm.
Passed from the Palace, towards the curving shore
Of the great sea turning his thoughtful course.
Night was upon the waters, and the hoarse
Voice of the ocean urged the unquiet winds
To dash upon her like vindictive fiends,
And rend her azure bosom. Far in the west
Tempest and storm sat brooding on her breast;
Clouds lowered along the horizon's gloomy verge,
Like shadowy waves, cresting the thunder-surge,
And constantly the quick, unquiet tongue
Of lightning ran from crest to crest. There rung
No voice of thunder. The white gulls were out,
Wheeling in circles. All betokened storm.
[OMITTED]
Valverde stopped, and, gazing on the waste
Of the great sea, whose waves were shoreward cast,
And now boomed hollowly around his feet,
Uttered his thoughts aloud.
Of the great sea, whose waves were shoreward cast,
And now boomed hollowly around his feet,
Uttered his thoughts aloud.
[OMITTED]
What of Antonia, this momentous night?
The waning moon was now some three hours high,
And struggle to unveil her ample eye
From the torn clouds. Through a broad window fell,
At intervals, her gush of silver light
Into Antonia's chamber, through the bright
And varied staining of the gorgeous glass:
Borrowing from it, and from the heavy mass
Of damask curtains, more delicious hues,
And richer tints. There did the maiden muse,
Seated upon the tessellated floor,
In the fickle moonlight. As of one heart-sore,
Her wasted hands were crossed upon her breast,
Thin, and transparent as an amethyst.
Her head hung drooping, like the heavy bud
Of a faint lily. When the abundant flood
Of the rich moonlight fell upon her face
It met in her large eye a changeless gaze,
A ghastly paleness on her brow and cheek,
Which, plainer than all words could do, did speak
Utter despair. Her glossy hair was wet,
And glittered in the moonlight like spun jet.
She had been wandering in the evening dew,
And her rich robes were with it dampened through;
For she had gone at moonrise to the spot
Where Ramon was to be, but found him not.
She waited till she grew heart-sick and faint,
With disappointment, and then sadly bent
Her slow steps homeward. There she sat, and filled
Her soul with strange conjectures, and with wild
And terrible thoughts of what had hindered him.
Then the suspicion, which, at first, a dim
And dreamy idea, undulated through
Her brain, returned, and soon and swiftly grew
Settled conviction;—she believed him gone
To his wild home the distant hills upon.
She shed no tear, when this imagined truth
Came stunningly upon her. For sad youth
Seemed frail old age to her; and calm despair
Had dried the heart's springs; but she gasped for air,
Her aching eyes throbbed, but refused to shed
A single tear. Her bitter woes had led
Her soul to strange, dark, melancholy ways.
There was a slight, but still a palpable haze
Of dull insanity upon her brain.
She shed no tear. Indeed, could one have looked
Into her heart, no single thought rebuked
Her lover for desertion. There she sate,
Utterly crushed, struck down by pitiless fate,
Too crushed for anger. Lightnings glittered through
The painted windows, and their lurid blue
Threw a death color on her pallid face.
The thunder-echoes that did wildly chase
Each other through the sky, smote on her ear
Unheeded, and her eyes closed not in fear,
But glittered in the lightning's blaze, and through
The utter darkness, with a fiery glow.
The waning moon was now some three hours high,
And struggle to unveil her ample eye
From the torn clouds. Through a broad window fell,
At intervals, her gush of silver light
Into Antonia's chamber, through the bright
207
Borrowing from it, and from the heavy mass
Of damask curtains, more delicious hues,
And richer tints. There did the maiden muse,
Seated upon the tessellated floor,
In the fickle moonlight. As of one heart-sore,
Her wasted hands were crossed upon her breast,
Thin, and transparent as an amethyst.
Her head hung drooping, like the heavy bud
Of a faint lily. When the abundant flood
Of the rich moonlight fell upon her face
It met in her large eye a changeless gaze,
A ghastly paleness on her brow and cheek,
Which, plainer than all words could do, did speak
Utter despair. Her glossy hair was wet,
And glittered in the moonlight like spun jet.
She had been wandering in the evening dew,
And her rich robes were with it dampened through;
For she had gone at moonrise to the spot
Where Ramon was to be, but found him not.
She waited till she grew heart-sick and faint,
With disappointment, and then sadly bent
Her slow steps homeward. There she sat, and filled
Her soul with strange conjectures, and with wild
And terrible thoughts of what had hindered him.
Then the suspicion, which, at first, a dim
And dreamy idea, undulated through
Her brain, returned, and soon and swiftly grew
208
To his wild home the distant hills upon.
She shed no tear, when this imagined truth
Came stunningly upon her. For sad youth
Seemed frail old age to her; and calm despair
Had dried the heart's springs; but she gasped for air,
Her aching eyes throbbed, but refused to shed
A single tear. Her bitter woes had led
Her soul to strange, dark, melancholy ways.
There was a slight, but still a palpable haze
Of dull insanity upon her brain.
She shed no tear. Indeed, could one have looked
Into her heart, no single thought rebuked
Her lover for desertion. There she sate,
Utterly crushed, struck down by pitiless fate,
Too crushed for anger. Lightnings glittered through
The painted windows, and their lurid blue
Threw a death color on her pallid face.
The thunder-echoes that did wildly chase
Each other through the sky, smote on her ear
Unheeded, and her eyes closed not in fear,
But glittered in the lightning's blaze, and through
The utter darkness, with a fiery glow.
[OMITTED]
He left the priest at the great altar kneeling,
The organ through the lofty arches pealing,
The bridegroom, cleft to his chin, upon the floor,
The father firmly held outside the door,
Raving as father never raved before.
On one strong arm his lovely mistress lay,
The other opened with his sword a way
Through the dead bridegroom's partisans, to where
His own dark riders in the open air
Waited his coming, ready for the march.
The organ through the lofty arches pealing,
209
The father firmly held outside the door,
Raving as father never raved before.
On one strong arm his lovely mistress lay,
The other opened with his sword a way
Through the dead bridegroom's partisans, to where
His own dark riders in the open air
Waited his coming, ready for the march.
[OMITTED]
The black band left the City of the Sea,
With cheer, and shout, and joyful revelry,
For in the front their Captain slowly rode,
Towards the blue mountains, and their green abode;
And, blushing with delight, his lovely bride
Rode on a gentle palfrey by his side.
And well they understood their Captain's ear,
So occupied, their merriment could not hear,
Though loud and fast and furious it rung:
So, as they rode, this wild descant they sung:
With cheer, and shout, and joyful revelry,
For in the front their Captain slowly rode,
Towards the blue mountains, and their green abode;
And, blushing with delight, his lovely bride
Rode on a gentle palfrey by his side.
And well they understood their Captain's ear,
So occupied, their merriment could not hear,
Though loud and fast and furious it rung:
So, as they rode, this wild descant they sung:
Andaluz! Andaluz! to the mountains!
Away from the toils of the plain,
To the pine-kings and rock-sheltered fountains,
And our home of wild freedom again.
The eagle's free life we will follow once more,
And through fastness and valley for plunder we'll pour.
Away from the toils of the plain,
To the pine-kings and rock-sheltered fountains,
And our home of wild freedom again.
The eagle's free life we will follow once more,
And through fastness and valley for plunder we'll pour.
210
Catalun! Catalun! sheathe the sabre!
Till the Captain calls for it again;—
Until then, for a life free from labor,
From slavery, thraldom, and pain.
We have given them freedom, and now 'tis but fair,
That we should be free, too, from trouble and care.
Till the Captain calls for it again;—
Until then, for a life free from labor,
From slavery, thraldom, and pain.
We have given them freedom, and now 'tis but fair,
That we should be free, too, from trouble and care.
Viscaino! Viscaino! a la frente!
The gray mountains soon will stream up;
Hurrah! for the rock-hold of plenty,
And the bold rover's heaven, his cup!
Think not of the hills and green vales of Biscay,
With the wine's ruddy rain we'll wash that dream away.
The gray mountains soon will stream up;
Hurrah! for the rock-hold of plenty,
And the bold rover's heaven, his cup!
Think not of the hills and green vales of Biscay,
With the wine's ruddy rain we'll wash that dream away.
Cordovan! Cordovan! atiende!
Never turn up to heaven your eyes;
Our priest absolution shall lend you;
Learn from him to be merry and wise.
The city we leave cannot hope to compete
With the palace of rock that to-morrow we'll greet.
Never turn up to heaven your eyes;
Our priest absolution shall lend you;
Learn from him to be merry and wise.
The city we leave cannot hope to compete
With the palace of rock that to-morrow we'll greet.
And where is the coward would falter,
When summoned to follow his chief?
His neck shall be wed to the halter,
He shall die the foul death of a thief.
We will risk every drop of our life's purple tide,
For Valverde the brave and his new-rescued bride.
When summoned to follow his chief?
His neck shall be wed to the halter,
He shall die the foul death of a thief.
We will risk every drop of our life's purple tide,
For Valverde the brave and his new-rescued bride.
1836.
221
FRANCE.
Wake! children of France! shall your tyrant for ever
Enslave and enchain you, and trample you down?
Do you fear the sharp fetters that gall you to sever,
And tear from the brow of the despot his crown?
Enslave and enchain you, and trample you down?
Do you fear the sharp fetters that gall you to sever,
And tear from the brow of the despot his crown?
Up! children of France! Let the flag that you honor,
Be once more the flag of the free and the brave!
Your country is chained: the Philistines are on her;
Who heeds not her call is both coward and knave.
Be once more the flag of the free and the brave!
Your country is chained: the Philistines are on her;
Who heeds not her call is both coward and knave.
If you have but one spark of the spirit that lighted
The souls of your fathers, exhibit it now;
And sheathe not the sword till your wrongs are all righted,
Though blood to the reins of your horses should flow.
The souls of your fathers, exhibit it now;
And sheathe not the sword till your wrongs are all righted,
Though blood to the reins of your horses should flow.
Ye fear not the throne, nor its base truckling minions;
On, on to the contest with cuirass and lance!
Till your eagles again spread their conquering pinions,
And peace and security reign over France.
On, on to the contest with cuirass and lance!
Till your eagles again spread their conquering pinions,
And peace and security reign over France.
222
Let the pale monarchs quake! for their thrones shall be shaken!
Let them league once again, as they leagued once before!
Their fury and madness, when France shall awaken,
Will be like the ocean-wave chafing the shore.
Let them league once again, as they leagued once before!
Their fury and madness, when France shall awaken,
Will be like the ocean-wave chafing the shore.
Up! men of gay France!—Your poor children upbraid you,
Your gray-headed parents cry out on your shame:
Up! up! and your ancestors' spirits will aid you,
Your tyrant to humble, your taskmaster tame.
Your gray-headed parents cry out on your shame:
Up! up! and your ancestors' spirits will aid you,
Your tyrant to humble, your taskmaster tame.
Strike, children of France! strike for freedom and glory,
As ye and your fathers have stricken before:
Ye may fall, but your names shall be blazoned in story,
To beacon the free through the hurricane's roar.
As ye and your fathers have stricken before:
Ye may fall, but your names shall be blazoned in story,
To beacon the free through the hurricane's roar.
Black Eagle of Russia! thy pride shall be lowered,
When France and her armies are roused for the fray;
And Austria shall cower again, as she cowered
When the Corsican swept her great armies away.
When France and her armies are roused for the fray;
And Austria shall cower again, as she cowered
When the Corsican swept her great armies away.
Up! arm for the contest! Your foes are around you;
The foot of your king presses hard on your hearts;
The Pigmies came, while you were sleeping, and bound you:
Strike once, ere occasion for ever departs!
The foot of your king presses hard on your hearts;
The Pigmies came, while you were sleeping, and bound you:
Strike once, ere occasion for ever departs!
223
One blow! but one blow!—for your long years of anguish!
Your children, your parents, your own honest fame!
Or will you through ages of agony languish,—
To be cowards at heart, Frenchmen only in name?
Your children, your parents, your own honest fame!
Or will you through ages of agony languish,—
To be cowards at heart, Frenchmen only in name?
1829.
224
HYMN.
