The poetical works of William Lisle Bowles :: :: University of Virginia Library

Why art thou come, man of despair and blood!
To these green vales and streams, o'erhung with wood;
These hills, where, far from life's discordant throng,
The lonely goat-maid chaunts her matin song;
This sylvan glen, where age in peace reclines,
Soothed by the whisper of his native pines;
Where, in the twilight of his closing days,
Upon the glimmering lake he loves to gaze;
And, like his life, sees on the shadowy flood,
The still, sweet eve descending! Man of blood,
Break not his holy musings! Innocence
And peace these vales inhabit. Hie thee hence
To the waste wilderness, the mournful main,
To caves where silence and deep stillness reign,
Where God's eye only can the gloom pervade;
And shroud thy visage in their dreariest shade!
Or, if these scenes, so beauteous, may impart
A momentary softness to thine heart,
Let nature plead, plead for a guiltless land,
Ere yet thou lift'st the desolating brand;

224

Ere yet thou bidst the peaceful echoes swell
With havoc's shouts and many a mingled yell!
Pause yet a moment! By the beard
Of him whose eyes to heaven are reared;
By her who frantic lifts her helpless hand;
By those poor little ones, that speechless stand;
If thou hast nature in thee, oh relent,
Nor crush the lowly shed of virtue and content!
No golden shrines can tempt thy plunder here,
No jealous castles their dark turrets rear.
Peeping at dawn among the mountain vines,
The village pastor's simple mansion shines
Beneath the tower, the music of whose bells
Soft o'er the azure lake each Sabbath swells.
No lighted halls that blaze till morn reply
To sounds of proud, voluptuous revelry;
But one sweet pipe, by lingering lover played,
Cheers the dim valley as the day-tints fade;
Whilst, 'mid the rocks, the torrents, and the trees,
Her little world, with pride, affection sees.

Survey the prospect well. Soldier! dost thou
(Thy blood-red plumage waving o'er thy brow)
Bid the poor villagers, who in the shed
Of their forefathers eat their virtuous bread,
To hard oppression bend the prostrate knee,
Or learn benevolence and love from thee!
And dost thou talk of freedom! Freedom here
Lifted with death-denouncing frown her spear;
Here joining her loud voice's solemn call
To the deep thunders of the waterfall,
She hailed her chosen home: these dark woods rang
As her bold war-song on the rocks she sang.
At once a thousand banners to the air
Streaming, a thousand falchions brandished bare,

225

Proclaimed her sons' dread homage: We will die
Or live thy children, holiest Liberty!

Oh think of this! Alas! the voice is vain;
Poor injured land, thy brave, thy blameless train,
Thy lovely landscapes, bursting bright around,
Thy gleam that echoed every cheering sound,
Thy rocks that gleamed with many a high-hung cot,
And Freedom's holy name, avail thee not!

Then rise, insulted country! in despair
Lift thy brave arm so terrible, and swear,
Swear thou wilt never sheathe the avenging steel
Till thou hast made the fell invader feel
How vain the terrors of his glittering crest,
How warm the flame that fires a patriot's breast!
How nerved their arm, opposed to tenfold might,
Who for the dearest hopes, their homes, their offspring fight!
And, hark! even now, methought stern Freedom called,
From the wild shores of rocky Underwald!

Rush like the mountain avalanche on those
Who, foes to you, my sons, are Virtue's foes!
Lo, where the legions of insulting France
Already on your ravaged plains advance;
See your pale daughters, they for mercy plead;
Behold your white-haired sires, they sink, they bleed!
Oh! yet your patriot energies unite
To quell the insolent oppressor's might!

Behold the scene where your forefathers broke
And sternly trampled on the Austrian yoke!
Behold the spot where the undaunted band
First met, and, clasping each his brother's hand,
Bade the Almighty hear their solemn vow,
That never should their injured country bow,
A slave! then lifted in the midnight air
Their spears, whilst the dun rocks echoed—We swear!

226

Think that the dead behold you! He whose bow
Laid the grim tyrant of these valleys low,
On yonder eminence yet seems to stand;
To you he dimly waves his awful hand:
Go forth, my sons, in each bold bosom swell
The injured spirit of another Tell!
And rush, like yon huge avalanche, on those
Who, foes to you, are Freedom's, Virtue's foes!

