Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse Consisting of the Epistolary Correspondence of Many Distinguished Characters. With Notes and Illustrations. By the Rev. R. Polwhele |
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 | III. | VOL. III. |
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 | Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse |  |
III. VOL. III.
v
TO ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq.
vi
SONNETS.
I.
[Whilst others wander down their dusky dells]
Whilst others wander down their dusky dells,Pleas'd with the melodies of tinkling rills,
Or scoop dim grots or saunter round green hills,
Or climb the hedges sprent with sweet harebells,
Or mark, where hamlets crown the misty vale,
The plodding peasant and the milkmaid's pail;—
I greet Thee midst thy mountains and thy fells,
Thy sea-like lakes, thy rocks by thunders riven,
Thy cataracts flashing to the effulgent Heaven!
Such is thy scene of grandeur!—We, frail men,
Trill to the lowly grove the inglorious lay,
In concert with the redbreast and the wren:
'Tis thine, with the majestic eagle's sway
Soaring on rapid wing, to drink the golden day!
vii
II.
[Yes! to pursue thy empyrean flight]
Yes! to pursue thy empyrean flightImpetuous as the bird of Jove, be thine!
Thy own Urania speeds through realms of light
Thy lordly course! But, loved by all the Nine,
Clio for thee unfolds heroic views;
For thee Thalia wreathes her pastoral shrine.
And hark!—the sorrows of a sister-muse
Sigh with thy sighs, and tremble in thy tear!
I, too, my friend!—I too—have lost a child,—
More—more than one, to love and duty dear!—
But, doom'd to droop along life's darkling wild,
I have no lute of power my spirit to cheer!
If there yet linger some faint lullabies—
Ah! not to soothe my heart, each quivering cadence dies!
1
POETRY.
2
THE MERCHANT OF SMYRNA; OR, LOVE AND GRATITUDE.
AN INTERLUDE.—IN THREE ACTS.
- Hassan, a Merchant of Smyrna.
- Edwin, an English Merchant.
- Hamet, a rich Inhabitant of Smyrna.
- Kaled, an Armenian Slave Dealer.
- Andrew, Servant to Edwin.
- Ali, an old Slave of Hassan.
- Zaide, Hassan's Wife.
- Ellen, an English Lady engaged to Edwin.
- Fatima, Slave to Zaide.
- English, Spanish, Italian, &c. Slaves.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
3
[_]
Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:
- For Has. read Hassan
- For Zai. read Zaide
- For Fat. read Fatima
- For Kal. read Kaled
- For Span. read Spaniard
- For And. read Andrew
- For Ed. read Edwin
- For El. read Ellen
- For Ham. read Hamet
ACT I.—
SCENE I.
A Mosque. The Morning.Hassan
alone. (After offering up his orisons.)
Never, O Mahomet! to meet the beams
Of early day, did orison arise
In all thy mosques, from a more cheerful heart
Than Hassan's! I have breathed to thee the prayer
Of piety and peace. And thus of guilt
Unconscious, as my buoyant spirits dance,
I taste thy goodness in a store of bliss,
And thank thee for the treasure! It is said
Past evils are as nothing—all a dream:
—Not so. They leave a sensible impression,
Whence we are more alive to present blessings.
Of early day, did orison arise
In all thy mosques, from a more cheerful heart
Than Hassan's! I have breathed to thee the prayer
Of piety and peace. And thus of guilt
Unconscious, as my buoyant spirits dance,
I taste thy goodness in a store of bliss,
And thank thee for the treasure! It is said
Past evils are as nothing—all a dream:
—Not so. They leave a sensible impression,
Whence we are more alive to present blessings.
Not two years since, to proud Algiers (whose Dey
Defied the Sultan in piratic war)
I crouch'd a slave.—But hail, propitious morning!
Gilding yon minarets with the same glory
As just a year ago lit up my nuptials.
Yes! just a year hath pass'd, (how rapidly
Since I saluted thee my bride—the loveliest
Of all the lovely!) Strong, in sooth, the contrast
Of joy and woe! Though I'm a Mussalman
True as all Smyrna boasts, yet have I only
One wife, and should a second spouse disdain.
Defied the Sultan in piratic war)
I crouch'd a slave.—But hail, propitious morning!
Gilding yon minarets with the same glory
As just a year ago lit up my nuptials.
Yes! just a year hath pass'd, (how rapidly
Since I saluted thee my bride—the loveliest
Of all the lovely!) Strong, in sooth, the contrast
Of joy and woe! Though I'm a Mussalman
True as all Smyrna boasts, yet have I only
One wife, and should a second spouse disdain.
4
Not so my neighbours; who possess, it seems,
Two, three, or more, as wild desire may fill
Their harems. It is well our righteous law
Commands not a plurality of women:
With foreigners, embracing one, my feelings,
My sentiments accord. Whether that one
They love, I know not. But, my dearest Zaide!
In thee, my Zaide! my whole soul is center'd.
Two, three, or more, as wild desire may fill
Their harems. It is well our righteous law
Commands not a plurality of women:
With foreigners, embracing one, my feelings,
My sentiments accord. Whether that one
They love, I know not. But, my dearest Zaide!
In thee, my Zaide! my whole soul is center'd.
SCENE II.
A Breakfast-room in Hassan's House.Zaide.
(Attended by several Slaves.)
Why tarries yet my Hassan? To the mosque
Hard by, perhaps, my lord repair'd. And, slaves!
Ere—to allay the feverish heats, intenser
Each moment, you have furnish'd the sherbet's
Cool beverage, and refreshing fruits,—his presence
I trust will gladden these expecting eyes [Slaves go out.
After a long pause.
How rarely have we thus asunder wooed
The dawn. Perchance my ramble may amuse him!
But list!—I hear his footsteps!
Hassan enters.
Hard by, perhaps, my lord repair'd. And, slaves!
Ere—to allay the feverish heats, intenser
Each moment, you have furnish'd the sherbet's
Cool beverage, and refreshing fruits,—his presence
I trust will gladden these expecting eyes [Slaves go out.
After a long pause.
How rarely have we thus asunder wooed
The dawn. Perchance my ramble may amuse him!
But list!—I hear his footsteps!
Welcome, Hassan!
To us, whose pleasures rival paradise,
One hour of separation were an age.
I, too, beyond the precincts of the court
Have stepped, as these habiliments may argue
The mild air of a most delicious morning
Had lured me to the terrace; whence the view
Of our fine harbour never fails to charm
The unsated eye. The placid silken wave
With more than wonted softness seem'd to kiss
The sands, now blushing to the orient light,
Now sparkling golden radiance. Quick the breeze
Sprang up; and as the distant billow froth'd
To my excursive sight, a crowd of sail
Press'd on, and every moment more distinct,
Detain'd my lingering gaze. First, our own pendants
To larger ships attracted observation;
And next, in a variety of colours
Distinguishing the ships of other climates,
My fancy was afloat.
To us, whose pleasures rival paradise,
One hour of separation were an age.
I, too, beyond the precincts of the court
Have stepped, as these habiliments may argue
The mild air of a most delicious morning
Had lured me to the terrace; whence the view
Of our fine harbour never fails to charm
The unsated eye. The placid silken wave
With more than wonted softness seem'd to kiss
The sands, now blushing to the orient light,
Now sparkling golden radiance. Quick the breeze
Sprang up; and as the distant billow froth'd
5
Press'd on, and every moment more distinct,
Detain'd my lingering gaze. First, our own pendants
To larger ships attracted observation;
And next, in a variety of colours
Distinguishing the ships of other climates,
My fancy was afloat.
Has.
These, my sweet Zaide!
Are captur'd vessels. With the Christian name
Our warfare for a while had ceas'd: I hail'd
The peaceful calm; and when again the Crescent
Flash'd on the Cross defiance, from my heart
I griev'd; for I shall ever hold most dear
One generous Christian, who from slavery rescued—
Yes! for my Zaide rescued me. No more
(Though on my courtesies the Mufti frown)
Shall Hassan scorn a Christian.
Zai.
Surely not!
Why should we scorn the children of the Cross
Because they have not the high privilege
To know our holy prophet? Ignorance claims
Compassion. Truly do I pity them—
Nay love them, too! For some have gentle bosoms—
All, but one wife.
Has.
Oft hath “the generous Christian”
Awaken'd thy curiosity to learn
A tale which now the golden moment bids me
At length relate. Before the shrine of Allah
I vow'd a solemn vow, that every year
To come (if such were possible) should witness
My grateful purchase of a Christian's freedom.
This is our nuptial day; the brightest, Zaide,
In the whole annual round. And as those vessels
Are now importing slaves, Heaven hath vouchsafed
How signally, to bless my gratitude!
Zai.
I love thy benefactor—though to see him
Were a vain hope. But I can fancy features
Beaming angelic goodness.
6
Yes! my Zaide!
Graved is that angel image on my heart
Never to be erased. Had you but seen—
Whilst some were planning for deliverance, schemes
In sanguine mood; and with dejected air
Others stood musing;—on the floor I lay
Outstretch'd. The Algerines, that guarded us,
Mock'd at my sorrow; but I heeded not
Their scoffs, in you absorb'd. The cooling founts
That play'd beside us, to allay the heats
Of feverish noon, and from o'ershadowing roses
Flung odours, had no charms for me. I beat
My bosom, and with agonizing sighs
Deplored my destiny—when, lo! with port
Manly yet unobtrusive (as he seem'd
To shrink from meddling with a stranger's woes)
Approach'd an European, and presumed
“To hope my grief was not remediless.”
Rising, I kiss'd his garment. “Cruel fate
Hath snatch'd me from the mistress I adore—
Far, far from her (I cried) to whom ere twice
The moon could have renew'd her orb, the link
Connubial had for ever join'd me. Lone
Upon a foreign strand (since without her
The crowded city were a wilderness)
For lack of some few glittering particles—
A little yellow dust—shall I expire?”
Graved is that angel image on my heart
Never to be erased. Had you but seen—
Whilst some were planning for deliverance, schemes
In sanguine mood; and with dejected air
Others stood musing;—on the floor I lay
Outstretch'd. The Algerines, that guarded us,
Mock'd at my sorrow; but I heeded not
Their scoffs, in you absorb'd. The cooling founts
That play'd beside us, to allay the heats
Of feverish noon, and from o'ershadowing roses
Flung odours, had no charms for me. I beat
My bosom, and with agonizing sighs
Deplored my destiny—when, lo! with port
Manly yet unobtrusive (as he seem'd
To shrink from meddling with a stranger's woes)
Approach'd an European, and presumed
“To hope my grief was not remediless.”
Rising, I kiss'd his garment. “Cruel fate
Hath snatch'd me from the mistress I adore—
Far, far from her (I cried) to whom ere twice
The moon could have renew'd her orb, the link
Connubial had for ever join'd me. Lone
Upon a foreign strand (since without her
The crowded city were a wilderness)
For lack of some few glittering particles—
A little yellow dust—shall I expire?”
His eyes o'erflow'd with tears; and with a voice
Faultering from sympathy,—“Thou shalt not die
For want of a few sequins. Take these pieces—
And to thy country—to thy mistress go—
Go, and be happy!” (cried the noble stranger)
“And learn to hate no more a Christian brother.”
Faultering from sympathy,—“Thou shalt not die
For want of a few sequins. Take these pieces—
And to thy country—to thy mistress go—
Go, and be happy!” (cried the noble stranger)
“And learn to hate no more a Christian brother.”
Prostrate again I clasp'd his knees, and utter'd,
O Zaide! thy enchanting name. His own
I ask'd him; that his gold I might return
By the first freight. “Ah no (said he) I lend not—
I lend not, but I give! Excuse me, friend!
That I conceal my name.” Then, too, too courteous,
He grasp'd my trembling hand, nor seem'd to notice
My mute embarrassment, but to the ship
That hither wafted me—another Gabriel!
Guided my steps, when, both in tears, we parted.
O Zaide! thy enchanting name. His own
I ask'd him; that his gold I might return
By the first freight. “Ah no (said he) I lend not—
I lend not, but I give! Excuse me, friend!
7
He grasp'd my trembling hand, nor seem'd to notice
My mute embarrassment, but to the ship
That hither wafted me—another Gabriel!
Guided my steps, when, both in tears, we parted.
Zai.
May righteous Alla bless him! To a spirit
So liberal, life is one rich feast of pleasure.
Has.
Not to disclose the story of my ransom—
Not e'en to Zaide, till I could redeem
My pledge, was I resolved. 'Tis secrecy
That sanctifies a vow. All I could learn,
Was, that my benefactor was a merchant
From England, and that he was bound to Malta,
Where he had left the girl of his affections—
Ere this, perhaps, his bride.
Zai.
How she must love him!
SONG.
1
In vain for me the unfeeling heartAmourous ardours would impart:
Where is no generous sympathy,
Can Love breathe the tender sigh?
2
But when its kindness would embraceBounteous, all the human race,
And only is in blessing blest,
Love is Heaven in such a breast.
3
The bosom, if it beat not so,Trembles for itself alone!
But, quick to others joy or woe
Feels the world and self as one.
4
Its pity is the vernal showerFresh to every living flower;
Its love—the richer dew that glows
To give new incense to the rose
8
SCENE III.
Prospect from a Viranda of the Sea. Harbour—Ships.Hassan, Zaide, Fatima.
Zai.
My Fatima! why so much haste?
Fat.
Thy neighbour
The Armenian—whom we cannot but despise,
(Mean wretch, that battens upon human bondage),
Hath bought already half the Christian slaves,
Just landed from those vessels.
Has.
Hail, thrice hail!
The auspicious day, when I too shall set free
A fellow-creature.
Zai.
Hassan! will a female
Meet thy regard?
Has.
Why? what alarms my fair one?
Say, dost thou fear that, influenc'd by example.
Zai.
No, no—the steadfastness of my affection
Must rivet Hassan's. I would simply ask
Whether a man thy preference claims?
Has.
Aye, surely.
Zai.
Why not a woman?
Has.
'Twas a man ransom'd me.
Zai.
A woman loves thee. To redeem a female
Were a delicious offering: it would give
Like nard and frankincense, its twofold sweets
To love and gratitude.
Has.
'Tis true, my Zaide!
Yet think how friendless—how disconsolate
Is a poor man in slavery; whilst in Smyrna,
Tunis, Algiers, thy sex appears but seldom
An object of compassion. Female beauty
Finds, everywhere, a home. Then, by thy leave,
I will release a man.
[Exit Hassan.
Zai.
Well—be it so
9
SONG.
1
Of female slaves—O! I could cryTo hear the piteous story—
But—that a maid he would not buy—
Why, somehow—I'm not sorry.
2
I have been told, that, at the bestThere's constancy in no man;
And mutable is every breast,
The sport of witching woman.
3
Well—my good husband—I am sure—Delights to do his duty:
But might there not be some strange lure,
Ah me! in a new beauty?
SCENE IV.
Zaide, Fatima.Zai.
My husband means to celebrate this day
With high festivity; and to adorn
My person (beauteous to his partial eyes),
Bade me, with all this gold, buy pearls and jewels!
Yet a thought strikes me. 'Tis, I'm sure, a project
Would please my lord. But hark—I hear a noise—
'Tis that relentless Kaled, with his slaves,
Arrang'd below.—I cannot view those wretches—
I cannot listen to their clanking chains!
Let us retire, and I will tell thee all.
Fatima
(loitering behind).
SONG.
1
Now, what silly fancy or idle caprice, isJust hatch'd in my mistress's brain, I can't guess!
All I know is—I wish I had so many pieces:
Heigho! I would buy such a beautiful dress.
2
O! then I would deck me all over with pearls,And to turban of diamond solicit applause,
And, as envy or jealousy fired all the girls,
My bosom would pant till it kindled the gauze.
10
3
And then from my locks a profusion of muskShould drop, like Arabia distilling perfumes;
And amidst its cool shadows when evening grew dusk,
And the aloes burnt bright to illumine the rooms,
4
I would join in the dance, and to frolicksome measuresWould trip it away, like the antelope nimble;
While mirth's antic train and the rosy-lipp'd pleasures
In rapture should bound to the strokes of the cymbal.
ACT II.—
SCENE I.
A square before Kaled's House; Kaled with his slaves for sale; viz. a Spaniard, a Portuguese, an Italian, an English Attorney or Solicitor, a Clergyman, a Senator, &c. &c. Edwin an English Merchant, and Andrew his servant.Kal.
No, by the Sultan's soul, in the slave traffic
So quick a market ne'er did I experience.
A slave indeed— Enter Hassan, overhearing him.
Well, neighbour! How goes trade?
Kal.
Bad, bad enough.—This is, of course, the tone.
Sellers must grumble.
(aside)
Has.
These, then, are the beings,
Ill-fated, whom their fellows dare reduce
Low as the grazing brute! How blest were I,
Could I but ransom all! Yet, if discernment
Guide my goodwill, perhaps I may select
From the sad group the most deserving object.
(To the Spaniard)
Pardon me, friend, thy country?
His proud looks
Check my enquiries.
(aside.)
Span.
I'm a gentleman
From Spain.
Has.
The Spaniards are a high-bred race:
What art thou, friend?
Span.
A gentleman.
11
But, say,
To what profession bred? What can'st thou do?
(Spaniard, sulkily.)
Nothing.
Has.
Then am I sorry for thy chains—
Chains that must gall indeed!
Kal.
A gentleman! Mere lumber it should seem.
Has.
(to the Portuguese)
Thy grave demeanor
And robe, have a portentous air! Who art thou?
Portuguese.
I am a grand Inquisitor of Lisbon.
Has.
Inquisitor? I know too well thy office.
Inquisitor.
My office and my boast is to defend
Religion against heretics.
Has.
By poison
And fire and dagger! Once I narrowly
Escaped a persecuting monk like thee,
Whose ghastly frown, whose menaces yet freeze
My blood with horror. From the secret glooms
Of subterranean chambers had he hurl'd
The mandate that shrinks up the mortal heart.
How numerous on the agonizing wheel
Writh'd his pale victims, and in pangs expired.
How many a Jew he sentenc'd to the flames!
How many a Turk—how many a Christian—rued
The violation of the Friday's fast
In death—what unconvicted thousands died,
Were vain to tell!
Inquisitor.
O were this infidel clime
But subject to my power, I would regale
Thine eyes with such a spectacle of carnage!
From stakes of criminals I would light up
Into a blaze the shore and the broad sea.
Kal.
(shrugging his shoulders.)
The monster!—
How shall I dispose of him?
We shall be burnt alive.
Has.
(to the Italian.)
And who art thou?
Italian.
A virtuoso.
Has.
I don't understand thee.
Italian.
A connoisseur in the fine arts. Of pictures,
Cameos, statues, coins—I fix the value
12
I likewise sing melodiously. My warblings
To operas could attract enamoured throngs.
Has.
I fancy thou art doubly qualified,
Fit to amuse our harems or to guard them.
(To the Solicitor)
Thy calling, friend?
Solicitor.
The law.
Has.
How? What? (The Solicitor looks sly, and is silent.)
The Clergyman interposing.
Thy tongue
I have heard voluble enough, though now
'Tis closed in silence.
(Turning to Hassan,)
Sir, his business
Is to examine with a prying eye
His neighbour's property; to give advice
To clients, and for every word of counsel
To pocket clinkers; to sow all around him
The seeds of variance; e'en in desperate cases
To promise sure success: whoe'er may gain
The victory, he gets cash.
Has.
But, dost thou lend
In every case thy services to all?
Solicitor.
The law, Sir, is for all.
Has.
I see thy meaning.
The law it seems, thou canst distort at will,
To suit thy client.
The Clergyman.
Such is his adroitness.
Has.
(Turning to the Clergyman.)
Well, Sir! and may I now presume to ask
In candour that thou tell me—
The Solicitor
(eagerly).
What he is?
A revolutionist; who against marriage
(Obedient to a senator, his patron,)
Publish'd a treatise to disgrace the Church;
Who bowing to his master's nod, hath wrested
Babes from their parents, like another Spartan,
And all in one hot seminary planted
The blighted sucklings; who from schools to boroughs
13
In his reforming rage!—Such be assured,
Such is the hallow'd minister, whose works
The trump of Fame proclaims as patriotic.
But to the senator I leave the task
Of blazoning his own merits.
The Senator.
I—I—I
Has.
(turning abruptly to Andrew in contempt of the Senator.)
Thy honest face and rude simplicity
Plead strongly for thee. Who art thou?
And.
No claim
To thy regards have I—a labourer's son,
Brought up to labour.
Kal
Aye, and all the others
Weigh'd against thee, would kick the beam.
And.
Of late
A master I have served, whose destiny
Is a poor recompense for all his goodness.
Has.
Thou, too, art British, I perceive. With faults
To cloud their virtues, still I reckon Britons
(Maugre solicitors and patriots) foremost
In kind humanity.—Thou shalt be free.
And.
Good Mussulman! if thou vouchsafe to Britons
Thy favour, there is one deserves it well.
I have no parents to require my succour;
No wife; no children. Long inured to hardships
Pity me not, but ransom my poor master.
Has.
What do I hear?—Thy master, noble slave.
Where is thy master?
And.
There, beneath the weight
Of sorrow sunk indeed.
Has.
Then, let him speak—
But O! his griefs are sacred, and would seek
Concealment. (he pauses and looks at Edwin.)
Allah! righteous Allah! whom
Whom do I see?—No—I am not mistaken!
He, he himself, my Christian friend, who snatched me
From slavery and from death!
(embraces him.)
14
Ho! ho! 'tis well—
The English have a proverb—“Love or money.”—
But Kaled can link love and cash together!
Kind couple, every hug shall cost a sequin!
Yes, they are dear embraces.
(aside)
Has.
My best friend!
(again embracing.)
Kal.
A friend! why yes, a friend is of great price.
A rare commodity!
Has.
How wonderful
This incident! Know, I had vow'd a vow
To emancipate each year a Christian slave,
In memory of thine image—of thy goodness!
Hither I hasten'd to fulfil that vow,
And lo!—thyself—
Ed.
O, my misfortunes!
Has.
All—
They are all gone, if Hassan can disperse them.
Kaled, thy price?
Kal.
Five hundred sequins
Has.
Well!
I would not grudge a million!
(giving him the money)
Ed.
Godlike spirit!
Kal.
Now, by my mother's scalp, fool, fool am I!
(aside.)
Has.
Leave us together, Kaled. 'Tis but right
I should enjoy my benefactor's presence.
Kal.
'Tis just, for he is thine—follow me, slaves.
And.
(to his master)
Adieu, my master!
Ed.
Hassan, this good servant—
But can I ask?
Has.
Pardon my heedless haste—
Here, Kaled
(offering him money).
Kal.
No—a servant so devoted,
And not a gentleman, is worth his weight
In gold.
Has.
Two hundred sequins—say what more
Dost thou expect?
(giving him money.)
Kal.
(aside)
How prodigal of wealth
Perhaps—it just occurs, a lucky thought—
15
May touch his woman-heart. Hassan! I'm sure (aside.)
If that Italian prompt to warble airs
So languishingly sweet, moved not thy pity;
The Spaniard—woe begone—
Has.
I see thine aim,
But cannot ransom all.
Kal.
Most readily,
I'll lose one half.
Has.
Impossible!
Kal.
Away, then—
SONG.—Kaled.
Off, supple Solicitor!
And Mr. Inquisitor!
Seize the poor squeaking eunuch—go, pounce on the sinner;
And Mr. Inquisitor!
Seize the poor squeaking eunuch—go, pounce on the sinner;
And thou do-nothing Don!
And thou—many in one—
Baby-Stealer
And Dealer:—
To your cells begone quickly—I haste to my dinner
And thou—many in one—
Baby-Stealer
And Dealer:—
To your cells begone quickly—I haste to my dinner
[Exeunt.
SCENE II.
A Turret and Garden below.SONG.
(From the Turret, by a Female Captive, to her Harp.)1
Amidst this murky tower,Shall Hope yet gild the hour,
And Fancy's glowing visions round me rise?
Alas! if Hope illume,
Or Fancy chase the gloom,
Appall'd by wan Despair, how soon each phantom flies.
16
2
In every fairy dreamMy dancing spirits seem
Thro' gay green meads—my native haunts—to rove!
Then, clasp'd in his fond arms,
I yield my virgin charms
To all the chaste delights of wedded love.
3
Ye dear illusions, stay—But fast ye faint away!
I see him droop, the unpitying tyrant's slave.
No more in rapturous trance
To meet my kindling glance,
He grasps, ah cold embrace! the shadows of the grave!
4
For me—relentless Fate!Ere purple pomp await
The rude caresses of some Turkish lord,
May this lorn turret dark
Quench my last living spark—
O ne'er to light again, to balmy light restored!
5
Then, midst my murky towerShall Hope yet gild the hour,
And Fancy's glowing visions round me rise?
Alas! if Hope illume—
Or Fancy chase the gloom,
Appall'd by wan Despair, how soon each phantom flies.
SONG.
By Zaide, in answer to the Captive's Song, which she overheard from the Garden below the Tower.1
Whitening with bloom the bank beneath,That silver almond seems in sighs
To whisper, as the Zephyrs breathe,
How fast its fleeting blossom dies!
2
The plaintive bird from yonder sprayBends o'er the rose's blushing leaf:
And gentle Pity fain would say,
She chaunts some tale of widowed grief.
17
3
But 'tis not love inspires the tonesThat melt amidst the warbling shade,
Or to the breath of Zephyr moans
Where fast the silver almonds fade.
4
Yet, in the turret-glooms above,From some complaining Captive part
Sighs—that, alas! but serve to prove
Their source is sorrow of the heart.
SCENE III.
Enter Hamet, in a violent hurry.Ham.
Kaled! Take back
Thy slave, or to the Cady!
That Senator, Sir Simon!—Take, Sir, take him—
Give me my money. He has sown sedition
Already in my harem. Through one girl
Who from my flexible—too trusting fondness
Much freedom had enjoy'd, he gain'd access
To others, ere an hour had pass'd! Away
With thy complaints—the Cady, be assured,
Will do me justice.
SCENE IV.
The Tower at distance.Hamet.
Kaled, introducing Ellen, an English Lady.
SONG.—Hamet.
1
Of females I have such a store,I scarcely want a mistress more!
Then if she be a high-priced lady,
I must betake me to the Cady.
18
2
Egypt gives maids to my caressesWith large black eyes and ebon tresses,
That o'er their bosoms hang so shady.—
I'll go at once, then, to the Cady.
3
From Araby such lovely bloom,And breath, like its own rich perfume—
Sweet as the balsam of Engedi!
I must away, then, to the Cady.
4
And of Circassians all so fair—With azure eyes and golden hair,
Be sure I have enough already!—
I'm off, this instant to the Cady.
5
Yet stay.—In her may Hamet getThe pleasure of a brisk brunette!
And all disputes this lively lady
May settle—better than the Cady.
SONG.—Kaled.
1
By the roof of Heaven! To theeThere's nothing like variety!
Stock like thine one seldom see'th—
Pretty girls with laughing teeth
2
White as hailstones in the breaches;Cheeks of down like melting peaches;
Locks like scorpions all so curly;
(Oh my brain runs hurly-burly).
3
But in all the virgin-trade.Never did I buy a maid,
Or, Sir!—may I bear the blame! sell
Sweet as this surpassing damsel!
19
4
What a prize to thee I tender!—Shape, as any pinetree slender;
Fine expression, like the gazelle, (lifting her veil.)
From her lovely eyes of hazel;
5
Lashes dark her eyelids fringing,And her cheeks carnation tinging;
Such a sunny, sweet complexion
Claims thy humble genuflexion!
El.
O England! Oh! my country!
Ham.
Hoh! hoh! a patriotic lady!
I'm off this instant to the Cady!
[Exit.
Enter Ali.
Ali.
The Prophet bless thee! Hast thou a good choice
Of virgin captives?
Kal.
Caitiff!—not for thee.
Ali.
Is she the female, who in yonder tower
Was prisoned?
Kal.
Yes. But e'en thy master's purse
Were vainly emptied to redeem a virgin
Born for seraglios. Not eight hundred sequins
Would purchase her.
Ali.
Unveil her, Kaled.
Kal.
(starting)
What!
Dost thou presume—How lucky, by my mother's—
My mother's hairy scalp—how lucky I! (aside)
Behold her, as I lift the vale that shades
Her beauties like the eyelids of the morning.
(Kaled has caught the cant!) (aside.)
Thro' opening clouds!
A misty morning, by the bye! Wipe off
Thy tears!
Ali.
A Christian! Yet I pity her!
20
Kal.
No—
Her price is eight.
Ali.
(giving Kaled the money.)
Say not who purchased her.
Kal.
Don't kill thyself, sweet mourner! from the vapours,
After the fashion of thy country. [Ex. all but Kaled.
Oh!
My bowels yearn'd within me. But these shiners—
Delicious opiates! They have power to still
Pity's commotions—aye, to quiet conscience!
ACT III.—
SCENE I.
Hassan's Garden.Hassan. Edwin.
Has.
Friend! for thy greeting I reserve my Zaide,
(Her who is mine—mine only by thy goodness)
Till, soon at our high bridal feast, she burst
Upon thy sight “the fairest among women.”
Meantime, I would fain ask, tho' my tongue falters,
Where is thy lady, whom from Malta's isle
—Forgive me! I intrude upon thy sorrows.
Ed.
Lost!—lost, I fear for ever.
Has.
How, my friend?
Ed.
Together were we taken, and this morning
Were landed.
Has.
Hah!—And did the base Armenian
Purchase her also?
Ed.
Aye.
Has.
Then from his fangs
To rescue her, I fly.
Ed.
My Hassan!—Oh!
(opprest with gratitude)
21
SCENE II.
A Moonlight Harbour in Hassan's Garden.Edwin
alone.
SONG.
1
Fly, fly, my godlike Hassan!Since none (thy actions prove)
Pure honour thee surpass in.
O bring me back my love!
2
I fear, some dire despoilerMay rifle all her charms;
But nought on earth can soil her—
Oh, give her to my arms!
3
Tho' Freedom's orb hath risen,To fling a gleam on me;
Yet is the world a prison,
My Ellen! without thee.
Enter Zaide.
Zai.
If I intrude upon thee, gentle stranger!
My fault is gratitude. To thee I owe
My all of life.
Ed.
Hail, thou beloved of Hassan!
SONG.—Zaide.
1
They told me, when my love was gone,And drooping low, I wept alone;
Suffused with moisture, eyes so blue
Were like two violets bathed in dew;
And, as my cheeks did tears disstain,
They were as lilies wet with rain.
22
2
Ah! the big drops had—sooth to say—Well nigh the violet wash'd away;
And, rains too heavily descending,
The lilies from their stalks were bending:
But the sun beam'd—the storm was o'er—
And all was brighter than before.
3
Thou wert that sun! Thy friendly powerIllumes with joy the genial hour;
I welcome in that open smile
A courteous spirit free from guile:
Take, O my heart's warm wishes take;—
I love thee for my Hassan's sake!
To thee, as to a brother, I unveil me!
But hark, my friend! Amidst the leaves I hear
A rustling as of footsteps!—We must part!—
Yet would I whisper to thee some glad tidings.
(still more alarmed, they draw closer.)
Ed.
O let me clasp thee—fold thee in my arms
And thus—
(kissing her.)
Zai.
Sir! Sir! forbear!—But I suppose
Such is the custom of thy country!—Hark!
Some listener still!—Farewell, my gentle stranger!
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
Hassan's own Chamber.Hassan
alone.
Alas! the morning rose and promised pleasure!
But oh! malignant, thro' yon dark-red cloud
I see pale disappointment and despair.
I hasten'd—on the wings of Hope I hasten'd
To ransom the betrothed of him, whom falsely
I deem'd my friend! But she was gone. A chill
Of terror froze my veins. Home I return'd;
And hearing Zaide had prepared no dresses
23
With strange misgivings sought the bower. O Allah!
What stayed the avenging arm? I could have rush'd
Upon the murmuring paramours, and plung'd
Into their faithless hearts this thirsty sabre!
But my whole frame was palsied. Like a coward,
Struck by blood-guiltiness, I slank away,
And to my chamber fled to catch dishonour
Blushing from yon connubial couch. But, Hassan!
Meet her!—If resolution strengthen not
Thy trembling arm, despair shall give it vigour!
The Curtain Drops.
SCENE V.
A magnificent Saloon.Hassan, Zaide.
Has.
My brain is fired! No—no—it could not be
—It was delirium all! Not adjurations
Heap'd upon adjurations, should persuade me
That thou wert false.—Yet where were Hassan's senses?
Did I not see thee, through the conscious foliage,
That seem'd to drink up the whole lunar radiance,
To throw a broader light on thy adultery;
Did I not see thee all thy charms disclose
To feed his fierce desires?—Did I not hear thee
Whisper the softness of thy sighs, to sighs
That melted into thine. And—O perdition!
Did I not see that burning kiss, that sealed
Thy perjury, wicked woman? Yes! I heard, too,
Thy lovesick fond apology, fair trait'ress!
'Twas but a custom of the charming English—
An innocent English custom! Yet to thee
It seem'd no novelty at all! 'Tis true
A higher colour kindled up thy cheeks;
But 'twas the feverish flush that only spoke
24
An English custom! Yes? And I suppose
To lavish all upon a specious stranger—
All that a poor duped husband had design'd
In honest pride, for nuptial decorations;
—This, also, is an innocent English custom! [Enter a Female in a Turkish dress, veil, &c. &c.
But who comes hither! What! Dost thou insult me,
Scorn me?—O agony! Still, still this sabre— [While he bites his lips in agony, and brandishes his sabre, Zaide sings in an affectedly insulting air.
SONG.—Zaide.
1
Lord and Master! yet withhold,Stay the sabre from my blood!
Yes! my Master, what is gold—
Gold—to love and gratitude?
2
Aye—for him I spent my treasure;Why—oh, why this jealous mood?
Is there any earthly pleasure
Without love and gratitude?
3
Thou, with all the diamond's splendour,Bad'st the bride her form obtrude;
But what value would it lend her—
Without love and gratitude?
4
'Twas for him I scorn'd each jewel—Pearls nor gems would passion prove!
Spare—O spare me—though so cruel,
I resign them all—for love!
Has.
Cease, cease thy mockery. Hither slaves conduct
Her paramour— (Edwin is introduced.)
—Know, stranger! thou art punish'd
25
Thy mistress is no more—to thee at least
For ever lost!—
[Whilst he is speaking, the veiled Lady rushes into Edwin's arms.
Ed.
O Ellen!
El.
O my Edwin.
(she faints in his arms.)
Zai.
(after a long pause, in a tone of conscious elevation)
See, Hassan! see—for toys that idly glitter,
A worthier offering to the gentle powers
Of love and gratitude. It is thy gift.
El.
(recovering and falling at Zaide's feet.)
Madam! I owe thee more than worlds—my life
My love!
Zai.
The debt is mine,
To thy betrothed I owe my husband.
Has.
O mysterious heaven!
Zai.
Hassan, thy story of the Female Captive
From Edwin torn, no sooner reached my ears,
Than I determined with thy gold to purchase
And at the feast present her—sweet surprise—
To my dear husband! How my heart exulted!
Flush'd with success, I to the garden flew
And whisper'd to the stranger—oh, too rashly—
The happy tidings. Hence the unlicens'd transport
That well might raise alarms e'en in thy bosom,
Ingenuous as thou art. I was too ardent—
Unthinking—but I know thou wilt forgive me.
Has.
Forgive thee, Zaide! I have truly cause
To ask from thee forgiveness. Shame upon me—
Shame—that my mean suspicion should have clouded
One moment of this golden day! I see thee
Unspotted purity—angelic goodness!
But I can only ask my Zaide's pardon. (they embrace.)
[hand in hand, she sings.]
26-32
SONG.—Zaide.
1
O too lightly I, this morn,Boasting of our peerless joys,
Said, as if in impious scorn,
They were those of Paradise.
2
Much I fear, the Prophet's power,To avenge his slighted name,
Sent me to the garden-bower,—
Smote thee with a jealous flame.
3
Then, more modest let us bearWhilst on earth, our earthly joys
We are, sure, the happiest pair—
Only—not in Paradise!
THE END.
33
THE SYRIAN PRINCESS.
- Beliarte, King of Malayala.
- Serinda, His Queen.
- Hirab, Her Female Attendant.
- Bishop Sigelin, Ambassador from Alfred, King of England.
- Edred, Ambassador from Alfred, King of England.
- Dionysius, A Syrian Bishop—Diocesan of Malayala.
- Diophanes, The Bishop's son.
- Amanda Rayer, A Brahman, Beliarte's Physician, and the Queen's Counsellor.
- Theodora, Daughter of a Christian Princess of Antioch, King Beliarte's first wife, deceased.
- Saib, A neighbouring Prince.
- Calou, Chamberlain to King Beliarte.
Dramatis Personæ.
34
[_]
Speakers' names have been abbreviated in this text. The abbreviations used for major characters are as follows:
- For Cal. read Calou
- For Bel. read Beliarte
- For Ed. read Edred
- For Sig. read Sigelin
- For Ser. read Queen Serinda
- For Aman. read Amanda Rayer
- For Hir. read Hirab
- For Theo. read Theodora
- For Dio. read Dionysius
- For The Brah. read The Brahman
- For Cham. read Chamberlain
- For Dioph. read Diophanes
ACT I.—
SCENE I.
The Hall of Audience.The Chamberlain Calou; the British Ambassadors, Edred and Bishop Sigelin.
Cal.
Hail! legates of illustrious worth, all hail!
Ye, who, adventurous from the extremer isles—
From Albion's seat of glory, come; to greet
The Brother of the Sun. Our friendly harbours
Have hush'd their waves; our cities have flung back
Their brazen gates, that ye may enter, proud
In princely state! And lo, the lofty throne,
Emulous to which the nations of the earth
Bow down, shall to your cherish'd sight reveal
Our patriarchal monarch!
(The Ambassadors presenting their offerings in honour of the King and of St. Thomas to Calou the chamberlain; a door opens at the back of the throne, and (the King of Malayala) Beliarte comes forward.
Bel.
Peace be with you—
Honour and peace, high strangers! who have sought us
From afar off, o'er a long billowy waste!
How fares our brother of the western world?
Ed.
Our mighty Alfred, in the name of him
35
To thee presents his cordial salutations.
For what remains, O King! we would solicit
Thy private ear.
(The scene closes; the King intimating his assent.)
SCENE II.
A Balcony of the Palace; commanding a view of the Sea-shore, and of the British Ships.Beliarte. Edred. Sigelin.
Ed.
See those red pendants, flashing
The radiance of the closing day. They stream
O'er valiant spirits! Behold the British Merchant,
Though bosom'd in the hospitable haven,
Yet knows to poise the lance, or wield the sabre.
If then the prowess of the British seaman
36
Shall summon up our little troop around thee:
And they shall stand, a stubborn force—a wall
Impregnable to Brahman arts or arms—
To Brahman incantation!
Sig.
Say, O King!
Dost thou not see the interposing hand
Of Providence, that wafted at this crisis
Our vessels to thy coasts? Great Alfred, anxious
To bind the genuine children of the Cross,
Though scatter'd over distant climes, in union
With Albion's gifted race, and first of all
The followers of the martyr'd Saint—dispatch'd us,
To do right homage at thy throne and altar.
But, of the jarring interests of thy kingdom,
The temper or the bias of thy court,
Thy household, unapprized (what now thy goodness
Confides to generous bosoms) lo, we sail'd
The unconscious instruments of Heaven, to 'stablish,
Haply, thy Church upon a broader basis.
Bel.
The heavenly character of our Apostle,
His meek demeanour, yet his steadfastness
And intrepidity, inspire, confirm
Our fickle minds. With wonder we look back
Upon the crowds his preaching gather'd round him,
And fix'd, the adorers of the one true God!
What thousands he led converts to the faith;
Rearing fair structures for the worshippers
37
Till they, whose jealousy had ey'd askance,
His triumphs o'er their pagods, and had watch'd
The silent moments of his meditations,
Broke in upon his privacy, assail'd
With stones his sacred person, and the lance
Of Kytoo through his body thrust, remorseless
Murderers! 'Twas here, at his own Malabar,
His favourite fabric had he built: here rests
The saint in slumbers undisturb'd. His tomb,
His memory, we revere; his little flock
To save from persecution is our aim;
Though for a full profession of our faith,
The hour is not yet come.
Sig.
I see that hour!
I welcome its approach, and recognize
The mandate from the heaven of heavens, that sent us
An embassage of high desert, from darkness
That may be felt to free thy suffering people;
And in their great deliverance to exalt them
The chief among the Christian nations.
“Alfred ordered a good number of merchant ships to be built. And it is affirmed, that some of the merchants traded as far as the East Indies; whence they imported several things before unknown to the English.” —Rapin's Hist. of England, fol. p. 95.
In a note, Rapin says: “It is not likely they traded to the Indies by sea, at a time the mariner's compass was not found out.”