Awake! awake! Hear Freedom calling
Upon her sons to fly to arms;
While Treason's trumpet-tongue appalling
Is madly sounding its alarms.
Behold the traitors darkly scheming,
While Anarchy awakes again,
Within the darkness of whose brain
Red crimes and perjury are teeming.
Upon her sons to fly to arms;
While Treason's trumpet-tongue appalling
Is madly sounding its alarms.
Behold the traitors darkly scheming,
While Anarchy awakes again,
Within the darkness of whose brain
Red crimes and perjury are teeming.
To arms! to arms! ye brave;
The avenging sword unsheath!
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!
The avenging sword unsheath!
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!
Is there a heart that now will falter?
Live, base, ignoble heart, in chains!
Live, with low demagogues to palter!
Disgrace the free blood in your veins!
Is there a man that strikes not for us,
Within the shade of Freedom's throne?
Pale traitor, recreant! fly, and moan
In Slavery's iron realm of horrors!
Live, base, ignoble heart, in chains!
Live, with low demagogues to palter!
Disgrace the free blood in your veins!
225
Within the shade of Freedom's throne?
Pale traitor, recreant! fly, and moan
In Slavery's iron realm of horrors!
To arms, &c.
Traitors and lunatics are aiming
To break the Union's golden chain;
Secession's fires are fiercely flaming,
And Freedom's heart is racked with pain.
Her eye grows dim, her cheek is paling;
And shall we tamely sit and smile,
While Treason's feet our land defile,
And Anarchy is loudly railing?
To break the Union's golden chain;
Secession's fires are fiercely flaming,
And Freedom's heart is racked with pain.
Her eye grows dim, her cheek is paling;
And shall we tamely sit and smile,
While Treason's feet our land defile,
And Anarchy is loudly railing?
To arms, &c.
Shall even our children execrate us,
That we have reared them to be slaves?
Our father's mouldering bones upbraid us,
Stirring in their deep, narrow graves?
Our wives and mothers hate and spurn us,
As basest of the base? No! no!
To liberty or death we go;
Free let them bless, or corses mourn us!
That we have reared them to be slaves?
Our father's mouldering bones upbraid us,
Stirring in their deep, narrow graves?
Our wives and mothers hate and spurn us,
As basest of the base? No! no!
To liberty or death we go;
Free let them bless, or corses mourn us!
To arms, &c.
226
Oh, sainted sires! look down upon us,
And aid us to defend the high
And sacred heritage ye won us!
Freemen we'll live, or freemen die.
The stars and stripes are floating o'er us;
Our fathers' spirits lead the front;
We welcome the fierce battle's brunt:—
Treason and crime shall flee before us!
And aid us to defend the high
And sacred heritage ye won us!
Freemen we'll live, or freemen die.
The stars and stripes are floating o'er us;
Our fathers' spirits lead the front;
We welcome the fierce battle's brunt:—
Treason and crime shall flee before us!
To arms, &c.
1834.
227
SHELLEY.
Only a few short years ago, there sat
A youth on one of old Rome's seven hills,
Beneath a ruined temple, and upon
A broken fragment of a marble column.
Around, the stern and silent ruins cast
Their massive shadows, and a tangled maze
Of trees, and flowers, and shrubs, was rich along
The face of the declivity. The sun
Was setting upon Rome; and through the clouds
His glorious spirit revelled, lighting up
Their fluctuating drifts with all his hues
Of placid melancholy, and the deep
Calm beauty of a soft Italian eve.
Below him lay the city:—beautiful!
Dome, palace, spire, all radiant with the glow
And perfect beauty of that hour of peace.
A youth on one of old Rome's seven hills,
Beneath a ruined temple, and upon
A broken fragment of a marble column.
Around, the stern and silent ruins cast
Their massive shadows, and a tangled maze
Of trees, and flowers, and shrubs, was rich along
The face of the declivity. The sun
Was setting upon Rome; and through the clouds
His glorious spirit revelled, lighting up
Their fluctuating drifts with all his hues
Of placid melancholy, and the deep
Calm beauty of a soft Italian eve.
Below him lay the city:—beautiful!
Dome, palace, spire, all radiant with the glow
And perfect beauty of that hour of peace.
The time accorded with his soul,—that deep,
Abundant fountain of impassioned thought,
Which the world in vain had striven to choke up.
He came from England there, to feed his soul
With inspiration from those mighty ruins,
And to escape the cold, offensive sneer
And hatred of the world. Alas! he erred:
His dark and dreary creed was one that awes
All hearts that worship in our sacred faith.
Yet we should rather pity than condemn
The blind of heart, even as the blind of eye.
His pen, too bold, had warred with our belief:
His name was written on the traveller's page
On St. Bernard; and also, underneath,
With his own hand, the sad word, “Atheos.”
Abundant fountain of impassioned thought,
Which the world in vain had striven to choke up.
He came from England there, to feed his soul
228
And to escape the cold, offensive sneer
And hatred of the world. Alas! he erred:
His dark and dreary creed was one that awes
All hearts that worship in our sacred faith.
Yet we should rather pity than condemn
The blind of heart, even as the blind of eye.
His pen, too bold, had warred with our belief:
His name was written on the traveller's page
On St. Bernard; and also, underneath,
With his own hand, the sad word, “Atheos.”
But he was moral, generous, pure of heart,
Gentle and kind as any innocent child;
And he was persecuted, and so fled.
The world, that should by kindest means have striven
To wean so fine a soul from its mad creed,
Had hunted him, and tortured his kind heart,
With calumny and hatred, as it ever
Hunts those who contravene its cherished faith.
This was not all; but poverty had worn,
Like a cold iron, to his soul. Oh, world!
Thou knowest not how many glorious sons
Of Poetry thy hard, cold heart has left
To faint and languish, with a living death!
He sat and mused, soothing his constant pain
With soft, sweet fancies, of the sunset born.
His melancholy wove its lovely thoughts
Into rich words, brilliantly beautiful,
Colored like one of Titian's master-pieces,
Or Guido's lovely faces. All his sorrows
Couched in his soul, and only tinged his verse
With imperceptible tints. His lovely songs
Were paintings,—masses of rich, glowing words,
Full of sweet feeling, and a singular power.
Like his own sky-lark, up at Heaven's gate,
Above the earth and all its meaner things,
He sung, and soared higher than mortal ken.
But at rare times a sudden thought would shoot,
Like a sharp pang of bitter agony,
Through his wronged heart, and dim the vivid fire
Of lofty thoughts and noble aspirations.
Then would he drop his pen. His slender form,
Attenuated, slight, ethereal, shook
With the vibrations of his spirit. Then
The fine, transparent, delicate, boyish face
Became still paler and more spiritual;
And the clear eye, that did relieve that look
Of boyishness, with its soft, brilliant light,
Contracted with a sudden spasm of pain:—
That eye, within whose wondrous depths you saw
The soul itself,—so tender, yet intense,
So bright and keen, and yet so melancholy.
But this went by; and, conquering his sorrow,
He wrote again. Is it not very strange
How the strong soul can pour its golden thoughts,
Its musical words and bright imaginings,
In the world's ear, when round it lies the wreck
Of many hopes; when the poor, throbbing heart
Is weary of its struggle, and would fain
Lie down and sleep in that most peaceful couch,
Where ghastly dreams come not,—the quiet grave?
It is a sad, sweet pleasure to the heart
To watch its own decline. It wastes away,
But burns the brighter as it suffers more.
Perhaps to him his poetry, indeed,
Was its own sweet reward. As though we shared
Our secret sorrow with some dear old friend,
We do commune most intimately with
Our inmost heart; and all our deeper thoughts,
Which we could not have spoken, we can write:—
Not to display them to the world, but like
A man who, sitting by his fireside, talks,
Of a sharp winter night, with one who went
To school with him through many a drift of snow,
When they were careless and contented boys.
And he who terms this egotism, knows
No more the nature of a Poet's soul
Than do the stupid beasts that chew the cud.
Gentle and kind as any innocent child;
And he was persecuted, and so fled.
The world, that should by kindest means have striven
To wean so fine a soul from its mad creed,
Had hunted him, and tortured his kind heart,
With calumny and hatred, as it ever
Hunts those who contravene its cherished faith.
This was not all; but poverty had worn,
Like a cold iron, to his soul. Oh, world!
Thou knowest not how many glorious sons
Of Poetry thy hard, cold heart has left
To faint and languish, with a living death!
He sat and mused, soothing his constant pain
With soft, sweet fancies, of the sunset born.
His melancholy wove its lovely thoughts
229
Colored like one of Titian's master-pieces,
Or Guido's lovely faces. All his sorrows
Couched in his soul, and only tinged his verse
With imperceptible tints. His lovely songs
Were paintings,—masses of rich, glowing words,
Full of sweet feeling, and a singular power.
Like his own sky-lark, up at Heaven's gate,
Above the earth and all its meaner things,
He sung, and soared higher than mortal ken.
But at rare times a sudden thought would shoot,
Like a sharp pang of bitter agony,
Through his wronged heart, and dim the vivid fire
Of lofty thoughts and noble aspirations.
Then would he drop his pen. His slender form,
Attenuated, slight, ethereal, shook
With the vibrations of his spirit. Then
The fine, transparent, delicate, boyish face
Became still paler and more spiritual;
And the clear eye, that did relieve that look
Of boyishness, with its soft, brilliant light,
Contracted with a sudden spasm of pain:—
That eye, within whose wondrous depths you saw
The soul itself,—so tender, yet intense,
So bright and keen, and yet so melancholy.
But this went by; and, conquering his sorrow,
He wrote again. Is it not very strange
230
Its musical words and bright imaginings,
In the world's ear, when round it lies the wreck
Of many hopes; when the poor, throbbing heart
Is weary of its struggle, and would fain
Lie down and sleep in that most peaceful couch,
Where ghastly dreams come not,—the quiet grave?
It is a sad, sweet pleasure to the heart
To watch its own decline. It wastes away,
But burns the brighter as it suffers more.
Perhaps to him his poetry, indeed,
Was its own sweet reward. As though we shared
Our secret sorrow with some dear old friend,
We do commune most intimately with
Our inmost heart; and all our deeper thoughts,
Which we could not have spoken, we can write:—
Not to display them to the world, but like
A man who, sitting by his fireside, talks,
Of a sharp winter night, with one who went
To school with him through many a drift of snow,
When they were careless and contented boys.
And he who terms this egotism, knows
No more the nature of a Poet's soul
Than do the stupid beasts that chew the cud.
Not many moons had changed, when Shelley sailed
On the calm sea that washes the fair shores
Of sunny Italy. Long hours he lay,
Leaving his boat to wander where it listed,
While all the memories of his past life floated,
Like memories of dreams, before his eyes.
On the calm sea that washes the fair shores
Of sunny Italy. Long hours he lay,
231
While all the memories of his past life floated,
Like memories of dreams, before his eyes.
The scene was changed. Clouds, wind, storm, rain, and fire
Howled angrily along the startled sea;
Blue lightning hissed upon the crested waves;
Winds from the bending forests on the shore
Lashed the mad waters. Still, through all the storm,
He had the same calm, spiritual look,
The same clear, bright, yet melancholy eye,
As when among the ruins of old Rome.
Perhaps there was a sick throb of the heart;—
A wish to win, before he died, more fame,
And some small portion of earth's happiness.
Howled angrily along the startled sea;
Blue lightning hissed upon the crested waves;
Winds from the bending forests on the shore
Lashed the mad waters. Still, through all the storm,
He had the same calm, spiritual look,
The same clear, bright, yet melancholy eye,
As when among the ruins of old Rome.
Perhaps there was a sick throb of the heart;—
A wish to win, before he died, more fame,
And some small portion of earth's happiness.
But who shall tell his thoughts? Perhaps he then
Doubted the truth of his dark, cheerless creed,
And shrank in horror from oblivion,
Decomposition, death, annihilation.—
Perhaps!—
The frail bark foundered, and the waves
Quenched a great light and left the world to mourn.
It is enough to make the poet sick
Of his high art, and scorn the clamorous world,
And life, and fame, that guerdon dearly won
By broken hopes, sad days, and early death,
When he remembers the short, bitter life,
And sad end of poor Shelley.
