 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
|
|
 | Erato, number II |  |
5
THE CONQUEROR,
A VISION.
I.
How, with the texture of our very brain,
The history is wov'n
Of Greatness, and its fate!
Thought, in the hour of unrepose,
So rambles in the grave-yard of great deeds,
Among the dark and leaning stones,
Copying upon the mind
The records written there,
That Sleep but forms a world, where o'er again
Greatness enacts the god, or plays the fool.
The history is wov'n
Of Greatness, and its fate!
Thought, in the hour of unrepose,
So rambles in the grave-yard of great deeds,
Among the dark and leaning stones,
Copying upon the mind
The records written there,
That Sleep but forms a world, where o'er again
Greatness enacts the god, or plays the fool.
In a large library of various books,
Where the gilt trifle of our tinsel age
Contrasted strangely with the folio huge,
Whose venerable back was dark with eld,
And bending with its weight,—I had, all day,
Been brushing off the dust, that months and years
Of undisturbed repose, had gathered thick
On many a curious work; and glancing through
Neglected volume after volume, charged
My mind with food for years of after thought.
The heroes of the times of holy writ,
And seers and sages of those ancient days;
The poets, orators, historians,
And wise philosophers of olden Greece,
And haughty and imperial Rome; and those
Of this our late but not degenerate day;
Were ransack'd, in that mood we sometimes feel
For opening, helter-skelter, many books,
To gather bits of knowledge here-and-there.
Where the gilt trifle of our tinsel age
Contrasted strangely with the folio huge,
Whose venerable back was dark with eld,
And bending with its weight,—I had, all day,
Been brushing off the dust, that months and years
Of undisturbed repose, had gathered thick
On many a curious work; and glancing through
Neglected volume after volume, charged
My mind with food for years of after thought.
The heroes of the times of holy writ,
And seers and sages of those ancient days;
The poets, orators, historians,
And wise philosophers of olden Greece,
6
Of this our late but not degenerate day;
Were ransack'd, in that mood we sometimes feel
For opening, helter-skelter, many books,
To gather bits of knowledge here-and-there.
The Life had just been published of a man
Whose dazzling genius had amazed the world;
But whose ambition him had led astray,
Until the world revolted at his crimes.
I took it to my room; and midnight came,
And found me poring o'er its pages still.
An hour, and then another, pass'd; and then
A generous gust of the delicious wind
Of June, came through an unseen broken pane,
And quench'd the midnight taper. Feverish,
And worn, upon the cool and open book
I laid my cheek; and soon was fast asleep.
Strange visions crowded on my fancy; strange,
And awful some of them: And this is one.
What an infinity of space, and time,
The mind will travel in an hour of sleep!
Whose dazzling genius had amazed the world;
But whose ambition him had led astray,
Until the world revolted at his crimes.
I took it to my room; and midnight came,
And found me poring o'er its pages still.
An hour, and then another, pass'd; and then
A generous gust of the delicious wind
Of June, came through an unseen broken pane,
And quench'd the midnight taper. Feverish,
And worn, upon the cool and open book
I laid my cheek; and soon was fast asleep.
Strange visions crowded on my fancy; strange,
And awful some of them: And this is one.
What an infinity of space, and time,
The mind will travel in an hour of sleep!
II.
Methought an empire, old,And vast, and populous,
Was, on a sudden, of its king deprived;
And busy Faction, stalking o'er the land,
Shouted that a new age had come, and now
New forms of government, new men, new laws,
Must supersede the old. His trumpet-tongue
Soon call'd the peasant from his healthful plough:
The laborer dropp'd his hod; the artisan
7
And lords, and rights divine, and liberty,
Republics, and elections; and so on:
Ambition, Ignorance, and Craft, were loud
In praising these, and in condemning those.
All talk'd, some argued, but few understood.
Day after day, and week pass'd after week:
Men hurried through the streets, scarce knowing why,
Or where their steps were bent; neglecting quite
Their business, and in large and anxious groups
Gathering, and talking of—they scarce knew what.
But Faction's clamorous tongue was never still;
And Anarchy, with wild and callous step,
Was trampling ancient usages, and laws,
And well-tried institutions, to the earth.
Carnage and Blood appeared upon the stage,
And universal Chaos closed the scene.
III.
Soon the strange vision changed.And one with dazzling powers,
—A bright creation of th' events and times—
Midst the confusion dire, arose
The great disorder to adjust.
The elements were separated soon;
And then,
Upon a model different from the old,
New institutions framed. And Liberty,
—A dangerous word when wrongly understood—
Was shouted through the land, and blazon'd high
Upon their banners; but the characters
Were traced with human blood! He who had ris'n
In beauty from the wild disorder, moved
8
Deep penetration throned upon his brow,
And strong determination on his lip.
Riding upon the tide of great events,
He rose superior to the current's force;
And digging channels where he listed, said,
‘This way!’—and it was so. Achilles-like,
He moved amidst destruction without harm,
Seeming impregnable. Gray-headed men,
Whose prime of manhood had been spent in war,
Gazed on the brilliant pathway that he trod,
And thought, in wonder mute, of Monte Notte,
Mondovi, Mellessimo, and the Bridge
Of Lodi—and gave admiration tongue.
IV.
Again the vision changed.The chivalry and strength of Gaul
Were ravaging the ancient shores of Nile;
Their objects doubtful, but their conquests great.
The crumbling walls of Egypt's hoary towns
Were level'd; the old mosques were trod by feet
Unholy, and profaned; the female face,
Whose beauty in that clime is ever veil'd
At the approach of man, was rashly bared
To the coarse gaze of a lascivious eye;
And beauty's shrinking form was roughly clasp'd
In the unhallowed arms of lechery.
Thus was the ancient land of Pharao,
And Ptolemy, abased: Its cities sack'd;
Profan'd its churches, and its virtue forced;
Its scorch'd plains fertilized with human blood,
And dotted here and there, with human bones
Heap'd up like pyramids! And he, who late
9
In Italy the bright, led on this host.
Him had they followed o'er the trackless sea;
And him they followed now—a tarnish'd star—
Yet still they faltered not; but clung to him
With that strong faithfulness Abaddon knew
From his fallen myriads. And he led them on,
O'er burning sands, where pestilent air, and heat,
Poison'd their life-blood; them inspiring oft
With that surprising strength which bore him up,
By sharing their privations and their toils.
He led them on, through the primeval world,
Victorious everywhere. The pyramids,
—Eternal relics of Egyptia's glory—
Before them rose, sublime. And in the dark
And secret chamber of her kings, inurn'd
Thousands of years before, the Conqueror stood,
Renounc'd the Christ, and tongued the Moslem creed.
He led them on—and paused upon the plain,
By the Red Sea, which spread in awfulness
Where God in justice smote Gomorrah down,
And Sodom,—sinful cities of old time.
He led them on—and by the holy well
Of Moses paused, and on Mount Sinai;
And, fearless, risqued his life upon the sands
That had engulph'd the multitudinous hosts
With which th' Egyptian sought to force again
The Hebrews into bondage. And he came
To Gaza, city of the Philistines,
And Joppa,—and they fell at his approach.
And, oh! what racking thoughts must have been his,
When into Nazareth his cohorts pour'd—
Nazareth!—a name so hallowed in the land
Of old Judea—so associated
10
Whom he had late renounced! What scorpion thoughts!
V.
Again the vision changed.But on my sight an indistinctness pass'd,
And objects were less palpable.
Methought I saw
—But indistinctly—an ambitious spirit,
Gazing, with well feign'd earnestness, upon
A statue of the goddess Liberty;
And swearing, while his right hand grasp'd his sword,
To use it in her cause: but then—e'en then—
His left was reaching for a Bourbon crown,
Which he could almost seize, but seem'd to fear
Detection of his base hypocrisy.
Then this same spirit, methought,
Appear'd a sable fiend,
Ambition hight:
Blood-red his arm;
Of feature horrible, and hateful shape,
But syren-tongued;
He, born in Heav'n when Lucifer rebell'd,
Thence banish'd, since existent upon earth:
A never-slumbering fiend;
Whose days are spent in butchering mankind,
And mounting to a gory eminence
Upon the heap'd up corpses of the slain;
Who drinks the scalding tears from widows' eyes,
And feasts amid the starving orphan's groans;
Whose nights are pass'd in some unknown recess,
With the world's chart before his greedy eyes,
Marking off lands to conquer!
11
The vision grew again; and soon assumed
Man's features and proportions.—Then methought
I saw, 'mid glaciers and eternal snows,
Who late was reaching for a Bourbon crown,
Leading his chosen legions o'er the Alps—
Smiling, 'mid toils which overcame all else—
Cheering, and urging them with gentleness
Along the dangerous and dizzy height,
Where nothing living but the goatherd trod
Securely, and the chamois; where one foot,
If blindly placed, a hoary avalanche
Might loosen from its hold of years, and bring
Destruction upon hundreds. Watching then
While slept his hosts, their greatest labor done.
And then, quick mounting up the rocky height
Of Albaredo, point a forceful gun
Upon St. Bard, his squadrons to protect
In passing by this fortress of their foes;
Then cast himself upon the herbless rock,
And sleep, to dream of conquests, not of home!
And soon methought he sprang upon his feet,
As much refresh'd as though he had enjoy'd
A downy couch, and a whole night's repose:
And cheering onward his admiring bands,
St. Bard was taken, and Marengo won—
And Italy was his.—And soon again,
—So quickly dreams encompass time and space—
This master-spirit stood where he had pledg'd
His sword to Liberty. But now he fear'd
Detection less; and seized the glittering crown
With careless air, and tried the bauble on,
To see how it would suit his laurel'd brow.
None murmur'd, but none cheer'd him; and he fear'd
The time unripe, and put it off again.
12
And fame was his, for which he long had toil'd;
Honors fell thick upon him; but his brow
Was gloomy; for the common fame of earth
Was valueless to him, without the pow'r
To wield the scepter, and to wear the crown.
