Efforts :: :: University of Virginia Library

Efforts

By An Invalid [i.e. John Galt]

Galt, John (1779-1839)

[section]

THE APOCALYPSE OF ST. COLM.

THE LEGEND OF THE FLOWERS.

DISTRESS

THE DOMINIE.

THE WORLD OF SPIRITS.

A REVEL.

THE BEGINNING.

THE END.

AKAH, A TALE OF THE FLOOD.

THE QUEEN OF BABYLON.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

THE APOCALYPSE OF ST. COLM.

I

St. Colm of yore, a blameless aged man,
Sequester'd dwelt beside the murmuring main;
No warbling fountain ever purer ran,
Than ebb'd his life away all free from stain.
The world's temptations he eschew'd as vain,
Its richest boons he deem'd as alms that make
The friendless beggar rue recruited pain,
And feel that life's but a protracted ache.

II

Around his cavern-cell romantic rose
Hoar cliffs sublime, where beetling fragments hung;
And to the sea a mountain torrent flows—
Its crystal waters o'er the entrance sprung:
Along the rocks green radiant ivy clung—
Primroses starr'd the mossy nooks, and there
Gay fox-gloves grew, and trees projecting flung
Their verdant tresses to the sunny air.

III

Though feeble, old, yet, when the setting sun
Dishevell'd splendour scatter'd on the hills—
Ere amber clouds assume the flaky dun,
Or balmy air the twilight dew distills,
With tottering steps, his grip the crosier fills;
Behold him, wrestling, climb to heights far seen,
And while his heart with rapt devotion thrills,
There, lonely seated, wait the night serene.

IV

Sometimes, entranced, he saw the orbs of light,
Amidst the azure, as the eyes of Heaven
Watching the earth, intelligent and bright,
Where mortal man by Destiny is driven;
And when the moon through eastern mists had striven,
And came refulgent from her orient dome,
He, pondering, wondered why free-will was given,
Since all that are in linked cycles come.

V

But most he mused of that dark mystery
Which Evil is, and Sin its parent dire,
And search'd, by casts as 'twere, of sophistry
Why Ill is Wrong and Sorrow's guilty sire;
And why good thoughts still blessedness inspire—
Then doubt, and dread, and aw'd perplexity,
Ravel his reason, and new lights require;—
But farther flies the iris Verity.

VI

And thus it chanc'd, while pensive and alone,
In fancy wrapt, and thought his only fare,
He heard, behind, the rustling sound of one,
And turning, saw what seem'd an Angel there:—
The curls, in clusters, of his lint-like hair,
Were as the radiance of the evening star;
Allurement revell'd in his heavenly air,
And from his eyes sweet lustre beam'd afar.

VII

Bright on his brow he wore a jewell'd crown,
The vying gems were as the eyes of love,
And on his baldric were encrusted shown
The gorgeous symbols of bright things above—
His glittering vesture, tinted like the dove,
Was, warp and weft, of interwoven rays,
And, as towards the Saint he seem'd to move,
The night was kindled by the glorious blaze.

VIII

A purple mantle from his shoulders hung,
And swept the ground with many a graceful fold;
Close to his limbs the spangled tissue clung,
And it was fring'd with amarinth and gold,—
His 'broider'd vest was wondrous to behold,
With sparkling insects, all as on the wing,
Emblems of deeds by sacred seers foretold,
And thoughts the Muses, pleas'd, to Poets bring.

IX

Still as he came, as if with eager care,
The conscious mantle swaddled round his feet;
And now and then a flow'r or myrtle there,
Made the concealment beauteous and complete.
Down on his knees, with awful reverence meet,
The holy Saint before the vision fell,
And, bowing low, did thus the Angel greet,
As kings are greeted on the earth that dwell.

X

“Hail, Master, hail! thine aged servant, lo!
“Before thy coming bends with awe and dread;
“To him the boon of piteous mercy show,
“And for thy splendours temperate twilight shed.”
The Seraph smil'd and touch'd him on the head,
“Arise,” he said, “thy fearfulness controul;
“Not mine is masterdom, but his, I redde,
“Who of his nature form'd the living soul.”

XI

From that abasement where he prostrate lay,
St. Colm, uprising, saw, in dimm'd attire,
The dazzling visitant, and felt th' array
Confiding thoughts of fellowship inspire;
But still, with meekness, anxious to enquire
With what great errand was the Angel fraught,
Said, “Glorious Agent, pardon my desire—
“A hest for me hast thou from Brightness brought?

XII

“Behold my frailty, old and full of years,
“I may no longer minister to Fate;
“These hands are feeble, and my aged fears
“Remember failures in my bravest state.
“Oh, put not on me aught of labour great,
“But rather smooth, as 'twere, the little way
“That I must totter on to Death's black gate—
“His writ is served, and I can but obey.”

XIII

The Angel heard him with a gracious smile,
And, gently stooping, took his wrinkled hand,
And calmly answer'd, “To no task of toil
“Canst thou be called, that nature may withstand;
“But still forever shall, serene and bland,
“An active spirit aid the willing heart,
“And, such a vigour as the wizard's wand
“To bones grown marrowless, again impart.”

XIV

The Hermit listen'd, happy thus to learn
The tasks of Heaven are meted to the means,
But, doubtful, said, with visible concern,
“In youth the reaper, scath'd by age, but gleans:—
“What rich reward the Future's curtain skreens,
“That I, no longer fit for aught but prayer,
“Should these sweet solitudes and peaceful scenes
“Renounce, and back into the world repair?”

XV

Abash'd, the Tempter in his purpose quail'd,
For such was he, so trimly trick'd with light;
For well he knew, with sated heart assail'd,
St Colm had bade the garish world good night;
But soon again he plied his wary sleight,
And bade around life-pictured scenes unfold;
And as he thought to charm the Hermit's sight,
“These shall be yours,” he cried, “Sir Colm, behold!”

XVI

Mov'd by the craft of his peculiar trade,
The false allurements their temptations show,—
Ah! well he knew a fond impression made,
Suggests the wish that's harbinger to woe;
And, with that skill which demons shrewdly know,
The scenes St Colm had once enjoy'd he drew,
For, all intent to work his overthrow,
His life again made patent to the view.

XVII

As if to find within the bosom's breast
Some secret sediment of sin conceal'd,
Some crave of earthliness still unrepress'd,
Some dire soul-cancer fest'ring unreveal'd;
Green sylvan glens, and many a flowery field,
He deftly show'd, that mem'ry loves to paint;
And all the joys that summer pastimes yield,
While fleeting time awakes the boy's complaint.

XVIII

Awhile the Hermit gaz'd, with pleas'd surprise,
To see once more the sports to childhood dear,
And, blithen'd, felt the same blue morning skies
That cheer'd the holiday, his fancy cheer;
The hopping mill that, in the streamlet clear,
Unwearied dancing, lav'd the laughing tide,
And, gay again, he heard the call, sincere,
Of trysted playmates to the nesting, guide.

XIX

Anon, around the crackling winter's hearth,
With eager visages, intensely charm'd,
He sees blithe schoolboys mitigate their mirth,
To hear the beldam, by the legend warm'd;
And at the tale grow more and more alarm'd:—
Alas, all lonely on some distant shore,
They'll rue the hour that ere from home they swarm'd,
Still doom'd to wander and return no more.

XX

Another picture brightens in the gloom—
Where, brave and bold, a youth, the Hermit plies
The hero's sickle with the warrior's plume,
And dares the frowning front of enterprise.
But soon a student, on the shore he sighs,
Noting the rhythm of the ocean waves,
And in the cloisters' twilight mysteries
Finds men in books, and all that live but slaves.