Fare thee well,
Young star of Poetry, now set for ever!
Yet, though eclipsed for ever to this world,
Still thy light fills the earth's dull atmosphere,
A legacy inestimable. Man
Hath done thee wrong, wronging himself the more,
By cold neglect, and small appreciation
Of thy divinest songs. The day will come
When justice will be done thee. Adonais,
The bound Prometheus, will become great lamps
Lit on the edges of thick darkness, blazing
Over broad lands and out on weltering seas,
Like glorious suns that midnight change to noon:
Great beacons on the fringes of the sea,
Speaking the glories of the hoary Past
To future ages, far in the womb of Time,
And flashing inspiration on that sea,
And all the earnest souls that journey there.
Then none of all the muse's younger sons
Will rival thee, except that glorious one,
Who burned thy corpse on Italy's fair shores.
But what is fame to thee? Small recompense
For persecution, obloquy, and wrong;
For poverty and shattered hopes, and life
Embittered till it was no pain to die!
Doubted the truth of his dark, cheerless creed,
And shrank in horror from oblivion,
Decomposition, death, annihilation.—
Perhaps!—
The frail bark foundered, and the waves
Quenched a great light and left the world to mourn.
It is enough to make the poet sick
Of his high art, and scorn the clamorous world,
And life, and fame, that guerdon dearly won
By broken hopes, sad days, and early death,
232
And sad end of poor Shelley.
Fare thee well,
Young star of Poetry, now set for ever!
Yet, though eclipsed for ever to this world,
Still thy light fills the earth's dull atmosphere,
A legacy inestimable. Man
Hath done thee wrong, wronging himself the more,
By cold neglect, and small appreciation
Of thy divinest songs. The day will come
When justice will be done thee. Adonais,
The bound Prometheus, will become great lamps
Lit on the edges of thick darkness, blazing
Over broad lands and out on weltering seas,
Like glorious suns that midnight change to noon:
Great beacons on the fringes of the sea,
Speaking the glories of the hoary Past
To future ages, far in the womb of Time,
And flashing inspiration on that sea,
And all the earnest souls that journey there.
Then none of all the muse's younger sons
Will rival thee, except that glorious one,
Who burned thy corpse on Italy's fair shores.
But what is fame to thee? Small recompense
For persecution, obloquy, and wrong;
For poverty and shattered hopes, and life
Embittered till it was no pain to die!
1835.
233
SONG.
Let the dreaming astronomer number each star,
That at midnight peeps over its pillow of blue;
A pleasanter study to me is, by far,
The orb that shines over a cheek's rosy hue.
Let the crazy astrologer search for his fates
In the cusps and the nodes of his dim luminaries;
He is wiser, like me, who his fortune awaits,
As told in the glance that in beauty's eye varies;
Who studies, as I do, the stars of the soul,
And cares not nor heeds how those over us roll.
That at midnight peeps over its pillow of blue;
A pleasanter study to me is, by far,
The orb that shines over a cheek's rosy hue.
Let the crazy astrologer search for his fates
In the cusps and the nodes of his dim luminaries;
He is wiser, like me, who his fortune awaits,
As told in the glance that in beauty's eye varies;
Who studies, as I do, the stars of the soul,
And cares not nor heeds how those over us roll.
I have studied them many a long summer eve,
When the leaves and bright waters were quietly singing;
The science and learning that thence we receive,
Is a joy and perfume to the memory clinging.
It is better than wasting the eyes and the brain,
And youth's sunny season, intended for pleasure,
In delving for knowledge more useless and vain
Than is to a squalid old miser his treasure.
I would give not one glimpse at the eyes that I love,
To know all the stars that are clustered above.
When the leaves and bright waters were quietly singing;
The science and learning that thence we receive,
Is a joy and perfume to the memory clinging.
It is better than wasting the eyes and the brain,
And youth's sunny season, intended for pleasure,
In delving for knowledge more useless and vain
Than is to a squalid old miser his treasure.
I would give not one glimpse at the eyes that I love,
To know all the stars that are clustered above.
234
There was Lydia; no star was as bright as her eye,
So soft, yet so proud, in its black, misty lashes;
While Harriet's, set in the clear summer sky,
Would have shamed every orb in the azure that flashes;
There was Lizzy's, a gem 'neath her ivory brow,
And Kate's, like Love's planet in still waters dreaming;
And Lilian, whose soul seems to shine on me now,
As it shone of old time in her amber eyes beaming;
There was Mary, who kept me from conics and Greek,
While her eyes lit a love which the tongue could not speak.
So soft, yet so proud, in its black, misty lashes;
While Harriet's, set in the clear summer sky,
Would have shamed every orb in the azure that flashes;
There was Lizzy's, a gem 'neath her ivory brow,
And Kate's, like Love's planet in still waters dreaming;
And Lilian, whose soul seems to shine on me now,
As it shone of old time in her amber eyes beaming;
There was Mary, who kept me from conics and Greek,
While her eyes lit a love which the tongue could not speak.
There was Ann, whose dear smiles yet my visions inspire,
And whose eyes bless my dreams like a light in the distance,
That over rude waters shoots welcoming fire,
And to all good resolves and fair hopes lends assistance.
Let fate kindly light with such stars my dark way,
For the few fleeting hours of my life-dream remaining;
I'll ask not for science to help me grow gray,
I'll ask not for fame while my life-tide is waning;
I'll wish for no laurels, I'll ask for no prize,
But permission to study sweet lips and bright eyes.
And whose eyes bless my dreams like a light in the distance,
That over rude waters shoots welcoming fire,
And to all good resolves and fair hopes lends assistance.
Let fate kindly light with such stars my dark way,
For the few fleeting hours of my life-dream remaining;
I'll ask not for science to help me grow gray,
I'll ask not for fame while my life-tide is waning;
I'll wish for no laurels, I'll ask for no prize,
But permission to study sweet lips and bright eyes.
1833.
235
LOVE.
I am the soul of the Universe,
In Nature's pulse I beat;
To Doom and Death I am a curse,
I trample them under my feet.
In Nature's pulse I beat;
To Doom and Death I am a curse,
I trample them under my feet.
Creation's every voice is mine,
I breathe in its every tone;
I have in every heart a shrine,
A consecrated throne.
I breathe in its every tone;
I have in every heart a shrine,
A consecrated throne.
The whisper that sings in the summer leaves,
The hymn of the star-lit brook,
The martin that nests in the ivied eaves,
The dove in his shaded nook,
The hymn of the star-lit brook,
The martin that nests in the ivied eaves,
The dove in his shaded nook,
The quivering heart of the blushing flower,
The thick Æolian grass,
The harmonies of the summer shower,
The south wind's soft, sweet mass,
The thick Æolian grass,
The harmonies of the summer shower,
The south wind's soft, sweet mass,
236
The psalm of the great grave sea,—are mine;
The cataract's thunder tongue,
The monody of the mountain pine,
Moaning the cliffs among.
The cataract's thunder tongue,
The monody of the mountain pine,
Moaning the cliffs among.
I kiss the snowy breasts of the maiden,
And they thrill with a new delight;
While the crimson pulses flush and redden,
Along the forehead's white.
And they thrill with a new delight;
While the crimson pulses flush and redden,
Along the forehead's white.
I fill the restless heart of the boy,
As a sphere is filled with fire,
Till it quivers and trembles with hope and joy,
Like the strings of a golden lyre.
As a sphere is filled with fire,
Till it quivers and trembles with hope and joy,
Like the strings of a golden lyre.
I touch the poet's soul with my wing,
It yields to my magic power,
And the songs of his mighty passions ring,
Till the world is full of the shower.
It yields to my magic power,
And the songs of his mighty passions ring,
Till the world is full of the shower.
The heart of the soldier bows to me,
His arms aside are flung,
Unheeded the wild sublimity
Of the silver trumpet's tongue.
His arms aside are flung,
Unheeded the wild sublimity
Of the silver trumpet's tongue.
I brood on the soul like a golden thrush,
My music to it clings,
And its purple fountains throb and flash,
In the crimson light of my wings.
My music to it clings,
237
In the crimson light of my wings.
Deep in a lovely woman's soul
I love to build my throne,
For the harmonies that through it roll
Are the echoes of one tone:
I love to build my throne,
For the harmonies that through it roll
Are the echoes of one tone:
The sounds of its many perfect strings
Have but one key-note ever,
Its passions are the thousand springs,
All flowing to one river.
Have but one key-note ever,
Its passions are the thousand springs,
All flowing to one river.
1835.
238
TO AMBITION.
Cry on! full well I know the voice,
For often it hath called on me,
Stirring my passions with the noise,
As tempests stir the hungering sea.
Cry on, Ambition! 'tis in vain!
Thine influence hath passed away,
And mighty though thou art, again
Thou canst not bend me to thy sway.
For often it hath called on me,
Stirring my passions with the noise,
As tempests stir the hungering sea.
Cry on, Ambition! 'tis in vain!
Thine influence hath passed away,
And mighty though thou art, again
Thou canst not bend me to thy sway.
Thou wakest dreams of fame and power;
Ha! I despise both thee and them;
They were illusions of an hour,
Mere shadows now, remote and dim;
I scorn them all: they wake no thrill
Within the heart where once they reigned
And revelled, and would revel still,
But smote by love, Ambition waned.
Ha! I despise both thee and them;
They were illusions of an hour,
Mere shadows now, remote and dim;
I scorn them all: they wake no thrill
Within the heart where once they reigned
And revelled, and would revel still,
But smote by love, Ambition waned.
For what is fame, that man should pour
His life-blood for it, drop by drop;
And for a name, when life is o'er,
Drain to the dregs misfortune's cup
Fame! 'tis the wrecker's light, that lures
The luckless wanderer of the deep,
To where, upon disastrous shores,
Ruin and wreck their vigils keep.
His life-blood for it, drop by drop;
239
Drain to the dregs misfortune's cup
Fame! 'tis the wrecker's light, that lures
The luckless wanderer of the deep,
To where, upon disastrous shores,
Ruin and wreck their vigils keep.
To waste away the burning heart,
Pouring its bright thoughts on the sand
Of the regardless world; to part
With mad and suicidal hand,
The ties that bind to life, and tread
The desert of the world alone;
To leave no soul, when we are dead,
Of grief for us to make one moan.
Pouring its bright thoughts on the sand
Of the regardless world; to part
With mad and suicidal hand,
The ties that bind to life, and tread
The desert of the world alone;
To leave no soul, when we are dead,
Of grief for us to make one moan.
To be the mark for every base
And slanderous miscreant's venomed tongue,
Hissed at by all the adder race,
Their poison on my garments flung:
My fair fame recklessly defiled
With every crawling reptile's slime;
Slandered, belied, abused, reviled,
Each action tortured into crime.
And slanderous miscreant's venomed tongue,
Hissed at by all the adder race,
Their poison on my garments flung:
My fair fame recklessly defiled
With every crawling reptile's slime;
Slandered, belied, abused, reviled,
Each action tortured into crime.
To fill the heart with scathing fire
And bitter passions; to erase
The feelings holier and higher
Which ruled there in our earlier days;
To make the soil a desert, burned
And blasted with remorseless flame;
To be, at Life's best hour, inurned
Within this living death, called Fame:—
And bitter passions; to erase
240
Which ruled there in our earlier days;
To make the soil a desert, burned
And blasted with remorseless flame;
To be, at Life's best hour, inurned
Within this living death, called Fame:—
Will Fame, will Power, repay for this?
Cry on, then!—Even now I feel
The infant hands of happiness
Around my heart-strings gently steal.
And well I know that Fame has nought,
Or Power, to pay the sacrifice,
If with this happiness I bought
Their glorious uncertainties.
Cry on, then!—Even now I feel
The infant hands of happiness
Around my heart-strings gently steal.
And well I know that Fame has nought,
Or Power, to pay the sacrifice,
If with this happiness I bought
Their glorious uncertainties.
Give me Love's smile, my wife's fond eye,
To light the pathway of my life;
And vainly may Ambition cry,
And urge me to the stirring strife:
I would not sell my quiet home,
And those I love, for all the fame
Of all the mighty who entomb
Their sorrows in a splendid name.