Ambition urged him onward; and he cast
Dissimulation off, and seized once more
That crown, and fixed it firmly on his brow,
And sat in gloomy grandeur on the throne!
And then I recognized the Conqueror
Of Pharao's ancient land.
VI.
Again the vision changed.The emperors of Europe, and the kings,
Each trembling for his throne,
United, to depose the Conqueror,
And tear his ill-got diadem away.
Their legions pour'd into the field of war;
The Austrian Cesars, and Imperial Czars
Of Russia, counsel'd on the field of fight;
But he, whom they opposed, stood all alone—
Sublime in his great confidence and strength!
And ere ‘the sun of Austerlitz,’—which rose
Cloudless upon the serried hosts, the flow'r
And chivalry of three imperial crowns,—
Had set, the seeming ‘Man of Destiny’
Had Europe's haughtiest monarch at his feet.
And here he stood, and parcel'd kingdoms out;
And dukedoms gave, and principalities;
Made soldiers kings, and kings in exile sent;
And granted peace to Europe!—Dazzling height!
But there was yet a star he had not reach'd,
And even then his eye was fix'd upon it.
13
VII.
Again the vision changed.
Where dwells the iron-sinewed Muscovite,
In the far, icy North,
The legions of the Conqueror pitch'd their tents,
And dared the bearded Russian to the field—
The Russian, scourge of Kosciusko's land.
The ancient spirit of the Pole was rous'd;
And Warsaw's nobles join'd the Gallic hosts,
To combat 'gainst the oppressor of their race.
The Conqueror led his hosts, thus multiplied,
To battle; and the brave and hardy Russ
Receiv'd the onset, nor recoil'd one pace.
Where dwells the iron-sinewed Muscovite,
In the far, icy North,
The legions of the Conqueror pitch'd their tents,
And dared the bearded Russian to the field—
The Russian, scourge of Kosciusko's land.
The ancient spirit of the Pole was rous'd;
And Warsaw's nobles join'd the Gallic hosts,
To combat 'gainst the oppressor of their race.
The Conqueror led his hosts, thus multiplied,
To battle; and the brave and hardy Russ
Receiv'd the onset, nor recoil'd one pace.
The meeting was as if the East and West
Should send two hurricanes o'er the teeming earth—
Two hurricanes, charg'd with woe;
Furious they rush along,
Leaving destruction in their wake—
Dashing the scared and panting birds to earth;
Fright'ning the prowling panther from his prey;
And to their dens,
The rocky caverns of the mountainous land,
Driving the wildered beasts,
With terror almost overcome;
And striking man
With awe profound;
Then in some desert vast
They come together, sudden, furious,
Each from opposing points, of equal force!
Their roar of terror fills the ambient air—
Their roar of terror shakes the cavern'd earth—
The dreadful clashing of th' uprooted trees,
That interlock their branches, and ascend
In spiral columns to the dusky sky,
Howls loudly through the subterranean earth,
And by its dismal dens is bellowed back.
A furious moment pass'd, on the scathed earth,
Rent, and in terrible disorder piled,
Lies the tall forest's pride,
In desolation low,
To scorch and wither in the noonday sun!
Should send two hurricanes o'er the teeming earth—
Two hurricanes, charg'd with woe;
Furious they rush along,
Leaving destruction in their wake—
Dashing the scared and panting birds to earth;
Fright'ning the prowling panther from his prey;
And to their dens,
The rocky caverns of the mountainous land,
Driving the wildered beasts,
With terror almost overcome;
And striking man
With awe profound;
Then in some desert vast
They come together, sudden, furious,
Each from opposing points, of equal force!
Their roar of terror fills the ambient air—
Their roar of terror shakes the cavern'd earth—
The dreadful clashing of th' uprooted trees,
14
In spiral columns to the dusky sky,
Howls loudly through the subterranean earth,
And by its dismal dens is bellowed back.
A furious moment pass'd, on the scathed earth,
Rent, and in terrible disorder piled,
Lies the tall forest's pride,
In desolation low,
To scorch and wither in the noonday sun!
In such destructive fury met those hosts;
Thousands on either side were mown to earth;
And other thousands, rushing o'er the dead,
Fell as the first—hew'd down—corpse piled on corpse!
Thus fought they, from the dawn till close of day;
And when they ceased, each occupied the ground
As ere the strife began. And on the plain,
That lay between them, tens of thousands slept
The sleep eternal; other thousands pray'd,
And groan'd, and curs'd, unable to creep off,
And stretch'd their arms in agony severe,
Grasping the nearest corpse, and dying thus!
Victory belong'd to neither standard then,
Though claimed for both.—Time after time renew'd
Was the fierce contest; and the hosts of Gaul
Were laying waste the land, and thinning fast
Th' inferior numbers of the haughty Russ;
Until at length th' Imperial Autocrat
Ask'd peace, and granted terms which suited well
The ambitious spirit of the Conqueror.
Thousands on either side were mown to earth;
And other thousands, rushing o'er the dead,
Fell as the first—hew'd down—corpse piled on corpse!
Thus fought they, from the dawn till close of day;
And when they ceased, each occupied the ground
As ere the strife began. And on the plain,
That lay between them, tens of thousands slept
The sleep eternal; other thousands pray'd,
And groan'd, and curs'd, unable to creep off,
And stretch'd their arms in agony severe,
Grasping the nearest corpse, and dying thus!
Victory belong'd to neither standard then,
Though claimed for both.—Time after time renew'd
Was the fierce contest; and the hosts of Gaul
Were laying waste the land, and thinning fast
Th' inferior numbers of the haughty Russ;
Until at length th' Imperial Autocrat
Ask'd peace, and granted terms which suited well
The ambitious spirit of the Conqueror.
And now he stood upon the dazzling height
For which he long had labor'd. In his view,
The Gallic Eagle held the world in awe:
He deem'd the liberties of every land
Which would not do it homage, in his pow'r;
And took his seat upon his throne again,
In splendid loneliness—from all apart!
For which he long had labor'd. In his view,
The Gallic Eagle held the world in awe:
15
Which would not do it homage, in his pow'r;
And took his seat upon his throne again,
In splendid loneliness—from all apart!
VIII.
Again the vision changed.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
Again the icy land
Of the old Czars, was trod by hostile feet—
Hostile—and numerous—
And deem'd invincible:
The legions of the Conqueror, by himself
Marshall'd again for fight.
But, ah! the Conqueror!
Long years of care, and unrepose of mind,
Corroding conscience, solitude of soul,
And grandeur unenjoy'd, have mark'd that brow.
He heedeth not the bauble crown it bears.
Fate, as he deems, hath higher things for him.
He lives not in the Present, nor the Past;
But hath a world, of magnitude extreme,
Peopled by his own burning thoughts alone,
Yet full!—And here he reads his destiny,
Traced by Ambition's finger, not by Truth's.
On—on he rushes! From the darken'd sky
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
On—on he rushes! But the flames arise
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
Shoots the red lightning; but his serried ranks
Flash from their bayonets the vivid blaze,
Against the murky clouds that rage above.
On—on he rushes! And at his approach
The scatter'd Cossacks fly, with terror struck.
On—on he rushes! Lithuania's plains
Are traversed, and its capital is his.
16
From every hamlet now. The noble fires
His castle, and the vassal serf his hut;
And armed men are gathering thick and fast
Around old Moscow's venerated walls.
On rush the legions of the Conqueror—
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
Potent—impetuous;—but like the surge
That rolls, with force tremendous, 'gainst the rock
Immovable which rises from the sea,
Were they receiv'd; and back recoil'd a pace,
In dire confusion: then to either side
Wheeling, the master-spirit form'd again
The solid phalanx; and with gathered force,
And desperate fury, shouting to the charge,
He rush'd upon a single point, and broke
The lines compact, and won the gory field.
But naught of triumph smooths the Conqueror's brow:
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
Silent, and stern, and gloomy still, he walks
The gorgeous palaces of the old Czars.
—Aha! what mean yon brilliant lights, that rise,
Pillars of fire to Heav'n, on every hand!
Moscow in flames! fired by the patriot Russ,
With slow and secret trains.—He could not leave
His monument of art, ancient and lov'd—
The palace-halls of the old capital—
The temples of the olden time—the tombs
Of reverenc'd chiefs and sages—and the aisles
And altars of his faith—to be profaned
By ruthless soldiery.—Ha! now he starts,
The Conqueror, from his hermit-world of dreams:
“Scythians, indeed!”he mutters, and is still
17
IX.
Again the vision changed.
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
In a low hut,
Filthy, and fitted for the meanest boor,
Paced one with a stern look and knitted brow:
The Conqueror—but how palaced!—It is night:
And a dim taper's flickering light is cast
Upon his ghastly features. O, how bounds,
In its fierce tempest-seat, his aching heart!
How is his spirit humbled! and how swells
His bosom, with emotions terrible!
—Ha! uncommuning one! thy countenance,
Writhing in agony, reveals what tongue
Of thine would never tell. How readst thou now
The writing on the page of Destiny?
All-grasping spirit, does it bid thee on?
How rolls the tide, whose channels thou hast dug?
Oh, how I pitied him! as back and fore
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
Waved o'er the mighty pyramids of Nile,
Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
He paced the filthy hovel; audibly
His bosom throbb'd the while; his neck was bare,
And swol'n; his lips were press'd together hard.
Sudden he now-and-then would seat himself
Upon a rough-hewn bench, and spread a chart;
And then his eye would wander here and there
With frightful speed and earnestness; and then
He'd dash the instrument upon the bench,
And bend his haggard gaze into that gulf
Which swallow'd all his thoughts; his face the while
Changed utterly, disfigured by despair.
Anon he'd sudden start upon his feet:
“What numbers have I, Duroc? Is all lost?