XXI

Refulgent, lo! a bright particular star,
To festal halls his willing feet allures;
Too high enspher'd, he sees it shine afar,
And hopeless sighs, but his sad fate endures.
Yet still his secret tears forlorn he pours,
Within the shadow of o'erhanging rocks
Where Echo sits, that Nature's self immures,
And, all unseen, the Lover's anguish mocks.

XXII

He knew the place, and own'd the fervent woe
That scorch'd with misery his youthful heart;
But, while afresh, remember'd sorrows flow,
The heart-read demon bids the scene depart,
And, by the spells of his malignant art,
Conjures a vision of another guise:—
An arrass'd room, the lurid dark athwart,
And rich with heraldries a bier, to rise.

XXIII

Dim through the silence of that pageant hall,
In widow weeds, he saw a lady glide,
And, bending, raise the gorgeous sable pall
That serv'd a shapen church-yard clod to hide;
And, with the ire of an insulted bride,
Deep in the dead she plunged a gleaming knife,
And, wildly wan, with frantic accents cried,
“Now I am free—I am no more a wife!

XXIV

“My virgin breast thy unlov'd hand profan'd,
“My virgin lips were, blist'ring, press'd by thine,
“And while aversion in my bosom reigned,
“Thou wert the thief of all that erst was mine;—
“Oh, sordid father! may'st thou ever pine,
“And, burning, burn with unappeas'd desire:—
“To hell, to hell thou did'st thy child consign,
“And steep'd her anguish'd heart in molten fire!”

XXV

Her rave of woe the shuddering Hermit heard,
And turn'd away to see that sight no more;
But in her then the radiant form appeared
Of her he once did tremblingly adore;
And as an echo from the depths of yore,
He hears her loud, long-hidden griefs proclaim,
And hopeless pray that Fate would but restore
The man she lov'd;—he started at the name!

XXVI

But with the sound, eclipsed with sudden gloom,
The dread phantasma vanished from his sight,
And, for the cenotaph and arrass'd room,
He saw but darkness and the starry night.
The fiend rejoic'd, yet hid his dire delight,
To see the saint, still in his secret breast
Cherish'd the phantom of that lady bright;
And thus to him a soothing speech address'd:—

XXVII

“Hard is his fate who pines in jocund youth
“With fervent fondness, and despairs return,
“But harder hers, who, fram'd with love and ruth,
“And peerless beauty, must sequester'd burn—
“Her only solace is the funeral urn.
“How she did love who in yon airy show
“Such frenzy fir'd! ah me, how she did mourn
“Her guilt—if guilt it was—aton'd with woe!”

XXVIII

St. Colm, bewilder'd by the sight he saw,
And more, far more, by lov'd Jacintha's grief,
Forgot, to him, that Time's remorseless law
Forbade sweet Hope to minister relief;
And said, “Alas! though life be dark and brief,
“I would awhile to gild her evening hour,
“The fellest day with fortune's faded leaf
“Endure, to foster that heart-canker'd flower.”

XXIX

Again abash'd, the glittering demon grinn'd,
But, ever artful, warily replied—
“Thou in that wish to live hath deeply sinn'd:
“To lengthen life to angels is denied.
“The spring from whence its fountains are supplied
“Flows from the foot of God's eternal throne;
“And, though blest spirits worship there beside,
“They it, unblam'd, may only look upon.

XXX

“It is a mystery, and for what it flows
“A constant runnel from Almighty Power,
“The Ancient Architect of all but knows—
“But he alone who gives the cause its dower.—
“Still, if consenting that in some fair hour
“Thou'lt give thyself to me to hold and have,
“I'll bear thee to that ever vernal bower,
“Where men, by mem'ry, Time and Fortune brave.”

XXXI

“Ah! what avails it to a poor old man
“That lov'd in youth to know he was belov'd,”
The Saint replied; “the Heaven's eternal plan
“Will from its basis never be remov'd:
“Yes; from the past the future may be prov'd—
“One self-same colour tinges life throughout;
“For, fixed Fate ne'er from her purpose rov'd,
“And Fear and Hope but parents are to Doubt.

XXXII

“Not Heav'n itself can e'er the past renew,
“Or aught but God, Life's meted term extend;
“Then, ere I promise, show what thou can'st do,
“For all thou canst may as a vision end;—
“There's nothing now that can my age defend
“Against the merciless assaults of Time;
“And lo! forlorn with many a grief I bend,
“Waiting my passage to another clime.”

XXXIII

Perplext, the demon was rebuk'd again,
For the unblest, with all their subtlety,
Cannot contest with mortals frank and plain,
And thriftless throw their nets of casuistry.
St. Colm, unconscious of the devilry
With which the meteor that allures to woe
Designed to dazzle his simplicity,
And work the mischief of his overthrow—

XXXIV

Said, “Aye, bright Sir, that solemn monitor
“Who gathers wisdom from the trees of years,
“Is here with me a thoughtful auditor,
“And awes my fancy with reviving fears.—
“Yes; once I lov'd—oh, how I lov'd!—these tears
“The hidden mis'ry of my heart yet tell;
“And did Jacintha, whom thine easel bears,
“Love in return? alas! not wisely well.

XXXV

“But the remembrance of that morning dream
“Is as the vision of a vivid thought
“To musing age, and as a glancing gleam
“That only dazzles, vanishing to nought:—
“Where shines she now?—Oh, let her back be brought!
“My eager spirit would the idol see—
“Bring her still fair—but I forget, or ought
“She's old and lone, perhaps, like aged me.”

XXXVI

The crafty demon that would snare the Saint
With his shrewd malice, baffl'd, had retir'd;
But ens infernal, when they tempt to taint,
Are by resistance with new fervour fir'd.
Full well he knew that what St. Colm desir'd
Could only penitence and pray'r impart;
And 'twas his office but with things admir'd,
To bait the hooks that wile to woe the heart.

XXXVII

Good ever prospers when the evil err,
As Ill's the offspring when the Righteous fail,
The sights and scenes that he would fain defer
Fate will'd should seem, and bade the hest prevail.
Ere well he wist with wanning passion pale,
Vext at the boon the simple Hermit craves,
He rais'd his arm, and lo! the mountain gale
Breaths mouldy airs, escap'd from vaults and graves.

XXXVIII

A feeble glimm'ring, dismal, dread, and dim,
The saint beheld, and saw before him rise
A scutcheon'd sepulchre, obscure and grim,
Where tranc'd in death a sheeted shapeless lies.
Anon, an iron lamp he then descries,
Hung by a chain of olden crusted rust:
Around were sculls and fleshless bones of thighs,
Oblivion's chamber strew'd with charnel dust.

XXXIX

Into that sepulchre he saw descend
A hoary sexton, with a pick and spade;
His sleeves were tuck'd, and for some nameless end,
Whistling aloud, he plied his eerie trade,
And in the ground a mystic chasm made.
Now from the bier he rends the garnish'd pall,
Where, on black tressels, is a coffin laid;
But as he rends it, frush the fragments fall.

XL

A cloud of dust then in the cavern rose;
And, when the stifling volume roll'd away,
He saw the relics, and his spirit froze—
For on a brass that in the chaos lay
He read Jacintha's name, the fair and gay,
Who to his youth was as the morning light;
While odious beetles too he saw obey
The scatt'ring terror of a sudden fright.

XLI

Askance, with eager eye, the demon look'd,
But, when a momentary throe was o'er,
The pensive Hermit agony rebuk'd,
And sighing, said, “Canst thou unfold no more?
“'Tis but the dust which she was in before;
“And though that dust with speechless pain I see
“As that which was, that time can ne'er restore;
“What lieth there must all that's beauty be.”

XLII

As changeful opal of a ruby hue,
The demon glar'd to hear the saint so mild,
And round, perplex'd, his ember eye-balls threw,
As if he deem'd his cunning self beguil'd.
But guilty beings are soon reconcil'd
To ought that seems to balk them in their craft;
At the calm patience of St. Colm he smil'd,
And, though afflicted, in derision laugh'd.