To light the pathway of my life;
And vainly may Ambition cry,
And urge me to the stirring strife:
I would not sell my quiet home,
And those I love, for all the fame
Of all the mighty who entomb
Their sorrows in a splendid name.
1836.
253
TAOS.
The light of morning now begins to thrill
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
Mist-robed old pines. Brightly upon the still
Deep banks of snow looks out the eye of Day;—
The constant stream runs plashing on its way,
As melted stars might flow along blue heaven,
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, down its rocky channel driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead given.
Upon the purple mountains, and the gray
Mist-robed old pines. Brightly upon the still
Deep banks of snow looks out the eye of Day;—
The constant stream runs plashing on its way,
As melted stars might flow along blue heaven,
And its white foam grows whiter, with the play
Of sunlight, down its rocky channel driven,
Like the eternal splendor from God's forehead given.
And tree, rock, pine, all are enveloped now
With light, as with a visible soul of love:
Down the rough mountain-sides the breezes blow,
And in and out each grassy shaded cove,
Making the scared Dark from its dens remove,
To pine away amid the splendor-shower
That raineth to the depths of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves and jagged grots doth pour.
With light, as with a visible soul of love:
Down the rough mountain-sides the breezes blow,
And in and out each grassy shaded cove,
Making the scared Dark from its dens remove,
To pine away amid the splendor-shower
That raineth to the depths of each dim grove,
And under all the rocks that sternly lower,
And even in the caves and jagged grots doth pour.
254
Yet a small cloud goes wandering here and there,
Whose only care seems up the hill to float,
Until the sun be risen broad and fair;
And then the unseen angel that takes note
To steer in safety this ethereal boat,
Will turn its helm toward heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish. Now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.
Whose only care seems up the hill to float,
Until the sun be risen broad and fair;
And then the unseen angel that takes note
To steer in safety this ethereal boat,
Will turn its helm toward heaven's untroubled seas,
Where its white sail will glimmer, like a mote,
One moment, and then vanish. Now the trees
Through it are seen, like shadows through transparencies.
Now the sweet dew from the rich flower-bells,
And from the quivering blades of bended grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air,—the valley's humble mass;
Like the rich incense that to God doth pass
Out of the bruiséd heart the cricket's hymn,
The bird's glad anthem, the cicada's bass,
All people with their influence the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.
And from the quivering blades of bended grass,
Begins to rise invisibly, and swells
Into the air,—the valley's humble mass;
Like the rich incense that to God doth pass
Out of the bruiséd heart the cricket's hymn,
The bird's glad anthem, the cicada's bass,
All people with their influence the dim
Soul's solitude, in this most brief, sweet interim.
Now Sorrow, sitting quietly and still,
With look all gentle, and with sad smiles kind,
And sharing in all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious influence on the mind,
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined;
Like the faint memory of a painful dream,
At which the heart once wept itself stone-blind;
But now which doth part pain part pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling most to deem.
With look all gentle, and with sad smiles kind,
And sharing in all nature's joyous thrill,
Breathes a delicious influence on the mind,
A soothing melancholy, hope-inclined;
255
At which the heart once wept itself stone-blind;
But now which doth part pain part pleasure seem,
Until we know not which the feeling most to deem.
But soon will Sorrow re-subject her own,
Although this golden and delicious calm
Hath shaken her in her accustomed throne;
Although she sleeps, like Peace, with open palm,
And quiet eyelid, and relaxéd arm
Soon Memory again will learn to sting,
Recovered from this most unusual charm,
And from the past will gather up, and bring
Into the heart sharp agonies, its cords to wring.
Although this golden and delicious calm
Hath shaken her in her accustomed throne;
Although she sleeps, like Peace, with open palm,
And quiet eyelid, and relaxéd arm
Soon Memory again will learn to sting,
Recovered from this most unusual charm,
And from the past will gather up, and bring
Into the heart sharp agonies, its cords to wring.
She will point back to home and hearth forsaken,
To friends grown cold, perhaps inimical;
And Love again will shudderingly awaken
From troubled slumber; poverty enthrall,
And shroud again, with dark and icy pall,
My hopes, my happiness, my fatherland;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with rash and hasty hand,
Shiver my household gods, and 'mid the ruins stand.
To friends grown cold, perhaps inimical;
And Love again will shudderingly awaken
From troubled slumber; poverty enthrall,
And shroud again, with dark and icy pall,
My hopes, my happiness, my fatherland;
And I once more shall stand amid them all,
Cast them aside with rash and hasty hand,
Shiver my household gods, and 'mid the ruins stand.
Beloved New England! whom these jaggéd rocks,
These chanting pines, this sea of snowy light,
These mountains, lifted by volcanic shocks,
And now defying them; this hoarded white
Of snows, that scoffs at the sun; this vale so bright,
And all the thousand objects here in view,
Bring brightly forward into memory's sight
Thy hills, thy dells, thy streams, thy ocean blue,
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds of so surpassing hue.
These chanting pines, this sea of snowy light,
256
And now defying them; this hoarded white
Of snows, that scoffs at the sun; this vale so bright,
And all the thousand objects here in view,
Bring brightly forward into memory's sight
Thy hills, thy dells, thy streams, thy ocean blue,
Thy gorgeous sky, and clouds of so surpassing hue.
I have gone from thee, and perhaps for ever,
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties that bound me unto thee; which gave
Me living unto exile's narrow grave;
And now my heart is all, ay, all thine own:
Again above me thy old forests wave,
Again I hear the Atlantic's deep grave tone;
I live with thee, and am even in the world alone.
Land of the free, the beautiful, the brave!
It was a mournful hour which saw me sever
The ties that bound me unto thee; which gave
Me living unto exile's narrow grave;
And now my heart is all, ay, all thine own:
Again above me thy old forests wave,
Again I hear the Atlantic's deep grave tone;
I live with thee, and am even in the world alone.
Wherever I may roam, I shall be proud
Of thee, old mother! and no less of thine:
Thy knee hath never to a tyrant bowed,
Thou hast allowed no heresies to twine
Around thee, as the gaudy poison-vine
Twines round the oak, and rots it to its core;
I love thee, and my heart is ever thine:
And here, alone, I think of thee the more,
And pace these flinty hills, and on thy glories pore.
Of thee, old mother! and no less of thine:
Thy knee hath never to a tyrant bowed,
Thou hast allowed no heresies to twine
Around thee, as the gaudy poison-vine
Twines round the oak, and rots it to its core;
I love thee, and my heart is ever thine:
And here, alone, I think of thee the more,
And pace these flinty hills, and on thy glories pore.
257
For here, beneath these mountain-summits gray,
I think of those old venerable aisles,
Where I have passed on many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To hear thy sober creed; of those green isles
That gem thy bays and quiet ocean-nooks;
Of the bright eyes and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
That makes thee famous: of still lakes and brooks;
And, more than all, I think of quietude and books.
I think of those old venerable aisles,
Where I have passed on many a holy day,
Into the sanctity of ancient piles,
To hear thy sober creed; of those green isles
That gem thy bays and quiet ocean-nooks;
Of the bright eyes and cheeks enwreathed with smiles,
That makes thee famous: of still lakes and brooks;
And, more than all, I think of quietude and books.
What is there left, that I should cling to life?
High hopes that storms smote down when scarce expanded;
A broken censer with faint odor rife,—
A waning sun,—a vessel half-ensanded,—
Life's prospects on sharp rocks and shallows stranded,—
A star just setting in a midnight-ocean,—
A smoking altar, broken and unbanded,—
Lit with the flame of hopeless love's devotion,—
A bosom shattered with its own intense emotion.
High hopes that storms smote down when scarce expanded;
A broken censer with faint odor rife,—
A waning sun,—a vessel half-ensanded,—
Life's prospects on sharp rocks and shallows stranded,—
A star just setting in a midnight-ocean,—
A smoking altar, broken and unbanded,—
Lit with the flame of hopeless love's devotion,—
A bosom shattered with its own intense emotion.
Unmanly Heart! Repine not, but be calm!
Take courage, Heart! Let us not madly mar
The effect of this sweet scene. Hope holds her palm,
Like an old friend, to me, and sets her star
Once more upon the waves of life afar;
It shall not sink again; but ever lift
Cheerily its eye above the stormy bar.
I thank thee, Hope, for thy most princely gift!
No longer, eyeless, on life's clashing waves I drift.
Take courage, Heart! Let us not madly mar
The effect of this sweet scene. Hope holds her palm,
Like an old friend, to me, and sets her star
Once more upon the waves of life afar;
258
Cheerily its eye above the stormy bar.
I thank thee, Hope, for thy most princely gift!
No longer, eyeless, on life's clashing waves I drift.
Farewell to thee, New England! Once again
The echo of thy name has reached my soul,
And it has vibrated: oh, not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear. Now for the goal!
Dash through the waves, bold Heart, that madly roll
Across thy path! Much waiteth to be done,
Before Time's billows o'er my dead brain roll:
Behold the last complaining words of one,
Who has been, is, will ever be, New England's son.
The echo of thy name has reached my soul,
And it has vibrated: oh, not in vain,
If thou and thine shall hear. Now for the goal!
Dash through the waves, bold Heart, that madly roll
Across thy path! Much waiteth to be done,
Before Time's billows o'er my dead brain roll:
Behold the last complaining words of one,
Who has been, is, will ever be, New England's son.
1832.
262
APOSTROPHE.
Oh, Liberty! thou child of many hopes,
Nursed in the cradle of the human heart;
While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes,
Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart!
Still be to us, as thou hast been and art,
The spirit that we breathe! Oh, teach us still
Thine arrowy truths unquailingly to dart,
Until all tyrants and oppressors reel,
And despotisms tremble at thy thunder-peal!
Nursed in the cradle of the human heart;
While Europe in her glimmering darkness gropes,
Do not from us, thy chosen ones, depart!
Still be to us, as thou hast been and art,
The spirit that we breathe! Oh, teach us still
Thine arrowy truths unquailingly to dart,
Until all tyrants and oppressors reel,
And despotisms tremble at thy thunder-peal!
Methinks thy daylight now is lighting up
The far horizon of yon hemisphere
With golden lightning. Over the hoary top
Of the blue mountains see I not appear
Thy lovely dawn, while Shame, and crouching Fear,
And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?
How long, oh Liberty! until we hear
Instead of an insulted people's moans,
The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering deep groans?
The far horizon of yon hemisphere
With golden lightning. Over the hoary top
Of the blue mountains see I not appear
Thy lovely dawn, while Shame, and crouching Fear,
And Slavery perish under tottering thrones?
How long, oh Liberty! until we hear
Instead of an insulted people's moans,
The crushed and writhing tyrants uttering deep groans?
Is not thy spirit living still in France?
Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?
Will earthquake not 'mid thrones and cities dance,
And Freedom's altar be the funeral pyre
Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire?
In Hungary, Germany, Italia, Spain,
And Austria, thy spirit doth inspire
The multitude; and though, too long, in vain,
They struggle in deep gloom, yet slavery's night shall wane.
Will it not waken soon in storm and fire?
263
And Freedom's altar be the funeral pyre
Of Tyranny and all his offspring dire?
In Hungary, Germany, Italia, Spain,
And Austria, thy spirit doth inspire
The multitude; and though, too long, in vain,
They struggle in deep gloom, yet slavery's night shall wane.
And shall we sleep, while all the earth awakes?
Shall we turn slaves, while on the Alpine cones
And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks
The morning-light of Liberty? What thrones
Can equal those which on our fathers' bones
The demagogue would build? What chains so gall,
As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns,
Till they eat deeply; till the live pains crawl
Into his soul, who madly caused himself to fall?
Shall we turn slaves, while on the Alpine cones
And vine-clad hills of Europe brightly breaks
The morning-light of Liberty? What thrones
Can equal those which on our fathers' bones
The demagogue would build? What chains so gall,
As those the self-made Helot scarcely owns,
Till they eat deeply; till the live pains crawl
Into his soul, who madly caused himself to fall?