What! beaten by the Russian serf and slave!
No! by the Eagle that has cross'd the Alps,
18
Twice conquer'd Italy, and bent the proud
And haughty knee of Austria's emperor!
No! by the Eagle of Imperial France!
Murat! Davoust!—What come ye hither for?
Do your hearts fail ye? Hence till 'tis my will!”
And then with short and hurried step he'd pace
The floor again—and seize the chart, and press
His palms, with painful force, upon his hot
And aching temples.—And thus pass'd the night.
O, what an agony of soul was his!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
Baffled, just in the moment of success;
Thwarted forever, just as he had reach'd
The pinnacle of pow'r, and raised his foot
To plant it firmly where his eye had long
Been fix'd, unblenching. Cold upon his heart,
Hopeless and lacerated, roll'd the tide
Of consciousness—freezing the springs of life—
Bearing away the cherish'd dreams
Of years of restlessness and strife—
Dreams which he long had nurst,
Hugging them to this heart;—
Cold swept that tide,
Marking the bound
That Destiny had fix'd for him—
And whispering,
That hence his march must be a retrograde.
O, how could his proud soul,
Whose eye had ever been upon the stars,
Reading what was not writ for common men,
Bear to retrace the steps by which it climbed
To such a dazzling eminence!
But, lo!
19
Day breaks upon the mountains; and the hosts
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
Of the stern Conqueror are rushing down
Upon the watchful foe. They meet—he strikes
Again for victory—but in despair,
And desperate hence; they for their trampled homes,
Nerved by necessity, and dawning hope.
Hard is the contest, man with man engaged.
—'Tis done! and fly the Conqueror's hosts at last!
But HE, a little way retired,
Casts but one look upon his routed ranks;
The next, like lightning, shoots
Down, down, into that dark abyss
By him created. Seated there, engulf'd,
He feels his iron throne
Beneath him shake, and fall;
And the rich bauble, lifted from his brow,
Borne far away beholds!
Then, crownless—throneless—he exclaims,
In that extremity of ill,
“ Lost! lost!” No more;
Man's eye is on him—and his face reveals
Naught of the inward, killing agony.
X.
Again the vision changed.
O'er mountains, clad in crusted snow,—
O'er dangerous streams, with treach'rous ice half-bridg'd;
Through half-frozen bogs, that broke
At every step, and peel'd
The numb flesh from the wet and shivering leg,
Laying bare the white and senseless bone,—
Labored the scattered wreck,
The meager fragments of the Conqueror's hosts.
The fierce and hardy foe pursued them close:
And Cossack bands forever scourged their rear,
Striking the worn and wearied to the earth.
And ever and anon, in the still night,
Broke threat'ningly upon their bivouac,
The Hetman's wild hurra!
And many, where they pitch'd their tents for rest,
O'ercome by hunger, and fatigue, and cold,
Lay down, and slept, and never woke again.
Thus driven, thousands perish. Thousands more,
Old veterans, reach the fatal stream, since call'd
The stream of myriad bones.
Hanging upon their rear, the Russian hordes
Harass, and capture, and fast thin their ranks.
—Now, crowded close upon the miry bank,
The hovering Cossacks, like a murky cloud
O'ercharged with lightning, pour their volleys forth;
And cannon, thickly planted on the heights,
Hurl down their thunderbolts.
O, execrations terrible—and prayers
From lips that know not how to fashion them—
Ascend to Heaven; but, ere done, the tongues
That shout them forth, are still'd in death forever.
Thousands now rush upon the treacherous ice;
Too weak, it breaks; and the engulfing stream
Becomes their sepulcher.
Thousands escape across the creaking bridge;
But, throng'd by thousands still behind, behold,
It bendeth with its weight of human woe!
Down, down it sinks!—Among the broken ice,
A momentary struggle of weak limbs—
A shudder—then an agonizing shriek,
That peals above the loud artillery,
And Cossack's wild hurra—
And they are buried in the swelling flood.
Those that escape the devastation, fly;
But Famine overtakes them. Some lie down,
And die—and their companions gorge their fill,
Ere cools the shriveled flesh, and fevered blood.
O'er mountains, clad in crusted snow,—
O'er dangerous streams, with treach'rous ice half-bridg'd;
Through half-frozen bogs, that broke
At every step, and peel'd
The numb flesh from the wet and shivering leg,
Laying bare the white and senseless bone,—
Labored the scattered wreck,
The meager fragments of the Conqueror's hosts.
The fierce and hardy foe pursued them close:
20
Striking the worn and wearied to the earth.
And ever and anon, in the still night,
Broke threat'ningly upon their bivouac,
The Hetman's wild hurra!
And many, where they pitch'd their tents for rest,
O'ercome by hunger, and fatigue, and cold,
Lay down, and slept, and never woke again.
Thus driven, thousands perish. Thousands more,
Old veterans, reach the fatal stream, since call'd
The stream of myriad bones.
Hanging upon their rear, the Russian hordes
Harass, and capture, and fast thin their ranks.
—Now, crowded close upon the miry bank,
The hovering Cossacks, like a murky cloud
O'ercharged with lightning, pour their volleys forth;
And cannon, thickly planted on the heights,
Hurl down their thunderbolts.
O, execrations terrible—and prayers
From lips that know not how to fashion them—
Ascend to Heaven; but, ere done, the tongues
That shout them forth, are still'd in death forever.
Thousands now rush upon the treacherous ice;
Too weak, it breaks; and the engulfing stream
Becomes their sepulcher.
Thousands escape across the creaking bridge;
But, throng'd by thousands still behind, behold,
It bendeth with its weight of human woe!
Down, down it sinks!—Among the broken ice,
A momentary struggle of weak limbs—
A shudder—then an agonizing shriek,
That peals above the loud artillery,
And Cossack's wild hurra—
And they are buried in the swelling flood.
21
But Famine overtakes them. Some lie down,
And die—and their companions gorge their fill,
Ere cools the shriveled flesh, and fevered blood.
Sickening, the Eye of Vision turn'd away—
But a dim recollection still remains,
Of the fall'n Conqueror banish'd to an isle
Which his proud spirit spurn'd, and he soon left,
And seized again the scepter and the crown;
And something, of a hard-fought field, where set
An Empire's star in blood,—
And the proud Eagle to the earth was dragg'd,
And maim'd forever.
But a dim recollection still remains,
Of the fall'n Conqueror banish'd to an isle
Which his proud spirit spurn'd, and he soon left,
And seized again the scepter and the crown;
And something, of a hard-fought field, where set
An Empire's star in blood,—
And the proud Eagle to the earth was dragg'd,
And maim'd forever.
XI.
Again the vision changed.
Dismal, and dark, a sterile isle
Rose from the desert Deep;
Unpeopled, cheerless, frowning, wild and bleak—
A wart on Ocean's bosom. And I thought,
Gazing on that excrescence without shape:
Whether, at the creation, when went forth
The mandate, that old Chaos should give place
To Order, and the earth to being sprang,
The dregs of the chaotic mass, which could
No form of beauty take, nor fashion'd be
To fertile soil, rich gem, or precious ore,
Were not, from every quarter of the earth,
So beautiful in that its younger day,
Gathered, and by the Hand Omnipotent
Sent quick careering through all space, till caught
In the lone bosom of the sea, cut off,
Hundreds of leagues on every side, from land;
Where they have ever been, a constant mark
For the fierce bolts of elemental strife.
Dismal, and dark, a sterile isle
Rose from the desert Deep;
Unpeopled, cheerless, frowning, wild and bleak—
A wart on Ocean's bosom. And I thought,
Gazing on that excrescence without shape:
Whether, at the creation, when went forth
The mandate, that old Chaos should give place
To Order, and the earth to being sprang,
The dregs of the chaotic mass, which could
No form of beauty take, nor fashion'd be
To fertile soil, rich gem, or precious ore,
Were not, from every quarter of the earth,
So beautiful in that its younger day,
Gathered, and by the Hand Omnipotent
Sent quick careering through all space, till caught
In the lone bosom of the sea, cut off,
22
Where they have ever been, a constant mark
For the fierce bolts of elemental strife.
Unpeopled? Not forever! What is that,
With the proud step and bearing of a god,
Moving upon the ocean isle? A man!
Ay, and a kingly one. How would that head
Become a crown! And that firm step, methinks,
Might fearlessly mount upward to a throne!
A smile! oh, such a one might millions win;
And what an eye to awe them! Nearer—ha!
Mem'ry—But what hath memory to do
With that lone dweller on the ocean isle?
He grows familiar—Ha! that attitude!
The lip—the scowl—the folded arms—the whole
Bearing and aspect! ''Tis the Conqueror!
And art thou fallen, wonder of the age! Self-raised,
And self-supported despot, art thou fallen!
Dealer of destinies! who hath dealt thine?
Conqueror of kingdoms! who hath conquered thee?
—Ay, gaze upon the heaving Deep—and there
Behold thy bosom's synonym! Thou need'st
No other mirror; for thou art as wild,
And restless as the ocean, and as chafed!
It has its limits, and thou now hast thine:
Each deluged once the world; thou worst, with blood.
But both are bounded now; and both alike
Rage 'gainst the world, and murmur angrily;
But there's a Power upon ye— and ye go
Not forth again to fill that world with awe.
Gaze then upon the deep—gaze on; and hold
Companionship with darkness, and with storm—
The elements alike of it and thee!
Well can'st thou hear, unmoved, the thunder-shock,
And fearless look upon the lightning-shaft:
What are they?—what is all the strife, the war
Of elements, to one whose word hath shaken
Kings from their thrones, and in the ruins laid
Themselves, and those that were most true to them!
—But still thou hast the bearing, and the look,
Of him who sat upon his self-got throne,
And sway'd so many millions. Is it so,
That they have only clipt the Eagle's wings,
Not tamed his daring nature? Ay, it is.