According to Malmesbury and Spelman: “He sent a present to the Indies, in honour of St. Thomas. Sigelin, Bishop of Sherburn, was employed to deliver it; who performed the voyage successfully, and brought back precious stones, perfumes, and other commodities which were then great curiosities in England. It was thought, Alfred caused with these diamonds a more august and imperial sort of crown than had been used before, to be composed; for, in the arched roof in the cloisters of Westminster Abbey, (where the ancient regalia of the kingdom are kept,) upon a box, the cabinet of the most ancient crown, there are these words:—“Hic est principalior corona, cum quâ coronabantur reges Alfredus, Edwardus,” &c.—This crown is of a very ancient work, with flowers adorned with stones of somewhat plain setting.—See, in particular, Spelman's Life of Alfred, lib. ii. c. 28.
In the Saxon Chronicle, I find this short notice: Ann. 883. Hoc anno detulerant Sighelmus et Æthelstanus eleemosunas (quas Ælfredus rex eo se missurum voverat) in Indiam, ad Sanctum Thomam et Sanctum Bartholomeum.”
With respect to the Syrian Christians, see Buchanan and other writers.
That they are of the first antiquity and of the true Episcopalian Church, there is not the shadow of a doubt.
It is most devoutly to be wished, that Bishop Sigelin's prophecy, at the close of this dramatic sketch, may be realized.— Heber, the late Bishop of Calcutta, was not like Middleton, a frigid calculator of probabilities. I trust, he hath opened to good purpose, an intercourse with the Syrian Christians.
SCENE III.
The Queen's Cabinet.Queen Serinda. Amanda Rayer, the Brahman, her Counsellor.
Ser.
Say—
Is Saib on the march? Who warn'd the prince
Of this impending danger? Were our heralds
Charg'd with the tale of fleets from northern regions,
Fleets bearing on their wings the sons of giants?
And was he told, that girt with swords of flame,
And cased with adamant, each warrior tower'd
A champion of St. Thomas?
Aman.
If we read
The auguries of the skies aright, Prince Saib
38
Ser.
And hath thy secret messenger been taught
To set forth Theodora's ripening charms,
Her brilliant beauty, to reward the achievement,
When he shall rise, terrific, on the ruins
Of Syrian churches?
Aman.
Rather to our fanes,
Aye, rather, when Prince Saib shall restore
Their still mysterious gloom, their deep repose!
Ser.
Such, such is thy eternal cant. The picture
Of tranquil votaries may perhaps amuse thee,
And win thy fancy to its placid features—
But the dread Deity that hush'd our temples
Far off retires, whilst in each avenue
Those licens'd scoffers of St. Thomas, jostle
The mild Gentoo! Go—bid the Nazarite
Eschew his vanities, give up his baubles,
His precious stones and garments! Go, reduce
The Prelate to his pristine simple state,—
To saintlike self-abasement! Then observe
His flock—go number them! The Cross, perchance,
(Erected kindly, to refresh, to heal
The fainting multitudes that press around it,)
Hath virtues to evaporate all in air!
ACT II.—
SCENE I.
The Queen's Apartment.Serinda. Hirab, her confidential female attendant.
Ser.
And is it thus our scorn'd divinities
Are in the dust laid low? On every height
Reddens the recent fabric, to insult
The kindling morn! To bells, to crashing bells
Quake our dejected altars; whilst to vestments
Milk-white our Brahmans vail their ancient honours.
Alas! the court hath caught the strange contagion,
39
Droops from its influence. But by Vishnu's might,
I will avenge me of that guilty maiden,
Nor suffer her stolen loves to blast the country
As with a pestilence. To Asgar's fane,
Hirab! thy cunning or thy care did trace
The son of that proud prelate? Thou didst see
Endearments and caresses? Thou didst witness
Soft amorous murmurs, vows of constancy,
And all such sights and sounds?
Hir.
Alas! too true!
Yes, with these eyes I saw the fond embrace;
Yes, with these ears I witness'd all that love
Could utter, in its most impassion'd moments.
Of furtive interviews the busy rumour
Was whisper'd round. To please my royal mistress,
I was resolv'd to watch in all her movements
The princess, and, if just the sad suspicion,
To tell thee all. 'Twas yester eve the sun
Its last rays beaming on the temple-roof,
A dark cloud quench'd the gilded balls in shadow;
'Twas then, from where a palm its duskier gloom
Flung o'er the bank, I heard a stealthy step,
A rustling, a short breathing, sighs half-smother'd;
And—screen'd by the hoar broken wall—espied
Distinctly through its fracture, two fair forms
Ascending up the temple. On a sudden
They stopp'd: and “We must part” he cried, “my love:
I fear some lurking caitiff. But to-morrow,
Yon moon arising over Isbad's grove,
There will we meet again!” Quick through the darkness,
To penetrate the deep recess, she look'd
Shivering with apprehension. Not the roe
Close by the lair of the gaunt lioness
From terror trembles more.
Ser.
And she shall tremble!
E'en as the roe when the gaunt lioness
Hath seized, and torn its reeking limbs asunder!
40
To all appointments, loveless or lovelorn,
Shall hail “the rising moon o'er Isbad's grove.”
Hir.
Yet, as I noticed their ingenuous ardour,
Though indiscreet, ingenuous—from my heart
I pitied errors which thy chastening hand
May still correct in mercy. Oh! my queen!
She was all loveliness. Her veil thrown backward,
Light wanderer from amidst her chesnut hair
A ringlet kiss'd the roses of her cheek;
But in her eyes, that wont in melting lustre
To languish, there was wildness from her fears.
Feeble and pale she totter'd. In mid azure,
The silver-skirted cloud that scarce before
Stole on, so quivers to the whirling wind;
And, calm again, its soft dissolving texture
In evening's vivid crimson disappears!
Thus all in blushes—yet one little moment
Clasp'd in her lover's arms—she fled! How high
In grandeur, and in grace, that princely stature!
When motionless he gazed, till she was gone,
And still upon her pathway gazed,—her pathway
Where seem'd to float a glory long behind her,
A trail of light left only by the gods!
O! they were forms—not Shivah's self—
Ser.
Avaunt;
Blaspheming girl! To thy mad poesy
(Nurs'd as thou wert amidst Ellora's bards)
Oft have I loved to listen. But thy tongue
Runs strangely rampant. To his fiery wrath—
To him thy flippancy presum'd to name,
Devoted, shall they perish! Hence, away!
SCENE II.
Beliarte. Serinda.Bel.
Wife of my fondest love—thou, on whose bosom,
41
I wooed repose;—say, why is thy young brow
Thus ruffled? Why with such a glance of anger,
Thus greet thy lord?
Ser.
Gods! Is there not a cause?
Dost thou not foster with ill-omen'd kindness
The spawn of Antioch? Have I not repeated
My solemn warnings, as I bid thee mark
Thy Theodora's ways? In soften'd tones,
Soften'd to sooth thy partial ear, her wanderings
Have I not oft described? And though I touch'd
Lenient upon her frailties, lest too harsh
I should offend thee (strenuous to restore
To its pure spotlessness her blemish'd fame),
Hath not my mild expression been repuls'd
By silence, or the impatience that ill brooks
A story of detraction? I could tell thee
Of midnight assignations—I could tell thee,
How oft “the bower of cassia” then unpierc'd
But by the starry lights of heaven, hath wrapp'd
Her love-thefts in its solitary shade;—
How oft “the ruin'd fane” frowns o'er her pleasures.
Yes! I could tell thee where apostacy
From lewd voluptuousness hath snatch'd new fuel,
Whilst to the daring son of Dionysius
She hath abandon'd honour, truth, and conscience.
And dost thou sanction still th' incontinence,
The faithlessness of that rebellious damsel,
And yet not shudder at Narenha's gulf?
Dost thou not feel thy throne rock under thee?
Ere long, that throne shall crumble into atoms.
Bel.
Oh! check thy frantic zeal. The gods of India
Prompt not religious vengeance. Ask thy Brahman,
Thy counsellor. His fluent eloquence
Hath said, that “soft as ripples o'er the sands
The sacred wave, is Maya's genial smile,”
And that “her shrine is only rich with incense
Where mercy breathes.”
Ser.
But hath thy Syrian Princess
42
A claim to Mercy? Is the blood of kings,
That riots like the dancing prostitute's,
And makes such tumult in thy virgin's veins,
No unpolluted current? Why that look
Incredulous? I thank thee for thy musings,—
I thank thee for the thought that clouds thy brow,
Still gathering to reproach the false accuser!
But I will bring the lovers full before thee!
I will produce Diophanes, and shew
To garish day the votary of the shadows,
Confronted with his blushing Theodora!
Yes, Theodora! Yes! her very name
Impregnated with evil, bears within it
Disasters dire, and prodigies and crimes!
[Exit.
Bel.
(alone)
I must dissemble. Yet the unvalued time,
The golden moment, doubtless, is not distant,
When, shielded by the British embassage,
I may avow my faith. To fair Arisbe,
Sprung from the kings of Antioch's holy city,
I owe that light which, as the day-star, rises
All in my troubled heart, with friendly lustre,
To calm it into peace. To her I promis'd
When we exchang'd the vows of married love,
Protection to her poor unconscious infant.
And when—alas! how soon!—from her faint pillow
She lifted up her sweet imploring eyes,
I promised more. “O, if thou ever loved
Thy poor Arisbe, take (she cried) her image,
Take to thy guardian care. And oh! remember,
In Theodora I bequeath to thee
A princess and a Christian!”—To my tears—
My vows—as to my trembling arms I caught
The little weeping innocent, the smile
That lighted up Arisbe's countenance
Was Heaven itself! Sure, to the parting Christian
Death hath no sting! But, what a weak old man!
Why did I take Serinda to my bosom?
43
To Vishnu's shrines the unwitting Theodora?
Why to the favour of the idolatrous tribes
Commend my lisping worshipper?—asham'd
Of Him who said: “Suffer the little children
To come to me—for their inheritance
Is Heaven—theirs is my kingdom!” As I strive
With frequent efforts, to renounce my errors,
Her passions overwhelm me! I could deem it
Well nigh enchantment that chains up my will!
All fancy and all fire, her violence
Distracts me e'en to dizziness! To break
That spell, the couch alone from which I drew
Faith that shall cherish the last hour, availeth:
'Tis from the dying couch hath beam'd forth comfort
That shall outlive the Shaster's vain illusions.
SCENE III.
A Portico.The King. The Queen.
Soldiers enter and relate their fruitless search after Diophanes, &c.
Ser.
What! felons! If they have escaped, your lives—
Your forfeit lives—for perfidy shall pay
Due recompence!—
Soldiers.
O Queen! Amid the shade
Of tamarinds, breathing scarce a breath, we lay
Hour after hour, and every leaf around us
Seem'd fearful to disturb the moonlight stillness;
When, lo! a sudden rush and a long roar
Shook all the grove. Starting we bent our bows,
Starting as by involuntary impulse!
Sedulous the spot we travers'd, and descried
A tiger's track, and with fresh gore imbrued
The sands that sloped away.
44
But found ye not
The dead or dying?
Soldiers.
Busied in the search
We left some few bold spearmen, and hied home
To tell thee what had happen'd, and to wait
Thy further pleasure. Not that the stained sands
Were tinctured from the lacerated princess,
Or from the son of holy Dionysius!
Hard by a traveller had just pass'd. Perchance
The tiger—
Ser.
Wretches! Ye but ill conceal
Your bias. Ye but mock at me! Yet know
Though all things visible combine against me,
I have a thousand viewless powers, that hover
Above your craven heads, and at my nod
Descending—
Bel.
Are ye sure that Theodora
This evening sought the tamarind grove?
Ser.
Aye, sure—
And I presume, ere she had saunter'd long,
The jungle was her prison, and her goaler
And executioner (both met in one)
The griesly minister of Indra.
[Theodora enters.
Bel.
Thanks!
O God, to thy all gracious power, she lives!
Ser.
So! neither man nor beast hath clue to thread
The mazes of thy ramblings! (with a mad malicious laugh.)
—But rash maid!
Thy lover hath, ere this, fallen headlong down
The precipice, to which thine harlotry
Had his rash steps seduc'd! And thou, grey monarch!
Thou half Hindoo, who gazest now on me,
Now on thy Theodora; some new likeness—
Some new expression of her lovely mother;
Be sure, thou hast discern'd! Her gentleness,
Her melting air, the lilies of her face,
And o'er her bosom's bloom, those wanton tresses
Are imaged all before thee! What am I?
45
My black complexion, 'twas the beauteous coral
That colour'd, from beneath, the liquid wave!
'Twere now, a fire-gleam through the duskiness
Of murky midnight! Thou couldst once admire
The silky softness of my skin, and praise
In me a symmetry of form and features
Surpassing all. Once, it is true, my teeth
Were as the pearls of Ormuz! Once, these eyes
Could kindle up thine impotence to rapture!
'Tis past! They shine no more:—or, if they shine,
Their brightest beam is but—“a glance of anger.”
ACT III.—
SCENE I.
A Dungeon in the Palace.Diophanes in Chains.
At dead of night, an iron door unclosing, enter Theodora.
Theo.
Hasten, adored Diophanes! Those chains
We will unlink, and disappoint the poniard
That thirsts relentless for thy life! I fear
Death will be busy midst these walls anon!
And oh! a thought—an agonizing thought,
Which I have idly struggled to discard,
Is forc'd on me, as if by some bad spirit
Infusing ill! Yet can there breathe on earth
A monster so unearthly? But just now,
Our sovereign, to recruit his languid frame,
(The Brahman so advised and so averr'd,)
From Rayer's hands a sparkling goblet took,
And drank It seem'd a balmy draught. Serinda
Stood by, and—so I construed—scarce disguised
The pleasure of a fiend! I caught her eye's
Malicious twinkling. Oh! I dread the treachery
Of that smooth Brahman, whom (Serinda's minion)
The king too confidently trusts—“the friend,
46
Alas! Heaven pardon me, if I suspect—
The prisoner! Straight to Calou, (by whose aidance
I enter here,) I hinted my suspicion.—
But my lamp quivers almost to extinction.
Haste, haste away.
Dio.
My Theodora! listen!
Thy precious life for me hast thou abandoned!
I fear thou art betrayed and lost. Hark, hark!
Low muttering voices. Vainly would we fly!
The massy doors close heavily upon us:
The bolts roll back into their iron places.
But summon all thy fortitude, my fair one!
Angel of light! The fiends—they cannot hurt thee!
SCENE II.
Beliarte. Dionysius. Calou.Bel.
Too true! The signet of thy pliant sovereign
Hath been abused indeed! But wiles and witchcraft
Possess my palace. Yet if loyalty,
If ancient faith, averse from usurpation,
Still linger in one being here, thy son
Is free.
Cal.
Enough, enough my royal master!
The fleeting night hath warn'd thee to retire
To thy accustom'd slumbers. Cares press hard—
Too hard upon thee; and thy reverend age
Is sunk in sorrow. Let my arm sustain thee.
SCENE III.
The King's Bedchamber.Beliarte. Diophanes. Theodora.
Bel.
Come hither, O, my child!—I would fain say
My children! For a few short minutes loosed
47
My dying admonitions, and to hear
The adieus of tried sincerity—the blessings
Of friendship, of a parent's love, I call'd you.
My honest chamberlain (to whom your thanks
For this brief respite from your prison bonds
Are due) hath power, hath a determined spirit
Which shall break forth ('tis now rein'd in discreetly)
To vanquish all your enemies. A tone
Is his, a majesty of speech, a grandeur
Of sentiment, a high commanding mien,
From which the conscious villain shrinks aghast.
But to your dungeon tho' sent back, and menac'd
With every torture of protracted death,
Be firm, my children! Your Almighty Parent
Shall from the lion's mouth deliver you,
If it seem meet to His unerring wisdom.
Rich from the canopy that long hath shaded
The royal progeny of Malayala,
The Christian ensign may shine out emblazon'd,
Ere many a moon shall wane: and you, my children,
Who droop afflicted now, may sit beneath it,
Sceptred in glory! To my swimming eyes
The vision of such glory opens, fresh
From Heaven's own penciling. I am cheer'd!
Yet life
Is ebbing fast away—I go, where circled
By cherubim among the just, rejoices
Thy mother—my Arisbe.
Theo.
O my father!
Well may I call thee by that hallow'd name!
For thou hast nurtured me with all the affection
That parents feel for their own helpless offspring!
And now, when I deserv'd thy stern reproof,
Compassion to our frailty pardons faults
Which had but little claim to thy forgiveness.
That Dionysius with thy partial favour
Was blest, I knew full well,—the Prelate's son
Hence I would fain look up to, for protection.
48
But secret interviews are fraught with danger.
And—no—not once again, by thee unsanctioned
Would I have hailed Diophanes! O guardian
Of infant years, and more of riper age,
O more than parent, whither shall I turn
Amid a thousand perils? Whither fly?
I see thy feebleness. Thy tongue essays
To speak to me one word of consolation,
Alas! I fear in vain.
Bel.
Come hither, children!
O let my last grasp join you hand in hand;
And I shall die in peace—if peace there be
To him who feels, and hath long felt the sense
Of having err'd—of having much offended;
Yet cannot (weak, and every instant weaker)
Repair the offence—yet cannot by its fruits
Perfect repentance. Steady to my trust
I should have bid thee shun the sculptured caverns
Whose hideous monsters yawn'd to amaze thy childhood!
Oft to my soul I cried—oft—(whispering peace
Where was no peace) “Thou art with God, tho' here,
We in the sight of men do specious homage:
Whilst I bow down in Rimmon's house, the Lord
Pardon me in this thing!”—Alas! my sin
Was more than thrice the Assyrian's! Where I bow'd
I bade thee bow! To cowardice baser far
Than his, I added my poor child's seduction!
What though in secret I unceasing taught thee
All that was just and lovely, and pourtray'd
To Theodora's heart, “the Christian graces,”—
'Twas not enough. Still, hath my bosom throbb'd
With joy, as I beheld thee to the Cross
Attached, and cherishing with fond delight,
The memory of thy sainted mother. Still—
Still have I comfort in the hope, that he,
49
My strength is well nigh gone!—
(He with difficulty joins their hands, and falls back senseless.)
Dio.
My Theodora!
Faint not. Thy sorrows shall my tenderest grief
Assuage, and I will mix my tears with thine,
That shall embalm our monarch's dear remains!
And if sedition, with a threatening aspect,
Marshal its ranks awhile, a sure asylum
Shall hold thee; till I lead thee forth to love
And honour, bidding thy foes fly before thee:
Till we have reach'd at length the Christian summit
To which thy father's dying hopes aspir'd.
(They are borne off by the Guards to separate prisons.)
ACT IV.—
SCENE I.
Serinda. The Brahman.The Brah.
Say, whence, then, all this reverence for the gods,—
For India? Whence this zeal for rites and customs
Sacred to thy religion and thy country?
What! dost thou fear the flame; henceforth to rank
Among the weak deserters of their duty,
Thou, who art deem'd a heroine? Or, if terror
Repel thee not, wilt thou disdain the honours
That crown the faithful widow, who ascends
The funeral pile;—provoking Hindoo tongues
To brand thee with impiety? Remember!
'Twas by thy order, from the boiling caldron
That death was pour'd into the ears of her
Who from her husband's pyre had turn'd reluctant!
The young and beauteous widow scream'd for mercy,
Till, agonized to madness, she expired.
Ser.
Nay, nay, my counsellor! whose will, thou know'st,
Is mine; whose instant word hath—like the rod
50
Impetuous in my bosom—thou cans't see
In my aversion to those mournful rites,
Nor cowardice, nor contempt. Thou art aware,
To fit me for the holy immolation,
I must retreat from all the passing scene
At once, into the silence of seclusion.
But hath not active virtue worth superior
To a tame sacrifice? A living spirit
To an expiring soul? To tear the princess
From that insidious Nazarite, to recover
The tottering throne from the base grasp of Christians—
Thus living, sure 'tis better far to live,
Than to abandon duty and to die!
Yet do I bend to thee, submitting all
To thy sagacious guidance—and assured
That, soon as with the husband's ashes mingle
The relics of Serinda, thou wilt offer
The Princess Theodora to the wrath
Of Indra! Hark! already from below,
Already hiss the fiercest of the desert,
Prompt at my beck and Indra's, to destroy
The fair apostate. Yet, if one short meeting
(Ere to my tomblike chamber I retire)
Thy wisdom wink at, I will set before her,
Free for her choice, to dazzle or dismay,
A sceptre or a sepulrche.
The Brah.
Then go—
And know, that, soon as “with the husband's ashes
Shall mingle his Serinda's, I will offer
The Princess Theodora to the wrath
Of Indra,” if thy gracious terms of pardon
The maid despise, incontinently clinging
To her fond love—if she reject Prince Saib.
Ser.
This ring, with magic powers endued, be thine,
Thine, for Serinda's sake. It will detect
The irresolute, and call up, in loud thunders,
51
To where Varoona rides the crocodile,
Lashing the darksome surge, or sabred Vayoo,
His whirlwind mounts, amid the fainting stars
Of heaven! Farewell, hoar Sage!
SCENE II.
An open Balcony.Serinda
alone.
—Swift on the march
Is warlike Saib. From the mourner's cell
Shall I be soon released. But, streaming round,
See sudden torches fire the court below,
And there, to all the heavenly splendour, glitters
Yon orient throne. And hark, the Syrian comes,
Though link'd, how light! Enter Theodora (brought in by the Guards). In prospect from the Portico; on one side an Area, where by torchlight a wild Elephant and fiery Serpents are let out; on the other side, at distance, a Pavilion, glittering with gold and diamonds, rubies and emeralds, to the full moon.
—Hail, Princess!—Hah, the flame
Hurts the soft azure of thine eyes, that melt
In dewy tenderness. Forgive the rigour
That bade thee from thy cool repose, come forth
Into an irksome glare. But, if those lids
That us'd to shame the eyelids of the morn,
It pain thee not, to unclose;—look down and mark
A spectacle, to rivet thy attention
To the sublime of nature! See, fair maid!
Wild from his woods, that Elephant. How nobly
He rears his mighty trunk! His small keen eyes
Dart fire: aye, he discerns thee! Are they glances
Amorous or angry? “I would clasp thee, Virgin!”
Or, (is it possible?) their rude expression
Tells—“I would trample thee!” From that dark corner
There may be some to win thy better love.
Lo, kindling to the flambeaux, they uncoil
Their undulating lengths—how sleek, how smooth!
Is there no charm in their blue scaly burnish?
Dost thou not fancy in their forked tongues
Delicious pleasure—in their bite a sting—
The very sting of rapture? Such be thine!
Unless with Saib, who will soon ascend
The vacant throne, thou join thy willing hand.
Then shall delights, far other, trance thee; then
Shall Genii waft thy spirit into bliss
Celestial. Turn thee round. In soft relief
Yon rich pavilion radiates to the moon.
At distance it appears all pearl. Its steps
Are emeralds, and its pillars massy gold.
Those steps of emerald shalt thou tread—that couch
Shalt press, if Saib—but I've hazarded
A task inconsonant with every feeling;
I sicken at a portrait shaped and coloured
By my own fancies. Reptile!—hence—begone!
( aside
.) Still I would fain, in honour of old Matra—
Of wild Orixa, further Saib's suit.—
But I abhor her gentle smiles—her meekness—
Her sweet angelic looks:—my soul revolts
From Theodora thron'd! Besides, her witchcrafts
Perhaps might draw Prince Saib to the temple
Of Nazareth! Then be the elephant
Her husband, and her paramour the serpent!
(The guards attempt to bear her off. Theodora struggles, wishing to speak. The Queen (turning round).
What! dost thou hover o'er the attractive scene?
Dazzled—
Is warlike Saib. From the mourner's cell
Shall I be soon released. But, streaming round,
See sudden torches fire the court below,
And there, to all the heavenly splendour, glitters
Yon orient throne. And hark, the Syrian comes,
Though link'd, how light! Enter Theodora (brought in by the Guards). In prospect from the Portico; on one side an Area, where by torchlight a wild Elephant and fiery Serpents are let out; on the other side, at distance, a Pavilion, glittering with gold and diamonds, rubies and emeralds, to the full moon.
—Hail, Princess!—Hah, the flame
Hurts the soft azure of thine eyes, that melt
In dewy tenderness. Forgive the rigour
That bade thee from thy cool repose, come forth
Into an irksome glare. But, if those lids
That us'd to shame the eyelids of the morn,
It pain thee not, to unclose;—look down and mark
A spectacle, to rivet thy attention
To the sublime of nature! See, fair maid!
Wild from his woods, that Elephant. How nobly
He rears his mighty trunk! His small keen eyes
Dart fire: aye, he discerns thee! Are they glances
Amorous or angry? “I would clasp thee, Virgin!”
Or, (is it possible?) their rude expression
52
There may be some to win thy better love.
Lo, kindling to the flambeaux, they uncoil
Their undulating lengths—how sleek, how smooth!
Is there no charm in their blue scaly burnish?
Dost thou not fancy in their forked tongues
Delicious pleasure—in their bite a sting—
The very sting of rapture? Such be thine!
Unless with Saib, who will soon ascend
The vacant throne, thou join thy willing hand.
Then shall delights, far other, trance thee; then
Shall Genii waft thy spirit into bliss
Celestial. Turn thee round. In soft relief
Yon rich pavilion radiates to the moon.
At distance it appears all pearl. Its steps
Are emeralds, and its pillars massy gold.
Those steps of emerald shalt thou tread—that couch
Shalt press, if Saib—but I've hazarded
A task inconsonant with every feeling;
I sicken at a portrait shaped and coloured
By my own fancies. Reptile!—hence—begone!
( aside
.) Still I would fain, in honour of old Matra—
Of wild Orixa, further Saib's suit.—
But I abhor her gentle smiles—her meekness—
Her sweet angelic looks:—my soul revolts
From Theodora thron'd! Besides, her witchcrafts
Perhaps might draw Prince Saib to the temple
Of Nazareth! Then be the elephant
Her husband, and her paramour the serpent!
(The guards attempt to bear her off. Theodora struggles, wishing to speak. The Queen (turning round).
What! dost thou hover o'er the attractive scene?
Dazzled—
Theo.
No—no—weak woman as I am.
Was it thy notion that such glittering baubles
Could lure me from my faith?—that e'en thy terrors,
53
Could shake my steady purpose? No, Serinda!
Though I may shriek, my soul shall never faulter.
Writhing in torture, I may plead for mercy,
But not to Thee. He, who hath stores of comfort,
Who heals the broken-hearted—He will hear—
The Father of the fatherless, who listens
To the poor orphan's prayers, can mitigate
The pangs of cruel Death. He, He will hear,
And turn the moan of anguish, to a sigh
Of pleasure.
Ser.
Be it so!—The experiment
Shall straight be tried. 'Twere barbarous to put off
The promise of such exquisite enjoyment!
Guards! seize her—throw her down— (The Guards seizing her, the Brahman rushes in.)
—What! stand ye rooted?
Chain'd as by fascination? Throw her down!
Cowards!—'tis her own election.
The Brah.
Shall the Brahman—
Shall Indra's hallowed priesthood, be thus slighted,
Thus trifled with, and that too by Serinda,
The fervent worshipper of Indra's gods?
But to thine own devices must I leave thee.
Ser.
Pardon my rashness—pardon! 'Twas attachment
To India's gods so plunged me into error!
I give back Theodora to thy care.
The Brah.
Yes! to her prison-gloom! and hear again!
“Soon as Serinda's with her husband's ashes
Shall mingle, I will offer up to Indra
The Princess Theodora.”
ACT V.—
SCENE I.
The Brahman alone.
'Tis a ring
Right-royal;—'tis a ruby of old time!
Well—I will wear it for Serinda's sake.
(tauntingly.)
Herself insidious, she suspects deceit.
But let us try this touchstone. Lo, untarnished—
Unclouded, on my finger it retains
Its everlasting blush! I see no paleness;
I hear no rustling wings—no pealing thunders
Of Genii, to annihilate the faithless!
Hah! the dissembler!—It is true, her sense
Of India's degradation, bids her wreck
Her vengeance on the Princess, and hath beckon'd
To Saib and his armies. But she hates
The rival, while she scorns the Christian. Dreadful
Have I observ'd the jealous fires at work,
Whether half-smother'd in her breast, or bursting
Into a livid flame. Her reign is past!
And she is caught in her own craftiness!
Her groveling minions, from her fascinations
Escaped, shall gather soon obsequious round me;
And I will turn her engines of destruction
Against herself.
Enter the Chamberlain.
Right-royal;—'tis a ruby of old time!
54
Herself insidious, she suspects deceit.
But let us try this touchstone. Lo, untarnished—
Unclouded, on my finger it retains
Its everlasting blush! I see no paleness;
I hear no rustling wings—no pealing thunders
Of Genii, to annihilate the faithless!
Hah! the dissembler!—It is true, her sense
Of India's degradation, bids her wreck
Her vengeance on the Princess, and hath beckon'd
To Saib and his armies. But she hates
The rival, while she scorns the Christian. Dreadful
Have I observ'd the jealous fires at work,
Whether half-smother'd in her breast, or bursting
Into a livid flame. Her reign is past!
And she is caught in her own craftiness!
Her groveling minions, from her fascinations
Escaped, shall gather soon obsequious round me;
And I will turn her engines of destruction
Against herself.
Cham.
They come—they come! the host
Of Saib! Thro' the hollows of yon hills
They wind in long array—now lighted up—
Sabres and spears and all their mass of armour—
From yonder orb—now, as the fleeciness
Of snowy clouds hath dimm'd its brightness, fading
In fitful glimmerings.
(as he sees the Brahman.)
Traitor! Is it thou?
Still meanly skulking, till occasion spur thee,
To spring upon thy prey! Thy old heart leaps
To the shrill voices of the trumpets.—Hah!
That answering blast which thrills the inmost palace,
'Tis from some brother Brahman, like thyself,
Affecting peace, yet panting for commotion.
Wan poisoner! know, we heed nor thee nor Saib.
Sweeping around the palace-walls, our troops
Have blended Syrian worth with British valour;
While thirst the chieftains from the isles of ocean,
To punish regicides and rebels.
The Brah.
Still meanly skulking, till occasion spur thee,
To spring upon thy prey! Thy old heart leaps
To the shrill voices of the trumpets.—Hah!
That answering blast which thrills the inmost palace,
'Tis from some brother Brahman, like thyself,
Affecting peace, yet panting for commotion.
Wan poisoner! know, we heed nor thee nor Saib.
Sweeping around the palace-walls, our troops
Have blended Syrian worth with British valour;
While thirst the chieftains from the isles of ocean,
55
Much
Hast thou mistaken Vayoo. From his haunts
I call'd not Saib; nor could wish to couple
The vulture with the tigress. Saib, wild
In native savageness, and still urged on
By the fanatic Princess, might in flame
Envelope India! I abjure the zeal
That persecutes opinion. To the faith
Transmitted from my fathers, I adhere.
And may our temples of old time, expand
Their portals to the ages yet to come
Magnificent and glorious. But unshaken
The Cross may stand for me. And, O loved monarch!
Kind as the gentle rivulets, that refresh
The parched glebe, tho' by thy years exhausted,
As are those gentle rivulets, dwindling fast
Amid the sultry sunblaze.—O my sovereign!
Am I a regicide?—Yes, yes, 'twas I
That poison'd thee—I mix'd for thee the chalice;
I bade thee drink—yet I'm no poisoner!
Cham.
Hoh!
Thou talkest in enigmas. But the tramp
Of steeds and clash of arms too loudly tell
There is no room for parley.
SCENE II.
Dionysius the Bishop; Diophanes, his Son.Dioph.
O my Father!
I have resources still. Inconstant—weak,
Are the Queen's ministering slaves. Her brand
Of persecution to the Brahman glares,
Dire as the comet thro' the saddening night
Shoots sanguine streams; and his mild spirit falls back
Scared by the blasting of her wasteful fury.
Nor doth he mark unmoved the increasing tide
Of Syrian popularity; but sheathed
56
Turns her own plots against her. 'Twas this moment
My chains were by a hand unknown struck off!
I fly to give the Princess air and freedom.
SCENE III.
The Princess just released from Prison; the Chamberlain assisting her.Enter Diophanes.
Dioph.
Courage, my Princess! All the palace floors
Are slippery from the blood of traitors! Vain
Were Calou's voice, proclaiming at their peril,
That none unite them with the fell invader,
Had not the lances of the British heroes
Here, dripp'd from rebel slaughter—had not spears
There bristled—yet to madden through the crowd:
When, veering as the gulf-winds of Arabia,
The palace guards to our's their forces jon'd,
And to the approaches of insulting Saib
Bade fierce defiance. Desperate was the conflict,
Tho' but of short duration. Breathing rage,
And uttering execrations, the young Prince
Hew'd out his way amid the thickest, darted
Upon the British warrior his fired eye,
And challenged Edred to the combat. Clash'd
Sabre and sword; and northern nerve well nigh
Had yielded to the lubricating tricks
Of a sly foe, when with one forceful impulse
Edred into an undefended part
His gleaming falchion plunged; and Saib fell.
Struck, panic-struck, the remnant of his army
Fled to the mountains. But the wounded Prince
Appears—a lion taken in the toils.
Saib,
(borne in, wounded desperately,)
Miscreants! to massacre your priests—your Gods!
I would have raised your temples, towering over
57
And, if the pillar of a church yet stood,—
A solitary column,—straight its base
Should have been painted crimson—from a Christian,
Should from a Christian's heart have been enrich'd—
And for its capital, have borne his limbs
Blacken'd or blanchd!
(Turning to Theodora,)
No—Theodora,—no.—
Thy Bishop or thy Bishop's son,—forgive me!—
I would have spared his life—in kind compassion
I would have brought him to the bridal chamber,
And bid him melt—still melt with love, and feed
Upon thy charms, and sigh and sigh again!
Yes! my fair Syrian! from a pleasant nook
Close by our nuptial couch should he have languish'd?
And thence through iron bars, have look'd and look'd
Upon our raptures! Yes! my lovely Syrian!
And after his fine sense was sated well,
I would have stabb'd him thus! (aiming a stab at her.)
Curse on this weapon!
Have I then miss'd thee? Sorceress! have I miss'd thee?
Curse on this quivering arm! May Indra, Vishnoo,
Wrapt in the roar of the elements—O! these pangs!
Hither, fair Theodora! Dread me not—
Dying—by death disarmed—I have yet something
To whsiper to thy secrecy! Forgive—
Thou wilt forgive—Oh!
(As she approaches, he again attempts to stab her, and in the violent effort expires.)
Chamberlain.
There expired a wretch—
A desperate wretch, who would have bid the brooks,
In every vale, from every rock, run blood;
Or if a Syrian to his dwelling wooed
The limpid fountain, would have bid it froth
Pollution! Thanks to bravery not our own—
Thanks to a British arm.
58
SCENE IV.
The Princess, Dionysius, Edred and Sigelin, the Brahman.The Brahman,
(aside to the Princess)
Puissant Princess!
Dismiss thy guards; nay, nay, suspect me not!
Dismiss thy guards, and I'll disclose to thee,
Truths, to awaken terror and delight
And indignation!—Know, then, high assembly!
[Exeunt the Guards, &c.
The old king lives! I minister'd, 'tis true,
The poison; but I likewise minister'd
The antidote! Beneath Serinda's eye
Fraught with pale death, the chalice fum'd and sparkled!
Long had her hatred in my feign'd assent
Confiding, plann'd the deadly scheme. Yet lo!
He lives! And if perfidious you abhor me,
It is my perfidy hath sav'd my sovereign,—
And more than sav'd. Already for the pile
Hath it prepar'd a corpse Serinda deems
Her husband's. With this corpse shall she consume,
I trust a righteous sacrifice. A rescue
Clos'd in her widowed chamber she expected,
And still expects. But all is ordered well—
E'en on her funeral pyre will she look round
For help in vain,—that help which to preclude
Her wavering, and to silence hopes and fears
Wild on the wing, at length I promised her.
Sig.
Thy stratagem I like not—though deceit
Be to deceit opposed. Not that I plead
In pity for Serinda. But I hate
All artifice. To Justice I consign her—
Impartial Justice; that the avenging sword
59
Dion.
But lo! she faints—
The Princess faints. Her sire's return from death
To life, by a too sudden rush of joy
O'erpowers her.
Theo.
(recovering)
Oh! my father! Is it true?
My venerable father!—once again
Once may I call thee mine? Oh! let me seek thee—
Fly to thine arms. But may my pleading voice
Be heard—Spare, spare Serinda!—Let her live!
Though every ill she wish me, may her malice
Be soften'd by the gentleness that renders
For evil, good! Perhaps, though now obdurate,
In penitential tears she may relent,
And have some claim to mercy!
Ser.
(overhearing Theodora as she is brought in)
Mercy! mercy!
What, from the Syrian Christian? I disdain it!
Though her sleek bishops vaunt their silk attire,
Their muslin robes, their mitres and their crosiers;
Though, as they strut or cringe, the golden crosses
Hang—from their necks,—hang glittering—and their beards
Sweep in grey majesty their sapphire girdles—
Yet—I despise them all! (turning to Dionysius.)
And thou deceiver! (turning to the Brahman.)
Hoar in iniquity—thou arch impostor!—
Art willing to hold out to me the cup
Of sweet salvation? Curse on all thy cups!
Poor clumsy plotter! Could the murderous uproar—
The revolutionary clang escape
My ears? Thou shouldst have well secur'd thy victim,
Though scarcely bars of iron, walls of brass
Could have done that. I am betray'd by all—
All leagued, all join'd confederate against me—
Except my poor old doting king. For deeds
60
'Tis for an act—my poor old doting king!
'Tis for an act of horror against thee!
I feel a pang that rends me!—But my sins
Will I soon expiate. (As she brandishes a dagger, and the Guards approach, she cries:)
Off! obstrusive minions!
There—there! (she stabs herself.)
O! that my poor old king—my husband—
Grant,—grant me my last dying prayer!—This body
Be to the waves consign'd! The crystal blue
Serene, the torrent-foam alike will bear me
Where I shall slumber, to Narayen dear!
(dies.)
Enter the Chamberlain.
Cal.
Hear! To Diophanes and Theodora
The king resigns his throne! And soon shall glow
The hymeneal moment; and all India
Hail the fair forms of Righteousness and Peace!
Sig.
Yes! And long future ages shall repose
Beneath the Christian banner! Lo! the glory
Of Albion, as of Lebanon, shall stream
O'er India—To her cities shall we cry
“Behold your Saviour and your God!” Then Truth
And mild Humanity—wrapt in red storm
As Superstition rolls away—shall snatch
The infant from the alligator's jaws;—
Shall save the aged parent from the flood
Which—at the bidding of the unnatural son—
Would swallow up decrepitude;—shall quench
The sacrificial pile, that gives the Ganges
To lift its billows in portentous light;—
Shall rescue the poor victim from the wheels—
The crashing wheels of Moloc's tower! Then life
Polish'd and fair, then arts and arms shall owe
The cross their loveliest lustre! Then shall prelates
Commission'd from the British islands, rule
The Church extending here, in harmony
61
I look with the prophetic eye of transport!—
That happy union, when dissenting tribes
Shall blend in cordial friendship—when the sun
Shall never more arise—no more go down—
Shall shine no more—but on Messiah's kingdom!
65
DARTMOOR.
[I.]
Where, o'er Devonian
verdure richly spread,
The Highland lifts its monumental head,
With granite-ribs indissolubly bound,
Scowls on the little hills and valleys round,
Bends its stern brows, and slopes with sullen sweep
Its shaggy sides, to brave the Atlantic deep;—
Far to the straining sight, far west away,
Its summits reddened to the close of day;
Its scatter'd heathflowers caught a yellower gleam,
And a pale radiance kiss'd the reedy stream;
And glimmering specks that eye could scarce discern,
Fast in the distance kindled; crag and carne
Drew nigh (no longer colourless or cold,
But touch'd with crimson, and distinct in gold;)
And with a quick suffusion all the wild
In mockery to the sprite of summer smiled:
When darkness sailing on the skirts of night
Left broad and deep a track of lurid light.
The Highland lifts its monumental head,
With granite-ribs indissolubly bound,
Scowls on the little hills and valleys round,
Bends its stern brows, and slopes with sullen sweep
Its shaggy sides, to brave the Atlantic deep;—
Far to the straining sight, far west away,
Its summits reddened to the close of day;
Its scatter'd heathflowers caught a yellower gleam,
And a pale radiance kiss'd the reedy stream;
And glimmering specks that eye could scarce discern,
Fast in the distance kindled; crag and carne
Drew nigh (no longer colourless or cold,
But touch'd with crimson, and distinct in gold;)
And with a quick suffusion all the wild
In mockery to the sprite of summer smiled:
When darkness sailing on the skirts of night
Left broad and deep a track of lurid light.
Low murmurs from some hollow seem'd to sigh;
A sear leaf rustled, though no tree was nigh:
And through the gloominess a charnel sound
To startled Fancy wail'd and wander'd round;
And mingling with the interminable waste
Whistled with sudden whirl the loosen'd blast.
A sear leaf rustled, though no tree was nigh:
And through the gloominess a charnel sound
To startled Fancy wail'd and wander'd round;
And mingling with the interminable waste
Whistled with sudden whirl the loosen'd blast.
66
Fierce was the rush of icebolts! The torrs rang!
In each chill pause the soaring seagulls sang;
And sabler to their snowy pinions, broke
The cloud in fragments like an iron rock;
Till now the moon with gradual ray serene
In fairy slumber hush'd the silent scene.