Men's freedom may be wrested from their hands,
And they may mourn; but not like those who throw
Their heritage away; who clasp the bands
On their own limbs, and creeping, blindly go
Like timorous fawns, to their own overthrow.
Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult,
To think that we are free, yet be not so?
To shatter down in one brief hour of guilt,
The holy fane of freedom that our fathers built!
And they may mourn; but not like those who throw
Their heritage away; who clasp the bands
On their own limbs, and creeping, blindly go
Like timorous fawns, to their own overthrow.
Shall we thus fall? Is it so difficult,
To think that we are free, yet be not so?
To shatter down in one brief hour of guilt,
The holy fane of freedom that our fathers built!
1834.
264
THE SEA-SHORE.
The Sea, the Sea!
It rings as loud, it rolls as free,
As brightly flashes on this shore,
As where the deep, grave, calm vibration,
From its great heart's green, gushing core,
Washes the footprints of a nation
Of freemen, on New England's shore.
It rings as loud, it rolls as free,
As brightly flashes on this shore,
As where the deep, grave, calm vibration,
From its great heart's green, gushing core,
Washes the footprints of a nation
Of freemen, on New England's shore.
The Wind, the Wind!
Its spirit cometh, pure and kind,
Cooling the heated brow of care;
It sleeps upon the silent ocean,
Watching the storm-wolves in their lair;
But yet it calms not my emotion:
My sorrows scourge, and I must bear.
Its spirit cometh, pure and kind,
Cooling the heated brow of care;
It sleeps upon the silent ocean,
Watching the storm-wolves in their lair;
But yet it calms not my emotion:
My sorrows scourge, and I must bear.
The Sun, the Sun!
It shines as bright my heart upon,
As in my own dear native land;
And inland far the snowy mountains,
By morning's crimson lightning fanned,
Are blazing like ethereal fountains;
Yet lone and desolate I stand.
It shines as bright my heart upon,
As in my own dear native land;
And inland far the snowy mountains,
By morning's crimson lightning fanned,
265
Yet lone and desolate I stand.
The Sky, the Sky!
As brightly opens its blue eye,
As on New England's sunny hills:
Over it snowy clouds are stealing,
With tender, melancholy thrills,
As over souls sad drifts of feeling;—
Its beauty neither soothes nor stills.
As brightly opens its blue eye,
As on New England's sunny hills:
Over it snowy clouds are stealing,
With tender, melancholy thrills,
As over souls sad drifts of feeling;—
Its beauty neither soothes nor stills.
The Woods, the Woods!
Their melancholy solitudes
Are deep and silent as at home,
Chequered with midnight intervening,
'Mid heavy green and purple gloom.
Alas! still deeper shades are screening
The heart that no sun-rays illume!
Their melancholy solitudes
Are deep and silent as at home,
Chequered with midnight intervening,
'Mid heavy green and purple gloom.
Alas! still deeper shades are screening
The heart that no sun-rays illume!
Ah, Heart, sad Heart!
'Tis thou that dull and heavy art!
'Tis thou that hast nor calm nor peace!
Nature is beautiful as ever,
But changed thyself, thou changest these:
Lost happiness returneth never,
Nor hope, nor boyish impulses.
'Tis thou that dull and heavy art!
'Tis thou that hast nor calm nor peace!
Nature is beautiful as ever,
But changed thyself, thou changest these:
Lost happiness returneth never,
Nor hope, nor boyish impulses.
266
My Native Land!
Were this but home, it were all grand,
All beautiful. It is not home:
The sky, the wind, the waves that shiver
Against the shore, the forest-gloom,
Whatever makes the heart-strings quiver,
All their vibrations echo “Home.”
Were this but home, it were all grand,
All beautiful. It is not home:
The sky, the wind, the waves that shiver
Against the shore, the forest-gloom,
Whatever makes the heart-strings quiver,
All their vibrations echo “Home.”
1833.
267
THE HUSBAND TO HIS WIFE.
Thy anguished bosom heaves no sigh,
So well it can its woes control;
Yet, gentle angel! how thine eye,
With its calm sadness racks my soul.
So well it can its woes control;
Yet, gentle angel! how thine eye,
With its calm sadness racks my soul.
I brought thee from thy happy home,
To wed with want and wretchedness;
And dost thou to my bosom come,
And him who made thee wretched bless?
To wed with want and wretchedness;
And dost thou to my bosom come,
And him who made thee wretched bless?
In all but love, how poor we are!
Yet thou wast cradled, dear, in ease;
And I—forgive me, gentle star!
And bless me with one smile of peace!
Yet thou wast cradled, dear, in ease;
And I—forgive me, gentle star!
And bless me with one smile of peace!
And thou art dying!—well, too well
I see death's mark upon thy brow;
Thine eyes the fatal message tell,
That I must lose thee, even now.
I see death's mark upon thy brow;
Thine eyes the fatal message tell,
That I must lose thee, even now.
268
Dear love! reproach me not! Too hard
Are now my own stern thoughts to bear;
That I thy happiness have marred,
And dimmed the jewel that I wear.
Are now my own stern thoughts to bear;
That I thy happiness have marred,
And dimmed the jewel that I wear.
Come, sing to me, as thou didst sing,
Ere life had grown all grief and pain;
Till sorrow to me cease to cling,
And I become a boy again.
Ere life had grown all grief and pain;
Till sorrow to me cease to cling,
And I become a boy again.
Perhaps we may be happier,
And yet some days of gladness see;
If not,—ah, death were welcomer
Than one reproachful look from thee.
And yet some days of gladness see;
If not,—ah, death were welcomer
Than one reproachful look from thee.
THE ANSWER.
Think not, dear husband, that my heart
Hath ever blamed thee for its pains;
Dearer and closer still thou art,
As life's short day too swiftly wanes.
Hath ever blamed thee for its pains;
Dearer and closer still thou art,
As life's short day too swiftly wanes.
'Tis true I left my father's home;
I left it gladly, love, for thee:
And thou, in sunshine and in gloom,
Hast been the universe to me.
I left it gladly, love, for thee:
And thou, in sunshine and in gloom,
Hast been the universe to me.
269
'Tis true that we are poor, too poor,—
But there's a joy in poverty;
I well knew what we must endure;—
How can I murmur, then, at thee?
But there's a joy in poverty;
I well knew what we must endure;—
How can I murmur, then, at thee?
Twine thy loved arms around me, dear!
Pillow my head upon thy breast;
And while our pitiless fate draws near,
Let us prepare to take our rest.
Pillow my head upon thy breast;
And while our pitiless fate draws near,
Let us prepare to take our rest.
And I will sing to thee, the song
By which my virgin heart was won,
Till thou shalt wander back, among
Those joys that now, alas! are gone.
By which my virgin heart was won,
Till thou shalt wander back, among
Those joys that now, alas! are gone.
So let our poor lives faint away,
Like the sad cadence of the strain;
And like twin stars at dawn of day,
Together we will calmly wane.
Like the sad cadence of the strain;
And like twin stars at dawn of day,
Together we will calmly wane.
1833.
276
MONOTONE.
Come, gentle Dian, show thy crescent inThe sea of fading light that floods the west:
Sit, like a white swan on a blue sea's breast;
A dying swan, that with sweet melody
Of her last song tames the rebellious sea,
To slumberous quiet. Oh, shine forth, amid
The paling light, like beauty's lovely eye,
Half-beaming from its slowly-lifting lid!
Shine out, and bless the world, fair Moon! for I,
Like the young flowers and leaves, do watch for thee,
As though thou wert the pleasant memory
Of a lost happiness.
I see her now,
And my heart quivers with a sudden glow
Of soothing sadness; as the still leaves move,
When the breeze stirs them with his voice of love.
Oh, gentle Moon! thy influence is like
A mother's love, thy light, a mother's eye.
Ah, mother, mother! how that dear name sends
Its echoes through the heart, and with them blends
The keen, fierce intonations of sharp woe!
277
My path of life; heart-stricken and alone,
We tread our way in joyless unison.
Those that we loved so dearly, all are gone:
All, all are dead: and, mother, sadly thou
Thinkest of me, and weepest for thy son,
Toiling afar with the wild waves of life,
Stricken with tempest. Shall I ever steer
Homeward my shattered bark, and once more hear
Thy kind, calm tones of love, and feel thine eye
Beaming with deep affection, and the high
And holy spirit of a mother's love?
Yet even then how changed, how sad and stern
Will be my home, when anxiously I turn
Mine eyes around, to search for each lost face
That there should greet me!
Time, thy ceaseless pace
Tramples the heart and all its growth of hopes,
Like withering flowers. Go on, cold reveller!
And end thy work! I have had dreams, fond dreams,
Bright hopes, wild, fiery graspings after fame,
Flashes of proud ambition in my heart,
But all are buried now in many graves.
For what were home to me, should I return?
A trampled hearth, whose fire has ceased to burn!
A silent desert! a monotony!
A voiceless echo! an unshapen void,
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Perhaps all starless! Mother! can it be,
That I shall lose thee, too? the fearful thought
Crushes my soul. All? all?—Oh, spare me one!
Leave me one eye of love to light my soul,
When I return!
1834.
300
FRAGMENTS OF AN UNFINISHED POEM.
I.
Dear woman! star of sad life's clouded heaven,I dedicate myself to thee again;
Fair woman! as man's guardian angel given,
Thou to the soul art like the summer rain,
Or gentle dew that falls at morn or even;—
Soother of woe, sweet comforter in pain;
Changing and beautiful like the sunset's hue,—
I dedicate myself again to you.
II.
Myself, my pen, my heart, my hand,—yea, all,All that I have or am, though valueless;
Despise it not, although the gift be small!
I swear my homage by the mystic tress,
The showers of light from radiant eyes that fall,
And soothe sick hearts in their sad loneliness;
By everything ethereal and human,
Which goes to constitute a perfect woman.
301
III.
Man fell for thee, dear woman! it is said,—And in thine arms it seemed to him but slight,
His loss of heaven. For thee, too, he has bled,
And sunken cheerfully in death's long sleep;
For thee, he has from fame and honor fled,
And counted shame, disgrace and pain but light,
While pressing thee to his enraptured breast,
And with the wealth of thy sweet kisses blest.
IV.
Thou hast inspired the poet's sweetest songs:And he who has not bowed before thy shrine,
Glowed in thy love, and angered at thy wrongs,
Is no liege-man of poetry divine.
To thee the warrior's scimitar belongs,
And leaps like lightning when the cause is thine;
And thou hast kingdoms, empires overthrown,
By the strong magic that is all thine own.
V.
Thou art the soother of the sad man's dreams;Thy spirit comes to him when night is still,
Pressing soft fingers, like ethereal beams
Of sunshine on his brow of pain, until
Under her influence again he deems
That he is happy, and glad tears distil
302
And when the day-floods on his eyelids roll,
VI.
The memory of the vision still is sweet,Making his sorrows more benign and calm.
Thou to the weary traveller's aching feet
Givest new strength, when, with expanded palm,
Sweet Fancy comes, and woman seems to greet;
And then, unmoved, he hears the thunder-psalm,
And the stern wind's storm-gathering lament,
The roar of Nature's mighty armament.
VII.
So hast thou been to me, when I have stoodOn many a mountain's bald and snowy peak,
In the clear ether's silent solitude,
Whereon the storms their sharpest anger wreak,—
On cliffs of ice that there for ages brood,
Feeding clear streams that far below outbreak.
There dreams of thee have lit the darkling mind,
And cheered the heart before so sad and blind.
VIII.
When I have stood my long and weary guard,Upon the illimitable western plain,
303
And not a star shone through the misty mane
Of the cold clouds that towards the thunder-scarred
Old mountains hurried, big with hail and rain:
I saw in visions those dear amber eyes,
To gain whose love, life were small sacrifice.
IX.
And since I ceased my houseless wandering,Once more to live and toil amid mankind,
Still to the memory of those eyes I cling,
Lost to whose light, I should be truly blind.
And thou, dear woman, art the only thing,
That nerves the heart, and braces up the mind,
To struggle bravely with the selfish world,
Like a lone boat amid the breakers hurled.
X.