Thou still art he in heart, in will, in wish,
The same in all but freedom. Only bent,
Not broken—though subdued, unconquer'd still:
Like some proud horse, caught on his native plains,
Whose mettle is untouch'd, though curb and bit
Have cramp'd his mighty action.
What a change!
Thee prison'd on this narrow bound, whose soul
Empires and kingdoms could not satisfy!
O, must not, thus confined, thy proud heart ache!
All-grasping as it was, must it not burst!
With the proud step and bearing of a god,
Moving upon the ocean isle? A man!
Ay, and a kingly one. How would that head
Become a crown! And that firm step, methinks,
Might fearlessly mount upward to a throne!
A smile! oh, such a one might millions win;
And what an eye to awe them! Nearer—ha!
Mem'ry—But what hath memory to do
With that lone dweller on the ocean isle?
He grows familiar—Ha! that attitude!
The lip—the scowl—the folded arms—the whole
Bearing and aspect! ''Tis the Conqueror!
And art thou fallen, wonder of the age! Self-raised,
And self-supported despot, art thou fallen!
Dealer of destinies! who hath dealt thine?
Conqueror of kingdoms! who hath conquered thee?
—Ay, gaze upon the heaving Deep—and there
Behold thy bosom's synonym! Thou need'st
No other mirror; for thou art as wild,
And restless as the ocean, and as chafed!
It has its limits, and thou now hast thine:
Each deluged once the world; thou worst, with blood.
But both are bounded now; and both alike
Rage 'gainst the world, and murmur angrily;
But there's a Power upon ye— and ye go
Not forth again to fill that world with awe.
Gaze then upon the deep—gaze on; and hold
Companionship with darkness, and with storm—
23
Well can'st thou hear, unmoved, the thunder-shock,
And fearless look upon the lightning-shaft:
What are they?—what is all the strife, the war
Of elements, to one whose word hath shaken
Kings from their thrones, and in the ruins laid
Themselves, and those that were most true to them!
—But still thou hast the bearing, and the look,
Of him who sat upon his self-got throne,
And sway'd so many millions. Is it so,
That they have only clipt the Eagle's wings,
Not tamed his daring nature? Ay, it is.
Thou still art he in heart, in will, in wish,
The same in all but freedom. Only bent,
Not broken—though subdued, unconquer'd still:
Like some proud horse, caught on his native plains,
Whose mettle is untouch'd, though curb and bit
Have cramp'd his mighty action.
What a change!
Thee prison'd on this narrow bound, whose soul
Empires and kingdoms could not satisfy!
O, must not, thus confined, thy proud heart ache!
All-grasping as it was, must it not burst!
XII.
Again the vision changed.
But days, and months, and years, had come and gone,
While its pain'd eye was turn'd.
But this sad revelation was the last;
For that bright star, which had so fix'd the spell,
Shorn of its beams, and going dimly down,
Soon lost the pow'r to keep the waking mind
Subservient to the sleeping.
But days, and months, and years, had come and gone,
While its pain'd eye was turn'd.
But this sad revelation was the last;
For that bright star, which had so fix'd the spell,
Shorn of its beams, and going dimly down,
Soon lost the pow'r to keep the waking mind
Subservient to the sleeping.
24
It was so.
That heart was conquer'd, to itself a prey;
Broken, by the humiliating sense
Of what it was, and ever-crowding dreams
Of what it once had been; broken at last!
And the colossal wonder of the age,
Whose name had been a terror unto kings;
Whose deeds alone, of good and ill, would fill
The trump of Fame for ages; whose success
Had been without a modern precedent;
This idol of capricious Fortune, now
Was a mere man, upon his bed of death;
With weeping friends around, to close his eyes.
That heart was conquer'd, to itself a prey;
Broken, by the humiliating sense
Of what it was, and ever-crowding dreams
Of what it once had been; broken at last!
And the colossal wonder of the age,
Whose name had been a terror unto kings;
Whose deeds alone, of good and ill, would fill
The trump of Fame for ages; whose success
Had been without a modern precedent;
This idol of capricious Fortune, now
Was a mere man, upon his bed of death;
With weeping friends around, to close his eyes.
'Tis done!
Shrouded and coffin'd is the silent clay;
Its pall, a martial cloak.
Rough cheeks are pale, hard hearts are touch'd with grief;
And eyes long used to gaze upon the field
Of battle and of blood, are dimm'd with tears,—
Which, as the passing soldier comes to take
His farewell look, and press the clammy hand,
Fall, and bedew the all-immortal dust
Of ill-directed Greatness.
Proud of their burthen, soldiers—gallant foes—
Now bear the body to its lowly grave;
And, while the service for the dead is said,
Loud booms the minute-gun.
Now, lower'd amid the volleying cannon's roar,
The coffin'd clay sinks to its narrow bound;
And on that little Isle,
The heart which had so long convulsed the world,
Was still'd forever
Shrouded and coffin'd is the silent clay;
Its pall, a martial cloak.
Rough cheeks are pale, hard hearts are touch'd with grief;
And eyes long used to gaze upon the field
Of battle and of blood, are dimm'd with tears,—
Which, as the passing soldier comes to take
His farewell look, and press the clammy hand,
Fall, and bedew the all-immortal dust
Of ill-directed Greatness.
Proud of their burthen, soldiers—gallant foes—
Now bear the body to its lowly grave;
And, while the service for the dead is said,
Loud booms the minute-gun.
Now, lower'd amid the volleying cannon's roar,
The coffin'd clay sinks to its narrow bound;
And on that little Isle,
The heart which had so long convulsed the world,
Was still'd forever
25
OUR WESTERN LAND.
I.
Ohio-peh-he-le!—Peek-han-ne! The prideOf the land where thy waters, O-pe-le-chen! glide.
Though thy vales, and the hills in the distance, that loom
Till they're part of the azure, or lost in the gloom,
Have long been the homes of the noble and brave,
Whose proud halls are built on the Indian's grave,—
Yet seldom the Poet hath made thee his theme,
Ohio-peh-he-le! all beautiful stream!
And he who now thy name would twine
With his and Poesy's, and wed
Them thus, knows not that e'er his line,
Save on thy borders, shall be read.
Yet on thy shore his boyhood's dreams
Have pass'd, and manhood's truths come on;
And here have flash'd those glorious gleams
Of Phantasie, whose light hath won
His yearning heart from worldly things,
And led it to the Spirit's springs.
And in thy deep and solemn shades
Hath he communed with those, whose page
The deathless fire of Song pervades—
The master-minds of many an age.
And here have hopes been form'd, and crush'd
And wearying trial, ills repaid;
26
And those who, when his feet have stray'd.
Between him and his danger rush'd,
Are gone; and kindred have been laid
Forever in the silent tomb.
Fair stream! I love thee—and thy gloom
Of forest—and thy strength of soil—
Thy wild and beetling rocks, that, flung
Unfashion'd from Creation's hand,
Loom in mid-heaven—where eagles toil,
And build, and rear their screaming young,
By earthquakes rock'd, by tempests fann'd!
II.
Ohio-pechen! Belle riviere!For beauty, none with thee compare.
How bright thou first break'st on the view.
Where dark Mononga's waters woo
Fair Alleghany's, wild and free.
Behold the clear Stream's coquetry!
The more 'tis woo'd and press'd, the more
It feigns to love its pebbly shore;
Retreating still, but still so fair,
Much may the wooing water dare,
That they the self-same bed may share.
Still strives she, that it may not be;
And still retreats, th' embrace to flee
Of the dark Wooer: But anon
They mingle, and together run—
The same the Wooer and the Won.
Thus ye may see a bashful bride,
Consenting half, and half denying;
Now looking love, and now aside
Turning her melting eyes; now flying
27
But careful still her blushing face
To turn to him she hath forsaken—
Full willing soon to be o'ertaken;
And when she is pursued and caught,
A thread will hold her—as it ought!
Now, modest maiden-struggles vain,
She blushing yields, until the twain
Are one, even as these mingled waves,k
Which part but at their ocean graves.
III.
But here, thy beetling cliffs among,Ohio, pause we in our song.
Who muses by the wooing wave?
His feet are on the Scotchman's grave!
Here highland clans and savage hordes,
With giant strength have madly striven;
And Gaul's and Britain's gory swords
Home to the hilt been driven.
Oh, Caledonia! blood that runs
In breast of thine, is free and strong;
And here thy kilted highland sons,
With gallant Grant, fough well and long:
Scorning to yield—too brave to turn—
The spirit theirs of Bannock-burn!
Sword, war-club, bayonet and knife,
Were busy in that fearful strife.
There was no quarter—“Head for head!”
And many a kilt and plume were red;
And many a clansman slept in death—
His blood upon a strangers heath.
28
Thy dauntless hearts the bloody fray;
And fiercely fought and well, and fared
As soldiers must on battle day:
The night came, and around they lay!
IV.
Long years, since then, have come and pass'd.Where are thy forests, dark and vast,
And frowning battlements, Du Quesne?
Those long have to the earth been cast;
For these, we look in vain.
Where frown'd the fort in those old days,
Now stand the halls of Industry;
Nor trench nor picket meets the gaze—
But the proud structures of the free.
Where now the Indian do ye see,
Or Frenchman? Gone—forever gone,
Gaul, savage, fort, and skulking-tree!
And are there now no relics? None!
Their works? There's ‘not a stone on stone!’
Virginian—Briton—Highlander—
Where is their honored sepulcher?
Around! Ye'll sometimes find a bone!
Their names? They never have been writ!
The dust we stand upon has one—
And they are part of it!
Yet many a brave one hither came,
To sell his heart's blood for renown;
And dreaming of a warrior's fame,
Unshrinking to the grave went down:
Yet, even now, yon flower ye see,
Knows more of them, by far, than we.
29
V.