So Freedom spake: she stood august and high;
Like a pale meteor shone her troubled eye;
She smote her shield, and, with indignant look,
More awful her uplifted war-spear shook.
From many a wild and woodland solitude,
O'erhung with snowy-silvered mountains rude;
From glassy lakes, or where the brawling brook
Wells, sparkling, through some beech-embowered nook;
From scattered chalets, decked with mantling vines,
Above whose blue smoke wave the impending pines;
From many a covert green, or gleaming rock,
The bold defenders of their country flock!

Upon a cliff, that at gray morning throws
Its shadow o'er the deep clear lake's repose,
Their gallant leader stands. Children, he cries,
And one sad tear-drop gathers in his eyes,
Their arms prevail! Helvetia mourns in vain!
Bound by the ruthless victor's galling chain,
We only 'mid these rocky ramparts find
Brief shelter from the vultures of mankind;
Hither they speed their desolating sway,
They flap their bloody pinions o'er their prey;
But we have hearts, my brethren, and we know
What to our country and our God we owe;
And we have arms, arms that may make them rue
(Though rude our ramparts, our defenders few),

227

The hour when they assailed this last retreat.
Feel we our hearts beat high, our pulses beat?
Death calls us, yet, oh, lowly let us bend,
And pray to Him who is the poor man's friend,
That he would guard our orphans when we bleed,
And shield them in the bitter hour of need!

Now, soldier, let thy huge artillery roar,
Thy marshalled columns flash along the shore,
Thy armed transports with long shadow ride
Terrific o'er the lake's once tranquil tide,
And thy loud trumpets bray, as in disdain
Of the poor tenants of the snowy plain.
They fear thee not, they are oppression's foes;
Unscared, thy march of carnage they oppose;
Though their fallen brethren have in vain withstood;
Though yet thy sword be red with their best blood;
Thy sword, thy steeds, thy legions, they defy,
And death is couched within their flashing eye!

Age has new energies; in traces weak
An angry hectic rises on his cheek;
And as his time-touched features kindling glow,
Lead me, he cries, yet lead me to the foe!
Stern manhood o'er his boy low murmuring bends,
Then, as his deadly weapon he extends,
Proudly exclaims, Freedom or death, my son!
And thou, O God of justice, lead us on!

Hark! with one shout they rush into the fight,
The pale foe shrinks before their gathering might!
Fragments of rocks in wild despair they wield,
And helms and shivered swords bestrew the field.
The frantic mother, hushing every grief,
Joins the dread scene, and to some plumed chief
All pale with rage, with desperation wild,
Cries, as she smites his heart: Hadst thou a child!

228

Unequal strife! the scene of death is o'er;
Mother and child lie side by side in gore!

When evening comes, through the lone cottage pane,
No light looks cheerful in the darkening plain,
No soothing sounds stray the dim hills along,
No home-returning goat-herd trills the song;
At intervals, wild accents of despair,
Or shouts are heard, or dismal nightfires glare;
But all is dark and silent near yon heap
Where the fallen heroes of the hamlet sleep;
Save that, at times, a hollow groan is heard,
Or melancholy cry of the night-bird;
Save where some dog, amid the scene of death,
Moans as he watches yet his master's breath;
Whilst with despair and love that seems to speak,
He licks the blood that stagnates on his cheek.
The morn looks through the hurrying clouds, the air
Sighs as it lifts, at times, the dead man's hair;
Upon those slaughtered heaps the cold stars shine,
And Freedom sighs: The triumph, Gaul, is thine!

Now dawns the morn o'er vales with blood defiled,
Where late affection's sweetest pictures smiled.
O'er the still lake how sadly peals the bell
That sounds of every earthly hope the knell!
Pale on the crimsoned snow, without a home,
The sad survivors of that death-storm roam;
Their infants, outcast on the desert plain,
Demand their mothers and their sires in vain;
And when the red sun leaves the darkening sky,
Amid those gory tracks sit down and sigh.

