The Poems of Winthrop Mackworth Praed :: :: University of Virginia Library

The sun is high in heaven: a favouring breeze
Fills the white sail and sweeps the rippling seas,
And the tall vessel walks her destined way,
And rocks and glitters in the curling spray.
Among the shrouds, all happiness and hope,
The busy seaman coils the rattling rope,
And tells his jest, and carols out his song,
And laughs his laughter, vehement and long;
Or pauses on the deck, to dream awhile
Of his babes' prattle and their mother's smile,
And nods the head, and waves the welcome hand,
To those who weep upon the lessening strand.

His is the roving step and humour dry,
His the light laugh, and his the jocund eye;
And his the feeling which, in guilt or grief,
Makes the sin venial, and the sorrow brief.
But there are hearts, that merry deck below,
Of darker error, and of deeper woe,
Children of wrath and wretchedness, who grieve
Not for the country, but the crimes they leave,
Who, while for them on many a sleepless bed
The prayer is murmured and the tear is shed,

282

In exile and in misery, lock within
Their dread despair—their unrepented sin,
And in their madness dare to gaze on Heaven,
Sullen and cold, unawed and unforgiven!

There the gaunt robber, stern in sin and shame,
Shows his dull features and his iron frame;
And tenderer pilferers creep in silence by,
With quivering lip, flushed brow, and vacant eye.
And some there are who, in their close of day,
With dropping jaw, weak step, and temples gray,
Go tottering forth, to find across the wave
A short sad sojourn, and a foreign grave;
And some, who look their long and last adieu
To the white cliffs that vanish from the view,
While youth still blooms, and vigour nerves the arm,—
The blood flows freely, and the pulse beats warm.
The hapless female stands in silence there,
So weak, so wan, and yet so sadly fair,
That those who gaze, a rude untutored tribe,
Check the coarse question and the wounding gibe,
And look, and long to strike the fetter off,
And stay to pity, though they came to scoff.
Then o'er her cheek there runs a burning blush;
And the hot tears of shame begin to rush
Forth from their swelling orbs;—she turns away,
And her white fingers o'er her eye-lids stray;
And still the tears through those white fingers glide,
Which strive to check them, or at least to hide!

283

And there the stripling, led to plunder's school
Ere Passion slept, or Reason learned to rule,
Clasps his young hands, and beats his throbbing brain,
And looks with marvel on his galling chain.
Oh you may guess, from that unconscious gaze,
His soul hath dreamed of those far-fading days
When, rudely nurtured on the mountain's brow,
He tended day by day his father's plough;
Blest in his day of toil, his night of ease,
His life of purity, his soul of peace.
Oh yes! to-day his soul hath backward been
To many a tender face and beauteous scene;
The verdant valley and the dark brown hill,
The small fair garden and its tinkling rill,
His grandame's tale, believed at twilight hour,
His sister singing in her myrtle bower,
And she, the maid, of every hope bereft,
So fondly loved—alas! so falsely left,—
The winding path, the dwelling in the grove,
The look of welcome, and the kiss of love—
These are his dreams;—but these are dreams of bliss
Why do they blend with such a lot as his?

And is there nought for him but grief and gloom,
A lone existence, and an early tomb?
Is there no hope of comfort and of rest
To the seared conscience and the troubled breast?
O say not so! In some far distant clime,
Where lives no witness of his early crime,

284

Benignant Penitence may haply muse
On purer pleasures and on brighter views,
And slumbering Virtue wake at last to claim
Another being, and a fairer fame.

Beautiful Land, within whose quiet shore
Lost spirits may forget the stain they bore,
Beautiful Land, with all thy blended shades
Of waste and wood, rude rocks, and level glades,
On thee, on thee I gaze, as Moslems look
To the blest Islands of their Prophet's Book,
And oft I deem that, linked by magic spell,
Pardon and Peace upon thy valleys dwell,
Like two sweet Houris beckoning o'er the deep
The souls that tremble and the eyes that weep!
Therefore on thee undying sunbeams throw
Their clearest radiance and their warmest glow,
And tranquil nights, cool gales, and gentle showers
Make bloom eternal in thy sinless bowers.
Green is thy turf; stern Winter doth not dare
To breathe his blast, and leave a ruin there,
And the charmed ocean roams thy rocks around
With softer motion and with sweeter sound:
Among thy blooming flowers and blushing fruit
The whispering of young birds is never mute,
And never doth the streamlet cease to well
Through its old channel in the hidden dell.
Oh! if the Muse of Greece had ever strayed
In solemn twilight through thy forest shade,