But not alone doth Grandeur mark,With towering hill, and forest dark,
And cloud-capp'd cliff, thy shores, fair stream;
Rich groves and sunny isles are thine,
And quiet vales thy borders line;
And on thy shores the fruitful vine,
And ever-fragrant eglantine,
With hazle, haw, and thorn, combine
To form enchanting bow'rs, which dream
Of Poet never hath surpass'd.
And in thy pearly waves are glass'd
Tallest and most gigantic trees,
And skies as fair as Italy's.
The land thou windest through, has not
A mountain pass, or prairie plat,
Where daring deeds have not been done;
And every dark and wooded dell
Some thrilling tale of blood can tell:
There a heroic father fell,
And here his dauntless son;
And there, perhaps a rod away,
The fetter'd wife and mother lay—
Her infant playing by her side.
And she hath seen her first-born slain,
And heard the hatchet cleave his brain,
And watched his heart's blood flow like rain—
Her first-born, and her pride.
And heard her lord's loud battle-cry,
And seen him bravely do and die.
— Spartan! though to the earth o'erthrown,
Still waged he the unequal fight—
Still aim'd the deadly fire aright—
And when he felt death's gathering night
30
Fell back, and died without a groan.
Now seiz'd the savage her prattling child!
It look'd in his tattoo'd face, and smiled
The baubles and vermil there to see.
Loud shrieks that mother, and rends her hair—
Then shivers the thongs that bind her there,
And begs the savage her child to spare;
But, grinning, he swings it in the air,
And dashes it 'gainst a tree;
Then lays it, quivering, at her feet.
A frantic moment 'tis closely prest,
Unconsciously, to her yearning breast;
But its little heart hath ceas'd to beat,
And her streaming hair is its winding sheet.
—How wild has grown that mother's eye!
Her limbs fail, and her brain reels round;
Senseless, she falls upon the ground;
A moment, and again she's bound.
Up, mother! they must fly.
Up! up! they cannot longer stay,
And thou with them must haste away.
Too weak? Then must thou die!
A tomahawk swings in the silent air,
A dark hand clenches her tangled hair,
The crown of her head is bloody and bare,
And, dying, alone they leave her there.
But hark! in that dell a deathshot rings,
And aloft the hindmost savage springs,
And falls like a stone to the ground;
But his comrades fear the vengeance near—
And away, away, like the startled deer
When the baying pack are close in the rear,
O'er rock and log they bound.
31
Who had skulk'd when the havoc was first begun;
He had rifle—but loads, alas! but one.
And he saw his father and brother slain,
And the dead babe thrown at its mother's feet:
And heard her plead for mercy in vain,
And soon beheld her fetter'd again,
Death, but not mercy, to meet.
A knife gleam'd red on his straining eye,
And he saw her scalp-lock waved on high:
Then he swore that the last who lingered should die
Of that dark and murderous band.
They fly; but the proud scalp-bearer is still
But half way up the bordering hill:
Young hero, now! The trigger he drew;
The glen was fill'd with his wild halloo;
And away the cowardly Indians flew,
As if hundreds were at hand.
But he who had led those murderers on,
And paused for the scalp when his band were gone,
Lay cold and stiff in that bloody dell—
And the panther found him where he fell.
VI.
Ohio-pechen—glorious river!Thy children's same shall last forever.
There's scarce a rod along thy shore,
Where grappled not, in days of yore,
The warrior, or the Sagamore,
And iron-sinewed pioneer.
Seldom have foes so madly striven;
Quarter was neither asked nor given;
The white-man placed his trust in Heaven;
The Indian knew not fear.
32
The war-club and the bayonet,
At rise of sun; and at the set,
Savage and soldier struggled yet
In merciless border war.
Who conquered? Look around the scene!
The wigwam nowhere dots the green;
The Indian's days of power, have been—
The white-man's, are.
VII.
Old days are gone; and pass'd awayAll traces of the Indian's sway.
Far other scenes surround us now;
In quiet vale, on mountain brow,
And far retired in shady glen,
Behold the dwellings of the free—
A race who scorn to bend the knee,
Save at the shrine of God it be:
Fair women, and brave men.
According to Messrs. Duponceau and Heckewelder, gentlemen of much research into our aboriginal dialects, the word Ohio, is derived from the language of the Delawares,—being an abreviation, or rather the three first syllables of several words which they find in the idiom of that tribe. These words, with their significations, as given in the last number of the “Transactions of the American Philosophical Society,” are as follows:
Ohui—Ohi, very; O'pee, white; Ope-le-chen, bright, shining;— O-peek, white with froth; Ohio-pe-chen, it is of a white color; Ohio-peek, very white, (caused by froth or white caps:) Ohio-phan-ne, very white stream; Ohio-peek-han-ne, very deep and white stream; Ohio-peh-he-le, white frothy water.
It would appear from the above, that the early emigrants took the liberty of curtailing the Aboriginal name of our noble river of its fair proportions. I do not know that this is a very “safe precedent;” but I have ventured to to the like with the name of one of its head-waters—for which I humbly crave pardon of antiquaties and critics. Words of five syllables, as Monongahela, are rather unmanageable things in octo-syllabic verse.
Belle riviere—Beautiful river; the name bestowed upon the Ohio by the early French explorers; pronounced nearly as if written riv-yare.
The waters of the Alleghany are beautiful and clear; and the current of this river is considerably more rapid than that of the Monongahela, whose waters are of a dark muddy color. Standing upon the point of their junction, when the Monongahela is the highest—which is rarely the case, but which the author was fortunate enough once to witness,—a fine sight is presented. The Alleghany comes sweeping along, sparkling in the sunlight or starlight, —like “a thing of life,” free and joyous in the present moment, and having no thought of the next. But no sooner does it reach the point of junction, than, crowded upon by the muddy waters of the Monongahela, it retreats to the north shore of the Ohio,—as if, like a coy maiden, to shun the advances of the “Dark Wooer.” And it is several miles before the two streams fully unite—a dark line being perceptible for a considerable distance, which gradually nears the north shore, and grows less distinct, till the waters are completely mingled.
The allusion here is to the bloody battle on the morning of September 22, 1758, between a select corps of eight hundred men, consisting of English, Highlanders, and Virginians, under the command of Major Grant, and a large body of French and Indians.
33
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.
THE OLD SOLDIER.
I.
There was a sound of battle
Borne on the driving breeze;
And arm'd hosts gathered on the land—
Arm'd vessels sail'd the seas.
From Albion's haughty Island
The bold invaders came,
For fancied wrongs to legislate
With bayonet, sword, and flame.
Borne on the driving breeze;
And arm'd hosts gathered on the land—
Arm'd vessels sail'd the seas.
From Albion's haughty Island
The bold invaders came,
For fancied wrongs to legislate
With bayonet, sword, and flame.
On Erie's shores and waters,
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
They marshall'd stern and brave.
A call! a call!—Our country
Bids her brightest and her best
To arm, and strike; and bravely they
Obey the high behest.
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
They marshall'd stern and brave.
A call! a call!—Our country
Bids her brightest and her best
To arm, and strike; and bravely they
Obey the high behest.
34
There is a neat white cottage,
Embower'd in shading trees,
Whose spiral tops swing back and fore
In dalliance with the breeze.
Fair eyes are dimm'd with weeping,
Which late with joy were bright;
And gentle tones are fill'd with grief,
That swell'd with song last night.
Embower'd in shading trees,
Whose spiral tops swing back and fore
In dalliance with the breeze.
Fair eyes are dimm'd with weeping,
Which late with joy were bright;
And gentle tones are fill'd with grief,
That swell'd with song last night.
Wife—husband—father—daughter—
Are gather'd at the gate:
His heart with patriot blood beats high;
Theirs—they are desolate.
One kiss for weeping daughter—
A warm embrace for wife—
He flings the tear-drop from his eye:
“My country's is my life!”
Are gather'd at the gate:
His heart with patriot blood beats high;
Theirs—they are desolate.
One kiss for weeping daughter—
A warm embrace for wife—
He flings the tear-drop from his eye:
“My country's is my life!”
The free steed soon is mounted—
Off he rushes, like the wind;
And the cottage-home—the wife—the child—
Oh, these are far behind!
On the field of blood, that father
Strikes for his native land:—
Among the foremost, fearlessly
And firm, he takes his stand.
Off he rushes, like the wind;
And the cottage-home—the wife—the child—
Oh, these are far behind!
On the field of blood, that father
Strikes for his native land:—
Among the foremost, fearlessly
And firm, he takes his stand.
Gloom rested on our country!
Her manly breasts were bared—
But Want, with paralysing power,
On those brave patriots stared.
Oh, then that noble father,
Tho' his fortune was but small,
Oped cheerfully his needed purse,
And freely gave it all!
Her manly breasts were bared—
But Want, with paralysing power,
On those brave patriots stared.
Oh, then that noble father,
Tho' his fortune was but small,
Oped cheerfully his needed purse,
And freely gave it all!
35
On Erie's shores and waters,
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
The Briton found a grave!
And he who gave so freely
His money and his toil—
How joy'd his heart, that victory
Had freed his native soil.
By old Potomac's wave,
On Louisiana's glorious strand,
The Briton found a grave!
And he who gave so freely
His money and his toil—
How joy'd his heart, that victory
Had freed his native soil.
II.
Long years of peace and glory
Have bless'd our favor'd land:—
Behold an old and gray-hair'd man
Before our rulers stand!
Worn, and in spirit broken,
His head bow'd to the dust,
Trembling he hands his prayer for aid—
My country—Oh, be just!
Have bless'd our favor'd land:—
Behold an old and gray-hair'd man
Before our rulers stand!
Worn, and in spirit broken,
His head bow'd to the dust,
Trembling he hands his prayer for aid—
My country—Oh, be just!
One of thy war-worn veterans,
—Poor and in want—is he:
Bethink thee of their sufferings
On land and on the sea!