For far off in the aisles of memory,I see the faces that I bowed before,
While wandering on the shore of life's blue sea,
And playing with its waves:—those loved of yore:
And still they have dominion over me,
And day by day I worship them the more,—
The loved, the lost, the beautiful, and bright,
Whose radiant eyes would make mid-noon of night.
304
XI.
Ah, ye were made to lure mankind from sin,And lead to heaven,—ye blessed and beautiful!
And could one leave the great world's busy din,
The selfish, the ill-natured, and the dull,
Finding a heaven your loving arms within,
Life were all bliss: it were indeed to cull
Sweet flowers, rare fruits, unwounded by the thorn,
And make of life one long and lovely morn.
XII.
Woman is ever loved most most adored,When gentle, trusting and affectionate:
Then avariciously her love we hoard
As miser's gold: we scoff at scowling Fate;
And like an argosy that has on board
Of spices and rare silks a mighty freight,
We spread top-gallant sails, and plough the sea
With confident keel, the fair winds blowing free.
XIII.
And yet we love an under-current of pride,A flash of fire in the softest, bluest eye,
As even the quietest river's placid tide
Will flash with foam when rocks beneath it lie!
For this the loveliest have been deified,
And men to gain a smile been glad to die:
305
Oft set in rest the warrior's trusty lance.
XIV.
Often she's like some fragrant, thankless flower,That fed by the blushing dawn with honey-dew,
Gives her whole heart to the sun, at day's first hour,
But when he shines most constant and most true,
And rains upon her an abundant shower
Of light that is his love and being too,
Then closes her cold heart and turns away,
Ungrateful from the enamored god of day,
XV.
“Once more upon the ocean, yet once more,”Launched in my frail bark of unstudied rhyme;
Upon that deep along whose sandy shore
Are strewed bright hopes, gay visions, schemes sublime,
Brilliant imaginings from fancy's store,
Wild aspirations, follies, ghastly crimes:—
On this rough ocean I unfurl my sail,
And bend my cheek to feel the rising gale
XVI.
Here by a high and beakéd promontory,Its name, Neglect, lie many a youngster, dead;
306
And some that ever from men's knowledge fled,
Toiled in still cells and solitudes for glory,
With a miser's care night's long hours husbanded,
And startled the dull world with wondrous songs,
Filled with the sad tale of their many wrongs;
XVII.
Until their life faded and paled away,Like one low wail of a long agony;
Or fever-fire turning their dark hair gray,
Burned the tense brain into insanity,
Gloomy as night. For these, alas! are they
That were the servitors of Poetry;
Unfit to embark in the mad world's furious strife,
They sunk beneath the howling storms of life.
XVIII.
Here they all lie, as if almost alive,With deep, dark eyes, like lamps, that far in the night,
Within a deep recess for mastery strive
With insolent darkness. Through the forehead's white,
Veins blue as seas wherein pearl-fishers dive
Yet swell transparent in the garish light;
While, as if life's long struggle were just o'er,
Nostril and lip are slightly stained with gore.
307
XIX.
And these are they whose songs are now the foodAnd inspiration of ten thousand souls;
And while this sea, in its great solitude,
Laves their white feet, and, never quiet, rolls
The sad monotony of its blue flood,
On their dead ears, they live in immortal scrolls,—
Byron and Shelley, Chatterton and Keats,
Savage, and all their co-unfortunates.
XX.
On this great sea I dare to steer my bark,Sleep in its calm, nor tremble at its storm,
Dart through its mist and lightnings like the lark,
And sing like him when the bright sun shines warm;
Ride its wild swells, to its hoarse breakers hark;—
For the great waves that crush the frigate's form,
Spare the small skiffs that over shallows glide,
And where the tall ship sinks, they safely ride.
XXI.
Fame! Thou bright beacon set amid the shoals,Where, like the wrecker's light, thou lurest on,
The mariner to death!—Thou, to the souls
Of poets and philosophers the sun,
By whose clear beams they write their golden scrolls,
Drinking deep draughts at fabled Helicon;—
308
That thou hast lured me not along my way.
XXII.
For thee young poets from the world's vortex go,To dry their hearts up by the midnight lamp;
For thee the chemist labors, sure and slow,
Sounding great nature's secrets: thou dost stamp,
And armies all the wide world overflow,
Scale the grim breach, defend the desperate camp:
Thou dost inspire the eloquent orator,
And senates, nations quake his voice before.
XXIII.
And yet thine empire is not absolute:—The love of gold and woman share with thee
The human heart, and thy control dispute.
The latter thou o'ercomest frequently;
Thy fiery voice prevails against the mute
And gentle eloquence of woman's plea;
Enticed by thee the soldier leaves his bride,
Hoping to be by glory deified.
XXIV.
Lo! the white shadow of my venturous sailFlits over thy waves. Fortune perhaps may fill
309
And so atone for all my want of skill
If not, I shall not be the first to fail,
And, baffled often, I will struggle still:
Open my heart when death has stiffened it,
And in its deepest core you'll find ‘Fame’ writ!
[OMITTED]
XXV.
Down with those stars and stripes that flout the sky!Off with that banner from the indignant deep!
Chain up your eagle from his flight on high,
Bid him no more over the ocean sweep,
Scream to the wind, turn to the sun his eye!
Down, down with Freedom from each rampart steep,
And promontory tall, and prairie wide,
Where she hath been, till now, so deified!
XXVI.
Listen! how Europe rings from end to endWith scoff and jeer, and hatred's bitter scorn!—
Her Kings sit smiling at the clouds that bend,
Threatening wild storm, over a land now torn
With mad dissension; ready all to lend
Their hosts, still more to darken our bright morn,
And aid in this unhallowed, wretched strife,
So lately sprung of treason into life.
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XXVII.
Think, think, dear brothers, of our days of glory,The splendid memories that cluster round
The names of those ancestral patriots hoary,
Who fought to gain all that ye would confound:
Read of their great deeds the surpassing story,
And turn again, before the awful sound
Of shame's dark ocean stun the startled soul,
And over you its raging surges roll!
XXVIII.
Follow no longer where those madly leadWhom crazed ambition and blind rage have brought
To do this traitorous work, this wicked deed!
Turn back! Along the path you tread is nought
But shame, disgrace, and ruin! Ye will bleed,
Not like those heroes who in old time fought
And nobly bled in their dear country's cause:
Ye war against that country and her laws.
XXIX.
Look on the future with prophetic eye!See on your green plains armies gathering,
As mists collect when a great storm is nigh!—
Mighty storm!—Along the hill-slopes cling
The light-horse, like dark flocks of birds, that fly
Before the wind with rapid, restless wing.
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And there the musketeers' unbroken drift.
XXX.
The battle!—Listen to the musketry!While ever and anon amid its roll,
Roars the loud cannon: now the cavalry
Dash down, like waves against a rocky mole,
Built strong and far in the bosom of the sea.
The stern battalions charge as with one soul;
And now, like waves breaking in spray and rain,
The shattered ranks go floating back again.
XXXI.
The fight is over: misery scarce begun!Count, if you can, the multitude of slain;
The hoary head lies glittering in the sun,
Pillowed upon the charger's misty mane;
And here, with hair like delicate moonlight spun,
A boy lies dying, with the crimson stain
Around his nostril and upon his lips;
While just below his heart the red rain drips.
XXXII.
The banner of your state in the dust lies low,Rebellion draws to an untimely end;
312
And anxiously above the corpses bend,
Seeking among your dead or those of the foe,
A father or a brother, or dear friend;
And constantly upon the tortured air
Rings the loud wail of agonized despair.
XXXIII.
Where are your leaders, they who madly ledYour feet to this deep perilous abyss?
There lie the best and noblest, with the dead,
Happy in their entire unconsciousness:
The noisiest, like cowards, far have fled,
Pursued by scorn's indignant, general hiss,
To distant lands, that liberty disowns,
And crouch there in the shadows of old thrones.
XXXIV.
Is this indeed to be your wretched fate?Disgraced, degraded, humbled, and abased,
Fallen for ever from your high estate,
To wander over Tyranny's dark waste,
Crouch like scared slaves around a despot's gate,
Bend at his nod, at his stern mandate haste?—
Oh, thou, who once thy favor to us lent,
Avert the doom, Father Omnipotent!
313
XXXV.
Turn then! before the final seal is setTo your apostacy!—before the flood
Waked by your madness, which it bears as yet,
Shall overwhelm you with a sea of blood!
Turn back! before your lovely land is wet
With crimson spray;—while treason's in its bud;—
Before the avenging angel spreads his wing,
Where whose dark shadow falls no grass will spring.
XXXVI.
Turn! that whenever men have made your grave,They say not, as they pile the parting sod,
“Here lies a traitor,” or, “Here rots a slave.”
Turn! lest old men some day above it nod,
And warn their boy to be no traitorous knave,
But reverence his country and his God,
Lest he deserve a doom as sad as yours,
The world's stem sentence, that like time endures.
XXXVII.
Have ye been never troubled in your dreams,With spirits, rising from your fathers' tombs,
And in the darkness, or the moon's thin gleams,
Warning you of those miserable dooms,
Which hunt the traitor to the world's extremes,
As wolves hunt men, far in Siberian glooms?—
314
These heroes, Liberty's illustrious sons.
XXXVIII.
Had I a sire who thus from the grave could rise,Point to his wounds, and say, “With these I bought
That freedom which you madly now despise,
And sealed the compact that your hands have sought
To break and shatter,”—I would close mine eyes,
For shame that I to sin had so been wrought,
And heap up dust and ashes on my head,
For knave corrupt, or idiot misled.
[OMITTED]
XXXIX.
There is an isle, circled by southern seas,Far in a soft clime of perpetual spring,
Where the voluptuous odor-laden breeze,
Is never chilled in its far wandering
By churlish frost; no winters ever freeze
The delicate flowers, or numb the bee's thin wing,
As in this harsh, inhospitable clime,
Where we, unfortunate, do waste our time.
XL.
And all along its shores are sunny beaches,Paved smoothly with the golden, jewelled sand;
315
Where the lost waves frolic along the strand.
On every side the broad blue ocean stretches,
Gemmed with no island, rimmed with no green land:
This diamond of the sea shines there alone,
The only jewel of that distant zone.
XLI.
Within the isle are clustered great broad trees,With fruits and flowers, young buds and nested birds,
Fed by delicious winds from calm, far seas,
With honey-dew. Like a fond lover's words,
Or music's most voluptuous harmonies,
These winds float here and there in whispering herds,
Their light wings heavy with rich odors, where
Sedate bees ride, and their rich freightage bear.
XLII.
Back from the shore the mountains overlookThe island and the broad realm of the sea,
Haughty and high. The upper element shook
His thick snows there, when time began to be,
And there, to the curious sun a close-sealed book
It coldly glitters. Sleeping silently
Below, great trees robe the rude mountain-side,
Through whose high tops the white clouds flocking ride.
316
XLIII.
And light and love ever inhabit here,Within this beautiful and happy isle:
Through the green woods wander the dappled deer,
And feeds the snowy antelope; and while
Round the gray trunks the frightened shadows peer,
That bless the grass, and make the flowers to smile,
With its great lamping eyes the shy gazelle
Looks out from every nook and ivied dell.
XLIV.
The simple people in that paradiseLive as men lived when the young world was green,
In primitive innocence supremely wise;
Rich with content. No prisons there are seen,
No palaces offend plebeian eyes,
Their simple laws say ever what they mean;
And happy under patriarchal sway,
They see glad hours and calm days glide away.
XLV.
One of these islanders, some years ago,Seeking for pearls and rosy, wrinkled shells,
To deck his sweetheart's hair, took heart to row,
By fair skies tempted, into the outer swells,
Beyond the coral-shoals, his light canoe;
And diving there into the sea's deep wells,
317
And blushing shells,—old ocean's favorite gems.
XLVI.
He noted not that one small, grayish cloud,Low in the west, the swift storm's harbinger,
Spread swiftly upward, like an unrolling shroud,
Dark as its native midnight sepulchre:
That armies of wild winds did skyward crowd,
Like shadowy cohorts riding with mad spur,
Scourging the cloud-surge, that in great waves piled,
Grew every moment more sublimely wild.
XLVII.