In each chill pause the soaring seagulls sang;
And sabler to their snowy pinions, broke
The cloud in fragments like an iron rock;
Till now the moon with gradual ray serene
In fairy slumber hush'd the silent scene.
But lo! with startling sound, from ferny fens,
Down craggs, and midst the coppice of the glens,
Swell'd by a flood unseen, new rivers pour,
And for soft rills impetuous cataracts roar!
Down craggs, and midst the coppice of the glens,
Swell'd by a flood unseen, new rivers pour,
And for soft rills impetuous cataracts roar!
Yet say, were torrents, or a troubled sky
All that could strike or charm the Poet's eye?
Had mountain in the storm, or moorland drear
Abortive echos for the poet's ear?
All that could strike or charm the Poet's eye?
Had mountain in the storm, or moorland drear
Abortive echos for the poet's ear?
By no faint pencil was her form portray'd—
I saw the vision of some heavenly maid
Pavilion'd on the bosom of the air!
Her open brow—her bright redundant hair;
(Bright as the tresses of the morning) shine,
And her blue eyes ineffably benign.
I saw the vision of some heavenly maid
Pavilion'd on the bosom of the air!
Her open brow—her bright redundant hair;
(Bright as the tresses of the morning) shine,
And her blue eyes ineffably benign.
Light o'er her graceful limbs the asbestos
flow'd:
Through all its folds effulgent purple glow'd;
And as Arabian incense seem'd to breathe
From bowers invisible, above, beneath,
Whilst Hope look'd forth, the gentlest of her choir,
And Courtesy, and Candour, chaste Desire,
And Patience to each painful task resign'd,
And ardent Faith, and Love of human kind;—
Methought each head a brilliant halo wreath'd,
Their beauteous feet in rainbow lustres bath'd!
Through all its folds effulgent purple glow'd;
67
From bowers invisible, above, beneath,
Whilst Hope look'd forth, the gentlest of her choir,
And Courtesy, and Candour, chaste Desire,
And Patience to each painful task resign'd,
And ardent Faith, and Love of human kind;—
Methought each head a brilliant halo wreath'd,
Their beauteous feet in rainbow lustres bath'd!
Scarce had I mark'd how fine the ambrosial glow,
How soft the colours of the lunar bow—
Sweet token! to its gracious promise true!—
Ere, bursting from a cloud of ebon hue,
That open'd wide its burden to disclose,
And shooting up, as shoots basaltes, rose
The Forest-fiend, and smote his burning breast,
Shook his pyritic robe, and rear'd his crest.
How soft the colours of the lunar bow—
Sweet token! to its gracious promise true!—
Ere, bursting from a cloud of ebon hue,
That open'd wide its burden to disclose,
And shooting up, as shoots basaltes, rose
The Forest-fiend, and smote his burning breast,
Shook his pyritic robe, and rear'd his crest.
And—“What art thou? Who, who usurps the throne
Fix'd on a base of adamant, mine own?
Who breaks upon my sacred solitude?
Who dares amid the eternal torrs intrude,
That scowl'd, ere planets had their course begun,
And scorn'd (though all around ador'd) a sun?
Who mingles with my storm the warbling lyre,
Where the first thunder fork'd pernicious fire?
To chase my rigours, is thy feebler aim—
My crown, the hailstone—and my sceptre, flame?
With genial Love the undying war to wage,
I rule these realms, and rul'd from age to age!
For me, my sallows that stagnation feeds,
My paly heathflowers and my bristling reeds,
Alike obsequious to my smiles or frowns,
A breeze scarce fosters, ere a blast embrowns!
For me, in fogs that drench, in winds that parch,
Sterility pursues my withering march!
In sulphur from the welkin I descend,
And melt the mountains, or asunder rend,
Whole woods o'erwhelm, or (half to daylight lent)
Shew their bald tops, a fearful monument;
Charge with keen fate the arrowy gales that blanch
The stony root, the trunk, the sapless branch;
The snow-storm rapid o'er the desert urge,
Hang on each river and arrest the surge,
Bind the deep roaring of the brooks in ice,
And chain up all the dizzy precipice!
Fix'd on a base of adamant, mine own?
Who breaks upon my sacred solitude?
Who dares amid the eternal torrs intrude,
That scowl'd, ere planets had their course begun,
And scorn'd (though all around ador'd) a sun?
Who mingles with my storm the warbling lyre,
Where the first thunder fork'd pernicious fire?
To chase my rigours, is thy feebler aim—
My crown, the hailstone—and my sceptre, flame?
With genial Love the undying war to wage,
I rule these realms, and rul'd from age to age!
For me, my sallows that stagnation feeds,
My paly heathflowers and my bristling reeds,
Alike obsequious to my smiles or frowns,
A breeze scarce fosters, ere a blast embrowns!
For me, in fogs that drench, in winds that parch,
Sterility pursues my withering march!
68
And melt the mountains, or asunder rend,
Whole woods o'erwhelm, or (half to daylight lent)
Shew their bald tops, a fearful monument;
Charge with keen fate the arrowy gales that blanch
The stony root, the trunk, the sapless branch;
The snow-storm rapid o'er the desert urge,
Hang on each river and arrest the surge,
Bind the deep roaring of the brooks in ice,
And chain up all the dizzy precipice!
“There still my genii clap their sable wings,
And choke with venom'd plants the fountain springs!
Such are the unpeopled wastes my sceptre sways,—
So lonesome were those wilds in ancient days;
Save that scath'd woods hung shivering o'er the dead
Where altars to revenge or folly bled;
Save that in laughter o'er the blood I spilt
I stabb'd the victim, burying to the hilt,
All in his heart, the homicidal knife,
And sharpen'd the last agonies of life;
Save that by treacherous swamp, or flood, or fire,
I wreak'd on man my everlasting ire;
Save that bewilder'd shepherds far from home
My phosphor lur'd, then left them to their doom!
Save that I bade the bison, in his wrath,
Turn back upon the hunter's gory path;
Exulting, arm'd, on pinnacle or peak,
The claw in carnage flesh'd—the insatiate beak,
As (not with mangled fawns alone imbrued)
My eyries dripp'd with many an infant's blood;
And rous'd the flying dragon from his fen—
From poison'd jaws to blast whole ranks of men
They died: the assassin's steel, the serpent's breath
I fir'd with vengeance, and I barb'd with death!
By me, the meteor glares, and yawns the gulf—
My heralds, eagles—and my scout, the wolf!
Who, then, amidst these horrors dares intrude?
Shall I not reign o'er sunless solitude?”
And choke with venom'd plants the fountain springs!
Such are the unpeopled wastes my sceptre sways,—
So lonesome were those wilds in ancient days;
Save that scath'd woods hung shivering o'er the dead
Where altars to revenge or folly bled;
Save that in laughter o'er the blood I spilt
I stabb'd the victim, burying to the hilt,
All in his heart, the homicidal knife,
And sharpen'd the last agonies of life;
Save that by treacherous swamp, or flood, or fire,
I wreak'd on man my everlasting ire;
Save that bewilder'd shepherds far from home
My phosphor lur'd, then left them to their doom!
Save that I bade the bison, in his wrath,
Turn back upon the hunter's gory path;
Exulting, arm'd, on pinnacle or peak,
The claw in carnage flesh'd—the insatiate beak,
As (not with mangled fawns alone imbrued)
My eyries dripp'd with many an infant's blood;
And rous'd the flying dragon from his fen—
From poison'd jaws to blast whole ranks of men
69
I fir'd with vengeance, and I barb'd with death!
By me, the meteor glares, and yawns the gulf—
My heralds, eagles—and my scout, the wolf!
Who, then, amidst these horrors dares intrude?
Shall I not reign o'er sunless solitude?”
Avaunt! to other wilds of darkness haste!
Avaunt! here, Taranis! thy reign is past.
Thy work (the Heaven-sent Angel cried) is done:
Seek other solitudes without a sun!
Say, shall thy sprites still spread their dusky wings
O'er sluggish fountains and polluted springs?
Say, shall they hover in the sombrous haze,
Shake the red swamp, and shoot the sulphur'd blaze?
No—thine own Hesus, whom thy sons adore,
Thy Hesus trembles on his topmost torr;
And Belus, round whose rock shall culture smile,
Cowers in dark mood along the craggy pile!
Far other angels from the secret cave
Shall pour fresh founts, and guide the pregnant wave.
And lo! thine arid heights, thy waste of snows—
Thy wilderness shall blossom as the rose!”
Avaunt! here, Taranis! thy reign is past.
Thy work (the Heaven-sent Angel cried) is done:
Seek other solitudes without a sun!
Say, shall thy sprites still spread their dusky wings
O'er sluggish fountains and polluted springs?
Say, shall they hover in the sombrous haze,
Shake the red swamp, and shoot the sulphur'd blaze?
No—thine own Hesus, whom thy sons adore,
Thy Hesus trembles on his topmost torr;
And Belus, round whose rock shall culture smile,
Cowers in dark mood along the craggy pile!
Far other angels from the secret cave
Shall pour fresh founts, and guide the pregnant wave.
And lo! thine arid heights, thy waste of snows—
Thy wilderness shall blossom as the rose!”
She said: and straight from many an airy shell
Such harmonies, as trance the happy, swell.
How rich the various modulations rise!
In tones how sweet the melting music dies!
So soft, so soothing the supernal lay,
Slowly the troubled Phantom sank away:
His cloud dissolving, in a thin white fleece
Had disappear'd; and all repos'd in peace.
Such harmonies, as trance the happy, swell.
How rich the various modulations rise!
In tones how sweet the melting music dies!
So soft, so soothing the supernal lay,
Slowly the troubled Phantom sank away:
His cloud dissolving, in a thin white fleece
Had disappear'd; and all repos'd in peace.
“The distant carnes drew near, and kindled in the blaze.”
—Ode to the Genius of Danmonium in the “Devon Essays.”
—Ode to the Genius of Danmonium in the “Devon Essays.”
A sudden turbid state of the waters is often observable in the lowlands, though all be sunshine and serenity. “A storm had burst on Dartmoor. The river through Ashburton, where we enjoyed a ‘clear blue sky,’ was unaccountably swelled and troubled.”
—Note of the Author passing through Ashburton.But it is not Dartmoor only. Haldon, in its comparative small extent, often astonishes us by its sudden inundations. Archdeacon Andrew, Mr. Prebendary Swete, and myself, in our way to Chudleigh on horseback (to visit our friend Burrington) happened to separate from each other near Mamhead. At the bottom of Haldon, (on the way to Chudleigh) Swete and I, who were riding together, joined Andrew.—We were all three surprised. I had stayed, with Swete, to stop from a thunder shower, behind. Andrew had ridden briskly on. The shower fell on the top of Haldon, between us. We had, neither on the one side nor the other, a drop of rain. But an amazing torrent was running down from Haldon, where the rain had fallen.
Emblematical, perhaps, of the advanced state of manufacture, and therefore not inappropriate to “the Spirit of Civilization.”
Wistman's wood, the only remains of ancient timber now found living on the forest. —Risdon, p. 406; and the History of Devonshire, vol. i. p. 94.
Lynx-torr, High-torr, Kings-torr, Hessary-torr, Bel-torr, Mill-torr, Sharper-torr, Quarnel-torr, Pen-torr are among the most remarkable. They have, many of them, rock-basons. On the Logan stone, in the channel of the Teign, is a large bason of an elliptical form.
Some of these torrs appear as if shivered by lightning, some are almost in a state of fusion. Their appearance, at a distance conical—in some points of view—though they are not cones, but most irregularly formed.
70
II.
No! 'twas no light idea, fancy-bred—
The fond illusion that our wishes fed.
I see—I see—midst rocks in ruin hurl'd,
In orient splendours rise a little world;
Though gloomier scarce was chaos, when through night
Fair Nature dawn'd, to hail the lamp of light;
When first young Spring in vivid verdure glow'd,
And, in the expanse of azure, Ocean flow'd;
When on the hoary mass its quickening soul
Primordial Beauty breath'd, and shap'd the whole.
The fond illusion that our wishes fed.
I see—I see—midst rocks in ruin hurl'd,
In orient splendours rise a little world;
Though gloomier scarce was chaos, when through night
Fair Nature dawn'd, to hail the lamp of light;
When first young Spring in vivid verdure glow'd,
And, in the expanse of azure, Ocean flow'd;
When on the hoary mass its quickening soul
Primordial Beauty breath'd, and shap'd the whole.
'Tis true, time was when all the pomp of woods
Curtain'd the sacred carnes, and swept the floods;
When, far within the forest, white cascades
In flashings, seem'd to kindle up the glades.
Curtain'd the sacred carnes, and swept the floods;
When, far within the forest, white cascades
In flashings, seem'd to kindle up the glades.
Then to the torrent's roar, the cavern's yell,
How ductile ignorance adoring fell;
And nightbirds scream'd, and whizz'd the lightning's shaft,
Wing'd by despotic power or priestly craft.
How ductile ignorance adoring fell;
And nightbirds scream'd, and whizz'd the lightning's shaft,
Wing'd by despotic power or priestly craft.
In climes remote, a stream, an ominous bird,—
'Twas the same influence sway'd the unletter'd herd.
'Twas the same influence sway'd the unletter'd herd.
There bold Ambition bade her minions rear
To dastard Guilt or superstitious Fear
The amazing monument and tower sublime,
To send her glories down to future time;
And where the tyrant over millions trod,
Nail'd to a narrow nich the future god.
There, as Caprice chased Echo from her dells,
Domes sprang from bowers, and pyramids from cells;
And, idly wrapt in one stupendous gloom,
A province frown'd, a temple or a tomb.
Hence dire Anubis scared the Egyptian crowd;
And swart Assyria to her Belus bow'd.
To dastard Guilt or superstitious Fear
The amazing monument and tower sublime,
To send her glories down to future time;
And where the tyrant over millions trod,
Nail'd to a narrow nich the future god.
There, as Caprice chased Echo from her dells,
Domes sprang from bowers, and pyramids from cells;
And, idly wrapt in one stupendous gloom,
A province frown'd, a temple or a tomb.
Hence dire Anubis scared the Egyptian crowd;
And swart Assyria to her Belus bow'd.
Snatch'd from the cedar'd altars of the East,
Her Baal-fires blazing to the new-moon feast,
Danmon flung round, and fumed in every dell,
From every cromlech, to the Assyrian Bel;
Oft from her carnes, terrific sorceress! lanc'd
The fierce blue flame, whilst all her demons danc'd;
Hiss'd from her viperous broods, or heav'd a groan
Prophetic from her storm-beat logan-stone;
Neigh'd, the pale presage to barbaric deeds,
Proud in the prancings of her snow-white steeds,
And whirling destiny across the plain,
Snuff'd the wild winds, and toss'd the streaming mane;
Blew from her shrilling trumps the blasts of war,
And mow'd down cantreds from her scythed car,
And her fell rites bade horror's self exhaust,
Triumphant in the unearthly holocaust!
Her Baal-fires blazing to the new-moon feast,
71
From every cromlech, to the Assyrian Bel;
Oft from her carnes, terrific sorceress! lanc'd
The fierce blue flame, whilst all her demons danc'd;
Hiss'd from her viperous broods, or heav'd a groan
Prophetic from her storm-beat logan-stone;
Neigh'd, the pale presage to barbaric deeds,
Proud in the prancings of her snow-white steeds,
And whirling destiny across the plain,
Snuff'd the wild winds, and toss'd the streaming mane;
Blew from her shrilling trumps the blasts of war,
And mow'd down cantreds from her scythed car,
And her fell rites bade horror's self exhaust,
Triumphant in the unearthly holocaust!
The Historic Muse, that erst o'er Dartmoor pass'd,
These idols view'd,—these Druid rites,—aghast;
Till to a milder scene Religion fled,
And love and pleasure link'd to glory, led;
Amidst yon vales that skirt the forest, shrined,
To Roman auguries drew the common mind;
For other Floras deck'd the enamel'd green,
And won to gentler sighs the Cyprian queen!
And scarce a whispering tree could Zephyr fan,
Ere the young Dryad danc'd to sylvan Pan;
Each shadowy nook betray'd its blushing nymph;
And sparkled to some Naiad every lymph.
These idols view'd,—these Druid rites,—aghast;
Till to a milder scene Religion fled,
And love and pleasure link'd to glory, led;
Amidst yon vales that skirt the forest, shrined,
To Roman auguries drew the common mind;
For other Floras deck'd the enamel'd green,
And won to gentler sighs the Cyprian queen!
And scarce a whispering tree could Zephyr fan,
Ere the young Dryad danc'd to sylvan Pan;
Each shadowy nook betray'd its blushing nymph;
And sparkled to some Naiad every lymph.
Ere long did Piety, nor weak nor vain,
Cleanse, for her purer Church, the Pagan fane;
Though soon by pomp obscur'd, by pleasure sunk,
She waver'd in the priest, nor warm'd the monk;
And blazon'd, round yon mead's luxuriant blooms,
Her pageant colours, her fantastic glooms.
Cleanse, for her purer Church, the Pagan fane;
Though soon by pomp obscur'd, by pleasure sunk,
She waver'd in the priest, nor warm'd the monk;
And blazon'd, round yon mead's luxuriant blooms,
Her pageant colours, her fantastic glooms.
72
Lo! there, where Tavy bids his crystal wave
Its meshes of long-flaunting ivy lave,
I see that ruin—the high-window'd wall,
The fractur'd archwork tottering to its fall;
And, with a fond sigh to our fathers lent,
The lantern view, the lattic'd battlement,
The roodloft richly-carv'd, the gilded screen,
The mitred throne, the pictur'd altar-scene;
Whence vows from many a generation rose—
From knights, whose figures on their tombs repose;
Whence in the swelling anthem, damsels fair
Aspir'd; where crosier'd abbots knelt in prayer.
Its meshes of long-flaunting ivy lave,
I see that ruin—the high-window'd wall,
The fractur'd archwork tottering to its fall;
And, with a fond sigh to our fathers lent,
The lantern view, the lattic'd battlement,
The roodloft richly-carv'd, the gilded screen,
The mitred throne, the pictur'd altar-scene;
Whence vows from many a generation rose—
From knights, whose figures on their tombs repose;
Whence in the swelling anthem, damsels fair
Aspir'd; where crosier'd abbots knelt in prayer.
Not that these moors along their sedges slept,
Or in eternal tears their willows wept.
For many an age how shook the encavern'd ground,
As rocks, in red explosion, thunder'd round!
For many an age, by mining labour won,
What new-born treasures glitter'd to the sun!
Or in eternal tears their willows wept.
For many an age how shook the encavern'd ground,
As rocks, in red explosion, thunder'd round!
For many an age, by mining labour won,
What new-born treasures glitter'd to the sun!
From mineral commerce as contentions sprang,
The hallow'd tors to new assemblies rang;
And Stannary lords, where Druids wont to seize
The death-doom'd victim, issued high decrees;
Look'd, as emergence rose, with calm review,
To laws obscure or weak, enacting new;
Revis'd, experience prompting steady thought,
Their statutes to a gradual system wrought;
Nor trembled, though the bench like Sinai glow'd,
And pealing thunders ratified the code!
Earls and brave knights, they reap'd the patriot's bays,
Mid snares and scoffs, through long laborious days!
And judges—“in the stony place” —they sate,
(Not so their sons) immutable as Fate;
Whilst gaolers hied their prisoner to consign
To dungeon-damps more noisome than his mine!
The hallow'd tors to new assemblies rang;
And Stannary lords, where Druids wont to seize
The death-doom'd victim, issued high decrees;
Look'd, as emergence rose, with calm review,
To laws obscure or weak, enacting new;
Revis'd, experience prompting steady thought,
Their statutes to a gradual system wrought;
73
And pealing thunders ratified the code!
Earls and brave knights, they reap'd the patriot's bays,
Mid snares and scoffs, through long laborious days!
And judges—“in the stony place” —they sate,
(Not so their sons) immutable as Fate;
Whilst gaolers hied their prisoner to consign
To dungeon-damps more noisome than his mine!
Still the wild hunter travers'd bourne and brake;
And his stout bowstring twang'd along the lake.
And when, in aftertimes, he met no more
The red bull's angry glare, the tusky boar,
Nor roam'd as erst, in tawny wolf-skin clad,
When moonlight echoes howl'd in every shade;
Still hurtles, huddling o'er the limpid font,
To his quick eye betray'd the heathcock's haunt,
And many a mile by stag hounds staunch pursued,
His antler'd prey still panting sought the flood.
But see the snow shower—light its feathery fall,—
The stealthy darkness, overshadowing all,
Hath spread, like a vast plumage, far and deep!
Sheath'd in the insidious calm the frost-gales sleep:
Remorseless Eurus! they will wake anon!
Thy horizontal stride from cone to cone,
I mark, where thou hast breath'd thy livid glaze,
And seal'd yon rock already, like the gaze
Of death! A dismal gloom, above, below,
Shivers amidst the immeasurable snow.
Nor hunter hath in horn, in staff resource—
In scrip, in cavern, in embowell'd horse:
Nor scrip, nor cavern could suspend his doom,
Nor courser idly-slain—a reeking tomb!
And his stout bowstring twang'd along the lake.
And when, in aftertimes, he met no more
The red bull's angry glare, the tusky boar,
Nor roam'd as erst, in tawny wolf-skin clad,
When moonlight echoes howl'd in every shade;
Still hurtles, huddling o'er the limpid font,
To his quick eye betray'd the heathcock's haunt,
And many a mile by stag hounds staunch pursued,
His antler'd prey still panting sought the flood.
But see the snow shower—light its feathery fall,—
The stealthy darkness, overshadowing all,
Hath spread, like a vast plumage, far and deep!
Sheath'd in the insidious calm the frost-gales sleep:
Remorseless Eurus! they will wake anon!
Thy horizontal stride from cone to cone,
I mark, where thou hast breath'd thy livid glaze,
And seal'd yon rock already, like the gaze
74
Shivers amidst the immeasurable snow.
Nor hunter hath in horn, in staff resource—
In scrip, in cavern, in embowell'd horse:
Nor scrip, nor cavern could suspend his doom,
Nor courser idly-slain—a reeking tomb!
Still (though by dangers oft like these dismay'd)
Through his old tracts the sturdy shepherd stray'd;
And hail'd no hedgerows his, no golden grange,
But the free pasturage, but the highland range;
Though his nor rosy couch, nor myrtle bower,
Blest in his faithful dog, his rough round tower!
Thus years roll on: and still in every gale
More faint the sounds of population fail;
And if no summer breezes crisp the brook,
Nor sheep-dog lingers here, nor shepherd-crook.
Through his old tracts the sturdy shepherd stray'd;
And hail'd no hedgerows his, no golden grange,
But the free pasturage, but the highland range;
Though his nor rosy couch, nor myrtle bower,
Blest in his faithful dog, his rough round tower!
Thus years roll on: and still in every gale
More faint the sounds of population fail;
And if no summer breezes crisp the brook,
Nor sheep-dog lingers here, nor shepherd-crook.
Here seek no welcome in the human face:
But busy Fancy hath supplied its place;
And beings rise at will, her wanton spawn,
Where quick bogs quiver, or abysses yawn.
Here the ghost clanks his chain; in many a maze,
Here Oberon summons up his gentler fays;
And frolicksome, they frisk in airy ranks,
Though mischief, as of old, still prompts their pranks.
But busy Fancy hath supplied its place;
And beings rise at will, her wanton spawn,
Where quick bogs quiver, or abysses yawn.
Here the ghost clanks his chain; in many a maze,
Here Oberon summons up his gentler fays;
And frolicksome, they frisk in airy ranks,
Though mischief, as of old, still prompts their pranks.
75
But late (from his own lips the tale was told,
And Buckfast's walls the mining veteran hold,)
A carle who, trusting to his nimble nag
(Familiar with each swamp and copse and crag)
Amidst the forest, bent his weetless way,
Was—so it seem'd—arrested by a ray
That blink'd as from a cot—a casement light—
And then as from a lantern! Gliding, bright,
Now swift, now slow, the pisky-trap pass'd on!
“Alas! we follow'd what we could not shun!
'Twas by an impulse, say could man resist?
When, all enveloped in an instant mist,
We sank—poor Dapple sank—a sore mishap—
And I yet wonder at my own escape!
Straight as I look'd around from sinking safe,
A spiteful tittering—a malicious laugh
I heard, and on the level sod hard by
Beheld the small folk tripping merrily,
All in one ring! From cuirass, shield and lance,
A various lustre seem'd to fire the dance—
From tiny casques, from twinkling coats of mail—
'Twas red as rubies, or as onyx pale;
And fleeting as a shadow fleets, I wist,
The tints from bloodstone chang'd to amethyst.
“I ran, reach'd home, but knew not how I went—
In short, it was all fairy ravishment!
Perchance, I owe my life to what I found—
An adder's skin just cast on pisky-ground.”—
And Buckfast's walls the mining veteran hold,)
A carle who, trusting to his nimble nag
(Familiar with each swamp and copse and crag)
Amidst the forest, bent his weetless way,
Was—so it seem'd—arrested by a ray
That blink'd as from a cot—a casement light—
And then as from a lantern! Gliding, bright,
Now swift, now slow, the pisky-trap pass'd on!
“Alas! we follow'd what we could not shun!
'Twas by an impulse, say could man resist?
When, all enveloped in an instant mist,
We sank—poor Dapple sank—a sore mishap—
And I yet wonder at my own escape!
Straight as I look'd around from sinking safe,
A spiteful tittering—a malicious laugh
I heard, and on the level sod hard by
Beheld the small folk tripping merrily,
All in one ring! From cuirass, shield and lance,
A various lustre seem'd to fire the dance—
From tiny casques, from twinkling coats of mail—
'Twas red as rubies, or as onyx pale;
And fleeting as a shadow fleets, I wist,
The tints from bloodstone chang'd to amethyst.
“I ran, reach'd home, but knew not how I went—
In short, it was all fairy ravishment!
Perchance, I owe my life to what I found—
An adder's skin just cast on pisky-ground.”—
Vain mockeries! But with untold perils teems
The inhospitable heathland! Are they dreams?
Yet here
though gleams afar the pale morass,
Unbroken but by some volcanic mass;
Rent by the flaw though broad flags droop their heads,
And sedges crackle through their frozen beds;
Though here we view the loftiest Alps aspire
In winter glazed, in summer tipp'd with fire,
And all impatient of its icy shroud
Summon the shivering lightnings from their cloud;
Though, e'en at noon appall'd, the traveller shrinks
From King-torr's glimpses, or the ledge of Lynx,
Stops from the Hooper's hollow murmur, pale,
And shuddering recollects some spectred tale,
And flings a startling stone, and flies with dread
From British chief inurn'd in yon Carnêdd,
And marks amazed huge pebbles, as they show
Their rounded ridges in the vale below—
(Gigantic pebbles, that in ancient song
Hoar wizards smooth'd, and demons bowl'd along)—
Yet shall we see, where Thirst and Famine brood,
The savage Genius of the scene subdued;
Hail the bleak moor in mellower lights array'd,
And woo coy Softness from her summer shade!
Yet shall we greet, at morn, at evening-fall,
A gradual gentleness diffus'd o'er all;
For fogs, the silver mist; for blasts, a calm,
For sultriness, cool airs; for mildews, balm.
The inhospitable heathland! Are they dreams?
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Unbroken but by some volcanic mass;
Rent by the flaw though broad flags droop their heads,
And sedges crackle through their frozen beds;
Though here we view the loftiest Alps aspire
In winter glazed, in summer tipp'd with fire,
And all impatient of its icy shroud
Summon the shivering lightnings from their cloud;
Though, e'en at noon appall'd, the traveller shrinks
From King-torr's glimpses, or the ledge of Lynx,
Stops from the Hooper's hollow murmur, pale,
And shuddering recollects some spectred tale,
And flings a startling stone, and flies with dread
From British chief inurn'd in yon Carnêdd,
And marks amazed huge pebbles, as they show
Their rounded ridges in the vale below—
(Gigantic pebbles, that in ancient song
Hoar wizards smooth'd, and demons bowl'd along)—
Yet shall we see, where Thirst and Famine brood,
The savage Genius of the scene subdued;
Hail the bleak moor in mellower lights array'd,
And woo coy Softness from her summer shade!
Yet shall we greet, at morn, at evening-fall,
A gradual gentleness diffus'd o'er all;
For fogs, the silver mist; for blasts, a calm,
For sultriness, cool airs; for mildews, balm.
Lo! the days come, when round the fountain-heads,
Whence, gushing from its swamp, each river spreads,
The Planter
shall his happiest skill exert,
And waving groves reward assiduous art.
Whence, gushing from its swamp, each river spreads,
77
And waving groves reward assiduous art.
And whilst the willowy tribe—whilst poplars dim
And aspins twinkle o'er the watery brim;
In wider cirque the light-leav'd ash shall stretch
Its statelier boughs, and emulate the beech,
And oaks their umbrage on the banks recline,
And, skirting all the grove, the duskier pine.
And aspins twinkle o'er the watery brim;
In wider cirque the light-leav'd ash shall stretch
Its statelier boughs, and emulate the beech,
And oaks their umbrage on the banks recline,
And, skirting all the grove, the duskier pine.
'Tis then yon founts that struggle into day,
Shall, glancing to the cheerful sunbeam, play;
Nor, to incautious steps alluring, creep
O'er verdurous moss, beneath where death-imps sleep;
But, brawling if they dash the granite base,
Or their still paths through purple melic trace,
Or o'er dark ooze and matted rye-grass roam,
Shall pour new wealth from beds of opening loam,
And in brisk murmurs, ere they meet the tide,
Amidst green slopes, salubrious waters glide;
And all the mighty rivers, broad and free,
Shall waft their treasures to the exulting sea,
And shape—scarce heeding if the Atlantic rave
Their channels, to salute the southern wave.
Shall, glancing to the cheerful sunbeam, play;
Nor, to incautious steps alluring, creep
O'er verdurous moss, beneath where death-imps sleep;
But, brawling if they dash the granite base,
Or their still paths through purple melic trace,
Or o'er dark ooze and matted rye-grass roam,
Shall pour new wealth from beds of opening loam,
And in brisk murmurs, ere they meet the tide,
Amidst green slopes, salubrious waters glide;
And all the mighty rivers, broad and free,
Shall waft their treasures to the exulting sea,
And shape—scarce heeding if the Atlantic rave
Their channels, to salute the southern wave.
Then Teign,
that to his root-inwoven floor
Springs twofold, and, along the blackening moor,
Now frets thro' chasms, imprison'd in granite gloom,
Now swells from brooks that rush from many a combe,
Till, sweeping o'er the briny marsh, he lifts
His hoarse voice, clamouring to the hollow clifts;
Then, arch'd by groves, and soft thro' meads, shall Teign
Roll with new glory through his rural reign;
Unstain'd from ochrous tinctures, down green hills
Leap joyously, or purl in prattling rills;
Here bubbling stream, there murmur more diffuse,
And scatter plenty from each silver sluice.
Springs twofold, and, along the blackening moor,
78
Now swells from brooks that rush from many a combe,
Till, sweeping o'er the briny marsh, he lifts
His hoarse voice, clamouring to the hollow clifts;
Then, arch'd by groves, and soft thro' meads, shall Teign
Roll with new glory through his rural reign;
Unstain'd from ochrous tinctures, down green hills
Leap joyously, or purl in prattling rills;
Here bubbling stream, there murmur more diffuse,
And scatter plenty from each silver sluice.
Then Dart, that welling from his hoar Cranmere,
Pursues, in murky majesty severe,
Through sedge and bent and briars and prickly gorse,
Through coppice, his long solitary course,
Oft, where his eddies boiled,—his gullies sank,
Shall clothe with gay luxuriance every bank;
Where reptiles crawl, refresh the browsing kine,
And bathe his hyacinths —his eglantine;
And nourish primros'd hedge and hazel dale,
Ere on his bosom press the gliding sail.
Pursues, in murky majesty severe,
Through sedge and bent and briars and prickly gorse,
Through coppice, his long solitary course,
Oft, where his eddies boiled,—his gullies sank,
Shall clothe with gay luxuriance every bank;
Where reptiles crawl, refresh the browsing kine,
And bathe his hyacinths —his eglantine;
And nourish primros'd hedge and hazel dale,
Ere on his bosom press the gliding sail.
Then as thy ripplings, soft meandering Aune!
Shall, for the moorland, gladden mead or lawn;
Thy sheltering banks shall reedbirds coyly court,
And peaceful halcyons o'er thy wave disport;
And from his ivied arch and quiet glade,
Romantic Leedy! point thy sweet cascade.
Shall, for the moorland, gladden mead or lawn;
Thy sheltering banks shall reedbirds coyly court,
And peaceful halcyons o'er thy wave disport;
And from his ivied arch and quiet glade,
Romantic Leedy! point thy sweet cascade.
Then, in each curve revealing some new charm,
Shall gurgle here, there dash the dazzling Arme.
Shall gurgle here, there dash the dazzling Arme.
And Yealme, that sudden to his shell-top
burst,
To quench the fever of the giant's thirst,
That
overtops his bounds, or feebly runs,
Or sinks in shallows to solstitial suns,
By Sirius unabsorb'd, see gentle Yealme
Flow a full current through his cultur'd realm;
Here sparkling, there in shadow dark; here red,
There mottled from his glistening marble-bed.
And milk-white swans shall down thy waters swim—
Thy cool translucent waters, “sandy Plym!”
To quench the fever of the giant's thirst,
79
Or sinks in shallows to solstitial suns,
By Sirius unabsorb'd, see gentle Yealme
Flow a full current through his cultur'd realm;
Here sparkling, there in shadow dark; here red,
There mottled from his glistening marble-bed.
And milk-white swans shall down thy waters swim—
Thy cool translucent waters, “sandy Plym!”
Then Tavy, ere he wash his abbey-walls,
Though oft in sheets diffus'd, in headlong falls
Abrupt or plaining to the pensile wood,
Shall nurse, with silent flow, the scaly brood;
Nor hurry, threatening from the rifted ridge
To sap gnarl'd oaks, nor bear down mouldering bridge,
Nor, spouting from his chasmy depths, again
Sweep off, in one broad whirl, the reddening grain!
Though oft in sheets diffus'd, in headlong falls
Abrupt or plaining to the pensile wood,
Shall nurse, with silent flow, the scaly brood;
Nor hurry, threatening from the rifted ridge
To sap gnarl'd oaks, nor bear down mouldering bridge,
Nor, spouting from his chasmy depths, again
Sweep off, in one broad whirl, the reddening grain!
Nor shall commercial Taw, though wide its course
Where tumbles the north-surge, forget its source.
There the grim robber, to each tramp where rings
His secret cavern, and the dwarf-oak flings
Its withered arms across the murky stream,
Starts to the rushing osprey's sudden scream.
Where tumbles the north-surge, forget its source.
There the grim robber, to each tramp where rings
His secret cavern, and the dwarf-oak flings
Its withered arms across the murky stream,
Starts to the rushing osprey's sudden scream.
Yet amber runnels, trickling from aloft,
Shall twine round many a flower and grassy tuft,
Till warmer suns their mingling lapse illume,
And roseate bowers relieve the extensive gloom.
Shall twine round many a flower and grassy tuft,
Till warmer suns their mingling lapse illume,
And roseate bowers relieve the extensive gloom.
Such and so wondrous shall the inspiring Power
Shed life in every sunbeam—every shower,
Smooth the rough knoll, the marshy lowland swell,
And to fresh light unlock the brambly dell;
Scoop the dense rock, and pierce the dun defile,
And o'er the sullen moor diffuse a smile;
Bid in bare wastes luxuriant foliage heave,
And through new tracts conduct the glittering wave;
Wake to heroic hymns the harmonious Muse,
And give to Dedal art sublimer views.
Shed life in every sunbeam—every shower,
Smooth the rough knoll, the marshy lowland swell,
And to fresh light unlock the brambly dell;
Scoop the dense rock, and pierce the dun defile,
And o'er the sullen moor diffuse a smile;
Bid in bare wastes luxuriant foliage heave,
And through new tracts conduct the glittering wave;
80
And give to Dedal art sublimer views.
Yes,
her bright wand the Immortal waves around,
And beauty opens in each sight and sound.
And beauty opens in each sight and sound.
From plain to woody dale, from gloom to glade,
Delicious every tint, and every shade.
Delicious every tint, and every shade.
Soft on the vernal acres newly-sown
Springs the light green, in sprinklings all its own,
Or, where again the lawn or meadow lives,
In grassy succulence its freshness gives.
Springs the light green, in sprinklings all its own,
Or, where again the lawn or meadow lives,
In grassy succulence its freshness gives.
And still doth colour sprightlier charms unfold,
Fair in those flowers that flush the fields with gold,
And sports in rich varieties of bloom
Where erst it yellow'd in the heathland broom,
Or in the woodbine climbs the cavern deep;
Or vests in clematis the craggy steep;
Or in the tulip's streaky lustre glows;
Or riots in the luxury of the rose.
Fair in those flowers that flush the fields with gold,
And sports in rich varieties of bloom
Where erst it yellow'd in the heathland broom,
Or in the woodbine climbs the cavern deep;
Or vests in clematis the craggy steep;
Or in the tulip's streaky lustre glows;
Or riots in the luxury of the rose.
Sweet are the sounds, that midst the plashy mere,
In dying cadence fluctuate on the ear;
As pleasant to benighted pilgrim steal
The vestal's matins from her cloister'd vale.
In dying cadence fluctuate on the ear;
As pleasant to benighted pilgrim steal
The vestal's matins from her cloister'd vale.
The little Minstrel that from ‘heaven-gate sings,’
As in the dawning cloud she dips her wings,
E'en here how sweet! E'en here I sighing thank
The warbling oozel from her watry bank.
But ah! though full of life the numbers stole,
'Twas lonely life, that sadden'd all the soul!
Ah! sweeter far the ‘heaven-gate’ minstrelsy,
Where cowslip meadows drink the morning sky;
Or notes, that from the blackbird's golden beak
Melt in the dusky stillness, pausing break
On early cottar, an enamoured strain,
And sudden hush'd, and whisper'd once again
Languish, and all in nestling mosses sink;
Whilst the cool hare yet crops her fragrant pink;
Or deftly caroll'd to one favourite maid,
Lays of young love that thrill the pastoral shade.
As in the dawning cloud she dips her wings,
E'en here how sweet! E'en here I sighing thank
The warbling oozel from her watry bank.
But ah! though full of life the numbers stole,
'Twas lonely life, that sadden'd all the soul!
Ah! sweeter far the ‘heaven-gate’ minstrelsy,
Where cowslip meadows drink the morning sky;
Or notes, that from the blackbird's golden beak
Melt in the dusky stillness, pausing break
81
And sudden hush'd, and whisper'd once again
Languish, and all in nestling mosses sink;
Whilst the cool hare yet crops her fragrant pink;
Or deftly caroll'd to one favourite maid,
Lays of young love that thrill the pastoral shade.
And what are amorous trills from feather'd pairs,
Detach'd from human dwellings—human cares?
The surest sign of joy, if vales rejoice,
The first best symptom—is the peasant's voice.
Detach'd from human dwellings—human cares?
The surest sign of joy, if vales rejoice,
The first best symptom—is the peasant's voice.
If, on full many an object grouped around—
If on yon landscape to the horizon's bound,
Our sense revert—fair meads and haycocks tann'd,
The poppied cornfield, and the fallow land;
Sagacious rooks that close pursue the team;
Mix'd with the hamlet-smoke the savoury steam;
The rainbow crimsoning the swift windmill's vanes;
And burnished to a blaze the diamond panes;
Markt by that maypole-elm the skittler's court,
And that trim green which wooes athletic sport;
And, sloping round the crag, that clump of birch,
And the pale glimmering from yon steepled church;
All in the living picture, charms we trace;
But not, though beauteous, in the blended grace
Of colours or of groupes, those charms we own—
'Tis from the affections they derive their tone.
If on yon landscape to the horizon's bound,
Our sense revert—fair meads and haycocks tann'd,
The poppied cornfield, and the fallow land;
Sagacious rooks that close pursue the team;
Mix'd with the hamlet-smoke the savoury steam;
The rainbow crimsoning the swift windmill's vanes;
And burnished to a blaze the diamond panes;
Markt by that maypole-elm the skittler's court,
And that trim green which wooes athletic sport;
And, sloping round the crag, that clump of birch,
And the pale glimmering from yon steepled church;
All in the living picture, charms we trace;
But not, though beauteous, in the blended grace
Of colours or of groupes, those charms we own—
'Tis from the affections they derive their tone.
Featured with human happiness, they shew
The signs of comfort scarce alloy'd with woe,
Shew sinewy Strength and Cheerfulness and Health,
And, sprung from honest labour, rural Wealth;
Domestic Peace, as simple pleasures smile,
From city-tumult far, from city-guile;
And rustic Piety, that seems to tell
How duly she regards the Sabbath-bell.
The signs of comfort scarce alloy'd with woe,
Shew sinewy Strength and Cheerfulness and Health,
And, sprung from honest labour, rural Wealth;
82
From city-tumult far, from city-guile;
And rustic Piety, that seems to tell
How duly she regards the Sabbath-bell.