One of thy war-worn veterans—
Whose blood was freely shed,
When 'gainst the lordly Lion's might
Thy patriot sons were led.
—Poor and in want—is he:
Bethink thee of their sufferings
On land and on the sea!
One of thy war-worn veterans—
Whose blood was freely shed,
When 'gainst the lordly Lion's might
Thy patriot sons were led.
Give him of thy abundance!
—His life is near its close—
Oh, render him the aid he asks,
To mitigate his woes.
Shame, shame, my tardy country!
Loud Faction fills thy halls;
And those that govern thee are deaf,
When suffering virtue calls.
—His life is near its close—
Oh, render him the aid he asks,
To mitigate his woes.
Shame, shame, my tardy country!
Loud Faction fills thy halls;
36
When suffering virtue calls.
Gone is that hoary soldier—
Unheard his just demand:
His proud soul could not stoop to court
The magnates of the land!
Gone is that hoary soldier!
Home?—Would that it had been!
No! no!—To beg about the land
His heart's blood help'd to win!
Unheard his just demand:
His proud soul could not stoop to court
The magnates of the land!
Gone is that hoary soldier!
Home?—Would that it had been!
No! no!—To beg about the land
His heart's blood help'd to win!
III.
Another year hath sprinkled
Its sorrows on his head:
Again our council halls receive
His melancholy tread.
Again he asks for justice;
He craves no beggar's boon;
Grant it, my country, and be great!
To help, it must be soon.
Its sorrows on his head:
Again our council halls receive
His melancholy tread.
Again he asks for justice;
He craves no beggar's boon;
Grant it, my country, and be great!
To help, it must be soon.
Look on that form—bent—feeble!
Oh, know ye not the cause?
That war-worn cheek—the wounded limb!
How can ye longer pause?
Gaze on that hoary veteran!
Grave Seniors, know ye not
Who rush'd, with purse and sword in hand?
That father, from that cot!
Oh, know ye not the cause?
That war-worn cheek—the wounded limb!
How can ye longer pause?
Gaze on that hoary veteran!
Grave Seniors, know ye not
Who rush'd, with purse and sword in hand?
That father, from that cot!
Give him of thy abundance!
His life, how near its close!
Justice alone will be enough
To mitigate his woes.
Neglect, disease, misfortune,
Have bow'd him to the dust:
Compell'd, he begs what is his right—
My country—Oh, be just!
His life, how near its close!
Justice alone will be enough
To mitigate his woes.
37
Have bow'd him to the dust:
Compell'd, he begs what is his right—
My country—Oh, be just!
Too late!—The cord is broken!
Go—speak in Death's cold ear!
It, or yon sculptured group, as well
As he ye name, can hear.
My country!—oh, my country!
That such should ask in vain!
A blot on thy escutcheon!—on
Thy future page, a stain!
Go—speak in Death's cold ear!
It, or yon sculptured group, as well
As he ye name, can hear.
My country!—oh, my country!
That such should ask in vain!
A blot on thy escutcheon!—on
Thy future page, a stain!
“A painful and melancholy affair occurred here last night. An aged veteran, who served in the American army at New -Orleans, in the last war, and who had advanced his private fortune to the amount of ten thousand dollars, to supply it with arms, had becomed reduced to poverty, and at the last session of Congress, presented a claim for repayment. By press of business, or some other cause, his interest was thrust aside, and neglected. He had again come to Washington to press his claim; but day after day coming but to harass him with a new hope and a new disappointment, his chivalric spirit sunk beneath the agonies of “hope deferred.” His claim was favorably reported to-day, by the chairman of the committee on military affairs. But, alas! it came too late. He was found dead this morning, believed to have deceased of a broken heart.”—Letter from Washington City, Jan. 21, 1835.
A SIMILE.
Far in the slumberous West,
Cliff-like, and piled on the horizon's verge,
A dark cloud lay at rest.
There was no wind to urge
It from its quiet couch—and there it lay,
Dreaming the dewy twilight hour away.
Cliff-like, and piled on the horizon's verge,
A dark cloud lay at rest.
There was no wind to urge
It from its quiet couch—and there it lay,
Dreaming the dewy twilight hour away.
But while I look'd, it seem'd
By some convulsion, inward, to be torn.
Soon on the air it stream'd
In fragments, and was borne,
All rent and tatter'd, from my aching sight—
Severed too widely e'er to re-unite.
By some convulsion, inward, to be torn.
Soon on the air it stream'd
In fragments, and was borne,
All rent and tatter'd, from my aching sight—
Severed too widely e'er to re-unite.
38
In their paternal home
A numerous circle lived, in happy peace.
They fear'd no ills to come,
But dream'd of joy's increase.
By want or poverty unpinch'd, they ne'er
Had known the bosom's storm—the heart's despair.
A numerous circle lived, in happy peace.
They fear'd no ills to come,
But dream'd of joy's increase.
By want or poverty unpinch'd, they ne'er
Had known the bosom's storm—the heart's despair.
But from their quiet hearth,
Misfortune soon, or discord, swept them far.
They went wind-driven forth,
Guided by no fix'd star.
Some roam the earth—some sail the billowy main—
Severed too widely to unite again.
Misfortune soon, or discord, swept them far.
They went wind-driven forth,
Guided by no fix'd star.
Some roam the earth—some sail the billowy main—
Severed too widely to unite again.
But, as the ample space
Receiv'd, and all absorb'd that scatter'd cloud,
So, when their mortal race
Ends with the pall and shroud,
Shall THEY, by infinite space receiv'd, ascend
And have new being, without change or end!
Receiv'd, and all absorb'd that scatter'd cloud,
So, when their mortal race
Ends with the pall and shroud,
Shall THEY, by infinite space receiv'd, ascend
And have new being, without change or end!
ELEGIAC VERSES,
OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH, OCTOBER, 1833, OF THE HON. THOMAS SMITH GRIMKE.
Gone in his manhood's bloom!
By the great Gatherer, gathered to the fold,
The dark and solemn tomb—
Solemn, and dark, and cold.
How quickly was his race of glory run!
Tears, for the worthy and the noble one.
By the great Gatherer, gathered to the fold,
The dark and solemn tomb—
Solemn, and dark, and cold.
How quickly was his race of glory run!
Tears, for the worthy and the noble one.
39
The strength of man, how frail;
His hold on life, how insecure at best;
To-day he breasts the gale—
To-morrow, lies at rest.
Bright eye, and glowing cheek, and shining tress,
Dim, in the chill and loathsome newt's caress.
His hold on life, how insecure at best;
To-day he breasts the gale—
To-morrow, lies at rest.
Bright eye, and glowing cheek, and shining tress,
Dim, in the chill and loathsome newt's caress.
And the high, manly brow,
Where Genius lights his deathless fires to-day,
To-morrow moulders low,
Beneath the fresh-heap'd clay;
And the cold grave-worm drags his slimy length,
Where Thought display'd its ardor, Mind its strength.
Where Genius lights his deathless fires to-day,
To-morrow moulders low,
Beneath the fresh-heap'd clay;
And the cold grave-worm drags his slimy length,
Where Thought display'd its ardor, Mind its strength.
Tears, for the worthy one!
When last ye met him, in that crowded hall,
Thought ye his shroud was spun,
Or colored was his pall?
No! of us all, on him among the last,
Would ye have deem'd Death's siroc-breath had past.
When last ye met him, in that crowded hall,
Thought ye his shroud was spun,
Or colored was his pall?
No! of us all, on him among the last,
Would ye have deem'd Death's siroc-breath had past.
Oh, that the good of earth
Should go down to the humid grave so soon!
Flow'rs that at morn have birth,
And withered are at noon:
Flinging their fragrance on the chainless wind—
It, and their memory only, left behind.
Should go down to the humid grave so soon!
Flow'rs that at morn have birth,
And withered are at noon:
Flinging their fragrance on the chainless wind—
It, and their memory only, left behind.
The wail that here arose,
Far, to the balmy South, is borne along;
And, as it journeys, grows
More sorrowful and strong—
For every patriot-breast swells high with grief,
And finds, in wailing words, a sad relief.
Far, to the balmy South, is borne along;
And, as it journeys, grows
More sorrowful and strong—
For every patriot-breast swells high with grief,
And finds, in wailing words, a sad relief.
40
Mournfully, too, the sound
Of autumn's rustling leaves, and eddying gale
That lifts them from the ground,
Chimes with the solemn wail:
Whispering, Exemplar of the great and free!
How much of goodness leaves the world with thee.
Of autumn's rustling leaves, and eddying gale
That lifts them from the ground,
Chimes with the solemn wail:
Whispering, Exemplar of the great and free!
How much of goodness leaves the world with thee.
THE MUSIC OF THE HEART.
The music of the Heart is deep—
And when once tuned to wild romancing,
In vain you bid the visions sleep
That o'er its trembling wires are dancing;
Bright dreams of childhood's yesterday
Are mingling with the dark to-morrow,
Lending a pale, a transient ray
Of joy, to light that page of sorrow.
And when once tuned to wild romancing,
In vain you bid the visions sleep
That o'er its trembling wires are dancing;
Bright dreams of childhood's yesterday
Are mingling with the dark to-morrow,
Lending a pale, a transient ray
Of joy, to light that page of sorrow.
Affection's impulse, and the gush
Of holy and of fervid feeling,
Upon the wildered senses rush,
Like music from a wind-harp stealing:
The voices of the cherish'd dead
The silentness of Death are breaking,
And from Oblivion's gelid bed
The mildewed hopes of youth are waking.
Of holy and of fervid feeling,
Upon the wildered senses rush,
Like music from a wind-harp stealing:
The voices of the cherish'd dead
The silentness of Death are breaking,
And from Oblivion's gelid bed
The mildewed hopes of youth are waking.
The music of the Heart is deep,
Too often breathing notes of sadness,
That win the wearied eye from sleep,
And turn delirious thought to madness.