XLIII

But blest St. Colm was good as man may be,
And held his cheek to take the other smite;
He had but pity for iniquity,
Albeit a worshipper of peace and right.
Full well he knew what sins the sense invite,
Our nature's weakness, and would sighing say,
Whene'er he heard of any erring wight,
“Alas, poor flesh! the best are prone to stray.”

XLIV

Such equanimity could well sustain
The taunt or flatt'ry that disturbs the wise;
He meekly ask'd the doubting fiend again
To bid Jacintha as she is arise.
The dext'rous demon, gladd'ning with surprise,
Deem'd now his conquest would be soon complete,
And bids, in Purgatory as she lies,
Her lover, still in mortal dangers, greet.

XLV

For, in the anguish of the sight, he thought
The pitying Hermit to his terms would yield;
But half afraid himself of what was sought,
He fearful beckon'd forth the unreveal'd.
Those, couch'd on horrors yet with doom unseal'd,
Who trembling wait the Janitor from Heav'n,
He bade come forth, and all the welkin field,
For the revealment of the scene was giv'n.

XLVI

St. Colm beheld the skies asunder furl'd,
As a vast curtain furl'd on either side,
And saw the regions of the sacred world
Extending measureless away and wide.
There all the spirits of the dead abide,
And there the alchymists of heavenly skill,
Amidst the crucibles of souls preside,
By their blest art to good refining ill.

XLVII

From the green earth with gradual bevel down
It sloped away to everlasting night,
And dread and dreader still new horrors frown,
As onward speeds the fascinated sight.
Some in the foreground own their torments light,
But far beyond, in labyrinths of fire,
The writhing wicked, still in constant flight
To deeper dungeons of remorse retire.

XLVIII

Far in the palpable obscure—whose caves
The kens of angels never dare explore,
Was heard, as 'twere, an ocean's coming waves,
Vast Niagaras rolling to the shore.
And a great voice, that ever cried adore,
With mystic things of agony and groan;
Whose shrieks are sounds, that are in sound no more,
Premundane entities of worlds unknown.

XLIX

By his own sleights, the shining fiend was aw'd,
And shrinking, stood in silence paling by;
Lest Heav'n, avenging to chastise his fraud,
Reveal'd the catacombs of mystery.
But soon he saw, on racking enginery,
The burning phantom of Jacintha come;
And fondling flames, in amorous exstacy,
Clasp her fair form. The tearless Saint was dumb.

L

With madd'ning gestures, and dishevell'd hair—
Such as the tortur'd in their torments show—
She wildly shriek'd; and, clamouring despair,
Cried “help, oh, help!” and seem'd the Saint to know.
St. Colm upsprung to mitigate her woe,
And forward rush'd—but as he mov'd to aid,
All the black skies did with such glory glow;
That the cow'd tempter trembling homage paid.

LI

Like her of Endor when she startled saw,
Dim through the gloom, the mantled Gods ascend;
And while the visions of the scene withdraw,
His alt'ring visage shows the present fiend.
Amaz'd awoke, the Hermit seem'd to rend,
As 'twere, a bandage from his eyes; and round
Beheld the chrysolite of morning bend,
And glow-worms sprinkled on the dewy ground.

LII

For old and lone, when he had climb'd the steep,
The toilsome journey, with his failing years,
Brought ravel'd dreams to his perturbed sleep,
And mingled faded thoughts with hopes and fears.
Still, oft he ponder'd, and unbidden tears
The awe of an apocalypse attest;
While the Jacintha that he saw, endears
Her glowing image in his conscious breast.

I prefer the Indian pronounciation of this word—the thunder of the waters.

THE LEGEND OF THE FLOWERS.

I

There was a time, as fairy legends tell,
Ere Rocs or Mastadoms created were:
When Ladies liv'd so lovely, mild, and belle,—
The snow of Etna ne'er was half so fair.
They mov'd, and smil'd; and all the embracing air,
Where'er they went, breath'd fragrance and delight;—
But they were dumb, and whether carking care
Fretted their innocence, with hate or spite,
Is not in all the roll from which I deftly write.

II

The gentlest nymph of those preadamites,
Obedient answer'd to the name of Rose;
Soft single name!—then at baptismal rites,
No gossip might her adjectives impose—
But ah, what artist could such charms disclose,
As did that damsel in her modesty?—
Never could Miss, among admiring beaus,
Blush with such grace, or look so prettily.—
The world declines—our maids have no such piquancy.

III

Rose, for companion, had one call'd Jonquil,
A foil was she, and wore a yellow gown,—
For females then affected, (not so still,)
To make, by contrast, more their beauty known.
This smart Jonquil, as shall be after shown,
Twinkled her eyes in pertness, sad to see;
But all the floral race, for Rose alone,
Endur'd her taunting jibes, and jokerie;
Some thought her forward though, and really much too free.

IV

One day it chanc'd, as mortal ladies do,
These loving friends within a garden walk'd;
Link'd were their arms—and ne'er a gayer two,
In shady Kensington, together talk'd
Of balls, and beaus, and belles of part'ners balk'd,
And painted Dowagers, advanc'd in years;
Of satins rare, and floors so charming, chalk'd,
Forsaken Spinsters, and fastidious Peers,
And whisper'd rumours strange, one scarce can trust one's ears.

V

As they along went speaking with their eyes,
Upon a bench they gaily took a seat;
And Miss Jonquil, with eloquent surprise,
Beheld her friend, she thought, unjustly sweet.
Alas! when gentle hearts with envy beat,
The din disturbs old Malice, slumb'ring nigh,
And the fell crone, a haggard witch complete,
Grinning goes forth—ah, mark her evil eye!
And, by her apron hid, a dirk you may espy.

VI

On her ill quest she had not wander'd far,
When with a Fairy, saunt'ring there alone,
(His usual home was the bright morning star,)
She chanc'd to meet, and thus, with piteous moan,
Said to him, “Sir,”—and then she gave a groan—
“This would, indeed, be a right pleasant place,
But now, 'tis as if Mirth were dead and gone,
So dull and tiresome are the Floral race;—
There now, that creature Rose, she looks but in your face.”

VII

Fairies, 'tis known, are Sprites of glee and game,
Who much delight in merry pranks and ploys;
And ours, confess'd, it was a shocking shame,
The Floral Nymphs should be forbidden Noise,
Although they had their fill of other joys;—
Yes; Noise from Labour springs, and never bliss
Was earn'd, unless it ratified the choice.—
In Toil, says Solomon, much profit is,
And I, not wiser, add—In Work there's Happiness.

VIII

Thus, when the Fairy heard how silence reign'd
In all the bow'rs of that delicious land,
He, straightway, to the Elfin King complain'd,
And pray'd the interdict might cease to stand.
The King, uprising, bade his courtly band
The peaceful gardens of the beauteous show—
And, with a flourish of his magic wand,
The whole cortege was presently below,
Exulting on the earth, and walking to and fro.

IX

They saw around the gracious beauties there—
The modest Daisy, all the red and pale,
The sweet Primrose, the Gilliflower so fair,
The Tulip gay, and Lily of the Vale—
All that could decorate a Poet's tale
And garland verse, they saw around them bloom,
And own'd the fanning of a fitful gale
Amidst the minglings of soft-breath'd perfume—
And Rose and Jonquil, too, they saw, but all were—dumb!

X

Yet, to allure the Elfin Monarch's eye—
What will not ladies for a Monarch do?—
Jonquil resolv'd, with all her witcherie,
To charm his vision, and the courtiers' too;—
Ah, poor Jonquil! how I her fate must rue;—
She plied her glances, and diffus'd her spell—
The air, grown warm, around her kissing flew,
And, with'ring, leaves prepar'd to ring her knell—
Sweet Rose, the blushing Rose, had almost said farewell!