Nor shall the renovating Power that charms
In cottages distinct, or scattered farms,
That bids the gray rock, to young orchards kind,
Ward from their tender blooms the westering wind;
That wooes each twitter from the twilight thatch,
Tines the fen-turf, and lifts at eve the latch,
Hangs twinkling o'er the porch in jasmine stars,
And through the trellis plays in summer airs,
Suns the house-bee, and rears the ripen'd sheaf,
And to tired reapers lends the cool relief;
Nor shall that Power, where peopled murmurs rise,
Bid clustering roofs in vain ascend the skies.
In cottages distinct, or scattered farms,
That bids the gray rock, to young orchards kind,
Ward from their tender blooms the westering wind;
That wooes each twitter from the twilight thatch,
Tines the fen-turf, and lifts at eve the latch,
Hangs twinkling o'er the porch in jasmine stars,
And through the trellis plays in summer airs,
Suns the house-bee, and rears the ripen'd sheaf,
And to tired reapers lends the cool relief;
Nor shall that Power, where peopled murmurs rise,
Bid clustering roofs in vain ascend the skies.
Where yon
red fane the recent
town o'erbrows,
And scarce hath Hymen bless'd the bridal vows,
I greet, as severing mists its spire reveal,
The ringing anvil and the whirling wheel;
Here, where they urge their labours, there relax,
The panting girls that ply the fervent flax;
The broad full mill-pool, that descends, a sheet
Of whitening waters; the long shelving street;
The glossy nuts that osier-baskets grace;
The gilded sign; the humming market-place;
And, in that nook, the scene which Virtue rears
With cordial aim, to cherish infant years,—
Where her best gifts shall liberal Science give,
And little statesmen yet in embryo live!
And scarce hath Hymen bless'd the bridal vows,
I greet, as severing mists its spire reveal,
The ringing anvil and the whirling wheel;
Here, where they urge their labours, there relax,
The panting girls that ply the fervent flax;
The broad full mill-pool, that descends, a sheet
Of whitening waters; the long shelving street;
83
The gilded sign; the humming market-place;
And, in that nook, the scene which Virtue rears
With cordial aim, to cherish infant years,—
Where her best gifts shall liberal Science give,
And little statesmen yet in embryo live!
In those auspicious days, who dares affirm
How rich in future fruit shall glow the germ
Of genius?—who obstruct its growth, at strife
With all that best adorns and softens life?
Say, hath not talent, to no spot confined,
Beam'd, the fair effluence of the unpolish'd mind;
And to the living canvas aim'd to impart
The brightest forms of imitative art?
How rich in future fruit shall glow the germ
Of genius?—who obstruct its growth, at strife
With all that best adorns and softens life?
Say, hath not talent, to no spot confined,
Beam'd, the fair effluence of the unpolish'd mind;
And to the living canvas aim'd to impart
The brightest forms of imitative art?
There, midst those rocks—if rocks o'er fields that flow
With fresh fertility, their shadow throw—
As, satiate, we repose our wearied eyes
On lineaments and forms that harmonize,—
On lights of brilliance and transparent shades,
And vivid colouring, as from vernal glades
The pencil had been eager to transfuse
The rosy tints that blush through morning dews,
On drapery chaste and beauty's witching air—
Another Reynolds yet shall flourish there!
With fresh fertility, their shadow throw—
As, satiate, we repose our wearied eyes
On lineaments and forms that harmonize,—
On lights of brilliance and transparent shades,
And vivid colouring, as from vernal glades
The pencil had been eager to transfuse
The rosy tints that blush through morning dews,
On drapery chaste and beauty's witching air—
Another Reynolds yet shall flourish there!
And if Simplicity o'er hill and dale,
Meek wood-nymph! whisper her melodious tale,
Shall not the Bard, from fife or Dorian oat,
Hail the war-measure or the shepherd's note,
In transport hang o'er Pleasure's festal strings,
As the vale echoes and the mountain rings,
From plaintive lute bid lovelorn murmurs part,
Steal each sweet tone, and store it in his heart?
Shall not the Poet, ere the intenser ray
‘Draw from his flowers’ ‘their balmiest sweets away,’
Bend o'er the dews that gem their glowing crest,
And cull another ‘tuft’ ‘for Anna's breast?”
Meek wood-nymph! whisper her melodious tale,
Shall not the Bard, from fife or Dorian oat,
Hail the war-measure or the shepherd's note,
In transport hang o'er Pleasure's festal strings,
As the vale echoes and the mountain rings,
From plaintive lute bid lovelorn murmurs part,
Steal each sweet tone, and store it in his heart?
Shall not the Poet, ere the intenser ray
‘Draw from his flowers’ ‘their balmiest sweets away,’
84
And cull another ‘tuft’ ‘for Anna's breast?”
'Tis sympathy like this—no loose desire—
That dips the pencil and attunes the lyre;
Points from domestic love the patriot aim,
And kindly lights up all the social flame,
Mounts on Devotion's plume from Nature's shrine,
And soars in earliest orisons divine!
That dips the pencil and attunes the lyre;
Points from domestic love the patriot aim,
And kindly lights up all the social flame,
Mounts on Devotion's plume from Nature's shrine,
And soars in earliest orisons divine!
Such was the feeling strang the Grecian chord,
The column fluted, and the god adored.
Nor he elate in philosophic pride,
Who Jove's red wrath with impious scorn defied,
To the drear horrors of desertion driven,
Found music for his harp, without a Heaven!
The column fluted, and the god adored.
Nor he elate in philosophic pride,
Who Jove's red wrath with impious scorn defied,
To the drear horrors of desertion driven,
Found music for his harp, without a Heaven!
In some parts of Ireland the fires of Baal or Bel are still kindled from mountain to mountain. —See Hist. Views of Devon.
Proud in the prancings, &c.—“Proprium gentis, equorumque quoque presagia ac monitus experiri. Publice aluntur iisdem nemoribus ac locis, candidi ac nullo mortali opere contacti, quos pressos sacro curru sacerdos ac rex comitantur, hinnitus et fremitus observant. —See Tacitus—His account of the Germans, chap. 10—for these and other Druid Superstitions.
According to Risdon, the three wonders of the forest, are, Crockern-tor, Childe of Plymstock's tomb, and Wistman's wood.
“At Crockern tor (says he) where the Parliament for Stannary-causes is kept, there are a table and seats of moorstone, hewn out of the rocks, lying in the force of all weather, no house or refuge being near it.”
—See Risdon, edit. 1811, pp. 222, 223.It is remarkable that these seats of the legislators of a code of laws, curious from their antiquity, and their relation to the tinners and tin-mines of the Duchy, have been destroyed, indirectly, by Judge Buller. He possessed an estate near the spot: and his workmen having occasion for stone, broke to pieces and conveyed away in fragments these venerable remains. The judge much regretted the sacrilege of his servants.
Alluding to Sir. W. Raleigh's enemies on various occasions. —See his life. He was Lord Warden of the Stannaries, &c. So was the Earl of Bath.
Alluding to the expeditious execution of justice. The proverb of Lidford-law implies “to hang first and try afterwards.” In working the mines, Dartmoor and its vicinities were still frequented. And, to give solemnity to the Stannary-decisions, the original seats of Druidical judicature were resorted to, at stated periods. Hence the Crockern tor of the Warden of the Stannaries.
The red bilberry or whorts, found on Dartmoor—the heathcock (now very rare) is attached to the hurtle or bilberry.
This alludes to Risdon's third wonder—“Childe of Plymstock, hunting in the forest, lost his company and his way likewise. Benumbed with cold, he was enforced to kill his horse, and embowelled him to creep into his belly to get heat, but was frozen to death.” —See Risdon, p. 198.
There are still vestiges of round towers on the moor, supposed to have belonged to the shepherds, &c. and used as pens for their flocks, &c.
The following story (which the author himself heard many years ago at Buckfastleigh) was an interpolation introduced as a relief, or episodically. But it is too familiar for the general sentiment and description of the poem. The notions of the pisky or pixy beds, and of the efficacy of the skins of adders or vipers as amulets, still exist in the vicinities of Dartmoor and other parts of Devon.
When we consider the superstition of the miners, we are surprised at their knowledge or intelligence. This is not out of character. It was the very language of the miner, who actually attributed his escape to the potency of the adder's skin.
I had written, but am fearful that the lines may be considered too bold or obscure, though the fact be indisputable.
“Yet here, though now red Sirius, (like the torch
Of dire Astarte) may the fen-grass scorch—
Though death into the quivering deep may plunge
The wanderer—one unfathomable sponge—
Though in long prospect gleams the pale morass,” &c.
Of dire Astarte) may the fen-grass scorch—
Though death into the quivering deep may plunge
The wanderer—one unfathomable sponge—
Though in long prospect gleams the pale morass,” &c.
Vancouver (see his Survey of Devon) thinks, that “the climate of Dartmoor, severe as it is, may be ameliorated by drainage and planting,” &c. &c. pp. 280, 281.
See Bovey-heathfield in Polwhele's Hist. of Devon, vol. i. p. 66. There are vestiges of a chain of forests covering the margins of all the courses that descend from Dartmoor, except to the westward.
See description of the Dartmoor rivers in Hist. of Devon, vol i. pp. 20–40, and see Browne's British Pastimes, edit. 1613, p. 70.
On account of its ochrous impregnations, this river (and several others) are considered unfit for irrigation. See Vancouver.
An allusion to one of the numerous traditionary stories current in the neighbourhood of Dartmoor. A giant is said to have struck the rock with his shell—whence the river instantly spouted and allayed his thirst. The rock, where this river has its source, is called the shell-top.
Here the transmutation from barrenness and gloom into fertility is supposed to be effected: and the beautiful effect in colour, sound, &c. hereafter described.
Of the propriety of amusing the minds of the common people by various diversions, particularly by their ancient athletic sports, I have no question. With certain restrictions, such recreations would preclude many evils—among others, the intermeddling with politics, with which the lower orders have nothing to do.
What can be a more delightful prospect, than the future civilization of Dartmoor by a set of happy and virtuous peasants, rescued from the corruption of cities by the most enlightened, active, and extensive benevolence! I have been told, that there is a mention of the king's benevolence respecting Dartmoor, at the end of the last edition of Mrs. H. More's Moral Sketches.
Orchards thrive in a substratum of granite-gravel; and according to Vancouver, the higher the situation the better, if protected from the west winds. —See his Survey, pp. 241, 242.
“Tines the fen-turf, &c.” We may suppose, amidst the general cultivation of the moor, some of its turf remaining for fuel. Tines is used in Devon, as Milton used it.
III.
And hark—sweet Echo lingers, ere they close,Hark!—Heaven's own strains—“It blossoms as the rose.”
'Tis the same Spirit, whose recreative breath
Elicits Beauty from the lap of Death,
And bids an Eden bloom, where frown'd the waste:—
Mild daughter of Munificence and Taste!
'Tis the same Spirit omniparent, that wings
The soul to deeds of glory worthy kings!
'Tis the same Spirit, whose rays for ages shone
O'er half the globe, from Albion's envied throne!
'Tis the same Spirit, that more divinely bright,
Streams from thy diadem the purest light,
(Though radiant in thy royal ancestry,)
Imperial Brunswick! Heaven's own light in thee!
89
THE FALL OF CONSTANTINOPLE.
CANTO THE FIRST.
The Turkish Camp in the neighbourhood of the City.
Far off and near, along the tented plain
White banners flap at many an interval,
And here, a richer ensign flaunts amain,
And silk pavilions glisten in the gale;
Whilst now the Moslems, each his comrade, hail;
Some faint from wounds that rued the recent fight;
Others with fond ear listening to the tale
Of prompt adroitness or of stubborn might,
Pursuit by corses check'd, and fear and rapid flight.
White banners flap at many an interval,
And here, a richer ensign flaunts amain,
And silk pavilions glisten in the gale;
Whilst now the Moslems, each his comrade, hail;
Some faint from wounds that rued the recent fight;
Others with fond ear listening to the tale
Of prompt adroitness or of stubborn might,
Pursuit by corses check'd, and fear and rapid flight.
Here striding, and in boasting doubly grim,
A Spahi pictured how his arm had flung
The javelin; how he lopp'd off limb from limb;
And bending in full gallop, how he hung
O'er hundreds, hacking out his path, among
Thick squadrons! To his flourish'd scymitar
(Which had been flesh'd in Christian carnage) rung
A brother-soldier's mail with horrid jar:
Grinn'd with half-angry scowl the whisker'd janizar.
A Spahi pictured how his arm had flung
The javelin; how he lopp'd off limb from limb;
And bending in full gallop, how he hung
O'er hundreds, hacking out his path, among
Thick squadrons! To his flourish'd scymitar
(Which had been flesh'd in Christian carnage) rung
A brother-soldier's mail with horrid jar:
Grinn'd with half-angry scowl the whisker'd janizar.
90
And there an Aga—wild his gestures—told,
How (Aslans in the assault) the savage van
Rush'd on; till, headlong amid firebolts roll'd
They were heap'd, Mussulman on Mussulman!
“Yet” (half unsheathed his bickering ataghan)
“Yet,” cried he, “the broad trench with craven's blood
E'en to distain the fervid billows ran!
And dastard souls, methought, in wistful mood
Still hover'd o'er the slain, and mourn'd the ensanguined flood.”
How (Aslans in the assault) the savage van
Rush'd on; till, headlong amid firebolts roll'd
They were heap'd, Mussulman on Mussulman!
“Yet” (half unsheathed his bickering ataghan)
“Yet,” cried he, “the broad trench with craven's blood
E'en to distain the fervid billows ran!
And dastard souls, methought, in wistful mood
Still hover'd o'er the slain, and mourn'd the ensanguined flood.”
Here one, (who from a Grecian Prince had fled
Gash'd in the back, nor 'scaped the Sultan's eye,)
Had rather dropp'd unmark'd among the dead,
Then in a dungeon by the death-cord die.
The Sultan and his captains all drew nigh:
Still ooz'd his life—its current scarce was staunch'd.
His stature lank and meagre, hideously
Was palsied, and his face convulsed and blanch'd.
Such thrill hath traveller own'd, whose skull the hyæna cranch'd.
Gash'd in the back, nor 'scaped the Sultan's eye,)
Had rather dropp'd unmark'd among the dead,
Then in a dungeon by the death-cord die.
The Sultan and his captains all drew nigh:
Still ooz'd his life—its current scarce was staunch'd.
His stature lank and meagre, hideously
Was palsied, and his face convulsed and blanch'd.
Such thrill hath traveller own'd, whose skull the hyæna cranch'd.
“I durst not (cries a vaunting voice) regret
My fractured helmet, that flew off in twain!
Much—much to me owes mighty Mahomet!
But for this arm the struggle all were vain!
Stunn'd by the stroke yet burns my whirling brain!
Staggering I griped Prince Theon! Pierced with wound
On wound, we both upon the slippery plain
Flounder'd; till Janizars closed firm around:
My conquest, hardly earn'd, his festering shackles crown'd.”
My fractured helmet, that flew off in twain!
Much—much to me owes mighty Mahomet!
But for this arm the struggle all were vain!
Stunn'd by the stroke yet burns my whirling brain!
Staggering I griped Prince Theon! Pierced with wound
On wound, we both upon the slippery plain
Flounder'd; till Janizars closed firm around:
My conquest, hardly earn'd, his festering shackles crown'd.”
91
To appal the boldest Islamites, how dire
The approaching Sultan in idea rose!
His wrathful visage fiercer than the fire
That bristling in the spotted tigress glows;
When late, to reassure his fainting foes,
When Genoa rode triumphant o'er the tide;
'Twas then (his gallies but as pageant shows)
Spurring his courser with unearthly pride
He cleft the surge's foam, and Alla's self defied!
The approaching Sultan in idea rose!
His wrathful visage fiercer than the fire
That bristling in the spotted tigress glows;
When late, to reassure his fainting foes,
When Genoa rode triumphant o'er the tide;
'Twas then (his gallies but as pageant shows)
Spurring his courser with unearthly pride
He cleft the surge's foam, and Alla's self defied!
Yes! 'twas a high-flush'd moment! Half the globe
Seem'd crowding to the spectacle!—But short
Was Genoa's glory. Mahomet's monster-tube
Though, over continents, quaked fane and fort
And distant isles flung back the deep report,
So bade abortive thunders roll around!
The maddening Moslems vision'd thrones transport;
Yet all its brazen voices but rebound
To speak, from rock to rock, the impotence of sound.
Seem'd crowding to the spectacle!—But short
Was Genoa's glory. Mahomet's monster-tube
Though, over continents, quaked fane and fort
And distant isles flung back the deep report,
So bade abortive thunders roll around!
The maddening Moslems vision'd thrones transport;
Yet all its brazen voices but rebound
To speak, from rock to rock, the impotence of sound.
And thus, while some act o'er the fight, and shew
How from the stirrups they spring forth, or wheel
In evolutions swift, and deal the blow;
Others unbind the head piece, and reveal
Contusions sore, or link the corslet-steel,
Or whet the sabre, or the cuirass scour;
Or, pointing to the City, boast their zeal,
And, in each street, anticipate the power
To raise up mosque on mosque, though growl the feeble Giaour.
How from the stirrups they spring forth, or wheel
In evolutions swift, and deal the blow;
Others unbind the head piece, and reveal
Contusions sore, or link the corslet-steel,
Or whet the sabre, or the cuirass scour;
Or, pointing to the City, boast their zeal,
And, in each street, anticipate the power
To raise up mosque on mosque, though growl the feeble Giaour.
Some lazily, as if their sin or sloth
E'en Zemzem's pure ablution scarce could purge,
Saunter, to sip the wine-cup nothing loath;
And sigh, that cruel Destiny should urge
Dire bombs and bolts along death's dizzy verge,
Nor the lax hour in dews of slumber steep!
O! they had changed for scorpions—for the scourge,
Their days of sluggishness—their nights of sleep,
Where, soothing every sense, oblivion loved to creep.
E'en Zemzem's pure ablution scarce could purge,
Saunter, to sip the wine-cup nothing loath;
And sigh, that cruel Destiny should urge
Dire bombs and bolts along death's dizzy verge,
92
O! they had changed for scorpions—for the scourge,
Their days of sluggishness—their nights of sleep,
Where, soothing every sense, oblivion loved to creep.
Its benizon once more if heaven vouchsafe—
The lulling juice—the coffee's fragrant fume;
They vow, eftsoon to pilgrim-cowl and staff
To vail the gleaming shield, the helmet plume,
And load with martial spoils Medina's tomb;
Where, from old Tyre, from Carmel bleak and lone,
From the drear Caspian to Sabæan bloom
With kisses wearing the thrice-hallow'd stone,
Full many a devotee for “sin or sloth” atone.
The lulling juice—the coffee's fragrant fume;
They vow, eftsoon to pilgrim-cowl and staff
To vail the gleaming shield, the helmet plume,
And load with martial spoils Medina's tomb;
Where, from old Tyre, from Carmel bleak and lone,
From the drear Caspian to Sabæan bloom
With kisses wearing the thrice-hallow'd stone,
Full many a devotee for “sin or sloth” atone.
And there the peaceful path grave Imaums shape,
And strutting Cadhis in the camp are seen,
The caftan, the furr'd robe, the Tartar cap
The muslin's broad folds, the fine emir-green,
And airy vestures soft of silken sheen,
And scarlet cinctures that as flambeaux glared!
And they too walk'd the spacious tents between,
Seers, who had mark'd the moment golden-starr'd,
Announcing to bold deeds the Koran's bright award.
And strutting Cadhis in the camp are seen,
The caftan, the furr'd robe, the Tartar cap
The muslin's broad folds, the fine emir-green,
And airy vestures soft of silken sheen,
And scarlet cinctures that as flambeaux glared!
And they too walk'd the spacious tents between,
Seers, who had mark'd the moment golden-starr'd,
Announcing to bold deeds the Koran's bright award.
Others, as odours round rich spicery sheds,
Unlade the bunches of the burden'd beast:
Towering, the camels lift their tawny heads;
Some sacred, and from toil for age releast,
The ministers of Islam, from the East:
Still patient to their master's nod they kneel,
How mild amid the scowls the Moslems cast!
Immoveable midst tribes that rave and reel,—
Midst strepent clarions calm, and fire and flashing steel!
Unlade the bunches of the burden'd beast:
Towering, the camels lift their tawny heads;
Some sacred, and from toil for age releast,
The ministers of Islam, from the East:
Still patient to their master's nod they kneel,
How mild amid the scowls the Moslems cast!
Immoveable midst tribes that rave and reel,—
Midst strepent clarions calm, and fire and flashing steel!
93
And nigh yon gaudier tent what forms grotesque,
Gray-mantled—their eyes fasten'd to the ground?
They start as by one impulse, circling frisk,
Leap upwards wing'd in air, and whirling round
The dance urge maddening to a burst of sound!
Still giddily they thread the mystic maze;
The timbrels give new force to every bound:
Their horse-tail lances whilst the pachas raise,
From all the motley camp assembling nations gaze!
Gray-mantled—their eyes fasten'd to the ground?
They start as by one impulse, circling frisk,
Leap upwards wing'd in air, and whirling round
The dance urge maddening to a burst of sound!
Still giddily they thread the mystic maze;
The timbrels give new force to every bound:
Their horse-tail lances whilst the pachas raise,
From all the motley camp assembling nations gaze!
Down drop as from the sudden dart of death,
Down drop the maniacs, and along the sod
Lie motionless, one body without breath!
What mute attention waits “the inspired of God”!
They rise!—as if returning they had trod
Heaven's sapphire floor! They stretch their arms, their eyes,
To where, from that unperishing abode
The Immortals had reveal'd high mysteries!
And hark! I hear, I hear the tidings from the skies!
Down drop the maniacs, and along the sod
Lie motionless, one body without breath!
What mute attention waits “the inspired of God”!
They rise!—as if returning they had trod
Heaven's sapphire floor! They stretch their arms, their eyes,
To where, from that unperishing abode
The Immortals had reveal'd high mysteries!
And hark! I hear, I hear the tidings from the skies!
“Othmans! who to diffuse the holy faith
That beams immutable from Mecca's shrine,
Ye, who have traced through wilds your burning path,
Scoop'd hills of ice, and brav'd the stormy brine;
Who soon, with Stamboul though the West combine,
Shall slay your millions, as ye whilom slew;
To heralds from above your ears incline!
Angels have open'd victory to your view!
(The Arch-Dervise thus exclaim'd) the glorious track pursue!
That beams immutable from Mecca's shrine,
Ye, who have traced through wilds your burning path,
Scoop'd hills of ice, and brav'd the stormy brine;
Who soon, with Stamboul though the West combine,
Shall slay your millions, as ye whilom slew;
To heralds from above your ears incline!
Angels have open'd victory to your view!
(The Arch-Dervise thus exclaim'd) the glorious track pursue!
“Ere long o'er yon black battlements shall float
Our ensigns! See to Othman Cæsar bend!
Then dread nor bulwark, turret, trench, nor moat,
Nor sainted bell! Such terror heaven forfend!
See, Moslemahs! your Mahomet ascend
That shivering fortress! See your Prophet scale
The palace, and its cross asunder rend!
And, if his arm the astonied Greeks assail,
Say, shall their Virgin's threats—their Virgin's tears avail?
Our ensigns! See to Othman Cæsar bend!
Then dread nor bulwark, turret, trench, nor moat,
Nor sainted bell! Such terror heaven forfend!
See, Moslemahs! your Mahomet ascend
94
The palace, and its cross asunder rend!
And, if his arm the astonied Greeks assail,
Say, shall their Virgin's threats—their Virgin's tears avail?
“Midst yonder towers shall shine the sofa'd-cirque,
The pictured ceiling, and the embroider'd crest;
And on your hallow'd roofs shall light the stork,
Sleek her jet wings, and weave her quiet nest,
And (sent from where the sacred relics rest)
Sweet harbinger of mercy, safely shut
Your dwellings from the fire, the putrid pest,
And scatter blessings o'er the lowliest hut
As Aden's cassia-breeze, or gums from Hadramut!
The pictured ceiling, and the embroider'd crest;
And on your hallow'd roofs shall light the stork,
Sleek her jet wings, and weave her quiet nest,
And (sent from where the sacred relics rest)
Sweet harbinger of mercy, safely shut
Your dwellings from the fire, the putrid pest,
And scatter blessings o'er the lowliest hut
As Aden's cassia-breeze, or gums from Hadramut!
“Yet know, to each resistless Destiny
Decrees or life or death, o'erruling all;
And to the soldier, if foredoom'd to die,
Suits his own shaft, or sends his certain ball;
And they, who grappling with the foeman fall,
Shall to new life, sustain'd by angels, rise!
Then mount, my sons! then mount the mouldering wall,
And, if ye win no transient earthly prize,
Yours be the eternal bowers, the blooms of Paradise.
Decrees or life or death, o'erruling all;
And to the soldier, if foredoom'd to die,
Suits his own shaft, or sends his certain ball;
And they, who grappling with the foeman fall,
Shall to new life, sustain'd by angels, rise!
Then mount, my sons! then mount the mouldering wall,
And, if ye win no transient earthly prize,
Yours be the eternal bowers, the blooms of Paradise.
“There bubbling founts from rocks of crystal play,
And cool in tinkling rills, refresh the glade:
To her own rose the bulbul swells the lay,
And spring's young colours blush through every shade:
There, to no asp, no tusky boar betray'd
The cave, far opening to its roof, allures
Voluptuous pairs; and many a black-ey'd maid
The sweet sigh mingles with her paramour's:
Such is the promis'd bliss—such, Moslems! such be yours!
And cool in tinkling rills, refresh the glade:
To her own rose the bulbul swells the lay,
And spring's young colours blush through every shade:
There, to no asp, no tusky boar betray'd
95
Voluptuous pairs; and many a black-ey'd maid
The sweet sigh mingles with her paramour's:
Such is the promis'd bliss—such, Moslems! such be yours!
“Yes! from the serpent safe, the ravenous tusk,
Shall fleet your rapturous moments. Yours the girls
Sprung to immortal youth from purest musk!
Lo, from pavilions hollowed out in pearls
They come! And each o'er his green couch unfurls
The rosy silk, to veil love's joys intense!
And, at each trembling pause, as pleasure whirls
Lap'd in delirious trance, the unsated sense,
Gay boys to every couch their sparkling cups dispense.”
Shall fleet your rapturous moments. Yours the girls
Sprung to immortal youth from purest musk!
Lo, from pavilions hollowed out in pearls
They come! And each o'er his green couch unfurls
The rosy silk, to veil love's joys intense!
And, at each trembling pause, as pleasure whirls
Lap'd in delirious trance, the unsated sense,
Gay boys to every couch their sparkling cups dispense.”
He ceas'd. The minstrels with impetuous air
As if to fan the soothsayer's flagging fires,
Each brandishing his dissonant guitar,
Hurried with rude hand through the crashing wires.
And some, as to their paradise aspires
The fever'd thought, by many a random stroke
(Meet symptom of importunate desires)
Bade the harsh timbrel from their grots evoke
Along the Pontic shore, the spirits of the rock.
As if to fan the soothsayer's flagging fires,
Each brandishing his dissonant guitar,
Hurried with rude hand through the crashing wires.
And some, as to their paradise aspires
The fever'd thought, by many a random stroke
(Meet symptom of importunate desires)
Bade the harsh timbrel from their grots evoke
Along the Pontic shore, the spirits of the rock.
There is a sudden silence in the camp!
The breezes faint and fainter sympathize
With passion's breathlessness. A hollow tramp—
And echo indistinctly falls and dies
Upon the doubtful sense. The dread emprise
Awakens every hope and every fear!
And now, as billows upon billows rise,
Heard ye not hoarser sounds—yet—yet more near,
Gathering as in the van—remurmur'd in the rear?
The breezes faint and fainter sympathize
With passion's breathlessness. A hollow tramp—
And echo indistinctly falls and dies
Upon the doubtful sense. The dread emprise
Awakens every hope and every fear!
And now, as billows upon billows rise,
Heard ye not hoarser sounds—yet—yet more near,
Gathering as in the van—remurmur'd in the rear?
96
And now pale expectation all aloof
The din of horsemen from the deep defile,
Hark!—near and nearer still the rampant hoof!
Now rapid through the ruins of yon pile,
What sparkled, like illusion, sinks awhile!
Now rising, flashes all the embattled force,
Round yon green knoll unwinding coil on coil;
Oh, hear ye not the whirlwind of their course?
Breaking from out the cloud, behold each warrior-horse
The din of horsemen from the deep defile,
Hark!—near and nearer still the rampant hoof!
Now rapid through the ruins of yon pile,
What sparkled, like illusion, sinks awhile!
Now rising, flashes all the embattled force,
Round yon green knoll unwinding coil on coil;
Oh, hear ye not the whirlwind of their course?
Breaking from out the cloud, behold each warrior-horse
And, mark ye that imperious steed? He paws
The smoking turf—his mane the boreal stream!
Prancing, he seems to swallow up applause—
To swallow as his own his master's fame.
Distinct the mailplates of the Sovereign gleam,
As o'er his head the crimson banners fly:
The diamonds of his deadly dagger flame!
To the shrill trumpets, lo! the troops draw nigh,
And armies lick the dust before his withering eye.
The smoking turf—his mane the boreal stream!
Prancing, he seems to swallow up applause—
To swallow as his own his master's fame.
Distinct the mailplates of the Sovereign gleam,
As o'er his head the crimson banners fly:
The diamonds of his deadly dagger flame!
To the shrill trumpets, lo! the troops draw nigh,
And armies lick the dust before his withering eye.
Stern was his visage; and his falcon glance
Around upon a herd of slaves he cast;
And with so fierce an air he shook the lance,
That princedoms, pachalates fell back aghast!
“Chiefs! Janizaries! bid my heralds haste,
And through the camp their Soldan's will proclaim!
Yon spires, yon fanes, to solemnize your fast,
Shall bow their pinnacles to Islam's name!
High glory to the brave—to traitors deadly shame!
Around upon a herd of slaves he cast;
And with so fierce an air he shook the lance,
That princedoms, pachalates fell back aghast!
“Chiefs! Janizaries! bid my heralds haste,
And through the camp their Soldan's will proclaim!
Yon spires, yon fanes, to solemnize your fast,
Shall bow their pinnacles to Islam's name!
High glory to the brave—to traitors deadly shame!
“Ye, who have witness'd where the battle rang,
The firebolts, the keen arrows' mingling flight,
Where acclamations drown'd the mortal clang—
Ye tribes, that shudder to Medina's might;—
Know, Greece hath sunk, unsceptred, in the night
That knows no boundary! By Mohammed's fount!
We shall lay low the crafty Nazarite!
Soon o'er the neck of Europe shall we mount,
Fair brothers of the sun! You pass'd the Hellespont!
The firebolts, the keen arrows' mingling flight,
Where acclamations drown'd the mortal clang—
Ye tribes, that shudder to Medina's might;—
Know, Greece hath sunk, unsceptred, in the night
97
We shall lay low the crafty Nazarite!
Soon o'er the neck of Europe shall we mount,
Fair brothers of the sun! You pass'd the Hellespont!
“I have discomfited the great, the proud!
I have asunder snapp'd the strength of war;
O'er all the city on its heavy cloud
Hangs, in pale guise, the spectre of Despair!
Behold! my captive Theon was a star
Refulgent through the Grecian firmament:
Cheer'd by his beams I saw e'en dastards dare.
But well nigh is the princely splendour spent;
To light a glimmering cell—a loathsome dungeon lent.
I have asunder snapp'd the strength of war;
O'er all the city on its heavy cloud
Hangs, in pale guise, the spectre of Despair!
Behold! my captive Theon was a star
Refulgent through the Grecian firmament:
Cheer'd by his beams I saw e'en dastards dare.
But well nigh is the princely splendour spent;
To light a glimmering cell—a loathsome dungeon lent.
“Fly not—though liquid fire its cataracts pour—
That inextinguishable fire! I wield
To seal the vengeance of the destined hour,
The magic lance that won so many a field.
And lo! to my all-conquering prowess yield
Earth, air, and seas! My barks that plough'd the deep,
(With echoes not their own whilst rapture fill'd
Scaur and dark dale) I plunged down yonder steep,
And shaped their boiling track with necromantic sweep.
That inextinguishable fire! I wield
To seal the vengeance of the destined hour,
The magic lance that won so many a field.
And lo! to my all-conquering prowess yield
Earth, air, and seas! My barks that plough'd the deep,
(With echoes not their own whilst rapture fill'd
Scaur and dark dale) I plunged down yonder steep,
And shaped their boiling track with necromantic sweep.
“Then know, if any wretch from shot or shaft
Run trembling, by the vault of heaven I swear,
I will arrest him, though an eagle waft
The recreant's body through the realms of air!
Yes! may their rage my reeking heartstrings tear,
If demons give not to the burning knife
New venom!—if where whips of scorpions glare,
I bid not fiends, with human joy at strife,
By hell's own agonies protract the pangs of life.
Run trembling, by the vault of heaven I swear,
I will arrest him, though an eagle waft
The recreant's body through the realms of air!
Yes! may their rage my reeking heartstrings tear,
98
New venom!—if where whips of scorpions glare,
I bid not fiends, with human joy at strife,
By hell's own agonies protract the pangs of life.
“See, flushing up again its faded ray,
See Gabriel's self in yon descending orb,
Sure messenger!—Once more the parting day
Once only shall the ‘golden horn’ absorb
Ere victory shall lift up her voice!—Then curb
Your daring, till arise that dazzling morn!
And him, whom no false fears of fate disturb,
Who overtops yon rampires, foremost borne,
Him shall the robe of power—the sabled robe adorn.
See Gabriel's self in yon descending orb,
Sure messenger!—Once more the parting day
Once only shall the ‘golden horn’ absorb
Ere victory shall lift up her voice!—Then curb
Your daring, till arise that dazzling morn!
And him, whom no false fears of fate disturb,
Who overtops yon rampires, foremost borne,
Him shall the robe of power—the sabled robe adorn.
“Yon towers—yon splendid structures all are mine!
But to my valiant troops the uncounted spoil,
The treasures of the city I resign—
Right meed of warlike worth—of pearls a pile!
Luxurious baths, and love's consenting smile!
To each, a province! There, if woods have charms—
If lawns—if glens—shall sports his day beguile;
His only war, the hunter's brisk alarms—
His pleasure after toil, enamour'd beauty's arms!”
But to my valiant troops the uncounted spoil,
The treasures of the city I resign—
Right meed of warlike worth—of pearls a pile!
Luxurious baths, and love's consenting smile!
To each, a province! There, if woods have charms—
If lawns—if glens—shall sports his day beguile;
His only war, the hunter's brisk alarms—
His pleasure after toil, enamour'd beauty's arms!”
Sudden, the tambour's swell, and cymbal's clank
And sulph'rous volley shook the camp, the strand,
And died among the mountains. Rank on rank,
Waved into being as by sorcerer's wand,
Already had in thought a bristling band,
Pour'd thro' the shatter'd gate midst arrowy showers,
And vengeance triumph'd in the flaming brand;
In thought already had they scal'd the towers;
Already had they seiz'd the Harem's sacred bowers.
And sulph'rous volley shook the camp, the strand,
And died among the mountains. Rank on rank,
Waved into being as by sorcerer's wand,
Already had in thought a bristling band,
Pour'd thro' the shatter'd gate midst arrowy showers,
And vengeance triumph'd in the flaming brand;
In thought already had they scal'd the towers;
Already had they seiz'd the Harem's sacred bowers.
“High Alla! the one Alla!”—flew from tent
To tent, amid the frantic uproar, flew;
And with Mohammed's name the air was rent!
And, now its veil o'er all as darkness threw,
On the night-centinels a sanguine hue
Was cast from many a window's
kindling light,
And, far illumed the Euxine's deepening blue,
A long reflexion flash'd from height to height,
And dim Byzantium rose, and quiver'd on the sight.
To tent, amid the frantic uproar, flew;
And with Mohammed's name the air was rent!
And, now its veil o'er all as darkness threw,
On the night-centinels a sanguine hue
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And, far illumed the Euxine's deepening blue,
A long reflexion flash'd from height to height,
And dim Byzantium rose, and quiver'd on the sight.
The spots rising on the back are described by Statius if I recollect rightly. But the line does not this moment occur to me.
Camels employed in bearing presents to Mecca or Medina —exempt, ever afterwards, from labour. See Beloe's Herodotus ii. 123. note.
This image of the stork would be as important to a Turk, as that of the lion lying down with the ox, or the child playing with the cockatrice, to a Christian—an image of holy peace and tranquillity.
It appears that, gunpowder just coming into use, the engines and instruments of ancient and modern war were now almost for the first time employed together.
His transporting by land his lighter vessels and military stores from the Bosphorus into the higher parts of the harbour, was certainly an enterprise of a marvellous cast.
“In the formation of the shores of the Bosphorus, are huge mountains, broad scaurs, and wooded promontories in beautiful variety.” —Dallaway, p. 137.
CANTO THE SECOND.
Prince Theon and Calirrhoe.
Now fleeted was the hour of pale midnight;
The fires were fainting; and lamp after lamp
Shot up and languish'd in a flickering light;
In momentary blazes shone the camp,
The greensward, the dark wave, the distant swamp,
And hush'd was all the immeasurable shade;
Save that frogs croaking through the dim-blue damp,
From marsh remote, the incessant murmur made,
Save that the wolf's dire howl, the wild dog answering bay'd.
The fires were fainting; and lamp after lamp
Shot up and languish'd in a flickering light;
In momentary blazes shone the camp,
The greensward, the dark wave, the distant swamp,
And hush'd was all the immeasurable shade;
Save that frogs croaking through the dim-blue damp,
From marsh remote, the incessant murmur made,
Save that the wolf's dire howl, the wild dog answering bay'd.
Here shapes, like steeples, trembled and were gone,
Then wavering re-appear'd with steady pace;
Yet, less and less, as wasted, one by one,
The lamps to blackness left a broader space:
When lo! two forms their shadows seem'd to chase,
(Not like the gait of warder, sturdy, slow)
And vanish'd in the gloom a fiery trace
Of sabres! 'Twas the transitory glow
Of steel that might descend in death's avenging blow.
Then wavering re-appear'd with steady pace;
Yet, less and less, as wasted, one by one,
The lamps to blackness left a broader space:
When lo! two forms their shadows seem'd to chase,
(Not like the gait of warder, sturdy, slow)
And vanish'd in the gloom a fiery trace
Of sabres! 'Twas the transitory glow
Of steel that might descend in death's avenging blow.
100
But the two gliding forms uninjured pass'd
The centinels;—each, like a Janizar
In armour. Yet suspicion haply cast
A squinting eyeshot on the timorous air,
The softer gestures, that ill-suiting war,
Now mimick'd boldness and now shrank from view;
Though, to elude the search of sleepless care,
Was utter'd (through the camp a ready clue),
Perchance with faltering voice, the watchword “Alla dhu!”
The centinels;—each, like a Janizar
In armour. Yet suspicion haply cast
A squinting eyeshot on the timorous air,
The softer gestures, that ill-suiting war,
Now mimick'd boldness and now shrank from view;
Though, to elude the search of sleepless care,
Was utter'd (through the camp a ready clue),
Perchance with faltering voice, the watchword “Alla dhu!”
In the night-vapour of a murky cell
Doom'd to the bowstring, lay a captive chief:
The Grecian prince foreknew his sentence well,
And hail'd in friendly death the durance brief.
Yet sometimes in an agony of grief,
As mantled the life-stream, his hands he clasp'd;
Then caught, from fancy caught, a short relief;
Then, in a sit of desperation gasp'd
For breath, as he no more the illusive phantom grasp'd.
Doom'd to the bowstring, lay a captive chief:
The Grecian prince foreknew his sentence well,
And hail'd in friendly death the durance brief.
Yet sometimes in an agony of grief,
As mantled the life-stream, his hands he clasp'd;
Then caught, from fancy caught, a short relief;
Then, in a sit of desperation gasp'd
For breath, as he no more the illusive phantom grasp'd.
Yet calmer—see against a column's plinth
That moulder'd in decay, reclines the prince.
Clustering his locks were like the hyacinth:
His umber'd brow the soldier would evince;
The bard, his eyes of bright intelligence—
Though pensive thought had sober'd Fancy's Fire.
Such Theon was. The purple's proud pretence
He scorn'd, nor would to royal maids aspire;
But on his love-sighs frown'd a supercilious sire.
That moulder'd in decay, reclines the prince.
Clustering his locks were like the hyacinth:
His umber'd brow the soldier would evince;
The bard, his eyes of bright intelligence—
Though pensive thought had sober'd Fancy's Fire.
Such Theon was. The purple's proud pretence
He scorn'd, nor would to royal maids aspire;
But on his love-sighs frown'd a supercilious sire.
Stream'd a quick lustre on the dungeon dank—
“Dauntless but for Calirrhoe had I died—
With her”—(clank'd all his chains with ominous clank)
“Life were yet dear!”—“Then life be thine!” she cried—
Her janizary-headpiece flung aside,
And fluttering into view the female dress.
“Lo! in Calirrhoe thy devoted bride!”
Impassion'd airs her hopes, her fears confess;
And o'er her slender neck the started wandering tress.