—It comes! 'tis strange that it should throw
So much of gloom upon the morrow,
As if that after time of woe
Had not, itself, enough of sorrow.
Too often breathing notes of sadness,
That win the wearied eye from sleep,
And turn delirious thought to madness.
41
So much of gloom upon the morrow,
As if that after time of woe
Had not, itself, enough of sorrow.
It comes—it comes!—that sorrowing strain
Rolls heavily; and Lethe's waters
Are heaving, like the mighty main
When Sea-gods war for Ocean's daughters.
It comes!—the voice of other years,
Whose prismy joys have all departed,
To commune with a child of tears,
And with the sear'd and weary-hearted.
Rolls heavily; and Lethe's waters
Are heaving, like the mighty main
When Sea-gods war for Ocean's daughters.
It comes!—the voice of other years,
Whose prismy joys have all departed,
To commune with a child of tears,
And with the sear'd and weary-hearted.
46
CHILDE HAROLD.
“I LONG TO BE AGAIN AMONG THE MOUNTAINS.”
—Byron
—Byron
The mountains! give me them again—
The bold, high hills my feet once trode!
I cannot wear this galling chain,
And will not longer bear this load.
My spirit is too much oppress'd—
My body is too much confined:
They loathe is life of splendid rest!
Oh, what doth it supply to feed the craving mind!
The bold, high hills my feet once trode!
I cannot wear this galling chain,
And will not longer bear this load.
My spirit is too much oppress'd—
My body is too much confined:
They loathe is life of splendid rest!
Oh, what doth it supply to feed the craving mind!
“The mountains! give me them once more—
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
My bosom burns to be away—
My soul yearns for companions meet;
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at my feet.”
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
My bosom burns to be away—
My soul yearns for companions meet;
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at my feet.”
Primate of song!—stern Nature's child!
The world!—the world? What did he there!
His spirit was too fierce and wild
Its forms to heed—its chains to bear.
He was not born for Fashion's slave,
Nor man's nor woman's mate to be:
The world?—'twas but his spirit's grave!
It hath nor check, nor chain, nor charm for such as he.
The world!—the world? What did he there!
His spirit was too fierce and wild
Its forms to heed—its chains to bear.
He was not born for Fashion's slave,
Nor man's nor woman's mate to be:
The world?—'twas but his spirit's grave!
It hath nor check, nor chain, nor charm for such as he.
47
The mountain should be his agen—
The mountain, and the mountaineer:
He 's born to herd with savage men—
Strangers alike to smile and tear!
He, firm of heart and foot, breathes free
Where others pale, and hold their breath:
Commotion is his ecstacy—
But calm, or common-place, his wayward spirit's death.
The mountain, and the mountaineer:
He 's born to herd with savage men—
Strangers alike to smile and tear!
He, firm of heart and foot, breathes free
Where others pale, and hold their breath:
Commotion is his ecstacy—
But calm, or common-place, his wayward spirit's death.
The Suliote, and the Suliote band,
With yataghan and cymetar—
Albanian, and his craggy land,
Firm barriers to the tide of war—
Jew, Giaour, or Mohammedan—
He cared not which—he reck'd not who—
Lewd priest—or fierce and lawless man—
Gloomy—or wild—or stern: such were the ‘chosen few.’
With yataghan and cymetar—
Albanian, and his craggy land,
Firm barriers to the tide of war—
Jew, Giaour, or Mohammedan—
He cared not which—he reck'd not who—
Lewd priest—or fierce and lawless man—
Gloomy—or wild—or stern: such were the ‘chosen few.’
With them he felt a fierce delight—
His spirit all uncurb'd and free;
Or with them through the stormy night—
Or out upon the surging sea,
Where stoop the hurling clouds, and kiss
Morea's billows, lost in gloom—
Or on the shores of Salamis—
Or by the Grecian bard's, or Grecian hero's tomb!
His spirit all uncurb'd and free;
Or with them through the stormy night—
Or out upon the surging sea,
Where stoop the hurling clouds, and kiss
Morea's billows, lost in gloom—
Or on the shores of Salamis—
Or by the Grecian bard's, or Grecian hero's tomb!
Give him, to climb Parnassian Mount,
That frowns o'er Delphi's rocky steep,
And pause upon its awful front,
While Corinth's tempest round him sweep!
To gaze upon its summit hoar,
While thoughts of Eld come thronging fast;
Feats, of the mighty days of yore—
Songs, of the great, and wise, and ever-living Past!
That frowns o'er Delphi's rocky steep,
And pause upon its awful front,
While Corinth's tempest round him sweep!
To gaze upon its summit hoar,
While thoughts of Eld come thronging fast;
Feats, of the mighty days of yore—
Songs, of the great, and wise, and ever-living Past!
48
Give him, to tread Platæa's field,
Whose every foot its tale can tell—
Or Marathon,—or where, with shield
Batter'd and broken spear, they fell,
The heroes of Thermopylæ—
He'll weep above their stoneless graves;
Ay, weep, that such a land should be
The heritage and home of despots and of slaves.
Whose every foot its tale can tell—
Or Marathon,—or where, with shield
Batter'd and broken spear, they fell,
The heroes of Thermopylæ—
He'll weep above their stoneless graves;
Ay, weep, that such a land should be
The heritage and home of despots and of slaves.
And woman? Give not him the brow
Where Fashion wreaths the braided tress:
He scorns to dimpled cheek to bow,
Or rustling of a satin dress.
These conquer not, though they may please—
Too soon is quench'd the flame they fann'd.
For him, the dark-eyed Albanese,
As tameless, beauteous, rude, as her wild native land.
Where Fashion wreaths the braided tress:
He scorns to dimpled cheek to bow,
Or rustling of a satin dress.
These conquer not, though they may please—
Too soon is quench'd the flame they fann'd.
For him, the dark-eyed Albanese,
As tameless, beauteous, rude, as her wild native land.
The mountains!—Give him them once more—
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
His bosom burns to be away—
His soul yearns for companions meet:
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at his feet!
Albanian cliff, or Alpine rock!
That, for the Sea's congenial roar—
This, for the Thunderer's awful shock.
His bosom burns to be away—
His soul yearns for companions meet:
The rifted rock—the lightning's play—
Gray Ocean's crested surge loud-breaking at his feet!
“I have too of my mother about me to be dictated to; I like freedom from constraint; I hate artificial regulations: my conduct has always been dictated by my own feelings—and Lady Byron was quite the creature of rules. She was not permitted either to ride, or run, or walk, but as the physician prescribed. She was not permitted to go out when I wished to go: and then the old house was a mere ghost-house; I dreamed of ghosts, and thought of them waking! It was an existence I could not support.” —Here Lord broke off abruptly, saying—“I hate to speak of my family affairs: though I have been compelled to talk nonsense concerning them, to some of my butterfly visitors, glad on any terms to get rid of their importunities. I long to be again among the mountains! I am fond of solitude; and should never talk nonsense, if I always found plain men to talk to.”—Byron's Conservations with Captain Parry.
51
THE CHOLERA YEAR....1832.
Death! thou hast had thy harvest! this has been
A year of wailing, and a year of woe:
We can but mourn—for thou hast gathered in
The brightest and most beautiful below:
And many, as we fear, unfit to go,
Have heard thy summons, and have felt thy touch;
It may be weakness, but the tear will flow,
And the heart sorrow, for the fate of such.
A year of wailing, and a year of woe:
We can but mourn—for thou hast gathered in
The brightest and most beautiful below:
And many, as we fear, unfit to go,
Have heard thy summons, and have felt thy touch;
It may be weakness, but the tear will flow,
And the heart sorrow, for the fate of such.
How many a cherish'd one hast thou o'ertaken,
Grim King of Terrors, in thy goings forth!
How many, from Life's Rose-tree, hast thou shaken
Of the fair, Eve-like flowers of the earth!
How many, in the glittering halls of mirth,
Hast thou arrested, while the eye was bright
With gladness, and the laughing lip gave birth
To the heart's language, and its full delight!
Grim King of Terrors, in thy goings forth!
How many, from Life's Rose-tree, hast thou shaken
Of the fair, Eve-like flowers of the earth!
How many, in the glittering halls of mirth,
Hast thou arrested, while the eye was bright
With gladness, and the laughing lip gave birth
To the heart's language, and its full delight!
52
Thou hast come arm'd with Pestilence! the child
Hath fallen, stricken on its mother's breast;
And, while with sudden sorrow almost wild,
She too is stricken, and is laid to rest!
And ere her lately living limbs are drest,
And straighten'd for the grave, the friends that do
This last sad act—the truest and the best—
The Desolator's scourge may smite them too!
Hath fallen, stricken on its mother's breast;
And, while with sudden sorrow almost wild,
She too is stricken, and is laid to rest!
And ere her lately living limbs are drest,
And straighten'd for the grave, the friends that do
This last sad act—the truest and the best—
The Desolator's scourge may smite them too!
Genius, at thy approach, hath furl'd its wings;
Grandeur hath doff'd its purple—might its power;
Hope and Religion sought the land where springs
Eternal Joy, to gild each blissful hour;
And Guilt, repentant, burst the clouds which lour
Around its way, and hide the pleasant sky.
Death! thou art great and mighty to devour—
But thy commission dateth from on high.
Grandeur hath doff'd its purple—might its power;
Hope and Religion sought the land where springs
Eternal Joy, to gild each blissful hour;
And Guilt, repentant, burst the clouds which lour
Around its way, and hide the pleasant sky.
Death! thou art great and mighty to devour—
But thy commission dateth from on high.
Then let none question!—He who dwelleth there,
Knoweth his purposes—and seeth all!
The Pestilence which cometh on the air
But reaps and gathers those which else might fall
By famine, or the sword. By some, the call
Is welcomed, and is heard without a sigh:
They could with their own hands adjust the pall—
And, praying, close their eyes—and, smiling, die!