285

And swept her lyre, and waked thy meads along
The liquid echo of her ancient song,
Her fabling fancy in that hour had found
Voices of music, shapes of grace, around;
Among thy trees, with merry step and glance,
The Dryad then had wound her wayward dance,
And the cold Naiad in thy waters fair
Bathed her white breast, and wrung her dripping hair.

Beautiful Land! upon so pure a plain
Shall Superstition hold her hated reign?
Must Bigotry build up her cheerless shrine
In such an air, on such an earth as thine?
Alas! Religion from thy placid Isles
Veils the warm splendour of her heavenly smiles,
And the wrapt gazer in the beauteous plan
Sees nothing dark—except the soul of Man.

Sweet are the links that bind us to our kind,
Meek, but unyielding—felt, but undefined;
Sweet is the love of Brethren, sweet the joy
Of a young Mother in her cradled toy,
And sweet is Childhood's deep and earnest glow
Of reverence for a Father's head of snow
Sweeter than all, ere our young hopes depart,
The quickening throb of an impassioned heart,
Beating in silence, eloquently still,
For one loved soul that answers to its thrill.
But where thy smile, Religion, hath not shone,
The chain is riven, and the charm is gone

286

And, unawakened by thy wondrous spell,
The Feelings slumber in their silent cell.

Hushed is the voice of Labour and of Mirth,
The light of day is sinking from the earth,
And Evening mantles in her dewy calm
The couch of one who cannot heed its balm.
Lo, where the Chieftain on his matted bed
Leans the faint form and hangs the feverish head!
There is no lustre in his wandering eye;
His forehead hath no show of majesty;
His gasping lip, too weak for wail or prayer,
Scarce stirs the breeze, and leaves no echo there;
And his strong arm, so nobly wont to rear
The feathered target or the ashen spear,
Drops powerless and cold! The pang of death
Locks the set teeth and chokes the struggling breath,
And the last glimmering of departing day
Lingers around to herald life away.

Is there no duteous youth to sprinkle now
One drop of water on his lip and brow?
No dark-eyed maid to bring with soundless foot
The lulling potion, or the healing root?
No tender look to meet his wandering gaze?
No tone of fondness, heard in happier days,
To sooth the terrors of the spirit's flight,
And speak of mercy and of hope to-night?

All love, all leave him!—terrible and slow
Along the crowd the whispered murmurs grow.

287

“The hand of Heaven is on him! is it ours
“To check the fleeting of his numbered hours?
“Oh not to us—oh not to us is given
“To read the Book, or thwart the will, of Heaven!
“Away, away!” and each familiar face
Recoils in horror from his sad embrace;
The turf on which he lies is hallowed ground,
The sullen Priest stalks gloomily around,
And shuddering friends, that dare not soothe or save,
Hear the last groan, and dig the destined grave.
The frantic Widow folds upon her breast
Her glittering trinkets, and her gorgeous vest,
Circles her neck with many a mystic charm,
Clasps the rich bracelet on her desperate arm,
Binds her black hair, and stains her eye-lid's fringe
With the jet lustre of the Henow's tinge:
Then, on the spot where those dear ashes lie,
In bigot transport sits her down to die.
Her swarthy Brothers mark the wasted cheek,
The straining eye-ball, and the stifled shriek,
And sing the praises of her deathless name,
As the last flutter racks her tortured frame.
They sleep together; o'er the natural tomb
The lichened pine rears up its form of gloom,
And lorn acacias shed their shadow gray
Bloomless and leafless, o'er the buried clay.
And often there, when calmly, coldly bright
The midnight Moon flings down her ghastly light,

288

With solemn murmur and with silent tread
The dance is ordered, and the verse is said,
And sights of wonder, sounds of spectral fear
Scare the quick glance, and chill the startled ear.