“Dauntless but for Calirrhoe had I died—
With her”—(clank'd all his chains with ominous clank)
“Life were yet dear!”—“Then life be thine!” she cried—
Her janizary-headpiece flung aside,
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“Lo! in Calirrhoe thy devoted bride!”
Impassion'd airs her hopes, her fears confess;
And o'er her slender neck the started wandering tress.
“Rise, rise my Theon! To thine aid I flew,
Where to the brazen door the dark vaults wind.
In secret to ‘the golden gate’ I drew,
The boy Abdalla to our wishes kind.
Haste, my own Theon! haste: Leave death behind!
And may thy valour from the Tyrant rend
His trophies—him, whom faith nor treaties bind:
Oh! to the noblest of the Cæsars lend
Thy help—at this sad hour assist thy royal friend.”
Where to the brazen door the dark vaults wind.
In secret to ‘the golden gate’ I drew,
The boy Abdalla to our wishes kind.
Haste, my own Theon! haste: Leave death behind!
And may thy valour from the Tyrant rend
His trophies—him, whom faith nor treaties bind:
Oh! to the noblest of the Cæsars lend
Thy help—at this sad hour assist thy royal friend.”
Now reaching the pavilion's utmost skirts
They pause; and darting down a narrow dell
Turn backwards, as the dubious path reverts,
Then hurry round a hillock's tufted swell;
And now at distance from the prison-cell
Press on, beneath the janizary-guise.
Sweet, at each light step, was the floral smell,
Ere the young May-flowers had unclosed their eyes,
Or yet the chilling dawn had streak'd the dusky skies.
They pause; and darting down a narrow dell
Turn backwards, as the dubious path reverts,
Then hurry round a hillock's tufted swell;
And now at distance from the prison-cell
Press on, beneath the janizary-guise.
Sweet, at each light step, was the floral smell,
Ere the young May-flowers had unclosed their eyes,
Or yet the chilling dawn had streak'd the dusky skies.
Their curtain in ‘the dusky skies’ they hail'd:
But ah! they heeded with a cold regard
(For well their bosoms apprehension quail'd)
The first fine fragrance of the velvet sward.
There, when her beauteous fabric fancy rear'd,
How oft they saunter'd ere the day's dim peep:
How oft from open intercourse debarr'd,
(While spies they fondly hop'd were still asleep)
They watch'd the welcome tint distaining lawn and deep.
But ah! they heeded with a cold regard
(For well their bosoms apprehension quail'd)
The first fine fragrance of the velvet sward.
There, when her beauteous fabric fancy rear'd,
How oft they saunter'd ere the day's dim peep:
How oft from open intercourse debarr'd,
(While spies they fondly hop'd were still asleep)
They watch'd the welcome tint distaining lawn and deep.
Huddled amidst the copses of the dales,
Dear to the lover's heart the dying rills,
The voices of the hundred nightingales,
And all their whisperings, all their dulcet trills,
When scarce a morn-tint tip'd the extremer hills!
Ah! to new terror breaks the lurid light:
Not a bird flutters, not a leaf but thrills!
Hark,—'tis the horses of the camp! The night
Was long! They neigh—they neigh, and snuff the coming fight.
Dear to the lover's heart the dying rills,
The voices of the hundred nightingales,
And all their whisperings, all their dulcet trills,
When scarce a morn-tint tip'd the extremer hills!
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Not a bird flutters, not a leaf but thrills!
Hark,—'tis the horses of the camp! The night
Was long! They neigh—they neigh, and snuff the coming fight.
And what a sound was that? The camp-neigh? No—
A tramping, as of steps?—a thickening clash!
And what a death-pause?—Now as nimble roe
The tripping, and now heavy is the splash
As labouring all through fenreeds. But that flash!
The long vale bellows to the carabine!
Down the long vale the dread pursuers dash!
Still to the gloom, where but a faint gray line
Yet glimmers, their poor hope the flying pair consign.
A tramping, as of steps?—a thickening clash!
And what a death-pause?—Now as nimble roe
The tripping, and now heavy is the splash
As labouring all through fenreeds. But that flash!
The long vale bellows to the carabine!
Down the long vale the dread pursuers dash!
Still to the gloom, where but a faint gray line
Yet glimmers, their poor hope the flying pair consign.
And well nigh have they reach'd ‘the Golden Gate’
And they have reached it! Hath Calirrhoe's sway
Unlock'd the brazen door—the door of fate,
Where secret runs the subterraneous way?
The breath of the pursuers on their prey—
The poison of a pestilence—breathes hot
Upon her panting bosom! Heard ye—say,
O heard ye—that swift whistling? One is not!
Yes! death was in that burst—in that swift-whistling shot!
And they have reached it! Hath Calirrhoe's sway
Unlock'd the brazen door—the door of fate,
Where secret runs the subterraneous way?
The breath of the pursuers on their prey—
The poison of a pestilence—breathes hot
Upon her panting bosom! Heard ye—say,
O heard ye—that swift whistling? One is not!
Yes! death was in that burst—in that swift-whistling shot!
Yes! Theon had dispatch'd a Georgian slave
That breathed upon her bosom. But, alas!
One fell pursuer only found a grave.
Yet undiscovered was the hollow pass
Where rush'd Calirrhoe, and the door of brass
Clos'd after her. Her scattering senses fled!
The maiden wist not where her Theon was,
Nor heard the cold groan where the dagger bled,
Nor each low cavern-sound, the voice as from the dead.
That breathed upon her bosom. But, alas!
One fell pursuer only found a grave.
Yet undiscovered was the hollow pass
Where rush'd Calirrhoe, and the door of brass
Clos'd after her. Her scattering senses fled!
The maiden wist not where her Theon was,
Nor heard the cold groan where the dagger bled,
Nor each low cavern-sound, the voice as from the dead.
Though this story may appear, at first, merely episodical, yet its incidents will be seen, in the progress of the poem, to accelerate the fate of the city, or to facilitate its fall.
103
CANTO THE THIRD.
Morning-view of Byzantium—Of Greece—The palace at Byzantium—The Emperor Paleologus—The Hall of Audience—Marcian—The Patriarch Phranza —Calirrhoe, Phranza's daughter—The head of her lover Prince Theon exposed on the Turkish batteries.
Emerging through the darkness, indistinct
Look'd forth Byzantium's loftier turrets; cold
And faint, the tremulous lattices now wink'd
In the eastward palaces, ere long to unfold
In gradual glimpses, all their burnish'd gold.
Still hover'd the night-shadows, to enshroud
The calm Propontis as it rippling roll'd;
And by the bulwarks the black wave o'erbrow'd,
Seem'd to its crimsoning edge to attract the morning cloud.
Look'd forth Byzantium's loftier turrets; cold
And faint, the tremulous lattices now wink'd
In the eastward palaces, ere long to unfold
In gradual glimpses, all their burnish'd gold.
Still hover'd the night-shadows, to enshroud
The calm Propontis as it rippling roll'd;
And by the bulwarks the black wave o'erbrow'd,
Seem'd to its crimsoning edge to attract the morning cloud.
Far off along the Isles and over Greece
Twilight scarce peep'd. Yet neither land nor shore
Nor seas had sleep's oblivion hush'd in peace.
Here, as if fate from friends the wanderer tore,
To covert glen, alas! to meet no more,
A desultory step, a sigh was heard:
There the lorn mariner his dashing oar
Suspended. Each as if he mus'd and fear'd
The dayspring, lurk'd unseen, by May's sweet blush uncheer'd.
Twilight scarce peep'd. Yet neither land nor shore
Nor seas had sleep's oblivion hush'd in peace.
Here, as if fate from friends the wanderer tore,
To covert glen, alas! to meet no more,
A desultory step, a sigh was heard:
There the lorn mariner his dashing oar
Suspended. Each as if he mus'd and fear'd
The dayspring, lurk'd unseen, by May's sweet blush uncheer'd.
It was a beautiful—delicious blush
That to fair Athens stealing, touch'd that fane
The pride of her Acropolis. The flush
Through all its shadowy pomp of columns (vain
Illumination!)—kindles. To distain
Each wreath, each shaft, how rich Aurora's glow!
And lo, from walk to walk, from plane to plane,
Her tenderest colours fain would pity throw
Where streams, to fancy dear, in lingering lapses flow.
That to fair Athens stealing, touch'd that fane
The pride of her Acropolis. The flush
Through all its shadowy pomp of columns (vain
Illumination!)—kindles. To distain
Each wreath, each shaft, how rich Aurora's glow!
And lo, from walk to walk, from plane to plane,
Her tenderest colours fain would pity throw
Where streams, to fancy dear, in lingering lapses flow.
104
Yes! they were lingering lapses—to call back
Minds that once soar'd in philosophic thought!
Yes! they were lingering lapses—to awake
The Poet's song, with fire from Phœbus fraught!
And they might tell of times, ere Plato taught,
When from thy harbour through the flashing spray,
Athens! thy venturous sons of commerce, sought
The central station, the colonial bay;
And rear'd Byzantium's towers, to rule the watery way.
Minds that once soar'd in philosophic thought!
Yes! they were lingering lapses—to awake
The Poet's song, with fire from Phœbus fraught!
And they might tell of times, ere Plato taught,
When from thy harbour through the flashing spray,
Athens! thy venturous sons of commerce, sought
The central station, the colonial bay;
And rear'd Byzantium's towers, to rule the watery way.
And now those towers in morn's full splendour shone,
And from its grove the top of every dome
Rose in new radiance to the unclouded sun;
And May's clear lights seem'd emulous to illume
St. Sophia's galleries, and the garden-bloom,
The palace-roofs, and all the glittering sea;
And sportive thro' the unblemish'd Hippodrome,
Chequer'd with orange-tints each greener tree,
As if not long so gay such dancing lights must be!
And from its grove the top of every dome
Rose in new radiance to the unclouded sun;
And May's clear lights seem'd emulous to illume
St. Sophia's galleries, and the garden-bloom,
The palace-roofs, and all the glittering sea;
And sportive thro' the unblemish'd Hippodrome,
Chequer'd with orange-tints each greener tree,
As if not long so gay such dancing lights must be!
From odorous slopes to arbours zephyrs stole—
From mossy margins to the cool cascade,
Wafting their early freshness to the soul;
Whilst a thin cloud that o'er the city stray'd,
Robed in its snowy fleeciness of shade
Turret and spire and cypress, pine and palm:
Ah! deep had trouble its impression made,
If vain the power of that voluptuous calm,
Where every ray was gold, and every breeze was balm.
From mossy margins to the cool cascade,
Wafting their early freshness to the soul;
Whilst a thin cloud that o'er the city stray'd,
Robed in its snowy fleeciness of shade
Turret and spire and cypress, pine and palm:
Ah! deep had trouble its impression made,
If vain the power of that voluptuous calm,
Where every ray was gold, and every breeze was balm.
105
Slanting along the palace-walls, a line
Of light into the portico had pass'd,
And bade its colonnade far sparkling shine,
And statues of renown yet undefaced
Hoar in each nich, with various lustre graced;
And, midst the interior chambers a rich stream
On saffron cushions a reflexion cast,
And as it play'd o'er ermine, jasper, gem,
A coruscation broke, to deck the diadem.
Of light into the portico had pass'd,
And bade its colonnade far sparkling shine,
And statues of renown yet undefaced
Hoar in each nich, with various lustre graced;
And, midst the interior chambers a rich stream
On saffron cushions a reflexion cast,
And as it play'd o'er ermine, jasper, gem,
A coruscation broke, to deck the diadem.
There was an eye upon that orient crown,
An eye of pensive sorrow. 'Twas a look
Which imaged grandeur, destined to go down,
Mourning ‘a coruscation,’ that so broke
To sink in shade! There was no tongue that spoke.
More eloquent expression seem'd to say:
“O! in the effulgence brightening yonder nook,
I see my specious greatness, like the day,
Still beaming whilst it flits, but flitting fast away.”
An eye of pensive sorrow. 'Twas a look
Which imaged grandeur, destined to go down,
Mourning ‘a coruscation,’ that so broke
To sink in shade! There was no tongue that spoke.
More eloquent expression seem'd to say:
“O! in the effulgence brightening yonder nook,
I see my specious greatness, like the day,
Still beaming whilst it flits, but flitting fast away.”
Musing upon the menacing host, he stood—
His people veering like the winds—from fate
That shrank in terror. Yet his attitude—
How noble—not from proud imperial state—
Not from the gauds that sceptred power await!
The mien majestic from the inspiring mind,
The conscious virtue, in itself elate,
Were his; and to its righteous will resign'd,
High confidence in heaven, and mercy to mankind.
His people veering like the winds—from fate
That shrank in terror. Yet his attitude—
How noble—not from proud imperial state—
Not from the gauds that sceptred power await!
The mien majestic from the inspiring mind,
The conscious virtue, in itself elate,
Were his; and to its righteous will resign'd,
High confidence in heaven, and mercy to mankind.
Unwearied had he seen the breaches yawn,
And prompt repair'd. The assailants were not nigh—
But tubes must roar, and daggers must be drawn!
It was a grim repose. Gleams the red sky
To horizontal clouds, that dreadfully
Surge upwards, billows with no breath of air!
But soon is heard the elemental sigh,
The hiss—full soon is seen the azure glare!
So sleep the Moslem flags, so fierce defiance flare.
And prompt repair'd. The assailants were not nigh—
But tubes must roar, and daggers must be drawn!
It was a grim repose. Gleams the red sky
To horizontal clouds, that dreadfully
106
But soon is heard the elemental sigh,
The hiss—full soon is seen the azure glare!
So sleep the Moslem flags, so fierce defiance flare.
His brows the monarch from the ponderous casque
Had now reliev'd—his hauberk had unbrac'd.
'Twas a poor respite from a painful task
Where thought fast follow'd toil! And now he paced
The room of audience, but as one in haste—
A last resource how anxious to explore,
A little strength lest ill-aim'd efforts waste;
When garments trail'd along the marble floor,
And war's accoutrements shook round the corridor!
Had now reliev'd—his hauberk had unbrac'd.
'Twas a poor respite from a painful task
Where thought fast follow'd toil! And now he paced
The room of audience, but as one in haste—
A last resource how anxious to explore,
A little strength lest ill-aim'd efforts waste;
When garments trail'd along the marble floor,
And war's accoutrements shook round the corridor!
There was no stealthy step—no daring stride—
“Welcome! the first thy pleasures to foregoe,
Welcome, my honest Marcian! thou, the pride
Of patriots, to thy country's foes a foe!
If richer in thine eyes the purple flow,
O! for thy sake may heaven still shield the throne!”
When cried the rough old chief—a conscious glow
Flush'd his high brow—“'Tis generous love alone
That in our Christian race, can crying sins atone.
“Welcome! the first thy pleasures to foregoe,
Welcome, my honest Marcian! thou, the pride
Of patriots, to thy country's foes a foe!
If richer in thine eyes the purple flow,
O! for thy sake may heaven still shield the throne!”
When cried the rough old chief—a conscious glow
Flush'd his high brow—“'Tis generous love alone
That in our Christian race, can crying sins atone.
“Say, is it not enough to seal our doom,
That jealousy disdains a sister's aid,
That hate unchristian spurns the help of Rome?
And deprecates as all in ambuscade,
With dark suspicion, the tiara's shade?
Yes! hierarchal spleen would hail the flash,
The flash of crescents on our spires display'd,
And bid the insulting Othmans midst the crash
Of churches, on each shrine the cross and crosier dash.”
That jealousy disdains a sister's aid,
That hate unchristian spurns the help of Rome?
And deprecates as all in ambuscade,
With dark suspicion, the tiara's shade?
Yes! hierarchal spleen would hail the flash,
The flash of crescents on our spires display'd,
And bid the insulting Othmans midst the crash
Of churches, on each shrine the cross and crosier dash.”
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Scarce had he said—the Patriarch's self appear'd,
And his own angel hail'd him where he went!
Descending o'er his girdle flow'd his beard,
His lofty stature by age downwards bent,
But ruddy was his countenance; besprent
His wrinkled brow with some few silver hairs.
There energetic zeal, with sorrow rent,
Shew'd one, who the pure light celestial shares,
Yet for the love of man dismiss'd not earthly cares.
And his own angel hail'd him where he went!
Descending o'er his girdle flow'd his beard,
His lofty stature by age downwards bent,
But ruddy was his countenance; besprent
His wrinkled brow with some few silver hairs.
There energetic zeal, with sorrow rent,
Shew'd one, who the pure light celestial shares,
Yet for the love of man dismiss'd not earthly cares.
The eventful hour had kindled up again
His youthful passion—his heroic flame:
And with a warrior-spirit, he burnt to arraign
The wretch well meriting reproach and shame
Who skulk'd unmindful of the Grecian fame!
Yet to a deeper, holier confidence
Than could arise from any worldly name,
He loved to excite his people, and dispense
Of God's protecting care the reverential sense.
His youthful passion—his heroic flame:
And with a warrior-spirit, he burnt to arraign
The wretch well meriting reproach and shame
Who skulk'd unmindful of the Grecian fame!
Yet to a deeper, holier confidence
Than could arise from any worldly name,
He loved to excite his people, and dispense
Of God's protecting care the reverential sense.
“Ah! shall those infidels have power to seize
Our seven-hill'd city? Though they quick devour,
Far as the eye flings round its wondering gaze,
Pernicious, every plant and every flower;
Yet do we dread the locusts of an hour?
Have we not seen but erst the gathering swarm
(Their noise like chariots on the mountains) pour?
Were they not brush'd away? How vain the alarm!
The besom we beheld—we view'd the almighty arm!
Our seven-hill'd city? Though they quick devour,
Far as the eye flings round its wondering gaze,
Pernicious, every plant and every flower;
Yet do we dread the locusts of an hour?
Have we not seen but erst the gathering swarm
(Their noise like chariots on the mountains) pour?
Were they not brush'd away? How vain the alarm!
The besom we beheld—we view'd the almighty arm!
“
Whilst over Asia and pale Greece he pass'd,
Though ruin mark'd his pestilential wrath,
And ancient fanes were sunder'd at the blast;
(Thus instant lightnings here, the cypress scath
There shiver as to reeds)—could Amurath
Within this tabernacle his vengeance wreak?
Did not the beauteous Virgin ward off death
From every door? Our peace her presence speak?
Not on yon battlements so mild was morning-break!
Though ruin mark'd his pestilential wrath,
And ancient fanes were sunder'd at the blast;
(Thus instant lightnings here, the cypress scath
There shiver as to reeds)—could Amurath
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Did not the beauteous Virgin ward off death
From every door? Our peace her presence speak?
Not on yon battlements so mild was morning-break!
“From such a savage shall not heaven revolt,
His secret chamber 's but the lion's lair—
His sceptre but the blazing of a bolt;
The sunshine of his smile, a meteor-glare?
And say, if public faith, if virtue share
An earthly boon—if truth the guerdon claim;
Say, shall an equal God the tyrant spare?
Shall Yathred vindicate the impostor's aim,
And urge libidinous creeds through hurricane and flame?
His secret chamber 's but the lion's lair—
His sceptre but the blazing of a bolt;
The sunshine of his smile, a meteor-glare?
And say, if public faith, if virtue share
An earthly boon—if truth the guerdon claim;
Say, shall an equal God the tyrant spare?
Shall Yathred vindicate the impostor's aim,
And urge libidinous creeds through hurricane and flame?
“Shall the dominion whose supernal birth
Was in the song of God's own seers foretold,
Whose glories (that had well-nigh filled the earth
Ere time its page was destined to unfold)
Stood in the volume of our faith enroll'd,
Shall it dissolve before a robber-horde?
Shall Cæsar's hand Messiah's sceptre hold
(Here, here first wielded by an earthly lord)
To shake in palsy-guise, unnerv'd by paynim-sword?”
Was in the song of God's own seers foretold,
Whose glories (that had well-nigh filled the earth
Ere time its page was destined to unfold)
Stood in the volume of our faith enroll'd,
Shall it dissolve before a robber-horde?
Shall Cæsar's hand Messiah's sceptre hold
(Here, here first wielded by an earthly lord)
To shake in palsy-guise, unnerv'd by paynim-sword?”
“No! not ignobly shall the Cæsar fall!”
(Cried Phranza) “No! of coetaneous growth
E'en with the world, and overshadowing all,
Fear we the race of rapine, guile and sloth?
The Turcoman, that heeds nor faith, nor oath?
And thou the noblest of the Cæsars!—Dire
As tigers will we rally, by my troth,
Around thee! spurning sabre, smoke, and fire—
And every lewd device, that panders to desire.
(Cried Phranza) “No! of coetaneous growth
E'en with the world, and overshadowing all,
Fear we the race of rapine, guile and sloth?
The Turcoman, that heeds nor faith, nor oath?
And thou the noblest of the Cæsars!—Dire
As tigers will we rally, by my troth,
Around thee! spurning sabre, smoke, and fire—
And every lewd device, that panders to desire.
“Though reconnoitering, in his garish garb,
Yon Aga may in scorn these bastions spy,
As bounds along the plain his holster'd barb,—
Though here he build in thought the soft Serai,—
Eftsoons, before our fury shall he fly!
Hurl'd, hurl'd away its scabbard, lo! the work
Of heaven shall every sword relentless ply,
And, rooting up his beard, the caitiff Turk
Hide in the rocks his shame, with beasts where out-laws lurk.
Yon Aga may in scorn these bastions spy,
As bounds along the plain his holster'd barb,—
Though here he build in thought the soft Serai,—
Eftsoons, before our fury shall he fly!
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Of heaven shall every sword relentless ply,
And, rooting up his beard, the caitiff Turk
Hide in the rocks his shame, with beasts where out-laws lurk.
“Though soft o'er Adrian's city whisper pines;
To myrtles though its stars the jasmine flaunt;
Though round the rich balconies purpling vines;
Though clustering grapes the prophet's eye affront;
To luxury steaming through the oblivious haunt,
Though alabaster baths their odours waft;
Its dashing springs though jasper basin vaunt,
And gilding glitter from each agate shaft;
And mirrors lust inflame, her bowls where pleasure quaff'd;
To myrtles though its stars the jasmine flaunt;
Though round the rich balconies purpling vines;
Though clustering grapes the prophet's eye affront;
To luxury steaming through the oblivious haunt,
Though alabaster baths their odours waft;
Its dashing springs though jasper basin vaunt,
And gilding glitter from each agate shaft;
And mirrors lust inflame, her bowls where pleasure quaff'd;
“Though wanton harems—silk seraglios fold
Love without sighs, and beauty without bloom;
Though velvet canopies inwrought with gold,
Hang o'er the sofas of the pillar'd room,
To shadow the proud turban's diamond-plume;
Say, though Bassora—furtherest India—dress
Magnificence in all its sullen gloom,
And slaves its footstool, cringing slaves caress,—
Yet midst profusion frowns a parching wilderness!
Love without sighs, and beauty without bloom;
Though velvet canopies inwrought with gold,
Hang o'er the sofas of the pillar'd room,
To shadow the proud turban's diamond-plume;
Say, though Bassora—furtherest India—dress
Magnificence in all its sullen gloom,
And slaves its footstool, cringing slaves caress,—
Yet midst profusion frowns a parching wilderness!
“And what, though turning from the gay kiosk
All in the lightsome robe of summer drest,
We note the statelier grandeur of the mosque,
Where ragged fakirs shame the Mufti's vest;
Though as the solar beams sank down the west,
Have canting Imaums with sly reverence met
The effulgencies that fired the Bairam-feast,
Hail'd them as hallow'd suns no more to set,
And pour'd their floods of sound from galleried minaret:
All in the lightsome robe of summer drest,
We note the statelier grandeur of the mosque,
Where ragged fakirs shame the Mufti's vest;
Though as the solar beams sank down the west,
Have canting Imaums with sly reverence met
The effulgencies that fired the Bairam-feast,
Hail'd them as hallow'd suns no more to set,
And pour'd their floods of sound from galleried minaret:
110
“Avaunt!—ye minions of a throne; avaunt,
Ye despots, that rejoice in sabred heads!
The Pacha's menaces, the Santon's rant,
Far hence!—Nor here where Truth her radiance sheds,
Nor here where innocence with honour weds,
Shall the dark Othman riot all unchaste!
Ye dissolute eunuchs! guard far other beds!
With bridal smiles I see this palace graced!
I see the exalted pair embracing and embraced!”
Ye despots, that rejoice in sabred heads!
The Pacha's menaces, the Santon's rant,
Far hence!—Nor here where Truth her radiance sheds,
Nor here where innocence with honour weds,
Shall the dark Othman riot all unchaste!
Ye dissolute eunuchs! guard far other beds!
With bridal smiles I see this palace graced!
I see the exalted pair embracing and embraced!”
“Think not (he cried) I fear. I have unsheathed
The flaming sword of Cæsar! Nor hath rust
Sullied its splendour. Lo! to me bequeath'd
A crown I prize, to Rome and Valour just:
Yet, as the fen-born vapour is discuss'd
By the warm sun, the shadowy thing should flee
Before a brighter crown—a nobler trust!
Great, Cæsar was; and great may Cæsar be!
—The Christian stands or falls! alike 'tis victory!
The flaming sword of Cæsar! Nor hath rust
Sullied its splendour. Lo! to me bequeath'd
A crown I prize, to Rome and Valour just:
Yet, as the fen-born vapour is discuss'd
By the warm sun, the shadowy thing should flee
Before a brighter crown—a nobler trust!
Great, Cæsar was; and great may Cæsar be!
—The Christian stands or falls! alike 'tis victory!
“The hour of trial surely comes. How nigh
We know not; nor the assault how sagely plann'd.
The breath of rumour is, perchance, a lie.
With matchless warriors are our rampires mann'd.
Warriors, that to their unblench'd eagle, stand
Firm-rooted But erelong, while evening lends
Its light serene, we breathe, my little band!
A prayer to him, who death or triumph sends:
St. Sophia shall behold my soldiers, Christian friends.
We know not; nor the assault how sagely plann'd.
The breath of rumour is, perchance, a lie.
With matchless warriors are our rampires mann'd.
Warriors, that to their unblench'd eagle, stand
Firm-rooted But erelong, while evening lends
Its light serene, we breathe, my little band!
A prayer to him, who death or triumph sends:
St. Sophia shall behold my soldiers, Christian friends.
'Twas thus ‘his little band’ the Chief address'd;
When, as the rose without its freshness fair,
The valorous Phranza's daughter seiz'd his vest,
Low bending. Wonder, terror mark'd her there!
Her veil thrown backwards, and her chesnut hair
Burst from its silken tie. She thrice essay'd
To speak. By anguish torn, that well might tear
The hardiest, her half-utter'd words betray'd
To sympathy, to grief, the poor disorder'd maid.
When, as the rose without its freshness fair,
The valorous Phranza's daughter seiz'd his vest,
Low bending. Wonder, terror mark'd her there!
Her veil thrown backwards, and her chesnut hair
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To speak. By anguish torn, that well might tear
The hardiest, her half-utter'd words betray'd
To sympathy, to grief, the poor disorder'd maid.
“Hear me, my sovereign! hear. No rumour sprung
From error or affright, be mine to spread.
The boy Abdalla from that Othman's tongue
Caught these sure words—‘In secret’ thus he said—
(A roof of pearl pavilioning his head)—
‘With the first dawn steal on! targe close to targe!
The Georgians in the van! Their heaps of dead
Shall fill the trenches to the rampire's marge!
Then mount the corpses—mount, impetuous to the charge.’
From error or affright, be mine to spread.
The boy Abdalla from that Othman's tongue
Caught these sure words—‘In secret’ thus he said—
(A roof of pearl pavilioning his head)—
‘With the first dawn steal on! targe close to targe!
The Georgians in the van! Their heaps of dead
Shall fill the trenches to the rampire's marge!
Then mount the corpses—mount, impetuous to the charge.’
“To generous Theon by some charm attach'd,
(To save that Prince how weak was many a shield)
The boy Abdalla the meet moment watch'd,
And stole a signet to which nations kneel'd,
With the unchain'd prisoner cross'd the tented field,
And by the darkness, by disguise conceal'd,
“Still mock'd the vain pursuit.”—The blush that dyed
Her face, the quivering voice her flame reveal'd!
“Seek, seek, if not too late!”—the virgin cried,
Tears on that burning blush fast as they dropp'd were dried.
(To save that Prince how weak was many a shield)
The boy Abdalla the meet moment watch'd,
And stole a signet to which nations kneel'd,
With the unchain'd prisoner cross'd the tented field,
And by the darkness, by disguise conceal'd,
“Still mock'd the vain pursuit.”—The blush that dyed
Her face, the quivering voice her flame reveal'd!
“Seek, seek, if not too late!”—the virgin cried,
Tears on that burning blush fast as they dropp'd were dried.
Hurried away, her wild glance to the walls
Calirrhoe, all involuntary threw:
Ah! what beyond the bastion, what appals?
O say, if there be heart to passion true,
Is not to her the tenderest pity due?
High on the Moslem-tower those locks that reek—
Stiffening in gore their hyacinthine hue!
The sun-fire fierce upon the blackened cheek!
She saw, and did not swoon—She saw, and did not shriek!
Calirrhoe, all involuntary threw:
Ah! what beyond the bastion, what appals?
O say, if there be heart to passion true,
Is not to her the tenderest pity due?
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Stiffening in gore their hyacinthine hue!
The sun-fire fierce upon the blackened cheek!
She saw, and did not swoon—She saw, and did not shriek!
For this (which a friend calls a most happy) transition from Athens to Byzantium, I am indebted to a real event in history. Some adventurers from Athens or Attica built the city of Byzaatium more than 600 years before Christ.
The army of Amurath, invading Greece in 1445, had orders to destroy all the Greek monuments on their way. —See Knowles's History of the Turks.
The army of Amurath, invading Greece in 1445, had orders to destroy all the Greek monuments on their way. —See Knowles's History of the Turks.
“Phranza still hoped to bring to a successful issue his negotiations for the bride,” &c. —See Gibbon, xii. 172, 173.
A favourite boy of a sultan stealing the royal signet, is no improbable fiction. I think a similar incident occurs in the history of the Turks.
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Procession to St. Sophia—Description of the Temple —Prostration before the Altar.
The expanding portals of the Palace creak;
And ‘the small ministering band’ come silent, slow
As on the sight the imperial banners break,
Friends, that had walk'd in God's own house, they go
Circling their sire: yet not the sable show,
The minute-march of death was theirs! The mood
Of patient virtue brooks not measured woe!
In those calm features no misgivings brood,
But resignation blends with manly fortitude.
And ‘the small ministering band’ come silent, slow
As on the sight the imperial banners break,
Friends, that had walk'd in God's own house, they go
Circling their sire: yet not the sable show,
The minute-march of death was theirs! The mood
Of patient virtue brooks not measured woe!
In those calm features no misgivings brood,
But resignation blends with manly fortitude.
Yet, Queen of Cities, yet thy marble fanes,
Thine ivory palaces, alas! they mourn
As to the imaginings of fear, their vanes—
Their pinnacles each seems a funeral urn!
Thy streets—some spectre, sure, at every turn
Hath scared them into stillness! But that haze—
'Tis the soft evening-mist of Maia born—
The dewy wreath which glistening to the gaze,
With amber is now rich, and now with rosy rays.
Thine ivory palaces, alas! they mourn
As to the imaginings of fear, their vanes—
Their pinnacles each seems a funeral urn!
Thy streets—some spectre, sure, at every turn
Hath scared them into stillness! But that haze—
'Tis the soft evening-mist of Maia born—
The dewy wreath which glistening to the gaze,
With amber is now rich, and now with rosy rays.
The damsel look'd out from her window, lone,
In grief, and sigh'd. 'Twas not Calirrhoe's sigh!
And (as the lattice here to Hesper shone)
Amongst a woe-worn groupe, might you descry
In asking innocence the troubled eye.
To ‘the great porch’ ‘the ministering band’ advance:
And on the Patriarch's gray beard, fitfully,
The crescent-noon flung quick like lightning, glance
On glance! Foreboding shades pass'd o'er each countenance!
In grief, and sigh'd. 'Twas not Calirrhoe's sigh!
And (as the lattice here to Hesper shone)
Amongst a woe-worn groupe, might you descry
In asking innocence the troubled eye.
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And on the Patriarch's gray beard, fitfully,
The crescent-noon flung quick like lightning, glance
On glance! Foreboding shades pass'd o'er each countenance!
Alas! but erst how dazzling was the pomp!
From Galata to Pera, thrill'd the sound
Of dulcimer and tabret, harp and trump!
And each obsequious forehead grazed the ground;
From pawing barbs, the prancings and the bound,
The crowd flew backward, as the shadow fleets,
Whirl'd with the rack of Heaven! And brandish'd round
Flash'd falchions, helmets blazed! The garnish'd streets
From censers of pure gold effused Arabia's sweets.
From Galata to Pera, thrill'd the sound
Of dulcimer and tabret, harp and trump!
And each obsequious forehead grazed the ground;
From pawing barbs, the prancings and the bound,
The crowd flew backward, as the shadow fleets,
Whirl'd with the rack of Heaven! And brandish'd round
Flash'd falchions, helmets blazed! The garnish'd streets
From censers of pure gold effused Arabia's sweets.
From all the embellish'd lattices, were flowers
Of every tincture, every smell, rain'd down
(As young-ey'd maidens laugh'd) in gentle showers!
The gilt balcony had the victor's crown,
And was with costliest hangings, silken-brown
Or silvery white, in gay assemblage hung:
And the priest's purple, and the sable gown
In low obeisance bow'd. The sons of song
Their prince and patriarch hail'd, and the high galleries rung.
Of every tincture, every smell, rain'd down
(As young-ey'd maidens laugh'd) in gentle showers!
The gilt balcony had the victor's crown,
And was with costliest hangings, silken-brown
Or silvery white, in gay assemblage hung:
And the priest's purple, and the sable gown
In low obeisance bow'd. The sons of song
Their prince and patriarch hail'd, and the high galleries rung.
But hark!—upon the waves of air, it bore
Its burden, “swinging-slow”! St. Sophia's bell
Heavily knolling—“its long sullen roar”
Reverberates, loud and lingering! Now it fell,
As if from overhead with stunning swell!
Now more subdued, a melancholy tone
Speaks as of parted visions! 'Tis the knell
Of other times, of generations gone!
'Tis past—for aye 'tis past—a deep heart-rending moan.
Its burden, “swinging-slow”! St. Sophia's bell
Heavily knolling—“its long sullen roar”
Reverberates, loud and lingering! Now it fell,
As if from overhead with stunning swell!
Now more subdued, a melancholy tone
Speaks as of parted visions! 'Tis the knell
Of other times, of generations gone!
'Tis past—for aye 'tis past—a deep heart-rending moan.
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Yes! 'twas a deep moan—past, for ever past!
And yet a floating murmur seems to meet
The sense. 'Tis like a warble o'er the waste,
The gurgling as of distant waters—sweet
In dying cadence! Shall the Christian greet
The warning sound so pleasant to the ear,
No more? How many an age have bosoms beat
In holy transport, whilst assembled here
These courts the pious trod—to saints and martyrs dear!
And yet a floating murmur seems to meet
The sense. 'Tis like a warble o'er the waste,
The gurgling as of distant waters—sweet
In dying cadence! Shall the Christian greet
The warning sound so pleasant to the ear,
No more? How many an age have bosoms beat
In holy transport, whilst assembled here
These courts the pious trod—to saints and martyrs dear!
O bathed in purest Heaven, as if the pledge
Of grace to man! empyreal dome, thy base
Pillar'd above the clouds!—shall sacrilege
Break up the pavement of thy holy place,
Thy sculptured thrones, thy pictured saints deface,
And from thy sick lamps dash the hallow'd oil—
Snatch from thy fretted altars, snatch the vase,
And with the phrenetic Omar's rites defile
The sanctuary of God, where rests the Virgin's smile?
Of grace to man! empyreal dome, thy base
Pillar'd above the clouds!—shall sacrilege
Break up the pavement of thy holy place,
Thy sculptured thrones, thy pictured saints deface,
And from thy sick lamps dash the hallow'd oil—
Snatch from thy fretted altars, snatch the vase,
And with the phrenetic Omar's rites defile
The sanctuary of God, where rests the Virgin's smile?
Hear, hear the Bosphorus all its echoes rouse!
For thee sweats Afric 'midst her swarthy toil;
And to thy marble-grandeur Asia bows.
Thy starry porphyry sparkled down the Nile:
And to support thy venerable pile
Laconia triumphs in her emerald stores.
Lo! stretch'd beyond the ken thine awful aisle,
Thy hundred columns, and thy jasper floors,
And lifted up on high thy everlasting doors!
For thee sweats Afric 'midst her swarthy toil;
And to thy marble-grandeur Asia bows.
Thy starry porphyry sparkled down the Nile:
And to support thy venerable pile
Laconia triumphs in her emerald stores.
Lo! stretch'd beyond the ken thine awful aisle,
Thy hundred columns, and thy jasper floors,
And lifted up on high thy everlasting doors!
Ah! now their gilding and their colours lost,
Scarce were the columns visible, all black
In night—all—save a pillar that was cross'd
By the cold moonbeam. 'Twas a mournful streak:
On the nave-floor it slumbered like a flake
Of snow. Upon the chancel-balustrade
There was a planet's glow-worm lustre weak;
And from a solitary taper, ray'd
A ray too faint to pierce the vast cathedral shade.
Scarce were the columns visible, all black
In night—all—save a pillar that was cross'd
By the cold moonbeam. 'Twas a mournful streak:
On the nave-floor it slumbered like a flake
Of snow. Upon the chancel-balustrade
There was a planet's glow-worm lustre weak;
And from a solitary taper, ray'd
A ray too faint to pierce the vast cathedral shade.
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To suit that moment's humble mood, was dim
And hush'd the temple-scene. The fiery bronze
Erst kindled on each column! Loud the hymn
Did from a thousand voices swell at once
Its raptures, and a thousand gems ensconce
The burning brilliance! Now to every tread
Is mutter'd a scarce audible response;
And a sepulchral gleaminess is shed
O'er every form and face through shadows dusky-red.
And hush'd the temple-scene. The fiery bronze
Erst kindled on each column! Loud the hymn
Did from a thousand voices swell at once
Its raptures, and a thousand gems ensconce
The burning brilliance! Now to every tread
Is mutter'd a scarce audible response;
And a sepulchral gleaminess is shed
O'er every form and face through shadows dusky-red.
To the lone taper beam'd an altar-vase;—
All else in pallid indistinctness gloom'd
To the strain'd eye interminable space:
What whilom was through all its length illum'd,
A line of lessening columns was entomb'd
In masses dense and shapeless. Not alone
In faith (though to a few weak followers doom'd)
Did Constantine his prayers to God make known:
A tear he could not check—it glisten'd, and was gone.
All else in pallid indistinctness gloom'd
To the strain'd eye interminable space:
What whilom was through all its length illum'd,
A line of lessening columns was entomb'd
In masses dense and shapeless. Not alone
In faith (though to a few weak followers doom'd)
Did Constantine his prayers to God make known:
A tear he could not check—it glisten'd, and was gone.
Is there a sight among the sons of men—
A spectacle to move a holier sigh,
Than human greatness midst the trying scene
Of sorrow, at thy footstool, O Most High—
Prostrate before the eternal Majesty?
Perchance archangels might have joy'd to hail
A prince, the first beneath heaven's canopy
Humbled before his God—a reptile frail—
Covering with sackcloth coarse the soldier's polish'd mail.
A spectacle to move a holier sigh,
Than human greatness midst the trying scene
Of sorrow, at thy footstool, O Most High—
Prostrate before the eternal Majesty?
Perchance archangels might have joy'd to hail
A prince, the first beneath heaven's canopy
Humbled before his God—a reptile frail—
Covering with sackcloth coarse the soldier's polish'd mail.
“O thou, in whom the spirits of the just
Rejoice! O pardon me, Almighty Lord,
Whose buckler shields me—in whose strength I trust!
If I had injured, or in deed or word,
The lowliest fed with crumbs beneath my board,
I ask'd forgiveness! Lo, thy blessed Son
In his dread chalice have my lips adored!
And if my race of life, if I have run—
If quiver my last sand—O God! thy will be done!
Rejoice! O pardon me, Almighty Lord,
Whose buckler shields me—in whose strength I trust!
If I had injured, or in deed or word,
The lowliest fed with crumbs beneath my board,
116
In his dread chalice have my lips adored!
And if my race of life, if I have run—
If quiver my last sand—O God! thy will be done!
“But to my suffering children—though bereft
Of earthly sire, a Father mayst thou be!
Have mercy on the remnant that is left!
And though to other cities—though they flee,
Or wander midst the islands of the sea,
The cruel enemy, the avenger still!
Yet, if thy judgments here fall heavily,
Thy law if famine or the sword fulfil,
Silent, I dare not search the mysteries of thy will!”
Of earthly sire, a Father mayst thou be!
Have mercy on the remnant that is left!
And though to other cities—though they flee,
Or wander midst the islands of the sea,
The cruel enemy, the avenger still!
Yet, if thy judgments here fall heavily,
Thy law if famine or the sword fulfil,
Silent, I dare not search the mysteries of thy will!”