XI

The Fairy King, as doth a King befit,
A chaste example to his subjects gave;
But Elves do harm, and never think of it:
He saw Jonquil, and look'd exceeding grave.
Anon, behold on high his sceptre wave,
That wizzard wand, which wond'rous change obeys:—
Nought from their doom the Floral race can save.—
The Lords and Gentlemen, all in amaze,
See only flowrets bloom, and buds and blossoms blaze.

XII

For thus it was, in days of olden date,
The garden gems, that shine so bright around,
Were ladies once, all sparkling and elate—
Fairer than women—meteors without sound,
And ever with immortal beauty crown'd:—
They sought—it might be in a playful mood—
To win dominion;—false, unstable ground!
There is no art to gain the guarded good,
But that sweet art which shuns the cunning and the rude.

DISTRESS

I

Heaven surely has some purpose unreveal'd
In making mortals for this state of care,
Else, why so prodigal, in flood and field,
And in the tribes that wing the breezy air,
Of art and wisdom—why so patient plan,
From soft and plastic childhood to the lair
Of stiff and aching age, the creature Man,
Were all of life on earth within its narrow span?

II

As beauteous light descending from the sun
Have come the tidings of another state,
And for the news, on all His will be done—
Yes; upon all the Mighty may create!
But, wherefore should these mortal suff'rings be—
These pains and sorrows that in death abate,
From which, in life, we never once are free,
And yet such joys around, like Tantalus still see?

III

What subtile sceptic, in his questing hour,
Would dare to question Heaven's eternal scheme,
Or deem the twinkle of a mortal's power,
In brightest life, was other than a gleam—
A glance that perishes, yet in that space—
That brief illusion of a thought or dream—
What mis'ries, numberless, may we not trace?
For life is but a ray athwart a dismal place.

IV

Oh! why is woe?—Can Heaven in woe delight,
That thus its creatures are convolv'd with pain?
We never, Awful, did Thy power invite
To bring us forth from still Oblivion's reign,
Where sound in nothingness we nothing lay—
Tremendous, tell!—what we by being gain?—
Who is responsible for that allay
Of good or ill in us, that Thou dost so essay?

V

Why is this constant struggle, care and ail?
Hell can but punish for offences done,
But seeming causeless torments life assail,
And Satan reigns the angel of the sun.
Why, ever writhing on his burning bed,
Must the poor mortal seek in death to shun
The wrathful vials Vengeance loves to shed?—
Oh, wherefore is the earth thus ever dark and dread?

VI

Mysterious Heaven! Thou irresponsible!
Heed not the ravings of a wretch forlorn,
Nor rack him farther than endurable;—
Thou know'st 'twas not his fault that he was born—
'Twas not his sin, that he should piteous lie,
For but to be is to incur Thy scorn;—
Oh, mitigate this sense of misery,
Or give that guilty grief that makes it penalty!

VII

Yes; I, methinks, were this fell grasp of woe
A just atonement, could serenely bear,
But still unconscious—why this overthrow—
Why thus gratuitous afflictions share?
There's mitigation by remorse in pain,
Which tempers agony the most severe,
And, justice felt, the gnawing thoughts restrain,
Which justify in woe the tortur'd to complain.

VIII

But yet, oh, yet! my rash upbraidings pass;—
This seeming causeless grief may worse prevent;
For what I suffer now may be, alas,
To save from guilt and from its punishment.
Teach me, then, rather at the beauteous world
To ever gaze, with unalloy'd content,
And far, far from me, be those doubtings hurl'd—
Laocoon anguish tears, but which around are curl'd.

IX

Give me again the bright unbounded sea—
The mountain's brow—the forest's murmuring caves—
The ocean cliffs—the breezy and the free—
To hear the anthems of the mighty waves
Peal on the shore; or where, its flow forgot,
The lingering stream the verdant valley laves,
While, on its stillness, anchor'd lilies float,—
Wish!—join the hopes of youth—it is not in my lot!

THE DOMINIE.

I

Auld Arch'bald Lory in our clachan won,
As Dominie, and eke as Session Clerk;
And had instructed many a sire and son
To read and write, and sclate 'rithmetic wark.
Him, many thought, who were na in the dark,
That he could tell by mathematic skill,
A cloaking yearoc frae the songful lark,
That gladdens morning with her lilt and trill,
And hails the coming day, while yet behind the hill.

II

But he was aged, and for long had been
Himself a scholar to schoolmaster Time;
And though sequester'd, pensive, and serene,
He redde the book that's neither prose nor rhyme—
The heart of man, so kittle, yet so prime.
And in the frolics of the village fair
Could tell the sports that anger spic'd with crime,
And if the pawkie boy that ettled there
Would bravely fortune speel, or dowie sink with care.

III

In sprightly youth, when vernal hopes are gay
As the bright garland of the cherry tree;—
At college tasks, of poesy and lay—
Ah, few were there, I ween, of his degree.
But yet it chanc'd, with spirit proud and free,
He soon discern'd, though lone, and basely born,
He had no heart to curry pedigree;
And ere a minister, he came forlorn
To wash our Ethiops white, mayhap his doom to mourn.

IV

Then, in the Manse, there liv'd a Christian man—
Our parents' Pastor, all to good inclin'd,
And friendless Bauldy told to him his plan,
To live unknown, and die when Heav'n was kind.
Right glad to hear a youth so brave, resign'd
To thole the midges of a clachan school;
He soon, for heritors are deaf and blind,
Got him install'd, the playrife swarm to rule;
The ladies saw, and thought that Bauldy was a fool.

V

At last the hoary and meek-hearted saint,
Hoar as the mountain of the winter's morn
To Heav'n arose, and after much complaint,
By which the parish was perplex'd and torn;—
A Rev'rend Doctor, firmly nerv'd to scorn
The humble poor that have but souls to lose;
And at the patron's table lov'd to sorn,
Thinking that kirks were couches for repose,
Unlike the gentle saint, to sack the stipend knows.

VI

His nose was red, and plooky was his face,
A roguish twinkle schimmer'd in his eye,
And ne'er was dinner spoil'd by tedious grace,
When our good minister was standing by.
At table thirsty, and in pulpit dry,
He stirr'd the toddy with a ready hand;
“Now it is brew'd,” he said, “come taste and try,”
And all the glasses of the boozing band
Soon round the toddy bowl, wide-mouth'd expectants stand.

VII

One day it chanc'd, as on his parlour hearth,
With knees unbutton'd and with bauchled feet,
He musing chuckled o'er remember'd mirth.
A young parishioner did him thus greet:—
“Good, godly Sir, I would you fain entreat
“To counsel in a straight, for oh, I'm fear't;
“Grim Elspeth Gray, a carlin skill'd in freats,
“To delve a day for her, my help has spear't—
“If I refuse, oh! Sir,—her scaithy e'en are bleart.”

VIII

“Away, you fool,” the jeering Doctor cried,
“Nor fash me thus, you adle-pated loon,
“I must my sermon study, and then ride
“To meet his Lordship in the afternoon;
“For he, to dinner, says, come always soon.
“Away, away, you eerie cuif, away,
“And to some other pipe your senseless tune;—
“Man! are ye fear't for doited Elspeth Gray?
“She's feckless and she's frail; she'll soon be row'n in clay.”

IX

The fearful rustic shuffled to the door,
And on the green stood pond'ring for awhile
What he should do; for ay his back was sore
Whene'er a neighbour wanted cosnent toil;
At last his visage brighten'd into smile.
He thought the Dominie might surely know
Some canny way, the witching wife to wile,
If she o'er him her cantrips dar'd to throw,
And dule fling in his lot, and ravel care with woe.