Yet direr visions e'en than these remain;
A fiercer guiltiness, a fouler stain!
Oh! who shall sing the scene of savage strife,
Where Hatred glories in the waste of life?
The hurried march, the looks of grim delight,
The yell, the rush, the slaughter and the flight,
The arms unwearied in the cruel toil,
The hoarded vengeance and the rifled spoil,
And last of all, the revel in the wood,
The feast of death, the banqueting of blood,
When the wild warrior gazes on his foe
Convulsed beneath him in his painful throe,
And lifts the knife, and kneels him down to drain
The purple current from the quivering vein?
Cease, cease the tale; and let the Ocean's roll
Shut the dark horror from my wildered soul!

And are there none to succour? none to speed
A fairer feeling and a holier creed?
Alas! for this, upon the Ocean blue,
Lamented Cook, thy pennon hither flew;
For this, undaunted, o'er the raging brine
The venturous Frank upheld his Saviour's sign.
Unhappy Chief! while Fancy thus surveys
The scattered islets, and the sparkling bays,

289

Beneath whose cloudless sky and gorgeous sun
Thy life was ended, and thy voyage done,
In shadowy mist thy form appears to glide,
Haunting the grove or floating on the tide;
Oh! there was grief for thee, and bitter tears,
And racking doubts through long and joyless years;
And tender tongues that babbled of the theme,
And lonely hearts that doated on the dream.
Pale Memory deemed she saw thy cherished form
Snatched from the foe or rescued from the storm
And faithful Love, unfailing and untired,
Clung to each hope, and sighed as each expired.
On the bleak desert, or the tombless sea,
No prayer was said, no requiem sung for thee,
Affection knows not whether o'er thy grave
The Ocean murmur, or the willow wave;
But still the beacon of thy sacred name
Lights ardent souls to Virtue and to Fame,
Still Science mourns thee, and the grateful Muse
Wreathes the green cypress for her own Perouse.

But not thy death shall mar the gracious plan,
Nor check the task thy pious toil began;
O'er the wide waters of the bounding main
The Book of Life must win its way again,
And, in the regions by thy fate endeared,
The Cross be lifted, and the Altar reared.

With furrowed brow and cheek serenely fair,
The calm wind wandering o'er his silver hair,

290

His arm uplifted, and his moistened eye
Fixed in deep rapture on the golden sky,—
Upon the shore, through many a billow driven,
He kneels at last, the Messenger of Heaven!
Long years, that rank the mighty with the weak,
Have dimmed the flush upon his faded cheek,
And many a dew, and many a noxious damp,
The daily labour, and the nightly lamp,
Have reft away—for ever reft—from him
The liquid accent and the buoyant limb:
Yet still within him aspirations swell
Which time corrupts not, sorrow cannot quell,—
The changless Zeal, which on, from land to land,
Speeds the faint foot and nerves the withered hand,
And the mild Charity which day by day
Weeps every wound and every stain away,
Rears the young bud on every blighted stem,
And longs to comfort, where she must condemn.
With these, through storms and bitterness and wrath,
In peace and power he holds his onward path,
Curbs the fierce soul, and sheathes the murderous steel
And calms the passions he hath ceased to feel.

Yes! he hath triumphed !—while his lips relate
The sacred story of his Saviour's fate,
While to the search of that tumultuous horde
He opens wide the Everlasting Word,
And bids the soul drink deep of Wisdom there,
In fond devotion, and in fervent prayer,—

291

In speechless awe the wonder-stricken throng
Check their rude feasting and their barbarous song:
Around his steps the gathering myriads crowd,
The chief, the slave, the timid and the proud;
Of various features, and of various dress,
Like their own forest-leaves, confused and numberless,
Where shall your temples, where your worship be,
Gods of the air, and Rulers of the sea?
In the glad dawning of a kinder light,
Your blind adorer quits your gloomy rite,
And kneels in gladness on his native plain,
A happier votary at a holier fane.

Beautiful Land! farewell !—when toil and strife
And all the sighs and all the sins of life
Shall come about me,—when the light of Truth
Shall scatter the bright mists that dazzled youth,
And Memory muse in sadness on the past,
And mourn for pleasures far too sweet to last,
How often shall I long for some green spot,
Where, not remembering, and remembered not,
With no false verse to deck my lying bust,
With no fond tear to vex my mouldering dust,
This busy brain may find its grassy shrine,
And sleep, untroubled, in a shade like thine!