Knoweth his purposes—and seeth all!
The Pestilence which cometh on the air
But reaps and gathers those which else might fall
By famine, or the sword. By some, the call
Is welcomed, and is heard without a sigh:
They could with their own hands adjust the pall—
And, praying, close their eyes—and, smiling, die!
53
LYRICS
THEY TOLD ME NOT TO LOVE HIM.
BALLAD—MUSIC BY E. THOMAS.
They told me not to love him!
They said that he would prove
Unworthy of so rich a gem,
As woman's priceless love:
But I believe'd them not—oh, no!
I knew it could not be,
That one so false as they thought him,
Could be so dear to me.
They said that he would prove
Unworthy of so rich a gem,
As woman's priceless love:
But I believe'd them not—oh, no!
I knew it could not be,
That one so false as they thought him,
Could be so dear to me.
They told me not to love him!
They said he was not true;
And bade me have a care, lest I
Should do what I might rue:
At first I scorn'd their warnings—for
I could not think that he
Conceal'd beneath so fair a brow,
A heart of perfidy.
They said he was not true;
And bade me have a care, lest I
Should do what I might rue:
At first I scorn'd their warnings—for
I could not think that he
Conceal'd beneath so fair a brow,
A heart of perfidy.
54
They told me to discard him!
They said he meant me ill—
And darkly spoke of fiends that lure,
And smile, and kiss, and—kill!
I all unheeding heard them—for
I knew it could not be,
That one so false as they thought him,
Could be so dear to me.
They said he meant me ill—
And darkly spoke of fiends that lure,
And smile, and kiss, and—kill!
I all unheeding heard them—for
I knew it could not be,
That one so false as they thought him,
Could be so dear to me.
But they forc'd me to discard him!
Yet I could not cease to love—
For our mutual vows recorded were
By angel hands above.
He left his boyhood's home, and sought
Forgetfulness afar;
But memory stung him—and he fought,
And fell, in glorious war.
Yet I could not cease to love—
For our mutual vows recorded were
By angel hands above.
He left his boyhood's home, and sought
Forgetfulness afar;
But memory stung him—and he fought,
And fell, in glorious war.
He dwells in Heaven now—while I
Am doom'd to this dull Earth:
O, how my sad soul longs to break
Away, and wander forth.
From star to star its course would be—
Unresting it would go,
Till we united were above,
Who severed were below.
Am doom'd to this dull Earth:
O, how my sad soul longs to break
Away, and wander forth.
From star to star its course would be—
Unresting it would go,
Till we united were above,
Who severed were below.
55
THE DAY-DREAM
MUSIC—‘CUPID WARNING’—BY E. THOMAS.
One summer night, when the stars shone bright,
And the clover was gem'd with dew,
A lone maid walk'd in a grove, and talk'd:
Now, of what did she talk, think you, think you?
Of what did she talk, think you?
And the clover was gem'd with dew,
A lone maid walk'd in a grove, and talk'd:
Now, of what did she talk, think you, think you?
Of what did she talk, think you?
“Love! Love!” she said, and she hung her head,
“Oh, how strange to me it seems,
That maidens coy should let such a boy
So trouble them in their dreams, their dreams;
So trouble them in their dreams.
“Oh, how strange to me it seems,
That maidens coy should let such a boy
So trouble them in their dreams, their dreams;
So trouble them in their dreams.
“Only to-day, as asleep I lay,
With this letter open wide,
I thought that one, who had long been gone,
Walk'd here, with me at his side, his side;
Walk'd here, with me at his side.
With this letter open wide,
I thought that one, who had long been gone,
Walk'd here, with me at his side, his side;
Walk'd here, with me at his side.
“But not for this am I here, I wis;
I believe not in dreams—oh, no!
And yet if I knew my dream would prove true,
I am not sure that I 'd go, I 'd go;
I am not sure that I 'd go.”
I believe not in dreams—oh, no!
And yet if I knew my dream would prove true,
I am not sure that I 'd go, I 'd go;
I am not sure that I 'd go.”
A step drew nigh—“Oh, yes! I must fly;
Nay, do not stop me, I pray!”
“Stay, Ellen,—do!”—“Oh, Charles! is it you?
I thought you were far away, away;
I thought you were far away.”
Nay, do not stop me, I pray!”
“Stay, Ellen,—do!”—“Oh, Charles! is it you?
I thought you were far away, away;
I thought you were far away.”
56
THE ROSE IS ON THY CHEEK.
MUSIC BY E. CUDDY.
The rose is on thy cheek, love,
Health's brightness in thine eye;
But our hold on life is weak, love,
And Time is hurrying by:
Then let us haste life's joys to taste,
Ere youth and beauty fly,
Ere youth and beauty fly, love;
Then let us haste life's joys to taste,
Ere youth and beauty fly.
Health's brightness in thine eye;
But our hold on life is weak, love,
And Time is hurrying by:
Then let us haste life's joys to taste,
Ere youth and beauty fly,
Ere youth and beauty fly, love;
Then let us haste life's joys to taste,
Ere youth and beauty fly.
The ruby 's in thy lip, love,
The lily on thy brow;
Oh, if e'er life's sweets we sip, love,
Why should we not sip now?
Then let us seal the troth we feel,
And vow the bridal vow,
And vow the bridal vow, love;
Then let us seal the troth we feel,
And vow the bridal vow.
The lily on thy brow;
Oh, if e'er life's sweets we sip, love,
Why should we not sip now?
Then let us seal the troth we feel,
And vow the bridal vow,
And vow the bridal vow, love;
Then let us seal the troth we feel,
And vow the bridal vow.
They form is like the cloud, love,
As airy and as light;
And the breeze hath never bow'd, love,
A flow'r more fair and bright.
Oh, if we twain must wear one chain,
Why forge it not to-night?
Why forge it not to-night, love?
Oh, if we twain must wear one chain,
Why forge it not to-night?
As airy and as light;
And the breeze hath never bow'd, love,
A flow'r more fair and bright.
Oh, if we twain must wear one chain,
Why forge it not to-night?
Why forge it not to-night, love?
Oh, if we twain must wear one chain,
Why forge it not to-night?
57
THE ZEPHYRAND THE ROSE-BUD.
ALLEGORY—MUSIC, THOMAS' ‘ANDANTE.’
A Zephyr, one morn, with a Rose-bud in love,
Look'd from his pavilion of brightness above,
And seeing the delicate Rose-bud beneath,
Resolv'd now his vows of devotion to breath:
Well knowing the pow'r of a splendid array,
He stole the first sunbeam he met in his way;
Then under a beautiful cascade he flew,
And emerg'd all bespangled with glittering dew.
Look'd from his pavilion of brightness above,
And seeing the delicate Rose-bud beneath,
Resolv'd now his vows of devotion to breath:
Well knowing the pow'r of a splendid array,
He stole the first sunbeam he met in his way;
Then under a beautiful cascade he flew,
And emerg'd all bespangled with glittering dew.
Thus splendid drest, and thus richly besprent,
On his way to the garden he hastily went;
And soon by the fair, blushing Rose-bud appears—
Her cheeks wet with dew-drops—like Beauty in tears.
In a moment his lips to the fair one's he prest,
And words of deep fondness and passion addrest:
She loves, but a maidenly modesty shows,
And her half-open'd leaves in an instant re-close.
On his way to the garden he hastily went;
And soon by the fair, blushing Rose-bud appears—
Her cheeks wet with dew-drops—like Beauty in tears.
In a moment his lips to the fair one's he prest,
And words of deep fondness and passion addrest:
She loves, but a maidenly modesty shows,
And her half-open'd leaves in an instant re-close.
But he presses his suit, and gives voice to his woe;
Vows, raves, and entreats her some favor bestow:
She, pure, unsuspecting, deems him also true,
And, opening her leaves, spreads her charms to his view.
But false were the vows that he made the fair Flow'r—
And she wept, but too late, 'neath his ravishing pow'r:
Of her fragrance he rifled his beautiful prey,
And the poor Rose soon faded, and withered away.
Vows, raves, and entreats her some favor bestow:
She, pure, unsuspecting, deems him also true,
And, opening her leaves, spreads her charms to his view.
But false were the vows that he made the fair Flow'r—
And she wept, but too late, 'neath his ravishing pow'r:
Of her fragrance he rifled his beautiful prey,
And the poor Rose soon faded, and withered away.
58
THE TEARS OF YOUTH
MUSIC BY E. THOMAS.
O, for the tears in youth so rife!
Sweet drops, that are not shed in vain;
There never come, in after life,
Such ministers to pain.
Sweet drops, that are not shed in vain;
There never come, in after life,
Such ministers to pain.
This eye hath long been strange to tears,
It cannot weep as once it wept;
The soothing tide of earlier years
For many a day hath slept.
It cannot weep as once it wept;
The soothing tide of earlier years
For many a day hath slept.
Sorrow hath no relieving gush,
No easing drop hath Anguish now;
Doubts dims Hope's every radiant flush,—
Care's signet clouds the brow.
No easing drop hath Anguish now;
Doubts dims Hope's every radiant flush,—
Care's signet clouds the brow.
Though dry the eye, the heart still weeps,
Weeps tears the lip and cheek that blanch
Cold, icy as the tide that leaps
O'er Alpine avalanche.
Weeps tears the lip and cheek that blanch
Cold, icy as the tide that leaps
O'er Alpine avalanche.
And, oh! when o'er the troubled breast
Rolls heavily Grief's sable flood,
Instead of childhood's tears of rest,
Come the heart's tears of blood.
Rolls heavily Grief's sable flood,
Instead of childhood's tears of rest,
Come the heart's tears of blood.
O, for the tears in youth so rife!
Sweet drops, that are not shed in vain:
There never come, in after life,
Such ministers to pain.
Sweet drops, that are not shed in vain:
There never come, in after life,
Such ministers to pain.
| Erato, number II | |