“And thou!” (the archpriest cried) “whose constant love
For ages hath commission'd seraphim
And cherubim descending from above,
To guard thy church from robbers that blaspheme
(Scaled in their dragon-scales) thy holy name;
Who, in thy city, for a thousand years,
Hast bid thy frankincense of mercy flame
To patriarchs and to saints, O hear our prayers,
And listen to our plaints, and look upon our tears!
For ages hath commission'd seraphim
And cherubim descending from above,
To guard thy church from robbers that blaspheme
(Scaled in their dragon-scales) thy holy name;
Who, in thy city, for a thousand years,
Hast bid thy frankincense of mercy flame
To patriarchs and to saints, O hear our prayers,
And listen to our plaints, and look upon our tears!
“Hear from thy blessed altar, Lord of Hosts!
Hear from the courts so oft these feet have trod,
Thine imprecating enemy that boasts
A language to defy ‘the living God;’
That ruthless devastation spreads abroad,
Polluting each hoar fabric ere it fall—
Now thirsting to profane this pure abode!
Accept my vows—regard thy suppliant's call,
Thou, thou, the Great Supreme, who reignest over all.
Hear from the courts so oft these feet have trod,
Thine imprecating enemy that boasts
A language to defy ‘the living God;’
That ruthless devastation spreads abroad,
Polluting each hoar fabric ere it fall—
Now thirsting to profane this pure abode!
Accept my vows—regard thy suppliant's call,
Thou, thou, the Great Supreme, who reignest over all.
117
“E'en as the chaff before the wind, thine ire
Shall scatter them—the foes that circumvent
Thy race,—like stubble to consuming fire:
Root up their standard; smite the Moslem-tent,
And rend it, as a vesture that is rent!
So, whilst our trust is in the King of kings,
Thy banners shall we hail our battlement:
So, as thy favour sure salvation brings,
Shall peace repose beneath the shadow of thy wings.”
Shall scatter them—the foes that circumvent
Thy race,—like stubble to consuming fire:
Root up their standard; smite the Moslem-tent,
And rend it, as a vesture that is rent!
So, whilst our trust is in the King of kings,
Thy banners shall we hail our battlement:
So, as thy favour sure salvation brings,
Shall peace repose beneath the shadow of thy wings.”
Scarce had the Patriarch ceased, when from beneath,
A sound as of the wretched seem'd to come,
'Twas like the gnashing of a captive's teeth:
And the tall taper, like the blue simoom,
Wax'd pale, enough to seal Byzantium's doom!
Signs that, inspiring superstitious fear,
Flung o'er credulity a lurid gloom,
Sent e'en the valiant to the boding seer,
Enfeebled many an arm, and blunted many a spear.
A sound as of the wretched seem'd to come,
'Twas like the gnashing of a captive's teeth:
And the tall taper, like the blue simoom,
Wax'd pale, enough to seal Byzantium's doom!
Signs that, inspiring superstitious fear,
Flung o'er credulity a lurid gloom,
Sent e'en the valiant to the boding seer,
Enfeebled many an arm, and blunted many a spear.
In 1452, the Greeks escaped in great numbers to Mitylene, and dispersed themselves in the Morea. When all was lost, Leonardus Chiensis fled too; a priest and a companion of Paleologus, whose account of the siege is very interesting.
CANTO THE FIFTH.
Far other was a low-arch'd length of room
All in a sweltering street, obscure and dun,
Where a small cresset redden'd through the gloom,
And signs and rites unholy saw no sun.
Yet in this nook were battles lost and won,
Its startling tale as conjuration told;
Yet deeds of horror might the stoutest stun,
As sinful souls were to the assassin sold,
And honour, truth and peace, confess'd the power of gold.
All in a sweltering street, obscure and dun,
Where a small cresset redden'd through the gloom,
And signs and rites unholy saw no sun.
Yet in this nook were battles lost and won,
Its startling tale as conjuration told;
Yet deeds of horror might the stoutest stun,
As sinful souls were to the assassin sold,
And honour, truth and peace, confess'd the power of gold.
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With curtains as of vapour hung, a gleam
Asphaltic, shewed—and only served to shew,—
How sombrous was the haunt of stratagem,
And twinkled ghastlier on a tawny brow;
As if some fiend aim'd from the moon to throw
A livid sparkle—half-eclips'd her disk!
And from deep sockets fill'd with fire, the glow
(Which e'en to meet a moment, were to risk
Perhaps a mortal stroke) was like the basilisk!
Asphaltic, shewed—and only served to shew,—
How sombrous was the haunt of stratagem,
And twinkled ghastlier on a tawny brow;
As if some fiend aim'd from the moon to throw
A livid sparkle—half-eclips'd her disk!
And from deep sockets fill'd with fire, the glow
(Which e'en to meet a moment, were to risk
Perhaps a mortal stroke) was like the basilisk!
Such was the announcer of man's dole or doom,
Born where the Siroc with young pleasure wars
Waving o'er Yemen's sweets the poison'd plume.
His azure mantle spangled o'er with stars,
'Twas his to open tracts where heaven debars
Access. And scorn, half-smother'd up by guile,
Scoff'd at the fever'd flight of human fears;
And on his wan lip, darken'd o'er the while
From ruthless eyebrows, lurk'd the malice of a smile.
Born where the Siroc with young pleasure wars
Waving o'er Yemen's sweets the poison'd plume.
His azure mantle spangled o'er with stars,
'Twas his to open tracts where heaven debars
Access. And scorn, half-smother'd up by guile,
Scoff'd at the fever'd flight of human fears;
And on his wan lip, darken'd o'er the while
From ruthless eyebrows, lurk'd the malice of a smile.
'Twas he, who to the impetuous Sultan's youth,
Unravelling oft his planetary lore,
Traced (flaming as the characters of truth)
Trophies so reap'd in vision long before,
And sped the vollied rage from shore to shore;
Till now, to finish what the Fates decreed,
Perdition's bolts to Istambol he bore,
And in his cell presaged the murderous deed,
And stamping all as done, spread out the attractive meed.
Unravelling oft his planetary lore,
Traced (flaming as the characters of truth)
Trophies so reap'd in vision long before,
And sped the vollied rage from shore to shore;
Till now, to finish what the Fates decreed,
Perdition's bolts to Istambol he bore,
And in his cell presaged the murderous deed,
And stamping all as done, spread out the attractive meed.
Before an ebon board the old Arab
stood,
His eyes on some far object fixing fast,
And with a start to arrest the circling blood,
Recoil'd, and straight some viewless form embrac'd:
When turning from a craven throng, he cast
A look of shrewd intelligence on one,
A treachor, who himself in plots surpass'd,
And mumbled mystic words in mystic tone
To a stern chief who wav'd a sable gonfalon.
His eyes on some far object fixing fast,
And with a start to arrest the circling blood,
Recoil'd, and straight some viewless form embrac'd:
When turning from a craven throng, he cast
119
A treachor, who himself in plots surpass'd,
And mumbled mystic words in mystic tone
To a stern chief who wav'd a sable gonfalon.
With short quick breath, as if Alp over Alp
He climb'd, the treachor grin exchanged for grin.
Base were his figure, features—base his scalp,
And toadlike venom swell'd his yellow skin;
And sneaking was he prompt for secret sin.
The other, once a courtier, curs'd the court,
As, in his aims repuls'd, on Constantine
The imagined wrong he thirsted to retort—
And bitter was his spleen, imperious was his port.
He climb'd, the treachor grin exchanged for grin.
Base were his figure, features—base his scalp,
And toadlike venom swell'd his yellow skin;
And sneaking was he prompt for secret sin.
The other, once a courtier, curs'd the court,
As, in his aims repuls'd, on Constantine
The imagined wrong he thirsted to retort—
And bitter was his spleen, imperious was his port.
The throng, retreating from Alashtar's rod
Saw, in each curve, a wondrous power display'd:
'Twas thus the Memphian worshipp'd his horn'd God
By hideous tales and miracles dismay'd.
Yet oft a dastard look their doubts betray'd,
When (cried he)—“Visions in long order break
Upon me!—at my feet that eagle laid;
Ruffled his plumes—his flagging wing how weak;
Extinguish'd his dread eye, and pale his bloodless beak.
Saw, in each curve, a wondrous power display'd:
'Twas thus the Memphian worshipp'd his horn'd God
By hideous tales and miracles dismay'd.
Yet oft a dastard look their doubts betray'd,
When (cried he)—“Visions in long order break
Upon me!—at my feet that eagle laid;
Ruffled his plumes—his flagging wing how weak;
Extinguish'd his dread eye, and pale his bloodless beak.
“Beneath that banner nursing dream on dream,
All in church-panoply though saints enlist;
Say, shall the Virgin of Jerusalem
Protect the puling layman or the priest?
Their altar, though the violet amethyst,
Or topaz bright in yellow beams, adorns;
Shall violet stones or vows their cause assist?
Their jewels and their vows the Prophet scorns!
In vain they crowd the shrine—in vain they grasp its horns!
All in church-panoply though saints enlist;
Say, shall the Virgin of Jerusalem
Protect the puling layman or the priest?
Their altar, though the violet amethyst,
Or topaz bright in yellow beams, adorns;
Shall violet stones or vows their cause assist?
Their jewels and their vows the Prophet scorns!
In vain they crowd the shrine—in vain they grasp its horns!
120
Some are there, whom the red-cross zeal hath swell'd
To heroes—others, with court favours drunk!
But soon their spirits, or by earth impell'd
Or heaven, shall pass away—a headless trunk
Each body! Sinking—with the city sunk,
Ere one shall re-assert his heritage,
The warrior shall wax wanton in the monk,
The sluggard prelate in the soldier rage,
And hermits hail bazars, and sceptre grace the sage.
To heroes—others, with court favours drunk!
But soon their spirits, or by earth impell'd
Or heaven, shall pass away—a headless trunk
Each body! Sinking—with the city sunk,
Ere one shall re-assert his heritage,
The warrior shall wax wanton in the monk,
The sluggard prelate in the soldier rage,
And hermits hail bazars, and sceptre grace the sage.
“Emblem of patience, the meek Nazarene
May mete out time in penitential shrift,
Whilst on his quiet countenance are seen
Pardon and Peace! Our bloodhot blades we lift—
In gasps no sparing, and in groans no thrift,
After the last groan, peace—if death be such!
From stage to stage of dying may ye shift—
The fiery thirst, the ice with instant touch
That curdles up the heart, and Azrael's ireful clutch!”
May mete out time in penitential shrift,
Whilst on his quiet countenance are seen
Pardon and Peace! Our bloodhot blades we lift—
In gasps no sparing, and in groans no thrift,
After the last groan, peace—if death be such!
From stage to stage of dying may ye shift—
The fiery thirst, the ice with instant touch
That curdles up the heart, and Azrael's ireful clutch!”
Ere twice ten hours—Calirrhoe, unabash'd
Ran through the severing audience—yet with stem
Half-snapp'd, a lily by the winter wash'd!
“Alashtar! to whose power compared, we deem
Of mean account Golconda's choicest gem,
Theon's poor relics may thy pity save!
Obeisant do I kiss thy garment's hem!
O snatch from dire pollution—snatch the brave!
Alas! I ask not life—I only ask a grave!
Ran through the severing audience—yet with stem
Half-snapp'd, a lily by the winter wash'd!
“Alashtar! to whose power compared, we deem
Of mean account Golconda's choicest gem,
Theon's poor relics may thy pity save!
Obeisant do I kiss thy garment's hem!
O snatch from dire pollution—snatch the brave!
Alas! I ask not life—I only ask a grave!
“Upon the brink of desperation's gulf
Tottering, I turn me to my last resource!
From the fell raven—from the mangling wolf,
O rescue—rescue that uncoffin'd corse!
May the keen anguish of thy suppliant, force
A way into thine heart—that I may lie
Pillow'd on his pale turf—(in murmurs hoarse
The cold winds chaunting his drear lullaby)
And with expiring flowers breathe out my latest sigh!”
Tottering, I turn me to my last resource!
From the fell raven—from the mangling wolf,
O rescue—rescue that uncoffin'd corse!
May the keen anguish of thy suppliant, force
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Pillow'd on his pale turf—(in murmurs hoarse
The cold winds chaunting his drear lullaby)
And with expiring flowers breathe out my latest sigh!”
“Yes!—Can the Sultan tears like thine resist?
Go—he will give thee all thy prayers can ask—
But not the dead Greek's withering turf, I wist!
Go—in the sun of royal favour bask.
Sure, thou hast charms to spare the conjurer's task!——
Charms to which sovereigns of the earth may crouch!
And shall pretence of sorrow pleasure mask,
And such affection for a grave avouch?
Thy lord, luxurious girl, provides a softer couch!
Go—he will give thee all thy prayers can ask—
But not the dead Greek's withering turf, I wist!
Go—in the sun of royal favour bask.
Sure, thou hast charms to spare the conjurer's task!——
Charms to which sovereigns of the earth may crouch!
And shall pretence of sorrow pleasure mask,
And such affection for a grave avouch?
Thy lord, luxurious girl, provides a softer couch!
“Those eyes that wander through their silky fringe
In timid fawnlike wildness—(with fleet light
So have I seen the moon her halo tinge)
And like the blanch'd egg which the sands from sight
Half-hide, that bosom's palpitating white—
Tresses, like dates that cluster in the shade
Of their own palms—O say, could thrones requite
One smile amid such beauties (slily said
The sorcerer) one coy glance from so divine a maid?
In timid fawnlike wildness—(with fleet light
So have I seen the moon her halo tinge)
And like the blanch'd egg which the sands from sight
Half-hide, that bosom's palpitating white—
Tresses, like dates that cluster in the shade
Of their own palms—O say, could thrones requite
One smile amid such beauties (slily said
The sorcerer) one coy glance from so divine a maid?
“Yet I will aid thee. Shew his last left track—
Tell me, where last his accents to thine ear
Made music; and my art shall conjure back
Thy lover's corse! And sweet upon his bier
Shall drop the living balsam of thy tear!”
The maiden look'd affiance through her woe,
Too credulous, nor mark'd Alashtar's leer;
Ah! little heeding, that she dealt a blow
To hasten Cæsar's doom, and lay Byzantium low!
Tell me, where last his accents to thine ear
Made music; and my art shall conjure back
Thy lover's corse! And sweet upon his bier
Shall drop the living balsam of thy tear!”
The maiden look'd affiance through her woe,
Too credulous, nor mark'd Alashtar's leer;
Ah! little heeding, that she dealt a blow
To hasten Cæsar's doom, and lay Byzantium low!
The similarity of this description with the following passage is remarkable.—“His cheeks were pale and livid.—The eyes gave the look of a demon to the whole—their brilliancy almost superhuman—they shone through the shade of an overhanging brow like torches within a cavern. There was a scowl on the brow, and a smile on the lip—a smile denoting contempt,” &c. —See Morier's Ayesha, vol. II. pp. 80–86, just published. This poem was written many years ago: and not a word of the stanzas in question have been altered.
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CANTO THE SIXTH.
The Fall of Constantinople represented in vision to Constantine, and the Restoration of the City and of all Greece to the Christians.
“O Massacre! thy work the demon Islam speeds!
White all the plain, with Islam turbans white!
The foam see scattering from a thousand steeds!”
The cry was from illusion or affright:
The alarmist Fancy had deceiv'd the sight;
To terror's ear the hostile bucklers ring,
And summon up the phantoms of the night,
As to the mother's breast scared infants cling,
And rustles to the wife the wild-eyed vulture's wing.
White all the plain, with Islam turbans white!
The foam see scattering from a thousand steeds!”
The cry was from illusion or affright:
The alarmist Fancy had deceiv'd the sight;
To terror's ear the hostile bucklers ring,
And summon up the phantoms of the night,
As to the mother's breast scared infants cling,
And rustles to the wife the wild-eyed vulture's wing.
Their Cæsar's will the impatient Greeks await,
The close battalion and the prancing troop,
Their long spears bristling at the palace-gate;
The presence of the Prince, their surest prop;
The awakening watchword—“In yon cross our hope!”
And priests and matrons had the portals pass'd;
And midst the imperial Court a various groupe
Their glances to the high balcony cast,
And, as life's flitting breath, each trembling shadow chased.
The close battalion and the prancing troop,
Their long spears bristling at the palace-gate;
The presence of the Prince, their surest prop;
The awakening watchword—“In yon cross our hope!”
And priests and matrons had the portals pass'd;
And midst the imperial Court a various groupe
Their glances to the high balcony cast,
And, as life's flitting breath, each trembling shadow chased.
Ah! what a spectacle! the mute amaze;
The dubious look; the half-confiding air
Of stripling feebleness; the haggard gaze
As from a frenzied soul; the stony stare;
The arrested step; the statue of despair;
The laugh delirious, and the sudden start;
And, flinging self aside, compassion's care;
And the cold tremour creeping to the heart,
Whilst meeting eyes would say: “We part, for ever part!”
The dubious look; the half-confiding air
Of stripling feebleness; the haggard gaze
As from a frenzied soul; the stony stare;
The arrested step; the statue of despair;
The laugh delirious, and the sudden start;
And, flinging self aside, compassion's care;
And the cold tremour creeping to the heart,
Whilst meeting eyes would say: “We part, for ever part!”
123
Their chief some moments to unruffled thought
(Now that St. Sophia to the menaced blow
Had reconciled his spirit) would fain devote.
Yet for the fight his charger neigh'd below,
Caparison'd and sleek and like the snow,
High Safad: Nor Arabia boasts a fire
More fierce—a mane of more exuberant flow:
But Heaven's own lightnings perish in their ire,
And in their loftiest flights the intrepid oft expire.
(Now that St. Sophia to the menaced blow
Had reconciled his spirit) would fain devote.
Yet for the fight his charger neigh'd below,
Caparison'd and sleek and like the snow,
High Safad: Nor Arabia boasts a fire
More fierce—a mane of more exuberant flow:
But Heaven's own lightnings perish in their ire,
And in their loftiest flights the intrepid oft expire.
Harrass'd by all the many-featured day
(Firm as he was) into the unconscious trance
He sinks. As powers invisible portray,
Before him, mimic fleets and armies dance;
Till now more clear, lance quivers after lance,
And whizzes many a visionary ball,
And turbans glimmer round, and corselets glance,
Till now distincter quakes the city-wall,
And breaches wider yawn, and smouldering fragments fall.
(Firm as he was) into the unconscious trance
He sinks. As powers invisible portray,
Before him, mimic fleets and armies dance;
Till now more clear, lance quivers after lance,
And whizzes many a visionary ball,
And turbans glimmer round, and corselets glance,
Till now distincter quakes the city-wall,
And breaches wider yawn, and smouldering fragments fall.
Dire was the conflict. Torrents from the foss,—
Blood-torrents from a struggling, shivering heap—
Ran from the slaughter'd Moslems! And across
Their corses, like the surges of the deep,
A Janissary band appear'd to sweep,
Flying before an Othman's darkling face!
He, mighty warrior! kenn'd the rampire steep;
And, as he seem'd to scorn the towers of Thrace,
Scowl'd on each feeble fort, and grasp'd his iron mace.
Blood-torrents from a struggling, shivering heap—
Ran from the slaughter'd Moslems! And across
Their corses, like the surges of the deep,
A Janissary band appear'd to sweep,
Flying before an Othman's darkling face!
He, mighty warrior! kenn'd the rampire steep;
And, as he seem'd to scorn the towers of Thrace,
Scowl'd on each feeble fort, and grasp'd his iron mace.
And then a swart gigantic figure seiz'd
A fractured parapet, and backwards fell—
(The sovereign's veins a chill of horror freezed)
And countless squadrons with a deafening yell
(For sound is heard where Fancy weaves her spell)
After the pause of one terrific halt,
Rush on, the vacillating Greeks repel,
And, (all as up the ascent the hot assault
They press) through sulphured chasms—o'er blazing bastions vault.
A fractured parapet, and backwards fell—
(The sovereign's veins a chill of horror freezed)
And countless squadrons with a deafening yell
(For sound is heard where Fancy weaves her spell)
124
Rush on, the vacillating Greeks repel,
And, (all as up the ascent the hot assault
They press) through sulphured chasms—o'er blazing bastions vault.
The fiercest sank; the haughtiest were unhelm'd;
The assailer and the assail'd promiscuous lay.
Slacken'd the turban-strength was half o'erwhelm'd,
When springing from the ‘subterraneous way,’
The gaunt Alashtar waked the battle-bray;
And fiends poured forth, as if her spawn of guilt
Earth's central caverns had cast up to day!
He stamps the blood of faith and valour spilt:
His fired eye-sockets glare, and drips his poniard-hilt.
The assailer and the assail'd promiscuous lay.
Slacken'd the turban-strength was half o'erwhelm'd,
When springing from the ‘subterraneous way,’
The gaunt Alashtar waked the battle-bray;
And fiends poured forth, as if her spawn of guilt
Earth's central caverns had cast up to day!
He stamps the blood of faith and valour spilt:
His fired eye-sockets glare, and drips his poniard-hilt.
Hard by a chief
in chalybs cased, opposed
The foe's irruption from a recent breach,
But fled in agony, ere round him closed
The assailants, writhing as if caldron-pitch
Flamed through his entrails. Plausible in speech
Oft had he rail'd at dastards, scoff'd and sneer'd,
Yet, like a stricken stag, he sought the beach;
And, though the Monarch's warning voice he heard,
Flew recreant from the walls, and shrieking disappear'd.
The foe's irruption from a recent breach,
But fled in agony, ere round him closed
The assailants, writhing as if caldron-pitch
Flamed through his entrails. Plausible in speech
Oft had he rail'd at dastards, scoff'd and sneer'd,
Yet, like a stricken stag, he sought the beach;
And, though the Monarch's warning voice he heard,
Flew recreant from the walls, and shrieking disappear'd.
And now a royal Greek, with hands outstretch'd,
His men essay'd to rally, left alone;
Now for a moment menaced; now beseech'd
The gathering troops with supplicating tone.
“O Safad!” cried the Sovereign, woe-begone!
Snorting, his lord through broken ranks he bore,
And staggering from a death-shot, heaved a groan!
The phantom king, dispurpled, smear'd with gore,
Forsaken, sank away—sank to be seen no more.
His men essay'd to rally, left alone;
Now for a moment menaced; now beseech'd
The gathering troops with supplicating tone.
“O Safad!” cried the Sovereign, woe-begone!
Snorting, his lord through broken ranks he bore,
And staggering from a death-shot, heaved a groan!
The phantom king, dispurpled, smear'd with gore,
Forsaken, sank away—sank to be seen no more.
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Then through razed streets, as floods foam over flax
Or shepherd-fold, the Moslems dash'd amain;
And the sword shiver'd, smoked the battle-axe,
Smok'd far and near, as glutted with the slain.
Then rose St. Sophia's violated fane;
And husbands, sires, and sons of every age,
And lovely damsels, link'd in one long chain,
And ermined nobles, and the prelate sage,
Down the broad aisle bewail'd the heartless vassalage.
Or shepherd-fold, the Moslems dash'd amain;
And the sword shiver'd, smoked the battle-axe,
Smok'd far and near, as glutted with the slain.
Then rose St. Sophia's violated fane;
And husbands, sires, and sons of every age,
And lovely damsels, link'd in one long chain,
And ermined nobles, and the prelate sage,
Down the broad aisle bewail'd the heartless vassalage.
Yet, though their ‘souls the iron enter'd,’ moans
From captive kings were not enough to sate
Barbaric vengeance. Stain'd the pavement-stones
E'en with the blood of sucklings,—early, late,
At midday, at midnight, could nought abate
The sabre-fury! Thrice the sun arose,
And setting saw the ruthless work of Fate!—
The dying shrieks that scared the evening-close,
Play'd round the Sultan's ear, and lull'd him to repose.
From captive kings were not enough to sate
Barbaric vengeance. Stain'd the pavement-stones
E'en with the blood of sucklings,—early, late,
At midday, at midnight, could nought abate
The sabre-fury! Thrice the sun arose,
And setting saw the ruthless work of Fate!—
The dying shrieks that scared the evening-close,
Play'd round the Sultan's ear, and lull'd him to repose.
Yes! from the city all the mingled cries
To the camp wasted, minister'd delight,
More soothing than the zephyr's gentlest sighs!
And startled by the desultory flight
Of birds that flew above in wild affright,
He rose, and strait his pillow wooed again,
And hail'd the sympathies of such a night!
The dogs, compassionating human pain,
In troops howl'd o'er the fields, and headlong sought the main!
To the camp wasted, minister'd delight,
More soothing than the zephyr's gentlest sighs!
And startled by the desultory flight
Of birds that flew above in wild affright,
He rose, and strait his pillow wooed again,
And hail'd the sympathies of such a night!
The dogs, compassionating human pain,
In troops howl'd o'er the fields, and headlong sought the main!
Then floated the wide palace full in view:—
But where the features of one faithful Greek?
The Hall of Audience had a charnel hue—
And a low sound, from wasting sorrow weak,
(Was it from lost Calirrhoe?) seem'd to break!
Methought, already had the spider hung,
(Safety in such a solitude to seek)
Its dark webs, the deserted walls along,
And in the desolate towers the owl her watchsong sung!
But where the features of one faithful Greek?
The Hall of Audience had a charnel hue—
And a low sound, from wasting sorrow weak,
(Was it from lost Calirrhoe?) seem'd to break!
Methought, already had the spider hung,
(Safety in such a solitude to seek)
Its dark webs, the deserted walls along,
And in the desolate towers the owl her watchsong sung!
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And hark! thro' hall and gallery, chamber, court,
A rush of trepidation!—Who is He?—
The proud plumes, as to kiss the turrets, sport
In air! And lo! he rides full royally!
The bearers of the armorial ensignry,
All horror-struck, unsteady in their tread,
Reel to and fro amidst a purple sea!
And is it not enough that seas are shed,
And conquest roots her flags in mountains of the dead?
A rush of trepidation!—Who is He?—
The proud plumes, as to kiss the turrets, sport
In air! And lo! he rides full royally!
The bearers of the armorial ensignry,
All horror-struck, unsteady in their tread,
Reel to and fro amidst a purple sea!
And is it not enough that seas are shed,
And conquest roots her flags in mountains of the dead?
Ah no! St. Sophia swims again to sight—
The sultan, in carousal, far within,
Here gives a young Greek to his fair one, bright
In maiden beauty, whilst her blushes win
From grisly Pashas round, the gaze, the grin!
Stabb'd—in an instant stabb'd, the victims fall!
The banquets end in blood, as they begin!
And couples are dragg'd forth, 'till over all,
E'en where the viands fume, is cast the trembling pall.
The sultan, in carousal, far within,
Here gives a young Greek to his fair one, bright
In maiden beauty, whilst her blushes win
From grisly Pashas round, the gaze, the grin!
Stabb'd—in an instant stabb'd, the victims fall!
The banquets end in blood, as they begin!
And couples are dragg'd forth, 'till over all,
E'en where the viands fume, is cast the trembling pall.
Then, in its torporific folding blank,
As Chaos did Oblivion wrapp the whole;
Till, after years had lapsed, a prospect dank
Dilated; like a spectre's sombre-stole,
A huge mass, with no animating soul!
The dense dull mist from off the tide of time,
The cloudy volume, that appear'd to roll,
Whilst thraldom quench'd the fire-clad thought sublime,
Disclosed a store of grief, disclosed a store of crime.
As Chaos did Oblivion wrapp the whole;
Till, after years had lapsed, a prospect dank
Dilated; like a spectre's sombre-stole,
A huge mass, with no animating soul!
The dense dull mist from off the tide of time,
The cloudy volume, that appear'd to roll,
Whilst thraldom quench'd the fire-clad thought sublime,
Disclosed a store of grief, disclosed a store of crime.
And Constantine now saw the scene expand
As into time and space shot rapid light!
Long ages were unlock'd at his command!
And Greece, from Hæmus beyond Taurus height—
All Greece—all Asia swam before his sight!
And emerald seas with sunny isles embost;
Here craggs from thunder molten; caverns white;
And spiry groves, and mountains glazed with frost;
And there receding cliffs, in purpled azure lost.
As into time and space shot rapid light!
Long ages were unlock'd at his command!
And Greece, from Hæmus beyond Taurus height—
All Greece—all Asia swam before his sight!
127
Here craggs from thunder molten; caverns white;
And spiry groves, and mountains glazed with frost;
And there receding cliffs, in purpled azure lost.
Far o'er the riches of the imperial realm,
Tho' meads and warbling woods with sweet accord
Breathed airs of dalliance; yet did slavery whelm
Its habitants with horrors of their lord!
In each soft scene though Pleasure had her hoard;
Yet, not so cheerless was the untravel'd waste,
Or torrent that whirl'd down the glenrock roar'd.
And say, where, where the monuments that graced
The sculptor's peerless art, the architect's pure taste?
Tho' meads and warbling woods with sweet accord
Breathed airs of dalliance; yet did slavery whelm
Its habitants with horrors of their lord!
In each soft scene though Pleasure had her hoard;
Yet, not so cheerless was the untravel'd waste,
Or torrent that whirl'd down the glenrock roar'd.
And say, where, where the monuments that graced
The sculptor's peerless art, the architect's pure taste?
Ah! marking tyranny's remorseless march,
Erst each fair work where Taste and Genius view'd
Each brilliant frieze, each finely-chisel'd arch,
Each statue (from the mass her artists hew'd)
Shaped into life—were all their glories strew'd
Around; and died away in every gale
Voices, that utter'd in desponding mood;—
“Fall'n Athens! shall not Marathon avail
To rouse thy drooping soul—to link the warrior-mail?”
Erst each fair work where Taste and Genius view'd
Each brilliant frieze, each finely-chisel'd arch,
Each statue (from the mass her artists hew'd)
Shaped into life—were all their glories strew'd
Around; and died away in every gale
Voices, that utter'd in desponding mood;—
“Fall'n Athens! shall not Marathon avail
To rouse thy drooping soul—to link the warrior-mail?”
Still though its blooms the silver olive spread,
Still flourishing beneath Minerva's towers;
Unfading though Hymettus rear'd his head,
Pouring wild fragrance from spontaneous bowers;
Though murmuring from his aromatic flowers
The honey-bee still bore the precious spoil;
Yet there, where lagg'd the despot's lurid hours,
Lethargic Plenty gleam'd a languid smile,
And eyed the suffering slave, and triumph'd in his toil.
Still flourishing beneath Minerva's towers;
Unfading though Hymettus rear'd his head,
Pouring wild fragrance from spontaneous bowers;
Though murmuring from his aromatic flowers
The honey-bee still bore the precious spoil;
Yet there, where lagg'd the despot's lurid hours,
Lethargic Plenty gleam'd a languid smile,
And eyed the suffering slave, and triumph'd in his toil.
128
Though some, where lorn Ilyssus ceas'd to glide,
The tribute of a sigh to Plato paid;
Though some still cherish'd the supernal pride
That screen'd from vulgar gaze Lyceum's shade,
And rov'd where once with Epicurus play'd
The blue-ey'd Pleasures and their melting queen;
Or bade the Porch their aspirations aid;—
How soon, to demons muttering, intervene
Murder and midnight lust and ignorance obscene.
The tribute of a sigh to Plato paid;
Though some still cherish'd the supernal pride
That screen'd from vulgar gaze Lyceum's shade,
And rov'd where once with Epicurus play'd
The blue-ey'd Pleasures and their melting queen;
Or bade the Porch their aspirations aid;—
How soon, to demons muttering, intervene
Murder and midnight lust and ignorance obscene.
But wider to the Sovereign's fancy spreads
His favourite terrace; cradling woods embrown
The bourne, and hills familiar lift their heads;
Where late (for others welfare, not his own)
With no bold grasp he spann'd the proffer'd crown.
Nigh Sparta's walls the Monarch seem'd to stray,
Picturing, Leonidas! thy rugged frown,
There, where Eurotas flash'd the indignant spray,
To blades before unknown, and urged her moaning way.
His favourite terrace; cradling woods embrown
The bourne, and hills familiar lift their heads;
Where late (for others welfare, not his own)
With no bold grasp he spann'd the proffer'd crown.
Nigh Sparta's walls the Monarch seem'd to stray,
Picturing, Leonidas! thy rugged frown,
There, where Eurotas flash'd the indignant spray,
To blades before unknown, and urged her moaning way.
What though Arcadia blush to every breeze,
And Mænalus weave the luxury of its shades,
As if old Pan beneath his noonday trees
Yet slumber'd; though Cyllene o'er the glades
Her oak-glooms deepen, where the choral maids
Hail'd the wing'd god of laughing Maia born?
Who now with rose-hues wreathes the bowl? Who braids
His sword with myrtles? Pipes to cheerful morn
The shepherd? Is not joy of all its sunbeams shorn?
And Mænalus weave the luxury of its shades,
As if old Pan beneath his noonday trees
Yet slumber'd; though Cyllene o'er the glades
Her oak-glooms deepen, where the choral maids
Hail'd the wing'd god of laughing Maia born?
Who now with rose-hues wreathes the bowl? Who braids
His sword with myrtles? Pipes to cheerful morn
The shepherd? Is not joy of all its sunbeams shorn?
Still in the genial Isles was nurs'd the fire,
The fire of enterprise, to illumine Greece;
Those ancient Isles, where fancy would inspire
Songs of palestral palms and letter'd peace,
And bid the sufferer's griefs a moment cease,
Still shadowing out her Hector and her Troy,
Her godlike Theseus, and her Golden Fleece—
A Hector every sire! and every boy
Blithe as Iulus tripp'd—all snatch'd ‘a fearful joy.’
The fire of enterprise, to illumine Greece;
Those ancient Isles, where fancy would inspire
Songs of palestral palms and letter'd peace,
And bid the sufferer's griefs a moment cease,
129
Her godlike Theseus, and her Golden Fleece—
A Hector every sire! and every boy
Blithe as Iulus tripp'd—all snatch'd ‘a fearful joy.’
O! if a new Anacreon seize the lyre,
Eliciting from every living string
The music of young Bacchus, and Desire,
To thrill the revellers with a rapturous sting,
Now ceasing to his neighbours of the ring
Resign the mastery o'er extatic sound;—
Stol'n are the festive moments that may wing
Their airy flight! To sabres clashing round,
The death-cord and the drug, shall Love or Pleasure bound?
Eliciting from every living string
The music of young Bacchus, and Desire,
To thrill the revellers with a rapturous sting,
Now ceasing to his neighbours of the ring
Resign the mastery o'er extatic sound;—
Stol'n are the festive moments that may wing
Their airy flight! To sabres clashing round,
The death-cord and the drug, shall Love or Pleasure bound?
Changed is the vision'd scene. A radiance streams,
As its roof opens, o'er a cedar'd room;
Lo, a fair groupe conspicuous in the beams:
Their silver distaffs glitter through the dome;
Unveil'd the clustering locks, the virgin-bloom,
Uncheck'd the pantings of the living snow:
They laugh, they languish o'er the fervid loom—
Alas! how reckless of the coming blow,
The homage hiding shame, the smile that heralds woe!
As its roof opens, o'er a cedar'd room;
Lo, a fair groupe conspicuous in the beams:
Their silver distaffs glitter through the dome;
Unveil'd the clustering locks, the virgin-bloom,
Uncheck'd the pantings of the living snow:
They laugh, they languish o'er the fervid loom—
Alas! how reckless of the coming blow,
The homage hiding shame, the smile that heralds woe!
Lord of that mansion, if some liberal Greek,
Heaven's blessings round him unsuspecting pour;
With muffled oars glides by the dark caique,
And ruffians, springing on the hapless Giaour,
Chase joy and hope, and rifle all the bower!
Soft with her velvet paw so steals unheard
Where smiles the treachery of the sensual hour,
Midst hills of cinnamon, through groves of nard,
So strikes her victim dead, so strikes the prowling pard.
Heaven's blessings round him unsuspecting pour;
With muffled oars glides by the dark caique,
And ruffians, springing on the hapless Giaour,
Chase joy and hope, and rifle all the bower!
Soft with her velvet paw so steals unheard
Where smiles the treachery of the sensual hour,
Midst hills of cinnamon, through groves of nard,
So strikes her victim dead, so strikes the prowling pard.
O Scio! midst the desolating sweep
Of massacre and flame, alas! 'tis thine
The tears of very bitterness to weep!
O Scio, whilst the dressers of thy vine
Yet linger, midst luxuriance doom'd to pine,
A sorer scourge than death 'tis theirs to bear!
Thy mastics bloom; thy presses burst with wine!
Thy breeze is incense!—Shall the roseate air
Still fan thee? What art thou? What, but one sepulchre?
Of massacre and flame, alas! 'tis thine
The tears of very bitterness to weep!
O Scio, whilst the dressers of thy vine
Yet linger, midst luxuriance doom'd to pine,
130
Thy mastics bloom; thy presses burst with wine!
Thy breeze is incense!—Shall the roseate air
Still fan thee? What art thou? What, but one sepulchre?
But, whilst in vision raged the turban'd host,
Was there no knee in fond devotion bent,
No eye, to mourn the mitre well nigh lost?
Had ravaged Greece no Patriarch, to lament
The veil of heavenly hope asunder rent?
In listless slumbers did the priest recline?
Whilst from the classic fane were sighings sent,—
Alas! to deprecate the wrath divine,
Did no lone orison ascend from sainted shrine?
Was there no knee in fond devotion bent,
No eye, to mourn the mitre well nigh lost?
Had ravaged Greece no Patriarch, to lament
The veil of heavenly hope asunder rent?
In listless slumbers did the priest recline?
Whilst from the classic fane were sighings sent,—
Alas! to deprecate the wrath divine,
Did no lone orison ascend from sainted shrine?
Yes! there were those in sacred wisdom wise—
Yes! there were holy men of high desert,
Whose morning vows, whose evening sacrifice
Went up, the breathings of a contrite heart!
But, wher so deep was hypocritic art,
Where with the mass contention mingled leaven,
The just award could some few prayers avert?
Was it to some few stedfast spirits given,
(Though palms their meed might be) to appease offended Heaven?
Yes! there were holy men of high desert,
Whose morning vows, whose evening sacrifice
Went up, the breathings of a contrite heart!
But, wher so deep was hypocritic art,
Where with the mass contention mingled leaven,
The just award could some few prayers avert?
Was it to some few stedfast spirits given,
(Though palms their meed might be) to appease offended Heaven?
Smitten before their shatter'd altars—curst
By Moslems, where they call'd on death, to close
Their mortal pilgrimage, as all athirst
For those eternal palms their Spirits arose:—
Yon hallow'd men despising earthly woes
To rank with Antioch's martyrs calmly died!
Yet e'en that little boon (the pale repose
Beneath the green sod) were their trunks denied,
Cast forth to the nightwinds, that cleave the troubled tide.
By Moslems, where they call'd on death, to close
Their mortal pilgrimage, as all athirst
For those eternal palms their Spirits arose:—
Yon hallow'd men despising earthly woes
To rank with Antioch's martyrs calmly died!
Yet e'en that little boon (the pale repose
Beneath the green sod) were their trunks denied,
Cast forth to the nightwinds, that cleave the troubled tide.
131
Fierce as his brands pursue the parted soul,
Whilst Azrael all the landscape seem'd to scorch,
And from old Ephesus to Istambol
Fire, from Al-Sirat's flood, each crackling church;
An angel-Spirit seem'd to snatch the torch
Of ruin from the fiend!—Serene and soft
A heavenly splendour fill'd St. Sophia's porch!
A Mufti, as the crescent waver'd oft,
Now sad to Mecca look'd, now rais'd his eyes aloft!
Whilst Azrael all the landscape seem'd to scorch,
And from old Ephesus to Istambol
Fire, from Al-Sirat's flood, each crackling church;
An angel-Spirit seem'd to snatch the torch
Of ruin from the fiend!—Serene and soft
A heavenly splendour fill'd St. Sophia's porch!
A Mufti, as the crescent waver'd oft,
Now sad to Mecca look'd, now rais'd his eyes aloft!
Then from Epirus (which nor sourge could tame,
Nor scymitar) to Antioch once its own,
Was peal'd in solemn notes the Christian's name;
And, from Thermopylæ to Macedon,
Fields of proud worth a new Ulysses won;
Whilst Islam temples were on temples heap'd:
E'en from the tombs was torn the turban-stone,
And the Lord's wrath, which had for ages slept,
Whole cities with the scythe of desolation swept.
Nor scymitar) to Antioch once its own,
Was peal'd in solemn notes the Christian's name;
And, from Thermopylæ to Macedon,
Fields of proud worth a new Ulysses won;
Whilst Islam temples were on temples heap'd:
E'en from the tombs was torn the turban-stone,
And the Lord's wrath, which had for ages slept,
Whole cities with the scythe of desolation swept.
From falling empires to fanatic reigns
Was Constantine thus trembling, fluttering whirl'd;
And hope or anguish hung o'er thrilling scenes,
Soothed by a sun-gleam or thro' tempests hurl'd;
When from an island glen, as blue waves curl'd
Around the aërial form, he saw emerge
A Spirit with lambent rainbows all impearl'd,
And stand on tiptoe on a cliff's dim verge,
And gild from glittering plumes, far gild the placid surge.