Note.—The sketch of the death of a New Zealander, and of the Superstition which prevents the offering of any consolation or assistance, is taken from the narrative of the death of Duaterra, a friendly chieftain, recorded by Mr. Nicholas, vol. ii. p. 181.

From the coast of Australasia the last despatches of La Peyrouse were dated. Vide Quarterly Review for February, 1810.

292

ATHENS.

“High towers, faire temples, goodly theaters,
Strong walls, rich porches, princelie pallaces,
Large streetes, brave houses, sacred sepulchers,
Sure gates, sweete gardens, stately galleries,
Wrought with fair pillours and fine imageries,—
All those (O pitie!) now are turnd to dust,
And overgrowne with black oblivion's rust.”
Spenser, The Ruines of Time.

Muse of old Athens! strike thine ancient lute!
Are the strings broken? is the music mute?
Hast thou no tears to gush, no prayers to flow,
Wails for her fate, or curses for her foe?
If still, within some dark and drear recess,
Clothed with sad pomp and spectral loveliness,
Though pale thy cheek, and torn thy flowing hair,
And reft the roses passion worshipped there,
Thou lingerest lone, beneath thy laurel bough,
Glad in the incense of a poet's vow,
Bear me—O bear me to the vine-clad Hill
Where Nature smiles and Beauty blushes still,
And Memory blends her tale of other years
With earnest hopes, deep sighs, and bitter tears!

293

Desolate Athens! though thy gods are fled,
Thy temples silent, and thy glory dead,
Though all thou hadst of beautiful and brave
Sleep in the tomb, or moulder in the wave,
Though power and praise forsake thee, and forget,
Desolate Athens, thou art lovely yet!
Around thy walls, in every wood and vale,
Thine own sweet bird, the lonely nightingale,
Still makes her home; and, when the moonlight hour
Flings its soft magic over brake and bower,
Murmurs her sorrows from her ivy shrine,
Or the thick foliage of the deathless vine.
Where erst Megæra chose her fearful crown,
The bright narcissus hangs his clusters down;
And the gay crocus decks with glittering dew
The yellow radiance of his golden hue.
Still thine own olive haunts its native earth,
Green, as when Pallas smiled upon its birth;
And still Cephisus pours his sleepless tide,
So clear and calm, along the meadow side,
That you may gaze long hours upon the stream,
And dream at last the poet's witching dream,
That the sweet Muses in the neighbouring bowers
Sweep their wild harps, and wreathe their odorous flowers,
And laughing Venus o'er the level plains
Waves her light lash and shakes her gilded reins.

How terrible is Time! his solemn years,
The tombs of all our hopes and all our fears

294

In silent horror roll!—the gorgeous throne,
The pillared arch, the monumental stone,
Melt in swift ruin; and of mighty climes,
Where Fame told tales of virtues and of crimes,
Where Wisdom taught, and Valour woke to strife,
And Art's creations breathed their mimic life,
And the young poet when the stars shone high
Drank the deep rapture of the quiet sky,
Nought now remains but Nature's placid scene,
Heaven's deathless blue and Earth's eternal green,
The showers that fall on palaces and graves,
The suns that shine for freemen and for slaves:
Science may sleep in ruin, man in shame,
But Nature lives, still lovely, still the same!
The rock, the river,—these have no decay!
The City and its masters,—where are they?
Go forth, and wander through the cold remains
Of fallen statues and of tottering fanes,
Seek the loved haunts of poet and of sage,
The gay palæstra and the gaudy stage!
What signs are there? a solitary stone,
A shattered capital with grass o'ergrown,
A mouldering frieze, half-hid in ancient dust,
A thistle springing o'er a nameless bust;
Yet this was Athens! still a holy spell
Breathes in the dome, and wanders in the dell,
And vanished times and wondrous forms appear,
And sudden echoes charm the waking ear:

295

Decay itself is drest in glory's gloom,
For every hillock is a hero's tomb,
And every breeze to Fancy's slumber brings
The mighty rushing of a Spirit's wings.
Oh yes! where glory such as thine hath been,
Wisdom and Sorrow linger round the scene;
And where the hues of faded splendour sleep,
Age kneels to moralize, and Youth to weep!