X

He Arch'bald sought for, in the wood and moor
Long time he wander'd eerie up and down,
And heard the ravens in their haunted bower
Disastrous bodings croak; he saw the frown
Of dismal portents, lurid and unknown,
Low'r in the aspect of the ominous sky;
And mark'd an howlet, strangely, all alone,
In sullen awe, to yon old castle fly:—
But coming from afar, the Dominie drew nigh.

XI

To him he told of Elspeth's dread request,
And how his back was skew'r'd with many a pain—
Softly entreating for his council best,
How he unscaith'd might from her charms remain.
The thoughtful Dominie, in pleasant vein,
Rebuk'd his terrors, call'd him lazy drone;
But all he said could not the clown restrain
In his alarm, from making meikle moan,
As aft he press'd his back, and gave a dreadful groan.

XII

“Man,” quo' the Dominie, “be more a lad,
“Nor the old woman thus so shrink to aid,
“For she's a widow, weanless, poor and sad,
“And ill can delve herself or lift a spade;
“Besides, you know, 'tis in the Scriptures said,
“That Christian men should help the needful, so
“Come, do your duty, and be none afraid,
“For duty done, rewards with grateful glow,
“The heart that gives relief, which all require below.”

XIII

“No doubt, good Sir, it is a pleasant thing,”
Reluctant, Jamie, valiantly replied,
“To help the canny, with a turn in spring,—
“It is a truth which cannot be denied.
“But oh the Scriptures, Sir, are sair belied,
“If in them all there be a text that says
“A witch that's guilty, though she ne'er was tried,
“Has any portion in our labour days;—
“The Lord of power is just in all his righteous ways.”

XIV

Awhile the Dominie dejected mus'd—
Pond'ring the drift of Jamie's pious tale,
And solemn said, as if he had perus'd
The inmost heart, “It is of no avail;
“Just Heav'n permits her, though she's old and frail,
“For some great purpose still on earth to be;
“And, if a witch, I redde you.—Wherefore pale
“Do you so grow?—Be counsell'd, lad, by me,
“And delve her ground an 'twere to jook her glamorie.”

XV

“And so I will,” cried Jamie, with a shout,
“Ill deedy folks by courtesy are won;”
And, clownlike, gladly turning quick about,
For Elspeth delves, as he had been her son.
Soon far and wide the Christian's tidings run,
How he, a scamp, but scant of grace, appear'd,
With hearty earnestness till all was done,
In her kail-yard, and gausy bowstocks rear'd.
The Rev'rend Doctor said, “He was to all endear'd.”

XVI

But thought the kane to labouring Jamie sent
Might just as well been ported to the manse,
And often hinted, he would be content
To see such ducks their pawkie een up glance,
Tied by the legs, and fated in his trance—
The gifts of many a gospel-hearted dame;
While aft with glee did havrel Jamie dance,
To earn such wage withouten fear or shame;
Nor did the Dominie e'er mint he was to blame.

XVII

But once it chanc'd, the day before the Fair,
That Jamie promis'd Elspeth Gray to howk
Her trig how'd 'tatoes, but one Pidcock, rare,
Came with a show, and he forgot, the Gowk!
And went to see, with weans and other folk,
The caravan, that was like Noah's Ark,
With birds and beasts, besides a clown to joke;
So, playing truant from the promis'd wark,
Thought not of Elspeth Gray till it had long been dark.

XVIII

The feckless carlin, like the old and frail,
Was sometimes fashious, and would cank'ry fret;
So, in the night, she, flyting, wud, and pale,
Said, trembling, Jamie was “a cursed get,
“Whose glaiking soon the Ill would mak' a debt.”
He heard her well, and, fearful, quaking sore,
Beneath the blankets hid his head, and sweat
Till near on midnight, when a dread uproar
Rous'd all the shrieking town, and call'd him to the door.

XIX

There, lo! he saw by glimpse of lunar sheen,
Havoc and scattering, and the caravan
Lie overthrown upon the village green,
And flying from it, woman, dog, and man,
To see the wherefore Jamie dreadless ran.
But ere he reach'd it, or had time to pray
The Ill or worse, with grumble, growl and ban,
Said, “Come you must, and moil for Elspeth Gray,”
And chirted him with hugs; his wits they fled away.

XX

The Rev'rend Doctor, when he heard th' event,
And that poor Jamie only breath'd alive,
Hale-hearted said, “'Twas but an accident,
“And from the fright the lad would soon revive.”
But the calm Dominie said, “Men should strive
“To sweeten life with interchanges sweet
“Of Christian charity, that all may thrive:
“For had not Jamie stray'd with erring feet,
“His toil had made him sleep, unharm'd by Elspeth's threat.”

XXI

Thus ever did that lonely thoughtful man
Make nought but good from every sort of ill:
For ay with him it was the constant plan
From all mishaps some blessing to distill,
And wondrous wise, it was his custom still
To bid us take, and ever thankful be,
What we could get, for it is wisdom's skill
To use the means that Heaven has given free,
Whether they work by grief, by stratagem, or glee.

THE WORLD OF SPIRITS.

I

Clod of the valley, who in drowsy mind
Think'st that the world of spirits, fays, and fiends,
Is not in Nature; Man! to clay inclin'd,
Who deem'st thy being Death in darkness ends,
Know that for thee the lesson was design'd
Which in quaint riddles thus the poet blends.
Awake and search, the mystic lotus find
That on the stream adown the meadow wends.

II

There's not a creature that on earth is seen,
Nor leaf that twinkles, nor a flower that blooms,
Nor eye of light in all the night's serene,
Nor viewless odour rising from perfumes,
Nor yet in sleep, nor in the drowze between
The waking slumbers life with thee assumes:—
Yea all that is, or shall be, or hath been,
Some heavenly hest irradiates and illumes.

III

A sacred agent, an avenging thrall,
That whispers joy or anguish to the breast,
Hath made a mystic domicile in all,
Where good was done, or Guilt unseen carest;—
The murder-spot, that stains the festal hall,
He makes a witness daunt the unconfest,
And on the mouldy and unseemly wall
Writes out what Virtue did, when there a guest.

IV

Oh, say not, then, no Spirit moveth Man,
That all is enginery, and Life a spring—
That nought's in Nature's universal plan
But matter organiz'd—a rolling ring,—
For voice is given to deeds, and eyes to scan
The thoughts that closest to the conscience cling,
And, since Creation's cycled reign began,
Omens have heralded what actions bring.

V

Think'st thou the elves that play in lunar light,
Unseen rejoicing, ply their glancing feet—
They whom the muses bid the bards invite,
To share their revels in the ditty sweet,
Are not the proxies of some purpose bright,
Which, ere the lark of old did Morning greet,
Or Shadows were the mutes preceding Night,
Jove form'd in thought a Pallas all complete?

VI

Wrapt in the myst'ry of this Life, we know
That what is evil ministers to pain,
And all that makes the happy bosom glow
Is good—but why?—Who shall that why explain?
Death is Life's shadow, constant to and fro—
He haunts it ever—and, with calm disdain,
Follows remorseless to the overthrow;
But what is Death must still unknown remain.

VII

The pensive sister, in the cloister'd cell,
Who reads her rubric, poring late and lone,
When she of angel-visits tries to tell,
But apes a peaceful sylvan Echo's tone;
What time she hears soul-hunting demons yell,
Think'st thou 'tis but some avalanche's groan?
No, dreams of Heaven and of the crypts of Hell
The Echo tells—sound of a sound that's gone!

VIII

Else, say, prone mortal, whence the fancy came,
If no revealments to the world were given?—
The soul-fraught notions, and the dreams of fame
Are golden images that point to Heaven!—
Yes; in the Legends' dim phosphoric flame—
The Fairy tale—the glare of burning leaven—
The soundless spectre, and the deathless name,
Are signs of things that make existence even.