Shores of Lucerne! where many a winding bay
Shone beauteous to the morn's returning ray;
Where rosy tints upon the blue lake shone,
And touched the rock with colours not their own;

229

Who now, with eyes that swim in tenderness,
Those scenes to every virtue dear shall bless!
What pleasure now can the rich landscape yield,
The sparkling cataract, the pendent field,
'Mid hoar declivities, the sunny tower
Peering o'er beeches that its roof embower,
And cottage tops with light smoke trailing slow
O'er the gray vapours looming far below!
Who shall ascend proud Pilate's height, and mark
The motley clouds sail o'er the champagne dark,
Now breaking in fantastic forms, and now
Dappling the distant promontory's brow?
Then when the sun, that lights the scene, rides high,
And far away the scattered volumes fly,
Look up to the great God that rules the world,
By whom proud empires from their seats are hurled,
And feel a glow of holy gratitude,
That here, 'mid hollow glens and mountains rude,
Far from Ambition's march and Discord's yell,
Content with Love and Happiness should dwell.

Who now along those banks shall, listening, stray
When evening lights each inlet west away,
And hear the solitary boatman's oar
Dip duly as he nears the shaded shore;
Or catch the whispers of the waterfall
That through the ivied clefts swell musical?
These scenes, these sounds, could many a joy impart,
With sadness mixed. The wandering youth, whose heart
Was sick with many sorrows, resting here
At such an hour, forgot his starting tear;
He felt a pensive calm, sweeter than sleep,
Steal gently o'er his aching breast; the deep

230

And clear repose of the unruffled lake
His spirit seemed, unconscious, to partake;
And still the water, as it whispered near,
Or high woods, as they rustled, soothed his ear,
Like the remembrance of a melody
Heard in his infant, happy years gone by.
Now in his distant country, when, with tears,
The tale of ruffian violence he hears;
Hears that the spot which smiled with lovely gleam,
Like some sweet image of a tender dream,
Upon his morning path, is drenched with gore,
Its harmless tenants weltering on the shore;
He will exclaim, whilst from his breast he draws
A deep, deep sigh, Avenge, O God, their cause!

Who would not sigh for Switzerland! What heart
That ever bore in human woes a part;
That ever felt affection's genuine flame;
That ever leaped at injured Freedom's name;
Would not for her dark foes feel honest hate,
And swell with indignation at her fate!

If thus her lot of sorrow have impressed
Grief and resentment on a stranger's breast,
How must he hear the cruel tale of death,
He who in these sad vales first drew his breath!
'Tis his perhaps in distant climes to roam,
Far from the shelter of his early home;
Yet still, as fancy paints the spot, he sees
His father's cottage, and the mountain trees;
Again by the wild streams he seems to rove;
He hears the voice of her who won his love,
His heart's first love; for her he prunes the vine,
Whose clustering leaves the rustic porch entwine;
The mountain's van together they ascend;
They see Alps piled on Alps far on extend;

231

They mark the casual sunshine light the mass,
Or vernal showers along the valley pass;
Whilst tinging the dark rocks, more lovely glow
The braided colours of heaven's humid bow.
But now the maid he loved, with whom all day
He used in summer o'er the hills to stray,
The faithful maid he loved—oh! cold despair,
Freeze his warm life-blood; and that thrilling air,
Which erst he sang, when, all alive to joy,
He carolled on the Alps, a shepherd boy,
Let him not hear it now, lest tears quick start,
And madness harrow up his broken heart!

How touching was the simple strain! The tear
Of memory started when it met the ear;
And he whose front was rough with many a scar,
Whose bold heart bounded at the trump of war,
Stood all dissolved in sadness at its tone,
Remembering him of pleasant seasons gone.
Perhaps full many a heavy hour had passed,
Since in its native nooks he heard it last;
And when again its well-known music thrilled,
A thousand thronging recollections filled
His soul, that, sick with longing, homeward roved;
Remote from scenes which most on earth he loved,
Cast on a world tempestuous, bleak, and wide,
More ardent for his once-loved hills he sighed;
And sighed again to think how it might fare
With sisters, brothers, friends, and parents there;
For be its music and its name forgot,
The desert is his home, and those he loved are not!