E'en now, methinks, before the eye of day,
The night of ages rolls its mist away,
And the cold dead, the wise, and fair, and proud.
Start from the urn, and rend the tranquil shroud.
Here the wild Muse hath seized her maddening lyre
With grasp of passion and with glance of fire,
And called the visions of her awful reign
From death and gloom to light and life again.
Hark! the huge Titan on his frozen rock
Scoffs at Heaven's King, and braves the lightning-shock;
The Colchian sorceress drains her last brief bliss,
The thrilling rapture of a mother's kiss,
And the gray Theban raises to the skies
His hueless features and his rayless eyes.
There blue-eyed Pallas guides the willing feet
Of her loved sages to her calm retreat,
And lights the radiance of her glittering torch
In the rich Garden and the quiet Porch:
Lo the thronged arches, and the nodding trees,
Where Truth and Wisdom strayed with Socrates,

296

Where round sweet Xenophon rapt myriads hung,
And liquid honey dropped from Plato's tongue!
Oh, thou wert glorious then! thy sway and sword
On earth and sea were dreaded and adored,
And Satraps knelt, and Sovereigns tribute paid,
And prostrate cities trembled and obeyed:
The grim Laconian when he saw thee sighed,
And frowned the venom of his hate and pride;
And the pale Persian dismal vigils kept,
If Rumour whispered “Athens!” where he slept;
And mighty Ocean, for thy royal sail,
Hushed the loud wave and stilled the stormy gale;
And to thy sons Olympian Jove had given
A brighter ether and a purer heaven.
Those sons of thine were not a mingled host,
From various fathers born, from every coast,
And driven from shore to shore, from toil to toil,
To shun a despot or to seek a spoil;
Oh no! they drew their unpolluted race
Up from the earth which was their dwelling-place;
And the warm blood, whose blushing streams had run
Ceaseless and stainless down from sire to son,
Went clear and brilliant through its hundred rills,
Pure as thy breeze, eternal as thy hills!

Alas! how soon that day of splendour past,
That bright brief day, too beautiful to last!
Let other lips tell o'er the oft-told tale;—
How art succeeds, when spear and falchion fail,

297

How fierce dissension, impotent distrust,
Caprice, that made it treason to be just,
And crime in some, and listlessness in all,
Shook the great City to her fate and fall,
Till gold at last made plain the tyrant's way,
And bent all hearts in bondage and decay!
I loathe the task; let other lyres record
The might and mercy of the Roman sword,
The aimless struggle and the fruitless wile,
The victor's vengeance and the patron's smile.
Yet, in the gloom of that long cheerless night,
There gleams one ray to comfort and delight;
One spot of rapture courts the Muse's eye
In the dull waste of shame and apathy.
Here, where wild Fancy wondrous fictions drew,
And knelt to worship, till she thought them true,—
Here, in the paths which beauteous Error trod,
The great Apostle preached the Unknown God!

Silent the crowd were hushed; for his the eye
Which power controls not, sin cannot defy;
His the tall stature, and the lifted hand,
And the fixed countenance of grave command;
And his the voice which, heard but once, will sink
So deep into the hearts of those that think,
That they may live till years and years are gone,
And never lose one echo of its tone.
Yet, when the voice had ceased, a clamour rose,
And mingled tumult rang from friends and foes;

298

The threat was muttered, and the galling gibe,
By each pale Sophist and his paltry tribe;
The haughty Stoic passed in gloomy state,
The heartless Cynic scowled his grovelling hate,
And the soft Garden's rose-encircled child
Smiled unbelief, and shuddered as he smiled.

Tranquil he stood; for he had heard—could hear
Blame and reproach with an untroubled ear;
O'er his broad forehead visibly were wrought
The dark deep lines of courage and of thought;
And if the colour from his cheek was fled,
Its paleness spoke no passion, and no dread.
The meek endurance and the stedfast will,
The patient nerve, that suffers and is still,
The humble faith, that bends to meet the rod,
And the strong hope, that turns from man to God—
All these were his; and his firm heart was set,
And knew the hour must come,—but was not yet.