IX

The glorious visions of the prophet's trance
But shadow scenes by Death's black curtain hid,
And truths occult surprise the poet's glance,
That searches antres hallow'd and forbid;
Nor are the mazes of the fairy dance,
Through which the lur'd enchanted loves to glide,
Without instruction—none the thought advance
That e'er from Heaven the Blest come back to chide.

X

We see in symbols, types of truth, around,
The lesson taught us by all sacred lore;
For Nature, simple, serious, and profound,
But tells one tale, that teaches to adore.—
Oh, never yet in Fiction's magic bound,
Nor in those regions where the poets soar.
Did parted spirits, when immortal crown'd,
E'er come from bliss—they go forever more!

XI

That solemn thought should warn the sons of clay
How base and sordid is the mortal state,
Since Fiction brings not one from Heav'nly day
To urge a change that might conciliate Fate.
Perturbed ghosts, the phantoms that dismay—
These only come—and they but tales relate
Of dire abysses, where the hopeless pray,
And from fresh mis'ry new-felt suff'rings date!

XII

'Tis all of that intensest furnace, where
The fallen guilty, chain'd in burning writhe,
That aught is told—attended by despair,
The ever dying, never never dieth.
Yet the Avenger, from their torture lair,
Sometimes permits them to this world to kithe,
And to th' undoom'd the awful warning bear,
That Hell is hungry for the guilty blithe.

XIII

But the Supreme, the Lord of Heaven and Hell,
Still with regret beholds the doom'd descend,
And deep and deeper fall, the woeful fell,—
Ah, not forever may their doom impend.
In the great vast where He Himself doth dwell,
The linked penalties must have an end:
All move in circles there, and who shall tell
That they who sink can ne'er again ascend:

XIV

Or know that Death, the unsubstantial thing
Betokening change, intends a change complete;
Or e'er that Fate will a re-union bring,
And bid the parted mind and body meet.
Yes, to the hungry grave though man we fling,
Thence comfort rises: as the flow'rets sweet
From the dead earth in vernal beauty spring,
Another conscious entity we greet.

XV

As if we had some subtile sense that knew
The glorious being hidden in the earth,
And saw, though Death might mortal life subdue,
The soul in dying had another birth;
For all that is attest the lesson true,
That tells of spirits and the hopes of worth;
And yet thou dares to doubt, and seem to rue,
The tale that awes thee in thy sensual mirth.

XVI

Thy sense is of the perishable clay,
And all its pleasures, glaiks, that fleet and fly
To darkness. But he never knows decay,
Whose spirit gladdens to the light on high;
Nor feels eclips'd that pure celestial ray
That guides the soul unearth'd towards the sky,
Where bask the blest in ever cloudless day,
That know the world but dross, and life a sigh.

A REVEL.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF CORK AND ORRERY.

I

King Oberon hath neither house nor hall,
But holds his revels in the lunar light;
And when Queen Mab intends to give a ball,
To greenwood glades she doth her guests invite,
And heaps the mushroom with the banquet rite.
But when on keyholes winds are fifing shrill,
And envious sylphs make grim the festal night,
And gnomes molest the nimble-footed rill,
She has to pine in thought and be exceeding ill.

II

Thus once it chanc'd, all on a market day,
When swains and maidens in their best appear,
And Spring with garlands wreathes the fragrant May,
And rose-buds pout, and rip'ning cherries lear,
And bees and butterflies are there and here,
That good King Oberon, as kings should do,
With Mab his Queen, invited many a peer,
And fairy lady, all begemm'd with dew,
To share a royal feast—a feast that they yet rue.

III

It was in honour of a peasant pair,
Grave Robin Red-breast and blithe Bet his wife,
For they had rear'd a numerous brood, and were
As nice a couple as were e'er in life,
Although with them the pelf was never rife.
An olive jacket and a scarlet vest
Did Robin wear, and Bet with winsome strife
In gown of sleeky stuff, herself so dress'd
That none more tidy sat at any royal feast.

IV

The air was fragrance, and the black-eyed flower,
That looks so cunning, smiling from the bean,
Sat, as 'tis said, within her parents' bower,
To see the courtly company, I ween,
With parley-vous agecking on the green.
'Twas when the moon peep'd through the lattice grove,
To spy the revels, leaves and boughs between;
And minstrel nightingales melodious strove,
To sing their sweetest songs to lovers whisp'ring love.

V

Blest night! in all the sapphire of the sky,
No flake nor feather of a cloud was there;
The silent breezes slept, afar and nigh,
Sound was inclin'd to peacefulness, save where
The waterfall did ape an elder's pray'r,
And hymn so calm a soothing holy song,
While colleys barking, show'd their wakeful care;
And market lads came merrily along,
And damsels keckl'd shrill the leafy bowers among.

VI

The night indeed was fit for promenade,
Queen Mab was pleas'd, King Oberon in glee,
And many a fairy in that greenwood glade,
Romp'd with blithe Bet, who thought them rather free,
And honest Robin did with her agree:
At last the hour that fairies banquet came,
When in its noon the polar star you see,
And many a lord and emerald-jewel'd dame,
All fairy folk, to eat thought it a pleasant game.

VII

For turtle soup, there they had beetle broth,
A haunch of bat, a dish of duckling eyes,
Bees served with honey, and a curried moth,
A ladybird dress'd a la crabe, and thighs,
Giblets I should say, of blue bottle flies,
High devil'd wasps, made hellish with cayenne;
Fleas much like lobsters, earwigs stew'd, and pies
Of maggots plump, fried tadpoles from the fen—
Oh! such a feast I'm sure was never served to men.

VIII

But who may eke the fragrant vintage tell,
What rath bouquets of white and red went round;
Tokay of lilies, and a heather bell
With nectar brimm'd, or with a drop profound
Of sparkling joy—choice pleasantries abound:
Old crusted dew that had its colour lost,
With juice of mirth, the noyeau of sweet sound,
And such liqueurs as frogs distil from frost—
Imperial Kings would fail to meet the countless cost.

IX

But fairies think not in the revel bower,
That every pleasure hath its shadow there,
Light-hearted wights but wicked to show power,
They dance and sing and quiz old gaffer Care,
Having no reverence for the priest Despair;
And oft as mortals in the hour of prime,
When wit, the firefly, flickers everywhere,
They take no heed of ever knitting Time,
Nor see her sandglass run, nor hear her horlodge chime.

X

And thus it was on that high festival,
When cheer and cheerfulness were blithe and bright,
And prattling Innocence, the best of all,
The happy throng that pageantries delight,
Reel'd like a celt with Moorish-visaged Night,
That solemn Fate, mad Chance's wedded lord,
Wreak'd by her aid a stratagem of spite,
And all the sparkling of the revel marr'd,
Sudden as life is quench'd by a fierce foeman's sword.

XI

Near to the glade, in the embow'ring wood,
Where they ecstatic plied their task of joy,
The russet cottage of a carlin stood,
A widow lone that did herself employ
In odious sorc'ries that sick boys annoy,
With distillations of most bitter herbs,
The very stomach worms her drugs destroy,
To truants worse than horrid latin verbs,
What time temptation's hook the luring apple barbs.

XII

Yes! this grim crone, she was a sight to see,
Bent to a hoop, her petticoat was red,
Her gown was green, and on her head might be
A mutch of cambric, wove by Frenchman dread;
For then Sir Loom fair Muslin had not wed,
And in her ears she wore wide silver rings,
Much like the new moon that's in evening bred,
And at her door a captive blackbird hings;
Not sweeter elegies a bard in prison sings.

XIII

This ruthless dame, from immemorial time,
Had,—when the rose peeps out with modesty,
And jessamine and honeysuckle climb
To view the summer field's variety,
In the grim cauldron of her sorcery,—
A custom sheets and blankets to immerse
With alkali to seeth with napery.—
Thrice in the vigil of the spell she stirs
The steaming pot, and feeds the fire with splinter'd firs.