He hurried towards the circling coral-reef,Urging his frail skiff on, with wild alarm;
But the storm stooped: there was a very brief
And terrible stillness, a portentous calm,
Like stunned despair, or sudden, speechless grief,
And then God's organ pealed its thunder-psalm,
And the whole sea seemed with one groan to lift
Into white foam, thick as an Alpine drift.
XLVIII.
Then the gale smote him: seas of spray drove by;But not a wave could lift its struggling head
318
Thick torrents poured like rivers filled and fed
With great spring-rains; sharp hail shot hissing by,
And with incessant blaze, around his head,
Flashed the white lightning, while the awful voice
Of thunder bade the hurricane rejoice.
XLIX.
And seaward sped the light, thin, frail canoe,While he clung to it with a mute despair;
Long trained the ocean's realms to wander through,
His skiff capsized, he rose again to the air,
And still held fast, still onward with it flew:
And still the storm-god, from his western lair,
Urged on his slave, the furious hurricane,
Till night fell, when he called him home again.
L.
And then the clouds began to break and part,And soon shone out the broad, bright, patient moon,
But still the winds shrieked, and the sea's great heart
Swelled in vast waves. Lightnings, retreating soon,
Lingered upon the horizon yet, to dart
Their Parthian arrows; then came night's high noon,
And all the stars shone, trembling at the roar
Of winds and waves that smote the sky's blue floor.
319
LI.
Righting his skiff, till morning he outrodeThe dying wind, and eastward still fled on;
And when above the orient barrier strode
In all his summer pomp, the regal sun,
And while he journeyed on his westering road,
Till evening came when the long day was done,
Still it sailed there, that light and fragile thing,
Like the faint hopes that to a sad heart cling.
LII.
And all that night, thinking of home he lay,For the ocean, like a stunned hope now was still:
On the sea's verge he seemed to see the spray
Break over his loved coral-reefs,—the hill
That cast its shadow on his home,—the gray
And mist-crowned mountain,—the clear, dancing rill,
That fed his flowers,—the trees that over the eaves
Of his small cottage shook their sheltering leaves.
LIII.
At dawn he slept, slept soundly, nor awoke,Till noon was shining brightly on his eyes;
And still around no living object broke
The broad monotony of sea and skies.—
Yes!—scarce distinguished from the flickering smoke
Of the sun's heat, a something he descries:
320
And once again he urges on his bark.
LIV.
On the horizon soon the object growsTo a gallant ship, full-rigged,—ah, joyful sight!—
That while the fair breeze on her quarter blows,
Over the waters wings her steady flight,
Startling the sleepy monsters that repose
Deep in the sea: shaking her canvass white,
Near him she slides;—her sails are thrown aback,
She halts, as halts a racer on the track,
LV.
Tossing his mane back on the eager wind:They cast a rope; the stranger gains the deck;
Tottering and weak, with hunger faint and blind.
Then spurning from her side the skiff's frail wreck,
Onward she leaps, while on the deck reclined
But little does the stranger know or reck
Whither they bear him, so he be with men,
And not cast forth upon the waves again.
[OMITTED]
LVI.
A month or two they cruised about those seas,Touching at many a green and flowery isle,
321
Done giants' work, and builded many a pile
Of rock and reef; then with a favoring breeze,
Homeward they turned, and voyaged many a mile,
And bent around the Southern Giant's Horn,
That Cape of dread to mariners forlorn.
LVII.
And so they northward sailed, until there grewCold on the iron visage of the sea;
Sharp hail fell thick, stinging their garments through,
Ice gathered on the cordage silently,
And then hove up the shores, long, low, and blue,
And one great promontory on the lee,
Where stood the homes of many in the ship.
Then quivered many a firm and manly lip,
LVIII.
And out of many a stern and fearless eye,Warm tears fell, on the weather-bronzéd cheek.
How the heart softens when its home is nigh!
The iron nerves, like children's, become weak!
Oh, that I too might feel before I die
This blessed joy! If love again could speak
One word of gentle greeting in my ear,
How bright and sunny would the world appear!
1833.
340
JANE.
She is not beautiful, but in her eyesNo common spirit manifests itself,
So mild, so gentle, so serenely wise,
Yet gay as that of any dainty elf,
That dances on green turf, by starlit skies;
And such a friend is she, so firm and true,
So free from envy, malice, prejudice,
And constant as the sky's unchanging blue:
She shines like some most lustrous, lovely star,
Which men adore because it dazzles not;—
And though I waste away my life afar,
Yet in this mountainous and savage spot,
I think of her as one who soothed my care,
And did her best to keep me from despair.
1832.
345
MY SISTER.
And thou too, dearest sister! thou art dead!The pitiless archer once again has sped
At our small circle an unerring dart.
Thus, one by one, alas! from me depart
The images that, in fond memory stored,
I count, as jealous misers count their hoard.
The first fierce stroke the trembling heart that crushed,
The first wild feelings through the brain that rushed,
Are gone, and grief has now become more mild,
For I have wept, as though I were a child,—
I, who had thought my heart contained no tear.
I have returned from deserts wide and drear,
Prairie and snow and mountain eminent,
To hear that it has been thy lot to die,
To feel the snapping of another tie,
One of the few that bound me to the world.
For thou, whose lovely spirit now has furled
Its radiant wings, and folded close therein
Sleeps soundly in the grave, until the din
346
The silence of all sepulchres, and wake
All souls upon the resurrection morning;—thou
Didst ever love and trust in me, and now
Thy memory indeed is very dear;
My grief for thee most bitter and sincere.
Ah, heavy loss! ah, great calamity!
How sharp the blow that fate hath struck at me!
When I have climbed the slopes of the great mountains,
Where from eternal snows break out clear fountains,
That grow to mighty rivers; when my feet
Have bled and frozen, and the storms have beat
Upon me pitilessly; when my head
Has made the ground, the rock, the snow its bed,
And I have watched the cold stars stare above:
Then my great solace was my sister's love.
When I have felt most sad and most alone,
When I have walked through multitudes and known
No one that I could greet for olden time;
Or in those spacious solitudes sublime
That flank the Cordilleras; when, among
Their crags the war-whoop in my ears has rung:
When I have fancied I was quite forgot
By ancient friends, my name remembered not,
My features even forgotten, as the dead
When once they slumber in their narrow bed
347
Then has my wearied soul flown homeward, through
The mist, and darkness; and in most intense
And passionate sorrow, thy proud confidence,
Thy love and faith my comforters have been,
And weaned me from myself and from my spleen.
Ah! sister dear! I have lost thee! thou art gone!
But yet thou hast not left me quite alone
Perhaps before death closes my worn eyes,
I may again look on New England skies,
Weep at the graves, that like a miser's heard,
Hold all my wealth, the loved and the adored;
And if, perchance, some one or two are left,
World-wanderers, by tyrannous Fate bereft
Of all that makes us loth with life to part,—
Mother or sister,—take them to my heart,
Shield them, protect them, so that when I die,
Some one above the truant's grave may sigh.
1833.
352
DEATH IN THE DESERT.
The sun is sinking from the sky,
The clouds are clustering round the moon,
Like misty bastions, mountain-high;
And night approaches, ah! too soon.
Around me the dark prairie spreads
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in wide sandy beds,
Runs water, salter than the sea,
Bitter as tears of misery
And now the sharp, keen, frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
Piercing each shattered fibre through;
By it my torturing wound with a fresh pain is fed.
The clouds are clustering round the moon,
Like misty bastions, mountain-high;
And night approaches, ah! too soon.
Around me the dark prairie spreads
Its limitless monotony,
And near me, in wide sandy beds,
Runs water, salter than the sea,
Bitter as tears of misery
And now the sharp, keen, frosty dew
Begins to fall upon my head,
Piercing each shattered fibre through;
By it my torturing wound with a fresh pain is fed.
Near me lies dead my noble horse:
I watched his last convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse,
Knowing like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and for three weary days,
I've watched the sunlight disappear:
Again I shall not see his rays:
On my dead heart they soon will blaze.
Oh, God, it is a fearful thing
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the hungry vulture's wing,
And watch the fainting light of my existence wane.
I watched his last convulsive breath,
And saw him stiffen to a corse,
Knowing like his would be my death.
The cowards left me lying here
To die; and for three weary days,
353
Again I shall not see his rays:
On my dead heart they soon will blaze.
Oh, God, it is a fearful thing
To be alone in this wide plain,
To hear the hungry vulture's wing,
And watch the fainting light of my existence wane.
Am I, indeed, left here to die?
Alone! alone!—It is no dream!
At times I hope it is. Though nigh,
Already faintly sounds the stream.
I must die!—and fierce wolves will gnaw
My corpse before the pulse is still,
Before my parting breath I draw.
This doth the cup of torture fill;
This, this it is that sends a thrill
Of anguish through my inmost brain;
This thought, far bitterer than death:
I care not for the passing pain,
But fain would draw in peace my last, my parting breath.
Alone! alone!—It is no dream!
At times I hope it is. Though nigh,
Already faintly sounds the stream.
I must die!—and fierce wolves will gnaw
My corpse before the pulse is still,
Before my parting breath I draw.
This doth the cup of torture fill;
This, this it is that sends a thrill
Of anguish through my inmost brain;
This thought, far bitterer than death:
I care not for the passing pain,
But fain would draw in peace my last, my parting breath.
And here, while left all, all alone,
To die, (how strange that word will sound!)
With many a bitter, mocking tone
The faces of old friends come round.
They tell of one untimely sent
Down to the dark and narrow grave,
By Honor's code; of old friends bent
With grief, for causes that I gave:
And leaning on each misty wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Gather around, with deep dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptossed;
And here one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
To die, (how strange that word will sound!)
With many a bitter, mocking tone
The faces of old friends come round.
354
Down to the dark and narrow grave,
By Honor's code; of old friends bent
With grief, for causes that I gave:
And leaning on each misty wave,
I see the shapes I loved and lost
Gather around, with deep dim eyes,
Like drowning men to land uptossed;
And here one mocks, and my vain rage defies.
Dear God! My children,—spare the thought!
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At length to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die!
Hush! the cold pulse is beating slow,—
I see death's shadow close at hand;—
I turn from sunset's golden glow,
And looking towards my native land,
Where the dark clouds, like giants, stand,
I strain my eyes, and hope, perchance,
To see beneath the calm cold moon,
Some shape of human-kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the saddest boon.
Bid it depart from me, lest I
At length to madness should be wrought,
And cursing thee, insanely die!
Hush! the cold pulse is beating slow,—
I see death's shadow close at hand;—
I turn from sunset's golden glow,
And looking towards my native land,
Where the dark clouds, like giants, stand,
I strain my eyes, and hope, perchance,
To see beneath the calm cold moon,
Some shape of human-kind advance,
To give a dying man the last, the saddest boon.
In vain, in vain! No footstep comes!
All is yet lone and desolate;
Deeper and darker swell the gloom,
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now am I dying. Well I know
The pains that gather round the heart.
The wrist's weak pulse is beating slow,
And life and I begin to part:
Vain now would be the leech's art:—
But death is not so terrible,
As it hath been. No more I see!
My tongue is faltering! Now all's well!
My soul,—'tis thine, oh Father!—Take it unto thee!
All is yet lone and desolate;
355
And with them Death and eyeless Fate.
Now am I dying. Well I know
The pains that gather round the heart.
The wrist's weak pulse is beating slow,
And life and I begin to part:
Vain now would be the leech's art:—
But death is not so terrible,
As it hath been. No more I see!
My tongue is faltering! Now all's well!
My soul,—'tis thine, oh Father!—Take it unto thee!
1833.
368
DISUNION.
Ay, shout! 'Tis the day of your pride,
Ye despots and tyrants of earth!
Tell your serfs the American name to deride,
And to rattle their fetters in mirth.
Ay, shout! for the league of the Free
Is about to be shivered to dust,
And the rent limbs to fall from the vigorous tree,
Wherein Liberty put her firm trust.
Shout! shout! for more firmly established will be
Your thrones and dominions beyond the blue sea.
Ye despots and tyrants of earth!
Tell your serfs the American name to deride,
And to rattle their fetters in mirth.