Again long years of darkness and of pain,
The Moslem scymetar, the Moslem chain;
Where Phidias toiled, the turbaned spoilers brood,
And the Mosque glitters, where the Temple stood.
Alas! how well the slaves their fetters wear,
Proud in disgrace, and cheerful in despair!
While the glad music of the boatman's song
On the still air floats happily along,
The light Caïque goes bounding on its way
Through the bright ripples of Piræus' bay;

299

And when the stars shine down, and twinkling feet
In the gay measure blithely part and meet,
The dark-eyed maiden scatters through the grove
Her tones of fondness and her looks of love:
Oh sweet the lute—the dance! but bondage flings
Grief on the steps, and discord on the strings.
Yet thus degraded—sunken as thou art,
Still thou art dear to many a boyish heart;
And many a poet, full of fervour, goes
To read deep lessons, Athens, in thy woes.

And such was he, the long-lamented one,
England's fair hope, sad Granta's cherished son,
Ill-fated Tweddell!—if the flush of youth,
The light of genius, and the glow of truth,
If all that fondness honours and adores,
If all that grief remembers and deplores
Could bid the spoiler turn his scythe away
Or snatch one flower from darkness and decay,
Thou hadst not marked, fair City, his decline,
Nor reared the marble in thy silent shrine—
The cold ungrieving marble—to declare
How many hopes lie desolated there.
We will not mourn for him! ere human ill
Could blight one bliss, or make one feeling chill,
In Learning's pure embrace he sunk to rest,
Like a tired child upon his mother's breast:
Peace to his hallowed shade! his ashes dwell
In that sweet spot he loved in life so well,

300

And the sad Nurse who watched his early bloom,
From this his home, points proudly to his tomb.

But oft, when twilight sleeps on earth and sea,
Beautiful Athens, we will weep for thee;
For thee and for thine offspring!—will they bear
The dreary burthen of their own despair
Till nature yields, and sense and life depart
From the torn sinews and the trampled heart?
O! by the mighty shades, that dimly glide
Where Victory beams upon the turf or tide—
By those who sleep at Marathon in bliss—
By those who fell at glorious Salamis—
By every laurelled brow and holy name—
By every thought of freedom and of fame—
By all ye bear—by all that ye have borne,
The blow of anger and the glance of scorn,
The fruitless labour and the broken rest,
The bitter torture, and the bitterer jest—
By your sweet infants' unavailing cry,
Your sister's blush, your mother's stifled sigh—
By all the tears that ye have wept, and weep,—
Break, Sons of Athens, break your weary sleep!

Yea! it is broken!—Hark, the sudden shock
Rolls on from wave to wave, from rock to rock;
“Up, for the Cross and Freedom!” far and near,
Forth starts the sword and gleams the patriot spear,
And bursts the echo of the battle song,
Cheering and swift, the banded hosts along.

301

On, Sons of Athens! let your wrongs and woes
Burnish the blades, and nerve the whistling bows;
Green be the laurel, ever blest the meed
Of him that shines to-day in martial deed,
And sweet his sleep beneath the dewy sod,
Who falls for fame, his country, and his God!

The hoary sire has helmed his locks of gray,
Scorned the safe hearth, and tottered to the fray:
The beardless boy has left his gilt guitar,
And bared his arm for manhood's holiest war.
E'en the weak girl has mailed her bosom there,
Clasped the rude helmet on her auburn hair,
Changed love's own smile for valour's fiery glance,
Mirth for the field, the distaff for the lance.
Yes, she was beauteous—that Athenian maid—
When erst she sate within her myrtle shade,
Without a passion and without a thought
Save those which innocence and childhood wrought,—
Delicious hopes, and dreams of life and love,
Young flowers below, and cloudless skies above.
But oh how fair—how more than doubly fair
Thus, with the laurel twined around her hair,—
While at her feet her country's chiefs assemble,
And those soft tones amid the war-cry tremble,
(As some sweet lute creeps eloquently in,
Breaking the tempest of the trumpet's din)
Her corselet fastened with a golden clasp,
Her falchion buckled to her tender grasp,

302

And quivering lip, flushed cheek, and flashing eye,
All breathing fire, all speaking “Liberty!”