XIV

She, as of yore, before the dawn of day,
To speed the charm, forth from the cauldron's womb,
Draws out th' ingredients in the glade to lay,
That they may whiten when the sun would come,
And owl the goggler sits, a prophet dumb,—
Oh, direful crisis of the mystic rite!
Horror unutter'd yet by tongue or gum,—
She as an earthquake whelm'd each joyous sprite
All with a blanket wet, hip hipping with delight.

THE BEGINNING.

I

In the beginning, while yet light and form
Were in the womb of the Almighty will:—
Then Chaos thund'ring reign'd, and Gloom and Storm
Raged in the vast;—Infinitude they fill!
The God goes forth creative, all is still,
Aw'd by the presence of the mighty Word;
While wak'd to life and to sensation, thrill
The elements, and shout, our God is Lord.

II

“Let there be light,” Thou saidst, and there was light;
Then dawn'd the world as on that solemn morn
When blest Columbus, through the thinning night
Saw a new earth for its great purpose born;
Next starry fires the firmament adorn,
Bright in his glory as a God, the sun
Comes forth in power—behold dumb Gloom, forlorn,
Amaz'd, to hell for an asylum run.

III

Then silv'ry pale, slow rolling from the east,
The orbed Moon looks mildly on the earth,
And Colour spreads that radiant visual feast,
Where Beauty takes precedency of Worth.
Life now descended, and the Mind gave birth
To footless thoughts that winged wander free,
And clay-cold Dust exulted into mirth,—
Clods of the valley into joy and glee;

IV

The air grew musical; the vocal bird
Trill'd the sweet melody of cheerful song;
Far in the desert was the lion heard;
The mountain echoes long the bleat prolong;
Dust of the fen, the murmuring insects throng,
Mute fish, fin-wing'd, athwart the waters fly,
And beauteous flowers look up the grass among;—
Glad eyes of summer, that but smile and die.

V

Last thing of earth, majestic man arose,
Erect he eyes the goal of hope above,
Immortal spirit in his visage glows,
His earnest voice commands contempt and love.
With milder influence see woman move
Of man refined, and for endearment made;
She feels the faithful nature of the dove,
And rules her thrall by seeming to persuade.

VI

When the Great Father of all things had wrought
Creation's wonders, He recall'd His power,
And from the vaults and depths of wisdom brought,
Alloted treasures for His children's dower.
Garnels in cells, the being of the flower,
Wraps in delight the germs that life renew,
And gives to all the sunshine and the shower,
Health, growth, and love, and teaches what to rue.

VII

Anthems of glory sung the morning stars,
At his bright wonder—the refulgent light;
But Storms were aw'd to know that woes and wars
Were summ'd and numbered and ordain'd for night,
When mind was given, the element of might
Whose power is truth, the wrong consuming lens,
Which in consuming sheds a brighter bright,
And is dominion, strength, and influence.

THE END.

I

Woe to the world, the sentenc'd world of man,
The reign of Death and realm of Destiny.—
Yes; ere light was, or time itself began,
Within the archives of eternity,
The record lay of whatsoe'er shall be,
As in a chronicle—Jehovah's sight,
The all-eye centre of infinity,
Beholds alike the past and future bright.

II

There, it is written, in the words wherewith
The morning stars their hymns harmonious sing;
That on a day when life shall be a wreath
Of joys, like blossoms braided in the spring,
An Angel's trumpet shall a summons fling
Through the vast dome's blue concave of the air,
And from their syncope the buried bring,
While death-worms startled quit their task and fare.

III

Then in the vale of that Jehoshaphat
To which the living and the dead must go;
Awful sublime, and terrible and great,
Bright rob'd in truth the Judge of all will show
The heart-hid secrets that the guilty know,—
The clasped Book of Life he will unfold,
And all that mortals did or thought below,
To men and angels shall aloud be told.

IV

Nor need he tell in that austere assize,
What penalties on different sins attend;
For in Creation's plan and mysteries
These are made manifest, and all portend.
Whate'er of ill, or woe, or pain descend,
In constant sequence to an action wrought,
Proclaim his law, and no device can bend,
That law which finds the action in the thought.

V

But for a moment will the inquest be,
His sifting wisdom for an instant probe,
And then to Heav'n will rise the glorious free;—
The trembling doom'd remain upon the globe.
How shall the spirit in that crisis throb?
When lov'd and dear, stern Justice tears apart,
And seeming Innocence, stript of her robe,
Would hide the foul of her detected heart.

VI

Back to the portals of His bright abode
The King of Glory, see, triumphant ride,
With Hallelujahs to the Lord, the God—
The shouting seraphim, the sainted guide,
Millions of angels dawn on every side,
In chorus welcoming, behold they come,
Brighter than shines the splendour of noontide,
They come, they lead them to their happy home.

AKAH, A TALE OF THE FLOOD.

I

How glorious shines the gorgeous setting sun,
Amidst the flamy splendours of the west,
While all around, in lengthen'd shadows, dun,
Come the calm spirits that abide with rest.
It was not so when in that hour unblest,
Jehovah look'd repentant upon man,
And saw that Sin, exulting unrepress'd,
O'er the doom'd earth, unbridled, rampant ran.

II

The lurid signs of some dire advent glar'd,
Portents and prodigies denoted woe,
The Heav'ns were black, and fiery wonders flar'd—
All Nature, aw'd, foreboded overthrow.
Fiercely and grim, a sullen furnace glow,
Frown'd from his throne the crimson'd Lord of Day,
And the pale moon, as if she fear could know,
Eclips'd untimely, shed alarm'd dismay.

III

The dwindling stars shrunk in the cloudless skies,
Strange orbed fires disastrous influence shed,
Unknown conjunctions omen'd mysteries,
And all the dismal Heav'ns betoken'd dread—
Dim halos crown'd the hoary mountain's head,
Th' embroider'd valley shrouding shadows hid,
The woods were silent—scatt'ring cattle fled,
And birds and beasts seem'd trembling things forbid.

IV

High on a hill, that overlook'd the sea,
The city's swarm—a murmuring multitude—
Beheld the aspects, and below with glee
Gay bridal dancers gambol'd loud and lewd;—
Dark on the upland, far from stream and flood,
The mystic Ark seem'd brooding on the green:
Intent to reach it, hush'd in solemn mood,
Were mingled myriads of all creatures seen.

V

Not far apart, lone on a mossy bole,
A fallen column of primeval bowers,
Sad Noah sat,—and would the grief controul
That on his rapt prophetic spirit lowers.
Around, a cushion'd tapestry of flowers,
Blooms the fair earth, while here and there bright lakes
Mirror the landscape, and a streamlet pours
Into the vale, where song symphonious wakes.

VI

“Thou goodly world,” the pensive Patriarch sung,
“Outspread so beauteous in the view of Heaven—
“Oh, is it then, ye skies with glory hung!
“That all by Destiny are doom'd and given,
“To be as light that's into darkness driven,
“When God's strong breath in tempest tears the air,
“And the mirk wrack flies through the welkin riven,
“As His displeasure, loosen'd, rages there?

VII

“Ha! what are these,” with altering voice he cried,
“That fire the orient and portentous burn?—
“Why have the people to the mountains hied,
“And, in their terror, do they trembling turn,
“As if stern Destiny they see, and mourn?
“Oh, Righteous Heaven! for what, in the abyss
“Of wisdom form'd, was, as a garnish'd urn
“That holds but dust, the earth ordain'd?—for this?”

VIII

He lowly said, and, rising, shook contrite,
Lest his bold doubts were blasphemous; and then
Beheld afar, dark through the troubled light,
A pensive kinsman hastening home to men.
Mahujeel saw him, and, with solemn ken,
Glanc'd at the Ark, as with perturbed voice
He cried, if yet he knew by signal when
To launch the mystic sable edifice.