Was Constantine thus trembling, fluttering whirl'd;
And hope or anguish hung o'er thrilling scenes,
Soothed by a sun-gleam or thro' tempests hurl'd;
When from an island glen, as blue waves curl'd
Around the aërial form, he saw emerge
A Spirit with lambent rainbows all impearl'd,
And stand on tiptoe on a cliff's dim verge,
And gild from glittering plumes, far gild the placid surge.
The angel on a wreath of mist drew nigh,
Look'd heavenly love, and said or seem'd to say:
“Mourn not, O Prince, thy earthly destiny,
With martyrs to thy glory snatch'd away!
Thou shalt not witness the disastrous sway
Of those whose paths are darkness. Pride and strife
Shut from thy froward race, shut out the day:
Feuds, rancorous feuds, among thy people rife
Poison the etherial fount whence flow the streams of life.
Look'd heavenly love, and said or seem'd to say:
“Mourn not, O Prince, thy earthly destiny,
With martyrs to thy glory snatch'd away!
Thou shalt not witness the disastrous sway
132
Shut from thy froward race, shut out the day:
Feuds, rancorous feuds, among thy people rife
Poison the etherial fount whence flow the streams of life.
“Thou shalt not witness those portentous storms—
The havoc ravaging thy towns—the stroke
Disfeaturing the Creator's fairest forms:
Thou shalt not witness that infernal smoke!
Call'd by the Omnipotent (the Angel spoke,
Shuddering) His four sore judgments from the abyss
To smite a guilty generation broke!
And Peace greets Righteousness with holy kiss
No more—where Hatred scowls, and Fraud and Faction hiss!
The havoc ravaging thy towns—the stroke
Disfeaturing the Creator's fairest forms:
Thou shalt not witness that infernal smoke!
Call'd by the Omnipotent (the Angel spoke,
Shuddering) His four sore judgments from the abyss
To smite a guilty generation broke!
And Peace greets Righteousness with holy kiss
No more—where Hatred scowls, and Fraud and Faction hiss!
“Woe—woe on earth! I hear the trumpet sound,
Woe, woe! I see the shedding of men's blood!
Let loose are the four angels which lay bound
In that great river—in Euphrates' flood!
And horsemen—who shall count the multitude?
Their breastplates brimstone! Every horse—his head
The lion's! Writhing like the viperous brood
His scaly tail, and spreading—far to spread—
Flame issues from each mouth—with Heaven's own vengeance red.
Woe, woe! I see the shedding of men's blood!
Let loose are the four angels which lay bound
In that great river—in Euphrates' flood!
And horsemen—who shall count the multitude?
Their breastplates brimstone! Every horse—his head
The lion's! Writhing like the viperous brood
His scaly tail, and spreading—far to spread—
Flame issues from each mouth—with Heaven's own vengeance red.
“Thy suffering city—they shall eat the bread
Of tears—and at the hand of God, the cup
Of trembling—they shall drink the cup they dread—
The very dregs—the dregs shall they drink up!
Nor shall the fury that is gone forth, stop,
Till all thy judges—all thy princes faint
In every street—till all thy nobles drop!
Till rise from each lone house the widow's plaint;
Nor indignation spare the Apostle nor the Saint!
Of tears—and at the hand of God, the cup
Of trembling—they shall drink the cup they dread—
The very dregs—the dregs shall they drink up!
Nor shall the fury that is gone forth, stop,
Till all thy judges—all thy princes faint
In every street—till all thy nobles drop!
Till rise from each lone house the widow's plaint;
Nor indignation spare the Apostle nor the Saint!
133
“Lo! for a little season must it be!
Saith thy Redeemer—saith the Lord! My face
Yet a short moment have I hid from thee,
Land of my people—of my chosen race!
O wait awhile, my goodness shall not cease:
The adamantine mountains shall decay,
And the hills melt, and none shall know their place;
Though never shall my mercies fade away,
But shine, the light of life, to everlasting day.
Saith thy Redeemer—saith the Lord! My face
Yet a short moment have I hid from thee,
Land of my people—of my chosen race!
O wait awhile, my goodness shall not cease:
The adamantine mountains shall decay,
And the hills melt, and none shall know their place;
Though never shall my mercies fade away,
But shine, the light of life, to everlasting day.
“Lo! wafted from the islands of the blest,
The tidings of salvation shall come forth,
Like Gilead's balm my healing from the West,
And faithfulness—my buckler—from the North!
Then, midst the lying wonders of the earth,
Then shall in shame Mohammed hide his head,
And all shall curse the base impostor's birth;
As He, by whose right arm the dragon bled,
Shall slay the murderous beast in Yathreb's venom bred.
The tidings of salvation shall come forth,
Like Gilead's balm my healing from the West,
And faithfulness—my buckler—from the North!
Then, midst the lying wonders of the earth,
Then shall in shame Mohammed hide his head,
And all shall curse the base impostor's birth;
As He, by whose right arm the dragon bled,
Shall slay the murderous beast in Yathreb's venom bred.
“Then ringing shall the voice of melody
Echo from bower to bower, from vale to vale;
From every habitation sorrow flee,
And Health and Peace and Joy the righteous hail;
And springs of living waters never fail,
And the lign-aloes fling their shadows there!
Then Sharon's rose shall incense every gale;
And the great Shepherd in his arms shall bear
The lambs of Israel's flock, his own peculiar care!”
Echo from bower to bower, from vale to vale;
From every habitation sorrow flee,
And Health and Peace and Joy the righteous hail;
And springs of living waters never fail,
And the lign-aloes fling their shadows there!
Then Sharon's rose shall incense every gale;
And the great Shepherd in his arms shall bear
The lambs of Israel's flock, his own peculiar care!”
These circumstances are omitted by Gibbon; but Eton seems to give credit to them. See Eton, pp. 145, 146—from Ricault. Voltaire (see Essay on the Manners and Spirit of Nations) vindicates Mahomet from the calumnies of Cardinal Isidore and others.
See Eton's Survey of the Turkish Empire; particularly chap. ix. where I think the argument for the emancipation of the Greeks from Turkish tyranny, is unanswerable. See also chap. v. at pp. 145, 146.
Azrael, the angel of destruction. The bridge of Al-Sirat— a slender filament, slight as the gossamer, trembling over floods of everlasting fire.
137
MISCELLANEOUS VERSE; SERIOUS AND LUDICROUS.
Miscentur seria ludo.
THE FOURTH OF MARCH.
1813.
March! how mild thy genial hours,
Soft azure skies, and gilded showers;
The blaze of lights, the deepening shade,
Tints that flush the cloud and fade;
Now the young wheat's transient gleam,
Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream;
Now in quick effulgence seen,
On yonder slope its sparkling green;
And, sprinkled o'er the mossy mould,
Crocuses, like drops of gold;
And the lent-lily's paler yellow
Where flowers the asp and water-willow;
And the polyanthus, fair
Its hues, as bath'd in summer air;
And the white violets, that just peep,
And, shelter'd by the rosemary, sleep;
Bursting lilacs, and beneath
Currant-buds, that freshly breathe
The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves
With which the obtrusive ivy weaves
Its verdure dark—this day, tho' late
Cut off, to meet a cruel fate—
The cherry spray, that purpling glows,
And, full of leaf, the hedge-row rose;
On this south wall the peach-bloom pale,
Where huddles many a clustering snail;
And round the trunk of yon hoar tree,
Here and there, a humming bee
That wanders to the sunny nook,
Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook;
The black-bird's trill, and every lay
That warbling wild love, dies away;
And on each ash and elm's gray crest,
Cawing rooks, that frame the nest
Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair;
And lambs that o'er the meadow, brisk,
Tug at the teat, and run and frisk;
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise—
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.
Soft azure skies, and gilded showers;
The blaze of lights, the deepening shade,
Tints that flush the cloud and fade;
Now the young wheat's transient gleam,
Where sunfits, chasing shadows, stream;
Now in quick effulgence seen,
On yonder slope its sparkling green;
And, sprinkled o'er the mossy mould,
Crocuses, like drops of gold;
And the lent-lily's paler yellow
Where flowers the asp and water-willow;
And the polyanthus, fair
Its hues, as bath'd in summer air;
And the white violets, that just peep,
And, shelter'd by the rosemary, sleep;
Bursting lilacs, and beneath
Currant-buds, that freshly breathe
The first spring-scent, light gooseberry leaves
With which the obtrusive ivy weaves
Its verdure dark—this day, tho' late
Cut off, to meet a cruel fate—
138
And, full of leaf, the hedge-row rose;
On this south wall the peach-bloom pale,
Where huddles many a clustering snail;
And round the trunk of yon hoar tree,
Here and there, a humming bee
That wanders to the sunny nook,
Or seeks, hard by, the glittering brook;
The black-bird's trill, and every lay
That warbling wild love, dies away;
And on each ash and elm's gray crest,
Cawing rooks, that frame the nest
Anew, or with parental care
Their cradles worn by time repair;
And lambs that o'er the meadow, brisk,
Tug at the teat, and run and frisk;
These, this moment, meet my eyes,
Or my charmed ear surprise—
Sounds that melt, and sights that seem
To wave o'er winter like a dream.
Yet, ere in recent brightness born,
The moon shall fill her silver horn,
Clear as now we hail the rays
Where evening's crimson vest decays;
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March!
In blackness shroud the etherial arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden-scene;
Yet, if bloom the vermeil peach,
Tawny-leav'd we mark the beech!
Yes! but yester-morn, were driven
Veiling the refulgent heaven,
What numerous starlings down the waste
As when howl'd the embattled blast!
Then, shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
Scar'd by winds and rushing rain,
Will Spring visit us again?
Are we sure, when floods subside,
This amber stream shall dimpling glide,
And again so softly steal
Thro' floral tufts, to yonder dale?
May not, where icebolts cease to beat,
The young shoots droop in summer-heat;
Scantier creep the languid rill,
And the vocal bowers be still?
The moon shall fill her silver horn,
Clear as now we hail the rays
Where evening's crimson vest decays;
Yet shall thy storm, impetuous March!
In blackness shroud the etherial arch,
Sweep those dewy meads serene,
And rifle all this garden-scene;
Yet, if bloom the vermeil peach,
Tawny-leav'd we mark the beech!
Yes! but yester-morn, were driven
Veiling the refulgent heaven,
What numerous starlings down the waste
As when howl'd the embattled blast!
Then, shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
Scar'd by winds and rushing rain,
Will Spring visit us again?
139
This amber stream shall dimpling glide,
And again so softly steal
Thro' floral tufts, to yonder dale?
May not, where icebolts cease to beat,
The young shoots droop in summer-heat;
Scantier creep the languid rill,
And the vocal bowers be still?
Then, let us ravish, ere it fly,
Bliss so fugitive, so coy;
Muse on each colour's opening glow,
Trace the blossoms as they blow;
Listen to the choral grove,
And drink the soul of life and love;
Shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
Bliss so fugitive, so coy;
Muse on each colour's opening glow,
Trace the blossoms as they blow;
Listen to the choral grove,
And drink the soul of life and love;
Shall we not, my Mary! seize
Fleeting pleasures, such as these?
This, and the six following poems, are from “Floral Offerings,” of which a few copies only were printed, in honour of the Royal Horticultural Society of Cornwall; whose first meeting was held at Truro, on the 29th of June, 1832.
THE SNOWDROPS.
1829.
Yet can I the cold fancies brook
Which specious fashion links with taste,
Whilst from this long-forsaken nook
Starts many a dream of pleasure past?
Which specious fashion links with taste,
Whilst from this long-forsaken nook
Starts many a dream of pleasure past?
Alas! if smoothing all the slope,
I bid the sheltering hedge lie low,
'Tis but to give an ampler scope
To that dark wind, our dreaded foe.
I bid the sheltering hedge lie low,
'Tis but to give an ampler scope
To that dark wind, our dreaded foe.
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But, whether the drear eddying West,
Or Boreas howl or grimly sleep;
A tenderer feeling shall arrest
The leveller's unrelenting sweep.
Or Boreas howl or grimly sleep;
A tenderer feeling shall arrest
The leveller's unrelenting sweep.
Oh! relic of a Sister's bower
Of all its blooms so rudely shorn,
Where oft we wooed the fragrant hour
At evening close or break of morn;
Of all its blooms so rudely shorn,
Where oft we wooed the fragrant hour
At evening close or break of morn;
Where light the warbler of the glen
Nestled or sung, no longer shy;
Nor heeded our protected wren
The jealous redbreast rustling nigh;
Nestled or sung, no longer shy;
Nor heeded our protected wren
The jealous redbreast rustling nigh;
Where hyacinths, the hedge beneath,
And, midst its briars above, blue bells
And honeysuckles loved to breathe
Pure incense from their dulcet cells:
And, midst its briars above, blue bells
And honeysuckles loved to breathe
Pure incense from their dulcet cells:
And e'en, as now, where sharp the blast
Shook from the sprays a glittering shower
Of icicles, the spot we trac'd
To spy out the first infant flower.
Shook from the sprays a glittering shower
Of icicles, the spot we trac'd
To spy out the first infant flower.
And is it so? Midst moss and fern,
(Sure, 'tis illusion mocks my sight!)
Shall my dim eyes again discern—
Type of her soul—their virgin white?
(Sure, 'tis illusion mocks my sight!)
Shall my dim eyes again discern—
Type of her soul—their virgin white?
But, are ye, Snowdrops! sprung from those
(To pensive memory, oh! how dear)
Once clustering—cradled amid snows,
Sweet heralds of the purpling year!
(To pensive memory, oh! how dear)
Once clustering—cradled amid snows,
Sweet heralds of the purpling year!
Say, are ye to the awakened gaze
Of fond affection kindly given,
To bring back my departed days.
Or lingering still, or dropt from Heaven?
Of fond affection kindly given,
To bring back my departed days.
Or lingering still, or dropt from Heaven?
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Not pearls for so divine a gift—
The pearls of Ormuz—would I take!
And lo! the pleading eye they lift!
“Preserve us for a sister's sake!”
The pearls of Ormuz—would I take!
And lo! the pleading eye they lift!
“Preserve us for a sister's sake!”
Yes!—by that lucid sense, that voice—
Its every cadence treasur'd here—
Her hymns that bade my heart rejoice—
Her every smile—her every tear—
Its every cadence treasur'd here—
Her hymns that bade my heart rejoice—
Her every smile—her every tear—
By every prayer her life to save,
When sinking in the arms of death—
By all the sighs which o'er her grave
Were heav'd, as pale I gasp'd for breath;
When sinking in the arms of death—
By all the sighs which o'er her grave
Were heav'd, as pale I gasp'd for breath;
Oh! by the kindling hope to spare
In realms, where sorrow hath no lot,
Her everlasting love, I swear
That I will shield this sacred spot
In realms, where sorrow hath no lot,
Her everlasting love, I swear
That I will shield this sacred spot
Till palsy grasp each trembling limb,
With Faith aspiring to the skies,
And holy Peace—the “cherubim”
To guard my little Paradise!
With Faith aspiring to the skies,
And holy Peace—the “cherubim”
To guard my little Paradise!
A deceased sister and myself had pleasure in a little garden which from long desertion was overgrown with briars and brambles, and ground-ivy. But our hedgerow nook retained its peculiar feature, after the lapse of more than sixty years. The snowdrop was here our favourite flower. That the trace of a snowdrop, however, or of any other flower was here discoverable, I could not conceive. Yet here I found a tuft of snowdrops in January 1829.
I had considered the above as merely an effusion of fancy and feeling;—not at all aware, that snowdrops could have existed so long in the ground—upwards of sixty years, till in the Journal of a Naturalist I read the following: “The snowdrop remains the only memorial of man and his labours, a melancholy flower; reminding us of some deserted dwelling, a family gone, a hearth that smokes no more!”
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RURAL SCENERY.
From amber clouds as Hesper bright
Mingled with the morning light,
Sweet May! I saw thy orient blush!
And lo! that crimson flush
O'er wave and rock and cavern riv'n,
These dimwood shades which fragrance breathe
Fresh as they kiss the sod beneath,
The daisied mead, its glittering dews,
A bliss so pure effuse,
I cry—It is almost a Heaven!
Mingled with the morning light,
Sweet May! I saw thy orient blush!
And lo! that crimson flush
O'er wave and rock and cavern riv'n,
These dimwood shades which fragrance breathe
Fresh as they kiss the sod beneath,
The daisied mead, its glittering dews,
A bliss so pure effuse,
I cry—It is almost a Heaven!
The lime's young foliage; green and red
Sycamores, that soon shall spread
Their broader leaves; and richly brown,
Yon oak's aspiring crown;
The vigorous chesnut that hath thriven
Sustain'd by my assiduous care,
Waving its hyacinths in air;
And kindling far down yonder combe,
The blaze of apple-bloom—
Oh! doth not this resemble Heaven?
Sycamores, that soon shall spread
Their broader leaves; and richly brown,
Yon oak's aspiring crown;
The vigorous chesnut that hath thriven
Sustain'd by my assiduous care,
Waving its hyacinths in air;
And kindling far down yonder combe,
The blaze of apple-bloom—
Oh! doth not this resemble Heaven?
There, twinkling from her dizzy height
Soars the lark, nor dreads the kite;
With hawthorn deck'd see Susan's pail:
And now the wheels I hail,
Crashing and crazed, which Hodge had striven
To disengage where deep the wain
Had sunk amidst the hollow lane.—
Now bleating o'er the barley-blade
The lambs that lawless stray'd—
These rural sights and sounds are Heaven
Soars the lark, nor dreads the kite;
With hawthorn deck'd see Susan's pail:
And now the wheels I hail,
Crashing and crazed, which Hodge had striven
To disengage where deep the wain
Had sunk amidst the hollow lane.—
Now bleating o'er the barley-blade
The lambs that lawless stray'd—
These rural sights and sounds are Heaven
And from that nook, my playful boys!
Whilst I view your blameless joys,
This little fellow, who the cuckoo
Now mimics—its blithe echo—
I steal delight unmixt with leaven!
Now up he starts, his brother jostling,
And wild pursues the yellow gosling,
Now laughs, and mimics with a bound
The colt that wantons round—
Say, is not this a little Heaven?
Whilst I view your blameless joys,
This little fellow, who the cuckoo
Now mimics—its blithe echo—
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Now up he starts, his brother jostling,
And wild pursues the yellow gosling,
Now laughs, and mimics with a bound
The colt that wantons round—
Say, is not this a little Heaven?
And on yon slope the Cornflower's hue—
How he eyes their glowing blue;
Then stares with wonder, leaps with pleasure,
As azure light on azure
Mounts up, tho' by no zephyr driven!
They are, my boy! gay butterflies,
That woo the Cornflowers ere they rise,
Then seem to mock their loves below,
And flutter, to and fro!—
To note thy sweet surprise, is Heaven!
How he eyes their glowing blue;
Then stares with wonder, leaps with pleasure,
As azure light on azure
Mounts up, tho' by no zephyr driven!
They are, my boy! gay butterflies,
That woo the Cornflowers ere they rise,
Then seem to mock their loves below,
And flutter, to and fro!—
To note thy sweet surprise, is Heaven!
Thy quiet brother, with less bustle
Feeds his finch and warbling throstle;
Tends his tame hare, and fits his hooks
For trout in hazy brooks!
O may I hope to be forgiven
If with my scampering boys I rove
In search of nests thro' glen or grove,
And traverse thorny brakes and bushes,
Or banks o'ergrown by rushes—
If still I deem such pleasures—Heaven!
Feeds his finch and warbling throstle;
Tends his tame hare, and fits his hooks
For trout in hazy brooks!
O may I hope to be forgiven
If with my scampering boys I rove
In search of nests thro' glen or grove,
And traverse thorny brakes and bushes,
Or banks o'ergrown by rushes—
If still I deem such pleasures—Heaven!
My heart—my cherish'd heart is glad!
Yet, through all the conscious shade,
A warning whisper seems to say
From every trembling spray:
“Remember! thou art sixty-seven!
Tho' scenes so fair thy fancy please,
Yet can'st thou trust thy feeble knees?
To thee shall May's sweet morn restore
Its balms—perhaps no more!
Thou must not deem such pleasures—Heaven.”
Yet, through all the conscious shade,
A warning whisper seems to say
From every trembling spray:
“Remember! thou art sixty-seven!
Tho' scenes so fair thy fancy please,
Yet can'st thou trust thy feeble knees?
To thee shall May's sweet morn restore
Its balms—perhaps no more!
Thou must not deem such pleasures—Heaven.”
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THE HORTICULTURAL BARD.
O read these lines. From him who loves
The glenwood streams they come—
From him who wooes the quiet groves,
And all that sweetens home.
The glenwood streams they come—
From him who wooes the quiet groves,
And all that sweetens home.
When wintry blasts far murmuring fling
The sear leaves down the glade,
I bid the germs of purpling spring
Foreshow my summer-shade.
The sear leaves down the glade,
I bid the germs of purpling spring
Foreshow my summer-shade.
If thro' the sylvan haunts I stray,
I mark full many a flower,
Scattering new colours, every day—
Fresh incense, every hour.
I mark full many a flower,
Scattering new colours, every day—
Fresh incense, every hour.
And here, where jasmines climb, to weave
With clemătis a screen,
Thy faery pencil, modest Eve,
Shall trace my garden scene.
With clemătis a screen,
Thy faery pencil, modest Eve,
Shall trace my garden scene.
Not with that pink's ethereal blush
Hath May's first morning vied,
Its vest as orient tinctures flush
In all its floral pride.
Hath May's first morning vied,
Its vest as orient tinctures flush
In all its floral pride.
The bright nasturtium's orange hues
As with the sunbeams play;
And lo! its fitful flame pursues
The fainting, lingering ray.
As with the sunbeams play;
And lo! its fitful flame pursues
The fainting, lingering ray.
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From red to blue the phosphor flits,
And skims the lily-white;
And from the yellow blaze emits
A keen, yet quivering light.
And skims the lily-white;
And from the yellow blaze emits
A keen, yet quivering light.
'Tis then, the sultry hour o'erpast,
Thou lov'st to lift thy head,
My evening-friend! so calm, so chaste,
Sweet primrose of the shade!
Thou lov'st to lift thy head,
My evening-friend! so calm, so chaste,
Sweet primrose of the shade!
And I have seen thro' glimmering dew
The silent glow-worm steal,
And, one clear drop of lustre blue,
Hang on thy petals pale.
The silent glow-worm steal,
And, one clear drop of lustre blue,
Hang on thy petals pale.
O now again thy placid eyes
To twilight cool unclose!
So may I give, with all its sighs,
This bosom to repose.
To twilight cool unclose!
So may I give, with all its sighs,
This bosom to repose.
Yet, not in self absorb'd and lone,
To others I impart
The pleasures from reflection won,
To cheer the social heart.
To others I impart
The pleasures from reflection won,
To cheer the social heart.
If fortune to some mossy nook
The cottage-folk confine;
They cull their cresses from the brook,
They tend their rosemarine.
The cottage-folk confine;
They cull their cresses from the brook,
They tend their rosemarine.
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Far off, his smoke the cotter sees,
And quits the toilsome field,
While, now thrice blest, his orchard trees
The day's last splendours gild.
And quits the toilsome field,
While, now thrice blest, his orchard trees
The day's last splendours gild.
Haply, his helpmate, buxom Bell,
Vouchsafes the cordial smile;
Her herbary she had water'd well,
And pick'd her chamomile.
Vouchsafes the cordial smile;
Her herbary she had water'd well,
And pick'd her chamomile.
For pottage savoury from the leek,
Or stuff'd with tasteful chives,
He thanks—with more than words can speak,
Be sure—the best of wives!
Or stuff'd with tasteful chives,
He thanks—with more than words can speak,
Be sure—the best of wives!
O! in each hamlet may the sire,
The son—the duteous wife,
All, not inemulous, aspire
To such a noiseless life.
The son—the duteous wife,
All, not inemulous, aspire
To such a noiseless life.
From these, perhaps of humbler birth,
We pass to fruitful grange,
Where riches spring from “mother earth,”
And herds o'er valleys range.
We pass to fruitful grange,
Where riches spring from “mother earth,”
And herds o'er valleys range.
Ah! happier—ah! thrice happy thanes,
Whom Heaven and Nature bless;
If they but knew—still simple swains—
Knew their own happiness;
Whom Heaven and Nature bless;
If they but knew—still simple swains—
Knew their own happiness;
147
Unmov'd whilst round the nations rage,
Secure from guilty cares,
From youth if to a green old age
The homebred joys were theirs!
Secure from guilty cares,
From youth if to a green old age
The homebred joys were theirs!
And ye, whose hall or banner'd tower
O'erbrows the village thatch,
Rejoicing in your wealth and power,
Go lift the poor man's latch:
O'erbrows the village thatch,
Rejoicing in your wealth and power,
Go lift the poor man's latch:
Tell him, from his own store, tho' scant,
E'en he may good dispense,
If patient labour shut our want;
If—a kind Providence.
E'en he may good dispense,
If patient labour shut our want;
If—a kind Providence.
Tell him (and may we pour in balm
Where worldly passions brood)
That we assign the fairest palm
To Peace and Gratitude!
Where worldly passions brood)
That we assign the fairest palm
To Peace and Gratitude!
The following flowers have been observed to emit flashes, more or less vivid, in this order:
1. The Marigold (Calendula Officinalis).2. The Garden Nasturtium (Tropœolum majus).
3. The Orange Lily (Lilium bulbiferum).
4. The African Marigold (Tagetes patula et erecta).
And the Sunflower (Helianthus annuus) emits phosphoric light.
See Darwin's Bot. Gar. Part II. pp. 184, 185.“In some quiet country parsonage (said the divine Hooker) may I see God's blessings spring out of my mother earth, and eat my own bread in peace and privacy.” —See a Letter of Hooker to Archbishop Whitgift.
THE OLD CORYCIAN HORTICULTURIST.
Rivals in forcing vegetation!
(A competition pleasant)
I offer to your imitation
The old Corycian peasant.
(A competition pleasant)
I offer to your imitation
The old Corycian peasant.
In elder days this swain did flourish
Where flows the black Galesus;
And bade its banks his garden nourish,
Far happier than a Crœsus!
Where flows the black Galesus;
And bade its banks his garden nourish,
Far happier than a Crœsus!
For sheep or kine too poor, his ground
Beneath his native hill, he
Planted, outvying all around,
The vervain and white lily.
Beneath his native hill, he
Planted, outvying all around,
The vervain and white lily.
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If for his story thou beseechest,
I'll grant thee thy request—hem—
His apples were the first and richest;
His rose, the rose of Pæstum.
I'll grant thee thy request—hem—
His apples were the first and richest;
His rose, the rose of Pæstum.
Without much trouble or much cost
He rear'd the polyanthus,
And e'en amidst the winter's frost,
Would shear the soft acanthus.
He rear'd the polyanthus,
And e'en amidst the winter's frost,
Would shear the soft acanthus.
And so prolific his pear-trees—
(You may cry out “O lud!”)
He had—believe me, if you please—
A pear for every bud.
(You may cry out “O lud!”)
He had—believe me, if you please—
A pear for every bud.
And—what's of all the greatest wonder—
I'm certain you will grant—
The loftiest elms in rain or thunder,
This peasant could transplant;
I'm certain you will grant—
The loftiest elms in rain or thunder,
This peasant could transplant;
And plum-trees
with their fruit full ripe;
And planes that stretch'd their branches
To shelter, as they touch'd their pipe,
The rustics on their haunches.
And planes that stretch'd their branches
To shelter, as they touch'd their pipe,
The rustics on their haunches.
Now these were mighty feats, I ween,
In ancient horticulture:
“No!” (cries the widow, full of spleen;
And cowering like a vulture)—
In ancient horticulture:
“No!” (cries the widow, full of spleen;
And cowering like a vulture)—
“No! what are they?” (the widow cries—
And mourns no more her Trunnion)
“Goils! I have got a glorious prize
For my potatoe-onion!”
And mourns no more her Trunnion)
“Goils! I have got a glorious prize
For my potatoe-onion!”
149
And yet, no censor, no committee,
Solicitor, physician,
Can teach us how—or wise or witty,
To beat the old Corycian!
Solicitor, physician,
Can teach us how—or wise or witty,
To beat the old Corycian!
THE LONGING LADY.
Admitted to witness a grand Exhibition,
Where all of one mind with no politics grapple,
I am sure, we had fruits fit for every condition,
From the cucumber up to the princely pine-apple.
Where all of one mind with no politics grapple,
I am sure, we had fruits fit for every condition,
From the cucumber up to the princely pine-apple.
With William—the King—our munificent patron—
We stoop not, ye Critics! your favour to curry;
But while flirt the misses, and bounces the matron,
O Hellas! our Flora may rival thy Furry!
We stoop not, ye Critics! your favour to curry;
But while flirt the misses, and bounces the matron,
O Hellas! our Flora may rival thy Furry!
Wedg'd in as I was, from my heels to my head,
By swarthy plebeians, and men of high quality,
I look'd all around, and a lesson I read—
In every big cabbage or neap, “a morality.”
By swarthy plebeians, and men of high quality,
I look'd all around, and a lesson I read—
In every big cabbage or neap, “a morality.”
To a dish of green gooseberries quickly the palm
Was adjudg'd, and to pinks, and to flow'r after flow'r;
And to bunches of grapes, but I could not be calm,
In ripeness tho' luscious—alas! they were sour!
Was adjudg'd, and to pinks, and to flow'r after flow'r;
And to bunches of grapes, but I could not be calm,
In ripeness tho' luscious—alas! they were sour!
Forbidden (how hard!) or to taste or to touch,
(I confess it with shame!) I was prompted to thieve:
For me the temptation was almost too much,
In frailty, I fear, a true daughter of Eve!
(I confess it with shame!) I was prompted to thieve:
For me the temptation was almost too much,
In frailty, I fear, a true daughter of Eve!
150
THE FLORA BALL.
Hail to the Dancer's chaste delight!
But I have heard (perhaps 'tis false)
Ye fondly welcom'd, yester night,
My lovely girls! The Phallic Waltz.
But I have heard (perhaps 'tis false)
Ye fondly welcom'd, yester night,
My lovely girls! The Phallic Waltz.
I would not, for a moment, damp
Your mounting spirits, nor marr your glee;
I would not quench the festal lamp,—
Far be such rigour—far from me!
Your mounting spirits, nor marr your glee;
I would not quench the festal lamp,—
Far be such rigour—far from me!
Go, light of heart! Be yours the pleasures
That youth and innocence inspire:
For you the muse has dulcet treasures;
The melodies of lute and lyre.
That youth and innocence inspire:
For you the muse has dulcet treasures;
The melodies of lute and lyre.
And, if I meet the soft blue languish,
The glances arch from eyes of sloe;
The blush that soothes the lover's anguish;
The flaxen hair's luxuriant flow;
The glances arch from eyes of sloe;
The blush that soothes the lover's anguish;
The flaxen hair's luxuriant flow;
For you whose vows affection breathes
In many a sigh sincere, be mine
To consecrate the rosy wreathes
That bloom o'er Hymen's gifted shrine.
In many a sigh sincere, be mine
To consecrate the rosy wreathes
That bloom o'er Hymen's gifted shrine.
And may the mutual ardour throw
O'er life that dear delicious spell
Which they alone can ever know
Who sigh'd so oft, and loved so well.
O'er life that dear delicious spell
Which they alone can ever know
Who sigh'd so oft, and loved so well.
Then listen to my sage advice
(And yet I think the rumour false),
Nor deem me scrupulous or precise—
Abjure, dear girls! abjure the Walz.
(And yet I think the rumour false),
Nor deem me scrupulous or precise—
Abjure, dear girls! abjure the Walz.
Mrs. Butler (Fanny Kemble), who in her late publication has thrown more light on America than any former traveller, promised Dr. ------ never “to walz again, except with a woman or her brother.” The Walz, under all its modifications, is no other than the Phallic Dance; which a truly modest woman would blush even to name. It was the very dance even of the courtezans of Corinth—the strumpets of Babylon—the harlots of Jerusalem. —[see Ezekiel.] I have heard of a lady, who flung down Fanny Kemble's book in disdain, because poor Fanny had “wished somebody at the devil.” Qu? Has this lady objected to the walz?
151
A FRAGMENT.
Hark, as I touch the harmonicon—
—Its keys, to pain or pleasure;
The wires unseen
Without an effort won,
Give back a corresponding measure;
Thus from the secret bosom—from within—
Spontaneous modulations rise
Which seem to symphonize
With present joys or griefs, and tell
What shall befall from what befell;
Which speak of bliss to come,
Or antedate our doom!
—Its keys, to pain or pleasure;
The wires unseen
Without an effort won,
Give back a corresponding measure;
Thus from the secret bosom—from within—
Spontaneous modulations rise
Which seem to symphonize
With present joys or griefs, and tell
What shall befall from what befell;
Which speak of bliss to come,
Or antedate our doom!
Yes! here I feel—I feel the strings
That vibrate or to joy or woe!
I feel the chord that brings
The future to my sense: its whisperings show
Responsive to the present and the past,
How my horoscope is cast!
And ah! what intimations fill
My soul with sad presentiments of ill?
The music of the nerve of mournful tone
Dies not away unanswer'd,—nor alone
Is by the sorrower heard;
But from a nerve conceal'd
I hear, in thrilling unison,
The voice of things yet unreveal'd!
O as I heave the sigh
That would in kind relief
Soften my actual grief;
It calls forth others from the trembling chord
That runs into futurity—
Others which all unbidden part
From this harmonicon—my heart!
That vibrate or to joy or woe!
I feel the chord that brings
The future to my sense: its whisperings show
Responsive to the present and the past,
How my horoscope is cast!
And ah! what intimations fill
My soul with sad presentiments of ill?
The music of the nerve of mournful tone
Dies not away unanswer'd,—nor alone
Is by the sorrower heard;
But from a nerve conceal'd
I hear, in thrilling unison,
The voice of things yet unreveal'd!
O as I heave the sigh
152
Soften my actual grief;
It calls forth others from the trembling chord
That runs into futurity—
Others which all unbidden part
From this harmonicon—my heart!
THE RILL LOST IN A THICKET.
Again, the gurgling rill I hear,
By brambles screen'd and deep in fern:
Its long-loved music meets my ear—
Its lapse can straining eye discern?
By brambles screen'd and deep in fern:
Its long-loved music meets my ear—
Its lapse can straining eye discern?
So Time has flung a veil between
The brisk career of youth and me;
And seems to murmur—“what hath been,
“Ah never—never more shall be!”
The brisk career of youth and me;
And seems to murmur—“what hath been,
“Ah never—never more shall be!”
Yet fain—O fain would I restore
The dancing of a gladsome day,
As thus, though it be seen no more,
Its distant echo dies away!
The dancing of a gladsome day,
As thus, though it be seen no more,
Its distant echo dies away!
A friend, objecting to the second line, when I presented him with these versions:—
“Again my warbling rill I hear
In coppice deep, where darkness broods:
Its lulling music meets my ear—
My eye its lingering lapse eludes.”
In coppice deep, where darkness broods:
Its lulling music meets my ear—
My eye its lingering lapse eludes.”
“Again my long-lov'd rill I hear;—
The o'er-hanging copse its canopy:
Its plaintive music meets my ear—
Its lapse eludes my straining eye.”
The o'er-hanging copse its canopy:
Its plaintive music meets my ear—
Its lapse eludes my straining eye.”
He preferred this to the other two.
Yet “by brambles screened,” &c. &c. is the exact description of a little stream which used to glitter to the morning sun, but of which, overgrown as it now is by brambles, furze and fern, not a glimpse is to be seen.
153
A GOOD CONSCIENCE.
O grant me, Lord! that sweet repose,Which from approving Conscience flows;
A Conscience spotless from offence,
Which gives us, with the enlighten'd sense
Of charity to all mankind,
To serve Thee with a quiet mind;
Which shall for aye our moments bless
As pain we lull, and soothe distress,
And of each act, whate'er it be,
Ascribes the merit all to Thee!
Oh! it is Conscience, clear and calm,
For every trouble hath a balm;
And, whilst “the wicked stalk abroad,”
Resigns us to “the peace of God.”
'Tis like the blaze, that lights the walls
Of hamlets or of loftier halls—
The genial blaze, though round were gloom,
That brightens up our tranquil home:
Without, the dreary winds may roar;
The cheerful hearth but charms the more!
To Dr. DARWIN.
“While Sargent flings around his curious eyes,Winding through many a subterranean maze;
And, as he bids entrancing forms arise,
With wizard light the mineral kingdoms blaze;
Behold! amidst the vegetable bloom,
O Darwin! thy ambrosial rivers flow;
And suns more pure the fragrant earth illume,
As all the vivid plants with passion glow.
Yes! wheresoe'er with life creation teems,
I trace thy spirit thro' the kindling whole;
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Of Science, isles emerge and oceans roll,
And Nature, in primordial beauty, seems
Inspir'd by thee to breathe a renovated Soul!
The following Sonnet was about the same time addressed to Cowper; who cordially united with Darwin and Hayley in expressing sentiments complimentary to “the Muse of Devon,” and honoured me with a correspondence highly flattering.
To COWPER.
“Cowper! to thee the Muse of Devon bearsA rustic offering. On the green-hill tops,
And in the tufted combes, beside the brooks,
She gather'd many a floret; and, retir'd
Fast by a Druid's chasmed rock that frown'd
O'er the dark waters of impetuous Teign,
She wove this various garland in the light
Of the pale moon; as in dim rounds discern'd
(Where open'd, far within, a pendent wood)
The tripping Feri twinkled. Such the wreath
She consecrates to thee! And, tho' its hues
Be oft too glaring to thy purer eye,
Perchance the primrose and the vi'let, there
May lurk, in modest tints, not unperceiv'd!”
To J. W. CROKER, Esq.
O thou, whose talents over scutchion'd birth,A splendour, to adorn thy lineage, shed—
(Though Devon calls thy hoary fathers forth,
High-helm'd, and glories in transmitted worth)
Thou, from whose patriot flame by honour fed,
Scared Faction shrinks, and hides its viperous head,
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Nor less to thee the Muse her tribute brings,
For that thy fancy, midst the effulgent sphere
Of poesy, unfolds her genial wings—
For that thy heart is conscious to the tear
That trembling starts to taste and feeling dear!
Whilst to proud notes, to swell the pomp of Kings,
Echoeing o'er vale and hill, thy “Talavera” rings!
SONNETS To a person threatening to shoot the wood pigeons at Polwhele.
I.
[The days are come, when querulous old age]
The days are come, when querulous old ageMourning its past delights, you little deem
How trivial are the things its heart engage,
And bid it, like the illusion of a dream,
Grasp at a fleeting image well nigh gone!
I always prized the feather'd tribe. Their note,
Their plumes, I hail'd in glens recluse and lone.
But in the haunts of all that “pour the throat,”
The gurgling Wooddove have I valued most;
And oft, as scarce a care my bosom cross'd,
Myself unnoticed, I have mark'd with glee
The neck's blue glossiness, the purple breast;
And, in the hollow of my grandsire's tree,
Espied with eager eye the simple nest.
II.
[Down to the depth of that umbrageous dell]
Down to the depth of that umbrageous dellI cannot now descend with feeble knees:
Yet may I catch the sounds I loved so well:
And the wild melodies that wont to please
My ear, yet linger like a fairy spell.
I cannot for the nest with curious glance
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But with emotions that renew the boy
Each summer eve, when all around is still,
The plaintive cooings yet my soul entrance!
Then menace not with murderous aim, to kill
The innocuous inmates of my tranquil groves,
That in deep mellow murmurs tell their loves—
As the last echoes of my youthful joy.
A CORNISH INCIDENT.
Where screamed the sea-gull and the heronA body was wash'd in at Piran:
Squire Ned stole slily down to see
What peradventure it might be;
When, lo! a female hand struck Neddy—
Besure, thought he, a handsome lady!
As with a brilliance strange it shone,
He look'd around; and all alone
Was charm'd by many a precious stone;
Nor did he for a moment linger,
To scrape acqaintance with a finger;
Tho,' tugging at each tempting ring,
He cried: “By jingo, how they cling!
What's best to do?—'tis mighty puzzling!
Still will I try—tho' dead, she's dazzling!
Diamond and emerald, ruby, sapphire—
“They'll buy me many a fine fat yaffer!”
And muttering: “'Tis so rare a morsel—
So dainty—I dont wish the corse ill—
A luxury of so great a price!”
Our hero mouth'd, and nothing nice,
Bit off the finger in a trice:
And now from tinner fast on tinner
Squire Ned slunk back, a conscious sinner,
Inter arenosa loca—
Then whoop'd—“saw—saw ye not a phoca?”
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The seal was welcome to the body.
Yet seal was never seen, 'twas said;
And hence they named him “phoca Ned!”
But Ned had made a lucky hit,
And chuckled over the tit-bit.
Not many generations have passed away, since the Cornish country squires have had no objection to share in the rich wrecks that blessed their lucky shores.
What is here commemorated, was a real incident. Squire Ned was a progenitor of one of the most ancient families in Cornwall. In his days a country squire had just “larning” enough to know, that “phoca was Latin” for a seal; whilst he used the provincialisms of the lowest farmers—whit for white— “yaffer” for heifer.
TO A LADY,
in whose garden an adder, at the foot of an apple-tree, prevented the fruit from being stolen.