Firm has that struggle been! but is there none
To hymn the triumph, when the fight is won?
O for the harp which once—but through the strings,
Far o'er the sea, the dismal night-wind sings;
Where is the hand that swept it?—cold and mute
The lifeless Master and the voiceless lute!
The crowded hall, the murmur and the gaze,
The look of envy and the voice of praise,
And friendship's smile, and passion's treasured vow,—
All these are nothing,—life is nothing now!
But the hushed triumph, and the garb of gloom,
The sorrow, deep but mute, around the tomb,
The soldier's silence, and the matron's tear,—
These are the trappings of the sable bier
Which Time corrupts not, Falsehood cannot hide,
Nor Folly scorn, nor Calumny deride.
And “what is writ, is writ!”—the guilt and shame—
All eyes have seen them, and all lips may blame;
Where is the record of the wrong that stung,
The charm that tempted, and the grief that wrung?
Let feeble hands, iniquitously just,
Rake up the relics of the sinful dust,
Let Ignorance mock the pang it cannot feel,
And Malice brand, what Mercy would conceal,
It matters not! he died as all would die;
Greece had his earliest song, his latest sigh;

303

And o'er the shrine in which that cold heart sleeps
Glory looks dim, and joyous Conquest weeps.—
The maids of Athens to the spot shall bring
The freshest roses of the new-born spring,
And Spartan boys their first-won wreath shall bear
To bloom round Byron's urn, or droop in sadness there.

Farewell, sweet Athens! thou shalt be again
The sceptred Queen of all thine old domain,
Again be blest in all thy varied charms
Of loveliness and valour, arts and arms.
Forget not then, that, in thine hour of dread,
While the weak battled, and the guiltless bled,
Though Kings and Courts stood gazing on thy fate,
The bad to scoff,—the better to debate,
Here, where the soul of Youth remembers yet
The smiles and tears which Manhood must forget,
In a far land, the honest and the free
Had lips to pray, and hearts to feel, for thee!

Note.—Several images in the early part of the poem are selected from passages in the Greek Tragedians;—particularly from the two well-known Choruses in the Œdipus Coloneus and the Medea.

The death of Lord Byron took place after the day appointed for the sending in of the exercises; and the allusion to it was of course introduced subsequent to the adjudication of the prize.

304

THE ASCENT OF ELIJAH.

“Ille, feris caput inviolabile Parcis,
Liquit Jordanios, turbine raptus, agros.”
Miltoni Lat. Poem

Servant of God, thy fight is fought;
Servant of God, thy crown is wrought:
Lingerest thou yet upon the joyless earth?
Thy place is now in Heaven's high bowers,
Far from this mournful world of ours,
Among the sons of light, that have a different birth.

Go to the calm and cloudless sphere
Where doubt, and passion, and dim fear,
And black remorse, and anguish have no root;
Turn—turn away thy chastened eyes
From sights that make their tears arise,
And shake th' unworthy dust from thy departing foot.

305

Thy human task is ended now;
No more the lightning of thy brow
Shall wake strange terror in the soul of guilt;
As when thou wentest forth to fling
The curse upon the shuddering King,
Yet reeking with the blood—the sinless blood he spilt.

And all that thou hast braved and borne.
The Heathen's hate, the Heathen's scorn,
The wasting famine, and the galling chain,—
Henceforth these things to thee shall seem
The phantoms of a bygone dream;
And rest shall be for toil, and blessedness for pain.—

Such visions of deep joy might roll
Through the rapt Prophet's inmost soul,
As, with his fond disciple by his side,
He passed with dry and stainless tread
O'er the submissive river's bed,
And took his onward way from Jordan's refluent tide.

High converse held those gifted Seers
Of the dark fates of after years,
Of coming judgments, terrible and fast;
The father's crime the children's woe,
The noisome pest, the victor foe,
And mercy sealed, and truth made manifest at last.

306

Thus as they reasoned, hark, on high
Rolled back the portals of the sky;
And from the courts of the empyrean dome
Came forth what seemed a fiery car,
On rushing wheels, each wheel a star,
And bore the Prophet thence,—O whither?—to his home!

With head thrown back, and hand upraised,
Long—long that sad disciple gazed,
As his loved teacher passed for aye away;—
“Alas, my father!” still he cried,
“One look—one word to soothe and guide!—
Chariot and horse are gone from Israel's tents to-day!”