Ay, shout! for the league of the Free
Is about to be shivered to dust,
And the rent limbs to fall from the vigorous tree,
Wherein Liberty put her firm trust.
Shout! shout! for more firmly established will be
Your thrones and dominions beyond the blue sea.
Laugh on! for such folly supreme
The world had yet never beheld;
And ages to come will the history deem
A tale by antiquity swelled;
For nothing that Time has upbuilt
And set in the annals of crime,
So stupid and senseless, so wretched in guilt,
Darkens sober tradition or rhyme.
It will be, like the fable of Eblis' fall,
A byword of mocking and horror to all.
The world had yet never beheld;
And ages to come will the history deem
A tale by antiquity swelled;
For nothing that Time has upbuilt
And set in the annals of crime,
So stupid and senseless, so wretched in guilt,
Darkens sober tradition or rhyme.
It will be, like the fable of Eblis' fall,
A byword of mocking and horror to all.
369
Ye mad, who would raze out your name
From the League of Proud and the Free,
And a pitiful, separate sovereignty claim,
Like a lone wave flung off from the sea;
Oh, pause ere you plunge in the chasm,
That yawns in your traitorous way!
Ere Freedom, convulsed with one terrible spasm,
Desert you for ever and aye!
Pause! think! ere the earthquake astonish your soul,
And the thunders of war through your green valleys roll!
From the League of Proud and the Free,
And a pitiful, separate sovereignty claim,
Like a lone wave flung off from the sea;
Oh, pause ere you plunge in the chasm,
That yawns in your traitorous way!
Ere Freedom, convulsed with one terrible spasm,
Desert you for ever and aye!
Pause! think! ere the earthquake astonish your soul,
And the thunders of war through your green valleys roll!
Good God! what a title, what name
Will History give to your crime!
In the deepest abyss of dishonor and shame,
Ye will writhe till the last hour of time:
As braggarts who forged their own chains,
Pulled down what their brave fathers built,
And tainted the blood in their children's young veins
With the poison of slavery and guilt:
And Freedom's bright heart be hereafter, tenfold,
For your folly and fall, more discouraged and cold.
Will History give to your crime!
In the deepest abyss of dishonor and shame,
Ye will writhe till the last hour of time:
As braggarts who forged their own chains,
Pulled down what their brave fathers built,
And tainted the blood in their children's young veins
With the poison of slavery and guilt:
And Freedom's bright heart be hereafter, tenfold,
For your folly and fall, more discouraged and cold.
What flag shall float over the fires
And the smoke of your patricide war,
Instead of the stars and broad stripes of your sires?
A lone, pale, dim, flickering star,
With a thunder-cloud veiling its glow
As it faints away into the sea:—
Will the Eagle's wing shelter and shield you? Ah, no!
His wing shelters only the free.
Miscall it, disguise it, boast, rant as you will,
You are traitors, misled by your mad leaders still.
And the smoke of your patricide war,
Instead of the stars and broad stripes of your sires?
A lone, pale, dim, flickering star,
370
As it faints away into the sea:—
Will the Eagle's wing shelter and shield you? Ah, no!
His wing shelters only the free.
Miscall it, disguise it, boast, rant as you will,
You are traitors, misled by your mad leaders still.
Turn, turn then! Cast down in your might
The pilots that sit at the helm;
Steer, steer your proud ship from the gulf which dark night
And treason and fear overwhelm!
Turn back!—From your mountains and glens,
From your swamps, from the rivers and sea,
From forest and precipice, cavern and den,
Where your brave fathers bled to be free,
From the graves where those glorious patriots lie,
Re-echoes the warning, “Turn back, or ye die!”
The pilots that sit at the helm;
Steer, steer your proud ship from the gulf which dark night
And treason and fear overwhelm!
Turn back!—From your mountains and glens,
From your swamps, from the rivers and sea,
From forest and precipice, cavern and den,
Where your brave fathers bled to be free,
From the graves where those glorious patriots lie,
Re-echoes the warning, “Turn back, or ye die!”
1834.
371
ISADORE.
Thou art lost to me for ever,—I have lost thee, Isadore!
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine,—
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thy head will never rest upon my loyal bosom more,
Thy tender eyes will never more look fondly into mine,
Nor thine arms around me lovingly and trustingly entwine,—
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou art dead and gone, dear loving wife, thy heart is still and cold,
And I, at one stride have become most comfortless and old:
Of our whole world of love and song thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
And I, at one stride have become most comfortless and old:
Of our whole world of love and song thou wast the only light,
A star, whose setting left behind, ah me! how dark a night!
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
The vines and flowers we planted, love, I tend with anxious care,
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air:
They cannot live without thine eyes to glad them with their light;
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright,
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
And yet they droop and fade away, as though they wanted air:
372
Since thy hands ceased to train them, love, they cannot grow aright,
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
Our little ones inquire of me, where is their mother gone,—
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?
For if I say, to heaven,—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return:
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
What answer can I make to them, except with tears alone?
For if I say, to heaven,—then the poor things wish to learn,
How far it is, and where, and when their mother will return:
Thou art lost to them for ever, Isadore!
Our happy home has now become a lonely, silent place,—
Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face:
Our little ones are still and sad;—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh:
Thou watchest us from heaven, Isadore!
Like heaven without its stars it is, without thy blessed face:
Our little ones are still and sad;—none love them now but I,
Except their mother's spirit, which I feel is always nigh:
Thou watchest us from heaven, Isadore!
Their merry laugh is heard no more, they neither run nor play,
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer-day:
The spider weaves his web across the windows at his will,
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
But wander round like little ghosts, the long, long summer-day:
373
The flowers I gathered for thee last are on the mantel still;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
My footsteps through the rooms sound sad, I play our songs no more,
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a summer-cloud that overflows with rain;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
The garish sun shines flauntingly upon the unswept floor;
The mocking-bird still sits and sings, a melancholy strain,
For my heart is like a summer-cloud that overflows with rain;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Alas! how changed is all, dear wife, from that sweet eve in spring,
When first my love for thee was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbor, dear, beneath the over-arching vine;
Those lips are cold for ever, Isadore!
When first my love for thee was told, and thou didst to me cling,
Thy sweet eyes radiant through their tears pressing thy lips to mine,
In that old arbor, dear, beneath the over-arching vine;
Those lips are cold for ever, Isadore!
The moonlight struggled through the leaves, and fell upon thy face,
So lovingly upturning there with pure and trustful gaze:
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there;
Thine eyes are closed for ever, Isadore!
So lovingly upturning there with pure and trustful gaze:
The southern breezes murmured through the dark cloud of thy hair,
As like a sleeping infant thou didst lean upon me there;
Thine eyes are closed for ever, Isadore!
374
Thy love and faith so plighted then, with mingled smile and tear,
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here:
Nor angry word, nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Was never broken, sweetest one, while thou didst linger here:
Nor angry word, nor angry look thou ever gavest me,
But loved and trusted evermore, as I did worship thee;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou wast my nurse in sickness, and my comforter in health,
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
So gentle and so constant, when our love was all our wealth:
Thy voice of music soothed me, love, in each desponding hour,
As heaven's sweet honey-dew consoles the bruised and broken flower;
Thou art lost to me for ever, Isadore!
Thou art gone from me for ever:—I have lost thee, Isadore!—
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore:
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,
And be joined to thee in heaven, Isadore!
And desolate and lonely shall I be for evermore:
If it were not for our children's sake, I would not wish to stay,
But would pray to God most earnestly to let me pass away,
And be joined to thee in heaven, Isadore!
1843.
390
EUROPE.
The ancient Wrong rules many a land, whose groans
Climb, swarming, to the stars by day and night,
Thronging with piteous clamor round the thrones,
Where the Archangels sit in God's great light,
And, pitying, mourn to see that Wrong still reigns,
And tortured nations reel beneath their chains.
Climb, swarming, to the stars by day and night,
Thronging with piteous clamor round the thrones,
Where the Archangels sit in God's great light,
And, pitying, mourn to see that Wrong still reigns,
And tortured nations reel beneath their chains.
From Hungary and France fierce cries go up,
And beat against the portals of the skies;
Fair Italy still drinks the bitter cup,
And Germany in abject stupor lies;
The knout on Poland's bloody shoulders rings,
And Time is all one jubilee of kings.
And beat against the portals of the skies;
Fair Italy still drinks the bitter cup,
And Germany in abject stupor lies;
The knout on Poland's bloody shoulders rings,
And Time is all one jubilee of kings.
It will not be so always. Through the night
The suffering multitudes with joy descry
Beyond the ocean a great beacon-light,
Flashing its beams into their starless sky,
And teaching them to struggle and be free—
The light of Order, Law, and Liberty.
The suffering multitudes with joy descry
Beyond the ocean a great beacon-light,
Flashing its beams into their starless sky,
And teaching them to struggle and be free—
The light of Order, Law, and Liberty.
391
Take heart, ye bleeding nations! and your chains
Shall shiver like thin glass. The dawn is near,
When Earth shall feel through all her aged veins
The new blood flashing; and her drowsy ear
Hail Freedom's trumpet ringing in the sky,
Calling her braves to conquer or to die.
Shall shiver like thin glass. The dawn is near,
When Earth shall feel through all her aged veins
The new blood flashing; and her drowsy ear
Hail Freedom's trumpet ringing in the sky,
Calling her braves to conquer or to die.
Arm, arm ye for the struggle! let the stags
Against the lordly lions stand at bay—
Each pass, Thermopylæ, and all the crags
Young Freedom's fortresses!—and soon the day
Shall come when Right shall rule, and round the thrones
That gird God's feet shall eddy no more groans.
Against the lordly lions stand at bay—
Each pass, Thermopylæ, and all the crags
Young Freedom's fortresses!—and soon the day
Shall come when Right shall rule, and round the thrones
That gird God's feet shall eddy no more groans.
1853.
392
ODE.
When shall the nations all be free,
And Force no longer reign;
None bend to brutal Power the knee,
None hug the gilded chain?
No longer rule the ancient Wrong,
The Weak be trampled by the Strong?—
How long, dear God in heaven! how long,
The people wail in vain?
And Force no longer reign;
None bend to brutal Power the knee,
None hug the gilded chain?
No longer rule the ancient Wrong,
The Weak be trampled by the Strong?—
How long, dear God in heaven! how long,
The people wail in vain?
Do not th' Archangels on their thrones,
Turn piteous looks to Thee,
When round them thickly swarm the groans
Of those that would be free?
Of those that know they have the right
To Freedom though crushed down by Might,
As all the world hath to the light
And air which Thou mad'st free?
Turn piteous looks to Thee,
When round them thickly swarm the groans
Of those that would be free?
Of those that know they have the right
To Freedom though crushed down by Might,
As all the world hath to the light
And air which Thou mad'st free?
The ancient Empires staggering drift
Along Time's mighty tide,
Whose waters, running broad and swift,
Eternity divide:
How many years shall pass, before
Over their bones the sea shall roar,
The salt sand drift, the fresh rains pour,
The stars mock fallen Pride?
Along Time's mighty tide,
393
Eternity divide:
How many years shall pass, before
Over their bones the sea shall roar,
The salt sand drift, the fresh rains pour,
The stars mock fallen Pride?
What then the Great Republic's fate?
To founder far from land,
And sink with all her glorious freight,
Smitten by God's right hand?
Or shall she still her helm obey
In calm or storm, by night or day,
No sail rent, no spar cut away,
Exultant, proud and grand?
To founder far from land,
And sink with all her glorious freight,
Smitten by God's right hand?
Or shall she still her helm obey
In calm or storm, by night or day,
No sail rent, no spar cut away,
Exultant, proud and grand?
The issues are with God. To do,
Of right belongs to us:
May we be ever just and true,
For nations flourish thus!—
Justice is mightier than ships;
Right, than the cannon's brazen lips;
And Truth, averting dark eclipse,
Makes fortunes prosperous.
Of right belongs to us:
May we be ever just and true,
For nations flourish thus!—
Justice is mightier than ships;
Right, than the cannon's brazen lips;
And Truth, averting dark eclipse,
Makes fortunes prosperous.
July 4, 1853.
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