A dragon, in fables of old, was the wardenOf Hesperithusa's delectable garden—
(Anticlimax indeed—at the foot of the ladder!)
You tell us, your pippins are watch'd by an adder!
A LESSON
for caution, in the presence of children.
Pueris coram reverentia.
Take care not to say, if you'd not have it told,
To what party yourself you addict;
When a babe is your echo—not quite three years old,
“He's a radical, and must be kickt!”
This is literally a fact. A gentleman said of another—“He is a radical, and deserves to be kicked,” in the presence of his little boy, not quite three years old. Several months after, the radical called at the gentleman's house, when the child immediately as he entered the parlour, ran to him and kicked him. “How is this?” cried the father—“What's the matter?” “Why you said you know—he's a radical, and must be kicked.” The gentleman did not recollect that he ever said it. But this clever little fellow, I dare say, was probably right.
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THE DEAN; OR SNUFF-COURTSHIP.
Descending in a golden shower,Great Jove came down to Danae's tower.
Our Dean, who deals in other stuff,
Carries his point by showers of snuff;
And though, in sooth, low people trust,
As they make love, to yellow dust,
And think not, to supply the lack O!
Of gold, by pinches of tobacco;
And from the tasteful test would flinch,
If put thus nicely to the pinch;
Yet, with such pretty playful knocks
Our worthy Dean did rap his box,
And cast about him with such grace,
And such a pleasant “power of face,”
An odour to outvie the rose,
From particles that miss'd his nose,
That soon in palpable reality
He proved its titillating quality.
In short he felt, attach'd to Nation,
The fine effect of titillation.
So Celia, as it seems, was pleas'd!—
And “love inspiring Cupid sneez'd!”
This was an impromptu on a worthy Dean, who won a fair lady by his graceful manœuvres in taking snuff.
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Hogg succeeded Cardew, and Dr. Ryall, Hogg, as master of Truro Grammar School.
In master Busby, WestminsterA sovereign did revere:
Thus, master Ryall, I aver
Is half a Busby here!
You ask me how? Then put it to the trial—
And lo! just half a sovereign in a rial!
We all recollect the anecdote of Busby, at Westminster, asserting the sovereign, even in the Royal presence.
A rial, an old gold coin, its value half a sovereign; which this moment reminds me of parson Patten, the facetious curate of Whitstable; to whom, in extreme distress, Archbishop Secker sent, I think, 20 angels. “Tell the Primate (said he) that now I own him to be a man of God—for I have seen his angels.” The angel was likewise a gold coin worth ten shillings or half a sovereign.
Lan-deu-wednac—the black and white church; consisting of whitish granite and dark-coloured serpentine alternately disposed —a sort of chequerwork. It is surprising that our etymologists should have been all puzzled about the meaning of the word— so obvious on a view of the building. This, however, was the case. Old Sandys of the Lizard was “weary with conjectures.”
LANDEUWEDNAC.
The Church and Tower—unde derivatur?
Often, to put us to the rackConjecture makes a rout;
But, from this Church, here white, there black,
The very stones cry out:
“You know what's deu and widnac too;
“My name then, if you crave it,
I'll tell you, without more ado,
In black and white you have it.”
We all recollect the anecdote of Busby, at Westminster, asserting the sovereign, even in the Royal presence.
160
BEDLAM BROKE LOOSE.
Behold from the Bell school or Bedlam,
(Each urchin fat as any fed lamb)
The insulting tribe play, prank on prank,
And grinning at old age or rank,
Hurl pebbles round, and smash out windows;
Not so the little harmless Hindoos
Tho' Heathen boys, nor squall nor squeak:
But windows they have none to break.
(Each urchin fat as any fed lamb)
The insulting tribe play, prank on prank,
And grinning at old age or rank,
Hurl pebbles round, and smash out windows;
Not so the little harmless Hindoos
Tho' Heathen boys, nor squall nor squeak:
But windows they have none to break.
That grizzling imp, it seems, could tell
That Hades should be read for hell!
A second, scarcely kept in check,
Sang all about Melchisedeck;
Another laughing in his sleeve,
Told us how frail was mother Eve.
That Hades should be read for hell!
A second, scarcely kept in check,
Sang all about Melchisedeck;
Another laughing in his sleeve,
Told us how frail was mother Eve.
These of the school who form'd the van,
Stoned, t' other day, a poor blind man;
And, a fit sacrifice for Tophet,
Reckless, they would have stoned the Prophet.
To curb such wicked wit, I know,
I wish them all at Jericho;
Where, so convenient is the place,
Full soon, if not extinct the race,
Elisha's bears, with welcome close,
Of freaks would give them a strong dose!
And, they would own, a bear's embrace,
Bidding them up their shoulders shrug,
Is close as any Cornish hug!
Stoned, t' other day, a poor blind man;
And, a fit sacrifice for Tophet,
Reckless, they would have stoned the Prophet.
To curb such wicked wit, I know,
I wish them all at Jericho;
Where, so convenient is the place,
Full soon, if not extinct the race,
Elisha's bears, with welcome close,
Of freaks would give them a strong dose!
And, they would own, a bear's embrace,
Bidding them up their shoulders shrug,
Is close as any Cornish hug!
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DIE OF THE DOCTOR.
“The Doctor! the Doctor!” he made such a rout,But now he's clean gone, all is coming about;
The pulse in each patient, too quick or too slow,
The moan of despondence, the visage of woe—
Where are they?—Say, where is the tic doloureux?
'Twas his ominous phiz of dire import that shock'd her!—
And well nigh my daughter had “died of the Doctor!”
THE DOCTOR TURNED PATIENT.
Good Sir! the pillbox, gallipot and phial,
Must erelong put my pocket to the trial.
Ponderous the package I've just sent away—
O what a sum (thinks I) the deuce to pay!
Must erelong put my pocket to the trial.
Ponderous the package I've just sent away—
O what a sum (thinks I) the deuce to pay!
Yet though so many a potion—many a pill—
To an enormous size swell out your bill;
Long suffering, (but I fancy on the fret),
You whisper not a word about my debt.
Thus in new attitudes it seems we're stationed—
You are not now my Doctor, but my Patient!
To an enormous size swell out your bill;
Long suffering, (but I fancy on the fret),
You whisper not a word about my debt.
Thus in new attitudes it seems we're stationed—
You are not now my Doctor, but my Patient!
BEERSHOPS.
Whether Beershops encourage or not inebriety,Of opinions, it seems, there has been a variety.
But, unless he would fly in the face of an Act,
(The product, too true, of the crazy or crackt)
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An honester subject the deeper he drinks;
And a sot tho' he be, who can fancy the blame is his,
Required by the law “to be drunk on the premises?”
“Honestum,” as applied to Bacchus. And of our Bacchanals here we may well say:
“Complentur vallesque cavæ, saltusque profundi.”—Geor. II. 391.
On the board over the Beershop, is the Beer, or are the Drinkers of beer, directed by the Act of Parliament “to be drunk on the premises?” —Qu.?
THE SONNET OUT OF JOINT.
It happen'd about a lugubrious opuscle
An old Bard of Truro was making a bustle,
In hot agitation exclaiming: “Fie on it!
The blunder hath spoil'd the effect of my sonnet:
The Devil had come with a proof, very sly—
Said the Bard to the Devil—“You 've put out my Eye!”
An old Bard of Truro was making a bustle,
In hot agitation exclaiming: “Fie on it!
The blunder hath spoil'd the effect of my sonnet:
The Devil had come with a proof, very sly—
Said the Bard to the Devil—“You 've put out my Eye!”
“See under”—'Tis only cast down,” quoth the Devil,
With a grin on his countenance rather uncivil.
“'Tis not cast away—though perhaps on the brink;
At a slip Sir! so slight, may we hope you will wink?
I cannot but say that it seems all awry—
And well may we call it a cast of the Eye.”
With a grin on his countenance rather uncivil.
“'Tis not cast away—though perhaps on the brink;
At a slip Sir! so slight, may we hope you will wink?
I cannot but say that it seems all awry—
And well may we call it a cast of the Eye.”
“Cast down, to be sure! But, good Sir, to be righted
If you wish, in a twinkling we'll make you upsighted!
And, bless me! it seems after all to belong
To a “multitude”—yea to the deuce of a throng!
So, whate'er from above or below it espy,
Old Argus, to this, scarcely had a cat's eye.”
If you wish, in a twinkling we'll make you upsighted!
And, bless me! it seems after all to belong
To a “multitude”—yea to the deuce of a throng!
So, whate'er from above or below it espy,
Old Argus, to this, scarcely had a cat's eye.”
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Cried the Poet—“For such an abuse of your types,
And your pert repartees, you deserve many stripes!”
And he bluster'd yet more in a fume, till at last
The Devil himself, like his types, was downcast:
And from flagellation, exceedingly shy,
Sneak'd away, on the Bard as he cast a sheep's-eye.
And your pert repartees, you deserve many stripes!”
And he bluster'd yet more in a fume, till at last
The Devil himself, like his types, was downcast:
And from flagellation, exceedingly shy,
Sneak'd away, on the Bard as he cast a sheep's-eye.
“Stop—stop—you should know (said the gray Sonneteer)
To me and my race reputation is dear;
I tell you—(the Devil look'd shrewd and asquint)
'Tis of moment to me, tho' you see nothing in't.
Provoking!”—when whisper'd a Wag who stood by,
“Hold your tongue—no more nonsense—'tis all in my eye!”
To me and my race reputation is dear;
I tell you—(the Devil look'd shrewd and asquint)
'Tis of moment to me, tho' you see nothing in't.
Provoking!”—when whisper'd a Wag who stood by,
“Hold your tongue—no more nonsense—'tis all in my eye!”
THE SONNET.
Dunstanville!—Is it not the funeral knellThat seems to gather visionary glooms,
Deepening the shadows of the nodding plumes
O'er “down and dale,” to where thy Fathers rest?
Again—again I hear its solemn swell,
Sad monitor of frail mortality!
O in that stillness—in that sudden pause
“Without a breath”—O is there not the applause
To shame the shouts of millions!
I hail, in all that countless multitude, [every eye]
Set on thy Coronet—in sooth to say:
“Number'd on earth amongst the great and good,
Be thine, in blessing others only blest,
The incorruptible Crown, through Heaven's eternal day!”
The above sonnet was so printed. See the ninth line, in which “every eye” occurred instead of the preceding line. It is literally a fact, that the printer's devil brought me a proof, with this dislocation, but disregarded my correction.
164
STATUES IN VOGUE.
Statues to patriots, poets, sages,
Of brass were rear'd in former ages.
Pisander had, “in glory great,”
A brazen statue from the State;
And brass, in proof of wit to charm us,
The semblance stood of Epicharmus.
Of brass were rear'd in former ages.
Pisander had, “in glory great,”
A brazen statue from the State;
And brass, in proof of wit to charm us,
The semblance stood of Epicharmus.
So much in vogue are statues now,
We thus would celebrate a cow;
And, whether it were lead or brass,
Thus too, would memorize an ass.
Homage, like this, no doubt, our Lander
Deserves as well as old Pisander;
And, thro' all Danmon, every anvil
Would music make for Lord Dunstanville;
Tho' we assert, without a query,
His fame will live, perennius ære.
We thus would celebrate a cow;
And, whether it were lead or brass,
Thus too, would memorize an ass.
Homage, like this, no doubt, our Lander
Deserves as well as old Pisander;
And, thro' all Danmon, every anvil
Would music make for Lord Dunstanville;
Tho' we assert, without a query,
His fame will live, perennius ære.
But I am stunn'd, at such a rate, O!
To hear the clamours for a statue
Blazoning the Patriot, whose pretence
To honour, was sheer impudence:—
Of brass indeed—and with good reason
Aptly to represent him—brazen!
To hear the clamours for a statue
Blazoning the Patriot, whose pretence
To honour, was sheer impudence:—
Of brass indeed—and with good reason
Aptly to represent him—brazen!
A cow near Truro, that produced three pounds of butter every day for some months, the farmers said, at a late Agricultural Meeting, was “worthy of a statue!”
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ON AN IMPUDENT BULL OF O'CONNELL.
It would, perhaps, with horror fill us,To see thee perish like Perillus.
The sentence I would fain annul—
Yet hast thou made a brazen Bull.
KARNBRE.
—A Fragment.
Apeing the Antiquary, with strange airsAnother “a round tow'r” proposes!
I am on tiptoe to break squares
With such a Rounder; or to pull the noses
Of those who, rattling in contempt their purses,
Give me the credit due—for making verses!
So said a man of rank, but a Rad. ------ Borlase is very fanciful in his description of Karnbre. I have seen so many rock basins in Devon and Cornwall, evidently not artificial—in similar situations with those on Karnbre—that I cannot but protest against all that Borlase has conjectured on the subject. That sublime moonlight picture of Stonehenge, which I had in memory, but could no where find—and in search of which I have repeatedly sent my literary correspondents, I danced almost for joy on discovering, as quoted by Borlase from “West's Inst. of the Garter”—
------ those stupendous monumentsThat oft amaze the wandering traveller,
By the pale moon discern'd on Sarum's plain.
Borlase's Antiqu. p. 113.
West's Poem perhaps may be found in Dodsley's Collection of Poems, which I have not seen for many years.
166
EPITAPH ON TWO FAITHFUL DOGS,
Cæsar and Nelson. 1835.
Buried beneath Napoleon's willows,Here rest two very faithful fellows.
High names they nobly bore, or else on
Cæsar, they “made a lie,” and Nelson!
If ask'd of each—why stole he on
The relics of Napoleon—
I answer, that to rival Bony,
They flush'd a cock or chased a coney;
Both in pursuit of licens'd game.
Sure was their scent, and just their aim.
And I am certain that our Cæsar
To puff up Vanity, or ease her,
Ne'er wrote a Commentary-tattle,
To tell us all about a battle;
And that our Nelson, not for booty,
Did (more than every man) his duty.
My two late housedogs lie buried near the spot where my son planted a slip or two which he had plucked from Buonaparte's willow at St. Helena.
This resembles one of the epitaphs in Theocritus—“the sweet Sicilian Bard”—“done into English” by me 55 years ago. My translation was asleep, I believe. But a kind Critic in Fraser's admirable Magazine has just awakened it from its slumbers. He thought, too, I was lost in the delirium of old age stealing from life.—Alas! it is far otherwise!
ON HEARING AN ASS BRAY.
THE SURE SIGN OF A CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.
Thus an Ass in the political hemisphere:—
Heard ye a hoot across the heather?It augurs ill; nor deem it strange
That in the times, as in the weather,
We thus forbode an ominous change:
167
The braying Ass portends a storm.
This was one of the corporation squibs played off from time to time during the tortures of disfranchisement.
THE DEFUNCT CORPORATION.
Oct. 9, 1835.
------ “Oh! gone—for ever gone—
(It squeak'd)—the glorious days! All bone and muscle
Am I; who once with such a bulky bustle
Amidst the million stalk'd—a mighty Burgess!
My voice of thunder beating Boanerges!
(It squeak'd)—the glorious days! All bone and muscle
Am I; who once with such a bulky bustle
Amidst the million stalk'd—a mighty Burgess!
My voice of thunder beating Boanerges!
“Farewell the pomp (to excel a raree-show)
When marshall'd in array we loved to go,
Like four-and-twenty fiddlers in a row!”
When marshall'd in array we loved to go,
Like four-and-twenty fiddlers in a row!”
“This, as he strode with desultory pace,
Eyeing asquint the consequential mace;
That puff'd, tho' limping from a gouty twinge,
With all the flatulence of silk and fringe!”
Eyeing asquint the consequential mace;
That puff'd, tho' limping from a gouty twinge,
With all the flatulence of silk and fringe!”
“Alas! heart-breaking to depict our woe, is—
But ‘fuimus’ we were—we once were ‘Troes’!
Long since our thumb-rings had portentous cracks;
But now our gowns are stript from off our backs!”
But ‘fuimus’ we were—we once were ‘Troes’!
Long since our thumb-rings had portentous cracks;
But now our gowns are stript from off our backs!”
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—From a melting cloud soft Pity stoop'd,
To mark in twilight Consultation grouped
Those whom we honour, though with laughing eyes,
Not on the “bridge of asses” but “of sighs!”
To mark in twilight Consultation grouped
Those whom we honour, though with laughing eyes,
Not on the “bridge of asses” but “of sighs!”
Lo! the hour comes (for dogs must have their day)
When all the Corporation shall be clay.
'Tis then around each honourable grave
Some emblematic plant may wind or wave.
Here, o'er this stone shall creep the clasping hops;
There speckled foxgloves shall unclose their cups!
When all the Corporation shall be clay.
'Tis then around each honourable grave
Some emblematic plant may wind or wave.
Here, o'er this stone shall creep the clasping hops;
There speckled foxgloves shall unclose their cups!
And there the specious heliotrope, that won
By splendour, turns to court the rising sun.
By splendour, turns to court the rising sun.
Yet shall, its loftiness brought low, the plane
No more aspire to kiss the steeple—vane;
Yet shall yon elm, whose trunk had once increas'd
(The fine effect of many a venison-feast)
To such a vast circumference, that our Rector
Thence oft deduced a moralizing lecture,
No more o'er half the graves its branches fling,
But sympathize in death with Church and King:
Yet the tall poplar, (erst with fatness fed)
As shrivel up its roots and droops its head,
Shall in the poor defunct set sadly forth,
How hath declin'd the Borough's festal worth;
And the sick Alder in consumption show,
Meet type! its meagre Alder-man below!
No more aspire to kiss the steeple—vane;
Yet shall yon elm, whose trunk had once increas'd
(The fine effect of many a venison-feast)
To such a vast circumference, that our Rector
Thence oft deduced a moralizing lecture,
No more o'er half the graves its branches fling,
But sympathize in death with Church and King:
Yet the tall poplar, (erst with fatness fed)
As shrivel up its roots and droops its head,
Shall in the poor defunct set sadly forth,
How hath declin'd the Borough's festal worth;
And the sick Alder in consumption show,
Meet type! its meagre Alder-man below!
In proof of the bodily hugeness of the Emperor Maximius the Elder, his thumb is recorded to have been so large, as to bear upon it his Queen's right hand bracelet for a ring. [Hist. Aug. Scriptores, 606. Capitolinus.]
We know an Alderman's thumb-ring to have been an object familiar to the eyes of Shakspeare. [Arch. III. 390, Sir Jos. Ayloffe, and Shakspeare's Part I. of Henry IV. Act II. Scene IV.] “When I was about thy years, Hal, I was not an Eagle's talon in the waist: I could have crept into any alderman's thumb-ring.”
An Alderman's thumb-ring is mentioned by Brome, in the Antipodes, 1640; again in the Northern Cap, 1632; again in Wit in a Constable, 1640. See Johnson and Steevens's Edit. 1793, Vol. VIII. 463.
Light gold, and crack'd within the ring.[Ben. Jons. Magn. Lady.]
Flawed in such a manner as to diminish its value. Here we are reminded of the days of Bamber Gascoigne; when a cloud seemed to hang over the Borough. But it was soon dissipated.
We laugh at their awkward situation, whilst we lament the annihilation of their official dignity. The Borough of Truro has been always considered as the most respectable of all the corporations in the Western Counties. Not an instance of any peculation— of any wanton expenditure of the public money—of any abuse of power, has occurred, I believe, in the history of our Municipal Government. The dissolution, therefore, of the political existence of a corporate body, who, following the steps of their predecessors, well merit the gratitude of “faithful Cornwall,” (for their influence in Cornwall is of no mean account) must be the subject of regret and indignation with all who wish well to old England. With respect to the sepulchral emblems, the playfulness of the Muse must be taken as it was meant—mere jocularity. No human being is faultless. But I cannot charge any individual in the present groupe with the slightest deviation from all that is just and fair and honourable among men.
169
NOT DEAD BUT DYING.
“Yet,” (cried a voice that issued, I declareIf not from the Town-steward, from the Mayor)
“We'll put, as well-nigh finish'd is our course,
A recent Act of Parliament in force.
Ere yet (he foam'd and flash'd as passion work'd—
So brown-stout foams and flashes when uncork'd)
Ere yet (he cough'd and spat with short quick breath
And seem'd to dart the lightning before death)—
170
Hints with a sneer, ‘not dead, but soon to die.’)—
Against the race canine we set our faces,
In spite of inuendoes or grimaces;
And (sure a deed to grace the civic wreath)
We'll hang up every dog that shews his teeth!
Say not to tortering Power it gives no help,
To drown a mongrel or dispatch a whelp;
But hold your tongues; nor thus with shrugs on shrugs,
Suggest that you are now akin to dogs.
Quick, constables! scent out and shoot the terriers!
And wreak your rage on lapdogs, spaniels, harriers;
Nor shake, afraid to stop—afraid to fly
From shaggy fierceness or the bloodshot eye!”
The first Recorder, under Elizabeth's charter, bearing date 1589, was Robert Trencreeke of Treworgan, whose daughter Catherine married Degory son of John Polwhele, M.P. for the county of Cornwall. By this marriage, Treworgan became the property of the Polwhele family.
The last Recorder we venerate in the Earl of Falmouth (“Not dead, but dying.”) Among the capital Burgesses we find names of high respectability. Avery [1689]; Ennys, Foote, Polwhele, [1722]; Hussey, Mander, Coster, Thomas, Lemon, [1731]; Vivian, Conon, Macormick, Rosewarne, Cardew, Pellew, Boscawen, Russell, Luxmore, Hoblyn, Daubuz, Carlyon, &c. &c.
John Foote, the first Townclerk in the list before me [1676] held office twenty-six years. Gregor, Hussey, and Mander were likewise Townclerks.
The first operation under the new Act, &c. for improving the Borough, was a public notice, (in which as a justice, &c. I was desired to join the Mayor) that “all dogs suffered to go at large through the streets would be destroyed.” It was reported that the constables, &c. had slighted our order. But this was not a fact. A great number of dogs were seized, &c.
------ The lightning flew
Before his death, which Pallas was to give.
Chapman's Homer, Il. xv. p. 213.
Before his death, which Pallas was to give.
Chapman's Homer, Il. xv. p. 213.
Ray inserts it as a proverb,—“It's a lightning before death.”
“To meddle with a mastiff, hound, or cur,
Would cast upon our consequence a slur:
We, who eftsoon shall hold the sovereign sway—
Shall big Tenpounders tremble and obey?”
Would cast upon our consequence a slur:
We, who eftsoon shall hold the sovereign sway—
Shall big Tenpounders tremble and obey?”
Scarce could the menace from his mouth escape,
Ere, each abandoning his proper shape,
He and his myrmidons, not more imbruted,
Were on a sudden into dogs transmuted!
Ere, each abandoning his proper shape,
He and his myrmidons, not more imbruted,
Were on a sudden into dogs transmuted!
And lo! his Worship, scowling as in scorn,
Himself transform'd, perceiv'd a sprouting horn,
And felt his branching honours, and with dread
Stamp'd his slim legs, and shook his antler'd head!
Himself transform'd, perceiv'd a sprouting horn,
And felt his branching honours, and with dread
Stamp'd his slim legs, and shook his antler'd head!
A dog-killer on the Continent was appointed to kill dogs in the hot months.—“Would take you now in the habit of a dog-killer in this month of August.”—Ben. Jonson, Bart. Fair.
Opening in many a wild unearthly tongue,
Bloodhounds and beagles at his haunches hung;
And, flesh'd in carnage, had attack'd his throat,
But for a most arresting shrilling note!
Panier'd and ginger-tail'd from Mevagizzy,
In selling plaice and pikes a Jackass busy,
Was struck (since man or ass a hubbub strikes)
And in a panic flung down all his pikes!
Prick'd up his brother asses their long ears,
And bray'd outrageous as to rend the spheres!
The obstreperous hooting thrill'd all Lemon-street,
Pierc'd Donkey-bridge, and linger'd o'er the Leet,
And swam back tremulous from Tregolls, and won
An echo more distinct from Alverton.
Bloodhounds and beagles at his haunches hung;
And, flesh'd in carnage, had attack'd his throat,
But for a most arresting shrilling note!
171
In selling plaice and pikes a Jackass busy,
Was struck (since man or ass a hubbub strikes)
And in a panic flung down all his pikes!
Prick'd up his brother asses their long ears,
And bray'd outrageous as to rend the spheres!
The obstreperous hooting thrill'd all Lemon-street,
Pierc'd Donkey-bridge, and linger'd o'er the Leet,
And swam back tremulous from Tregolls, and won
An echo more distinct from Alverton.
From house to house the strange commotion spread;
From creaking casements poked out many a head—
Gray gossips (who besure had heard an ass—
Not so uproarious) wonder'd what it was!
Smart milliners, who well nigh lost their wits,
Or fluttering fell into hysteric fits;
And 'prentic'd girls (whom lovesick sighs bewitch,
Skim the light gauze and flit from stitch to stitch),
Who dream, as stealthy twilight shuts their shops,
Of assignations in Bosvigo-copse;
Rous'd from their soothing reveries, look'd round,
And “thought a Damon sobb'd in every sound.”
From creaking casements poked out many a head—
Gray gossips (who besure had heard an ass—
Not so uproarious) wonder'd what it was!
Smart milliners, who well nigh lost their wits,
Or fluttering fell into hysteric fits;
And 'prentic'd girls (whom lovesick sighs bewitch,
Skim the light gauze and flit from stitch to stitch),
Who dream, as stealthy twilight shuts their shops,
Of assignations in Bosvigo-copse;
Rous'd from their soothing reveries, look'd round,
And “thought a Damon sobb'd in every sound.”
Strait in the tumult fled, and strain'd to flee on
The wings as of the wind—so fled Actæon!
In full cry follow'd by the yelping crew,
The wings as of the wind—so fled Actæon!
O'er half the town his horned Worship flew!
The Radicals—the Destructives!—
------ Ea turba cupidine prædæ
Per rupes, scopulosque adituque carentia saxa,
Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla feruntur!
On mux or pilm macadamizing tramp'd,
------ Ea turba cupidine prædæ
Per rupes, scopulosque adituque carentia saxa,
Qua via difficilis, quaque est via nulla feruntur!
And on three Radicals in fury stamp'd—
Base grovellers, who lay floundering; in the lurch
Left, where he erst was throned, St. Mary's Church,
172
Now as he gain'd the Castle's topmost height;
And now descending smoked down Goody-Lane,
And whirling smash'd out windows, pane on pane.
One little moment cheer'd: “Avaunt, avaunt!”
He would have cried, and toss'd his beaming front,
And over Daubuz-moors with rapid strides
Shook the sick sweat-drops from his dappled sides.
Yet nearer, hot upon his Worship's breech,—
He would have cried, but had no power of speech:
“Full soon will you deplore this dire disaster!
“Ah! cruel! can you massacre your master?”
When he laid sprawling, by one desperate blow,
Agriolos—and next Hylactor low.
The “big-round tears” roll down his “innocent nose:”
But pitiless are all the factious folks—
To such “the big round tears” are only jokes!
And Pterilas and Thoas, either flank,
And fierce Theridamas, besmear'd with gore,
His quivering windpipe all asunder tore;
And “mercy! mercy!” with imploring eye
In vain he craved, and laid him down to die;
And, (what of stags, wherever born or bred,
Or e'en of Mayors is very seldom said)
Heaved his last death-groan—on a Featherbed!
One of the boundaries of the Borough. The Mayor and Corporation perambulating the Borough, halt at Featherbed in Kenwyn, and perform certain ceremonies.
173
Oct. 1835.
“GOING—GOING—GONE!”
The timid will no longer fawn.
“The snarling dog—his teeth are drawn:
Now, let him try with all his might;
He still may growl, but cannot bite.”
“The snarling dog—his teeth are drawn:
Now, let him try with all his might;
He still may growl, but cannot bite.”
Whilst some look silly, others sly on,
All would insult the old sick Lion.
No sooner was this thought or said,
Than flew the intelligence—“He 's dead.”
Here then (as not a cur that greets
His feverish Phillis in the streets;
Or Selima, that caterwawls
To mingle in the midnight brawls;
Or harlot that, for love or chink,
Cooes, hovering round a kidliwink;
Or rompish Miss, that, willy-nilly,
Draws after her a Locke or Lilly,
By moonshine seen to kiss and squeeze,—
Enough indeed to raise the breeze;
Or, having in his brain a twist,
Horsedoctor, or ventriloquist,
Of weightier matter for the lack,
But sets a going the town-clack.)—
Here—in presuming is it vanity
That, (gossips!) amid such inanity—
Poor humble I—may take my turn,
And nine days at oblivion spurn?
I mean—if dragg'd, another Hector,
Nine times from theatre to lecture,
From brilliant ball to public breakfast,
Nine times—till left alone to stick fast—
May serve, in buskin, sock or sandal,
To feed the appetite for scandal,—
And victim to a girl's vagary,
Per ora virum volitare?
All would insult the old sick Lion.
No sooner was this thought or said,
Than flew the intelligence—“He 's dead.”
Here then (as not a cur that greets
His feverish Phillis in the streets;
Or Selima, that caterwawls
To mingle in the midnight brawls;
Or harlot that, for love or chink,
Cooes, hovering round a kidliwink;
Or rompish Miss, that, willy-nilly,
Draws after her a Locke or Lilly,
By moonshine seen to kiss and squeeze,—
Enough indeed to raise the breeze;
Or, having in his brain a twist,
Horsedoctor, or ventriloquist,
Of weightier matter for the lack,
But sets a going the town-clack.)—
Here—in presuming is it vanity
That, (gossips!) amid such inanity—
Poor humble I—may take my turn,
And nine days at oblivion spurn?
I mean—if dragg'd, another Hector,
Nine times from theatre to lecture,
From brilliant ball to public breakfast,
Nine times—till left alone to stick fast—
May serve, in buskin, sock or sandal,
To feed the appetite for scandal,—
And victim to a girl's vagary,
Per ora virum volitare?
174
Well:—with a radiance rare to treat ye,
From cocoa, if not spermaceti,
Blazoning her quarterly grand gala—
But doom'd on vulgar nights to tallow,
(E'en to a rushlight's gleam or twinkle)
Grim dowager! see madam Winkel.
Prompt on her neighbours to pass sentence,
On kith or kin or no acquaintance,
Suppose her (the big room hath scope)
Set down at Whist, All-fours, and Pope—
Perchance Back-gammon, Chess, Picquet,
(Or any game on which to bet)
Cribbage and Loo, and eke Quadrille:
Not that the dame herself could fill,
(Know, I adopt the Homeric phrase)
The tables “spreading” in my lays,
All peradventure, their “green” baize!
Or rather I'm not such an oaf, as
To dream, that she at once ten sofas,—
Ten Ottomans (say more or less)
Could with her own sweet bottom press.
“Have you not heard, it chill'd my blood,”
Squall'd one of the stale sisterhood,
“Old Fudge died suddenly at five?
“I've miss'd the deal, as I'm alive!
“They say his sister's in the dumps!
“But my good friend, pray, what are trumps?
“Oh! I was speaking of his sister—”
“I wish that tongue of yours a blister—
“I'm told, his wife is sore and sick!”
“Sir! can we help it?—the odd trick!
“I care not who may bounce or blubber;
“Certain it is—we win the rubber!”
From cocoa, if not spermaceti,
Blazoning her quarterly grand gala—
But doom'd on vulgar nights to tallow,
(E'en to a rushlight's gleam or twinkle)
Grim dowager! see madam Winkel.
Prompt on her neighbours to pass sentence,
On kith or kin or no acquaintance,
Suppose her (the big room hath scope)
Set down at Whist, All-fours, and Pope—
Perchance Back-gammon, Chess, Picquet,
(Or any game on which to bet)
Cribbage and Loo, and eke Quadrille:
Not that the dame herself could fill,
(Know, I adopt the Homeric phrase)
The tables “spreading” in my lays,
All peradventure, their “green” baize!
Or rather I'm not such an oaf, as
To dream, that she at once ten sofas,—
Ten Ottomans (say more or less)
Could with her own sweet bottom press.
“Have you not heard, it chill'd my blood,”
Squall'd one of the stale sisterhood,
“Old Fudge died suddenly at five?
“I've miss'd the deal, as I'm alive!
“They say his sister's in the dumps!
“But my good friend, pray, what are trumps?
175
“I wish that tongue of yours a blister—
“I'm told, his wife is sore and sick!”
“Sir! can we help it?—the odd trick!
“I care not who may bounce or blubber;
“Certain it is—we win the rubber!”
To dignify the important board,
Mute for a moment sat my Lord.
“No doubt the man had my regards:”
(As slowly he dealt out the cards—)
“Though rumour tells a different story,
“He was a most determin'd Tory.
“Flatter'd and menaced, pommell'd, pincht,
“By friends and foes—he never flinch'd!
“Would that—but now 'tis all the same!”
“My Lord (quoth Cecil) mind the game.”
“Spite of the O'Connells or O'Connors
I bless my stars—we're four by honours.”
Mute for a moment sat my Lord.
“No doubt the man had my regards:”
(As slowly he dealt out the cards—)
“Though rumour tells a different story,
“He was a most determin'd Tory.
“Flatter'd and menaced, pommell'd, pincht,
“By friends and foes—he never flinch'd!
“Would that—but now 'tis all the same!”
“My Lord (quoth Cecil) mind the game.”
“Spite of the O'Connells or O'Connors
I bless my stars—we're four by honours.”
Check'd in their voluble career
The Pope-Joan prattlers—Dick look'd queer,
Nell titter'd—Jane—she shed—a tear!
One only, who was seldom quiet,
Whose tongue from morn to night ran riot,
(That little member,—which—so fell—
So foul—is set on fire of hell)
One only (it seems) almost throttled
By syllables too closely bottled,
And with the feeling of a spasm,
From jabbering to supply the chasm,
Where her throat rued the hysteric globe—
(While whizz'd and rattled, lobe on lobe,
With respiration hard her lungs)
Thus to the very tongue of tongues
(Oh! school her in the school of Molly!)
Gave utterance and let off a volley:
“Lor! how did I enjoy the joke;
“(My sins, you know, I never cloak)
“When whirl'd about and tottering, plump
“I well nigh flung him on his rump,
“Where he was kicking the flag-stones—
“No wonder, had I crack'd his bones!
“Aye! flung him! Lor! 'twas such a sputter!
“Almost downright into the gutter!
“They tell me I delight in jostling—
“Especially in parson-hustling!
“'Twas not, indeed, with much decorum,
“I elbow'd one of the high quorum,
“In whom, right worshipful, my trust is—
“In front of his own court of justice!
“So that I fear'd a mittimus;
“Or that dread thing (so vast a fuss
“Is made about it)—the treadmill—
“Perhaps—the stocks, or what you will!
“Well! let the parson rest, dear Dick!
“The pavement he no more can kick!”
—“Stop, stop—nor heedless thus go on!
“For shame—where are we? Where is Joan?”
The Pope-Joan prattlers—Dick look'd queer,
Nell titter'd—Jane—she shed—a tear!
One only, who was seldom quiet,
Whose tongue from morn to night ran riot,
(That little member,—which—so fell—
So foul—is set on fire of hell)
One only (it seems) almost throttled
By syllables too closely bottled,
And with the feeling of a spasm,
From jabbering to supply the chasm,
Where her throat rued the hysteric globe—
(While whizz'd and rattled, lobe on lobe,
With respiration hard her lungs)
Thus to the very tongue of tongues
(Oh! school her in the school of Molly!)
176
“Lor! how did I enjoy the joke;
“(My sins, you know, I never cloak)
“When whirl'd about and tottering, plump
“I well nigh flung him on his rump,
“Where he was kicking the flag-stones—
“No wonder, had I crack'd his bones!
“Aye! flung him! Lor! 'twas such a sputter!
“Almost downright into the gutter!
“They tell me I delight in jostling—
“Especially in parson-hustling!
“'Twas not, indeed, with much decorum,
“I elbow'd one of the high quorum,
“In whom, right worshipful, my trust is—
“In front of his own court of justice!
“So that I fear'd a mittimus;
“Or that dread thing (so vast a fuss
“Is made about it)—the treadmill—
“Perhaps—the stocks, or what you will!
“Well! let the parson rest, dear Dick!
“The pavement he no more can kick!”
—“Stop, stop—nor heedless thus go on!
“For shame—where are we? Where is Joan?”
At All-fours—a reforming rascal,
(Who studied Hoyle, though hot from Pascal)
As Alice snivell'd, frown'd or smirk'd,
His cards incontinently jerk'd;
And his dear person knock'd about,
And muttering, made a mighty rout.
“The dowager appears to slight us,
“And I—a martyr to St. Vitus—”
“Pray have you heard the news?” cried Alice,
(I fear 'twas with a spice of malice)
“This morning—never to come back
“Off went the justice!” “High, low, Jack!”
(Who studied Hoyle, though hot from Pascal)
As Alice snivell'd, frown'd or smirk'd,
His cards incontinently jerk'd;
And his dear person knock'd about,
And muttering, made a mighty rout.
“The dowager appears to slight us,
“And I—a martyr to St. Vitus—”
“Pray have you heard the news?” cried Alice,
(I fear 'twas with a spice of malice)
“This morning—never to come back
“Off went the justice!” “High, low, Jack!”
Kith or kin.
Mark with what meed vile vices are rewarded—Through envy I must lose both kith and kin.
Mirror for Magist. p. 291.
In Camden's Remains I find kiffe—probably a corruption of kith. Forsaking father and mother, kiffe and kinne, p. 214. [Edit. 1623.]
This, if supposed to allude to the scriptural “spreading like a green bay tree,” may imply something more. Of the gambler it may be said, he was spreading—he was fluorishing”—but lo! he was gone! I sought him, and his place could no where be found.”
I knew a lady at Exeter, who under the influence of animal magnetism, cried out: “O I shall shed—I shall shed!”—This is a provincial word—it does not mean to shed tears.
I allude to the tale of “Molly the Scold,” to whom was prescribed a cup of cold water, which, when she found her choler rising, she was to sip till she had sipped it all up.
Where two virginities intent
On pawns, nor less on rooks, yet listen'd:
Their eyes with indignation glisten'd!
177
The cards were so distinctly shuffled;
Afar off, in their genial nook,
They started from the devil's book—
Demurest of the tabby kind;
One, neither sitting nor reclin'd,
The other clad in garb subfusc,
Stiff as her steel or whalebone busk,
In tracts and trash the arch-arbitress,
Quaint in the corner, snug at chess.
Cried Edith—“That old drivelling fool,
He wrote against the Sunday school,
If not against the Bell, I'm sure—
Who could such petulance endure?
Then rail'd at Methodism, God wot!
And penn'd a song against a sot.”
“Oh!—I have lost the game!” scream'd Kate,
“Sad interruption—No—checkmate!”
Thus if they simper, scoff, or smile,
They give free current to their bile,
Till all, to close the clack confusion,
“Come to this sorrowful conclusion—
Yet “sorrowful”—without a sigh!
Curl'd was the lip with irony;
And frolic lit the twinkling eye.—
By learning and her sons forsaken,
They saw, as my poor frame was shaken,
Of disappointment many a token,
Announcing that I died heart-broken!—
In prose or in poetic fiction,
Have I complain'd of dereliction?
178
Full well I knew, nor nourish'd spleen.
I knew (still cheerful and lighthearted)
The weak are by the world deserted:
I knew that some, however civil,
Devoutly wish'd me to the devil.
Shy from my glance if Dennis stole,
I pitied him with all my soul:
His mean evasions to detect
I stoop'd not, but walk'd more erect!
Believe, or not believe my words,
I ne'er had much concern with Lords.
In youth, in age, with all my strength,
I've ever kept them at arm's length.
Yet, while reformers wreak their wrath on
The high possessor of Tregothnan,
Yet in Boscawen I hail the merit
Of ancient worth and patriot spirit;
And joy to hear each Cornish anvil
Ring for a statue to Dunstanville!
Ne'er did I hint I could not brook
The strange indifference to Tooke,
To whom we owe in quarto—folio—
Of taste and science such an olio!
I ne'er pronounc'd in phrase judicial
Benhaddads knowledge superficial—
I do not mean to offer any apology for those who devote themselves to cards. But I denounce not cards altogether: far from it. Much less do I object to music, vocal or instrumental— though neither psalms nor hymns. There are one or two (my opinion of whose good sense would have precluded the suspicion of such Puritanism) who object to a simple, innocent song—as profane. Heaven help them!
(Wild ass's colts) I caught a glimpse,
And saw of discipline the abuse—
All Bedlam seeming to break loose;
I to the sex (and oft I've said it)
Conceded not a grain of credit,
Yet seldom have I sent the ladies,
With their brats, “howling down to Hades!”
Vain human kind! How few have friends!
Who acts, but for his private ends?
179
Search in your study every book
Where wisdom speaks, from shelf to shelf—
Your best deeds centre in yourself:
The social passion Fancy paints
Alike in sinners and in saints,
Whilst in the moralist's account
Conceal'd from sight, but paramount,
Their motives we, alas! resolve,
Into that abject thing self-love,
Which o'er the bosom gently stealing
Too oft absorbs all other feeling,
Confess'd by few, but mourn'd by many,
In rebus quantum est inane!
And I have proved, in prose and metre,
This truth—Hoc sola mors fatetur.
183
THE END.
| Reminiscences, in Prose and Verse | |