Earth saw the sign;—Earth saw and smiled,
As to her Maker reconciled;
With gladder murmur flowed the streams along
Unstirred by breath of lightest breeze
Trembled the conscious cedar trees,
And all around the birds breathed gratitude in song.

And viewless harpstrings from the skies
Rang forth delicious harmonies;
And strange sweet voices poured their grateful hymn;
And radiant eyes were smiling through
The tranquil ether's boundless blue,
The eyes of Heaven's high host, the joyous Seraphim.

307

And Piety stood musing by,
And Penitence with downcast eye;
Faith heard with raptured heart the solemn cali,
And, pointing with her lustrous hand
To the far shores of that blest land,
Sent forth her voice of praise,—“for him, O God—for all!”

Death frowned far off his icy frown,
The monarch of the iron crown,
First-born of Sin, the universal foe;
Twice had his baffled darts been vain;
Death trembled for his tottering reign,
And poised the harmless shaft, and drew the idle bow.

Sons of the Prophets, do ye still
Look through the wood and o'er the hill,
For him, your lord, whom ye may ne'er behold?—
O dreamers, call not him, when day
Fades in the dewy vale away,
Nor when glad morning crests the lofty rocks with gold!

Peace! call that honoured name no more,
By Jordan's olive girdled shore,

308

By Kedron's brook, or Siloa's holy fount;
Nor where the fragrant breezes rove
Through Bethel's dim and silent grove,
Nor on the rugged top of Carmel's sacred mount.

Henceforth ye never more may meet,
Meek learners, at your master's feet,
To gaze on that high brow, those piercing eyes;
And hear the music of that voice
Whose lessons bade the sad rejoice,
Said to the weak “Be strong,” and to the dead “Arise!”

Go, tell the startled guards that wait
In arms before the palace gate
“The Seer of Thesbe walks no more on earth:”
The king will bid prepare the feast;
And tyrant prince and treacherous priest
Will move with haughtier step, and laugh with louder mirth.

And go to Zarephath, and say
What God's right hand hath wrought to-day
To the pale widow and her twice born son:
Lo, they will weep, and rend their hair,
Upstarting from their broken prayer,—
“Our comforter is gone, our friend, our only one!”

309

Nay, deem not so! for there shall dwell
A Prophet yet in Israel
To tread the path which erst Elijah trod:
He too shall mock th' oppressor's spears,
He too shall dry the mourner's tears;
Elijah's robe is his, and his Elijah's God!—

But he before the throne of grace
Hath his eternal dwelling place;
His head is crowned with an unfading crown;
And in the book, the awful book
On which the Angels fear to look,
The chronicle of Heaven, his name is written down.

Too hard the flight for Passion's wings,
Too high the theme for Fancy's strings;
Inscrutable the wonder of the tale!
Yet the false Sanhedrim will weave
Wild fictions, cunning to deceive,
And hide reluctant Truth in Error's loathly veil.

And some in after years will tell
How on the Prophet's cradle fell
Rays of rich glory, an unearthly stream;
And some how fearful visions came
Of Israel judged by sword and flame,
That wondrous child the judge, upon his father's dream.

310

Elijah in the battle's throng
Shall urge the fiery steeds along,
Hurling the lance, lifting the meteor sword:
Elijah in the day of doom
Shall wave the censer's rich perfume,
To turn the wrath aside, the vengeance of the Lord.

Vain, vain! it is enough to know
That in his pilgrimage below
He wrought Jehovah's will with steadfast zeal;
And that he passed from this our life
Without the sorrow of the strife
Which all our fathers felt, which we must one day feel.

To us between the world and Heaven
A rougher path, alas! is given;
Red glares the torch, dark waves the funeral pall:
The seeptered king, the trampled slave,
Go down into the common grave,
And there is one decay, one nothingness for all.

It is a fearful thing to die!
To watch the cheerful day flit by
With all its myriad shapes of life and love;
To sink into the dreary gloom
That broods for ever o'er the tomb,
Where clouds are all around, though Heaven may shine above!

311

But still a firm and faithful trust
Supports, consoles the pure and just:
Serene, though sad, they feel life's joys expire;
And bitter though the death pang be,
Their spirits through its tortures see
Elijah's car of light, Elijah's steeds of fire.