IX

Sear'd with derision by the ribald crowd,
Unanswering stood the Patriarch awhile,
Fearing Mahujeel, though he call'd so loud,
But meant with jeers to mock his sacred toil.
At last he told him, by instinct or wile,—
Churming on earth, and hov'ring in the air,
When he had finish'd his commanded moil,
Came creatures numberless to cage and lair.

X

Mahujeel mus'd, and, pond'ring, thoughtful says—
“Lone shepherds, fearful from the hills afar,
“Searching the omens that the east displays,
“Dread the meancings of yon stranger star.
“The fiery signs of pestilence and war
“They say are not;—that dreader woes impend—
“That prodigies the quests of Science bar;
“And wise men, baffled, own traditions end.

XI

“The cycled spheres to new conjunctions wheel,
“Mutations vex the ancient course of things,
“Celestial orbs as with disasters reel,
“And low abasements wait on sceptred Kings—
“Her brands around phantastic Faction flings,
“And slaving Labour, with toil-tarnish'd hands.
“Forth from her den a madding anarch brings,
“While Power, impassion'd, with Destruction bands.”

XII

Griev'd Noah sigh'd. But on the plain below,
Torch'd by the heralds of the coming doom,
He saw with heavy steps, depress'd and slow,
His rescued family from the city come.
By heavenly guidance from their sentenc'd home,
They all instinctive save his daughter came;—
She, graceful, lov'd in festal haunts to roam,
The gayest there; bright Akah was her name.

XIII

And bidding sad Mahujeel then farewell,
He goes to meet them, and enquires what fears
Have urged their coming; they foreboding tell
The shepherd's tale, with awe and flowing tears.
Thoughtful he listens, and in silence hears
Of that strange impulse which impell'd their flight,
And eyes dejected the perturbed spheres,
While to the ark he guides them for the night.

XIV

“The evening glory fades,” he mournful said,
As up the steep they desultory wend,
“The hours of treach'ry in the dusky glade
“Will from the boughs perfidious gloom extend,
“Ere you can reach the town; your journey end.
“But Akah, where is she? Enchanting child!
“Why came she not with you, sweet Heav'n forfend!”
He asked with kindliness, but accents wild.

XV

The sorrowing mother, sighing, thus replied—
“Omred, her lover, for the banquet dress'd,
“With other youths in the alarm has hied
“To old Methusalem, the wise and best
“On earth, a parting but a ling'ring guest,
“To learn what age has taught of these portents,
“That burning glare, and at his fond request
“She tarries for him on the battlements.”

XVI

She paus'd, for now before them rose sublime
The pitched fabric of the patriarch—
Wond'ring and fearful, as aloft they climb,
They hear low murmurs from the hallow'd bark,
While breathed sounds that thrill the solemn dark
Rise deep within. But though, with chill'd amaze,
They silent enter the mysterious ark,
Glad anthems of salvation there they raise.

XVII

Meantime gay Akah with her damsels beam'd
Bright on the battlements in jewell'd pride,
And in the revel of her fancies, deem'd
The morning come when she must blaze a bride.
Cymbals and dulcimers lay at her side,
And soft she said, “Begin the welcome song,
“Hail the new moon, these maiden fears deride,
“Hail her the veiled! the virgin train among.”

XVIII

But still anon, light-wav'ring, black, apart,
As fall on flowers the flaky winter's snow,
On the blithe feelings of her throbbing heart
Fell cold presages of some nameless woe.
Yet jocund timbrels sounding clear below,
As oft induced the bat-wing'd dread to fly,
While the light laugh that vaunting spirits know
Rose from afar with lilts of minstrelsy.

XIX

'Twas then Mahujeel from her father pass'd,
And halting, greeted her so deck'd and fair;—
Ah! ne'er like her's was beauty ever glass'd,
So bland, so bright, so heavenly sweet her air;
To see on high her smile benignly there,
Who could resist to ply the flattering tongue?—
He from the street amidst the omens' glare.
The wooing fondness of a Lover flung.

XX

Yet he was old—a hoary-headed sage,
A golden fillet glitter'd on his brow,
The badge and diadem of honour'd age,
That youth envies and only years allow.
But all the sentenc'd Earth was sinful now,
And he was vers'd in sorceries of shame;
The sleights of guilty craft he knew, and how
To rouse the fuel of the breast to flame.

XXI

Pleas'd Akah heard him, and with jocund grace
Enquir'd if yet her father would decern
The use of his fantastic dwelling place;
But smote with fear, Mahujeel answer'd stern—
“Th' import of these, alas, we soon shall learn;”
And then he told her how on foot and wing
The clean and unclean, with unknown concern,
House in the ark, and garnel treasures bring.

XXII

While thus they spoke, with grimmer lustre shone,
The burning auguries disast'rous red,
And in the air they heard the voice of one
Cry, “All the righteous of the world are dead.”
Omred return'd, and ghostly wan with dread,
Told them Methusalem had died, and all
The throng that awful stood around his bed,
Had seen the sight, and heard the angel call.

XXIII

Then shook the earth—a pulseless pause was then—
Then wails and cries, and hurrying sounds were heard;
Mad Ruin hurl'd her engines among men,
And roaring fires and rushing waters warr'd!
Mahujeel fled, nor did pale Omred guard
The sparkling Akah as she shrieking flew.—
Another shock!—'twas as the Gift of bard,
Unfurling Chaos to his frenzied view.

XXIV

The sculptur'd palace, and the pictur'd dome,
Triumphal arches, trophied colonnades,
Embattled towers—yea, e'en the sordid home
Of squalid crime, now trampling Wrath invades:—
Sin's direst purpose from the bosom fades,
And Love and Hate are swallow'd up by Fear;
Oaths and hoarse blasphemies rise from the shades,
Where 'tomb'd in guilt the guilty disappear.

XXV

Confusion rages;—seven days and nights
The Globe, loud-rending, staggers all around:—
Angels are busy in celestial heights,
And from their windows cataract rains resound;—
Black whirlwinds sweep; amidst thick darkness crown'd
Drives Vengeance car-borne; Storms their orgies hold;
Blue Lightnings flicker from the trembling ground;
And flying horsemen seek the shepherd's fold.

XXVI

“With floods mysterious, at the ebbing time—
“The tides, the tides,” they cry, “encroaching swell!”
And hurrying onward to green downs sublime
Of found'ring isles, and drowning shorelands, tell;—
And how strong bursting from their central cell,
The summon'd fountains of the mighty deep,
Volcanic issues, vast as mountains well,
From whose dark sides the ocean-monsters leap.

XXVII

“The Ark, the Ark!” exclaims, with frantic cry,
The Multitude; but, as with throes of birth,
Shuddering asunder, yawn'd a chasm nigh:—
They howl and laugh with bedlamitic mirth;
And, in the abyss, to vision started forth
Enormous bones, that living creatures own'd
What time the moon was parcel of the earth—
A sight that soon was by the Deluge drown'd.

XXVIII

The coming waters have the vallies fill'd
Of all the world; as islands now appear
The mountain tops; with every current still'd,
The casing ocean, in serene career,
Rolls its unhamper'd tidal-flowings drear;
And deep, deep swallow'd by the greedy wave,
All barks o'erwhelm'd, partake the doom austere
And coops and bulwarks of the base and brave.

XXIX

“The hills, the hills—our refuge is the hills!”
Wild Akah madding up the mountain flies;
Thousands on thousands whom delirium thrills,
Behind her run with unavailing cries;—
But still the ravenous rushing billows rise,
While all the air a solemn stillness holds,
As if great Nature's dreadful energies
The flooding vengeance of the Lord infolds.

XXX

Of all the living, Akak lives the last,
Distracted clamouring—“still the waters come;”
She sees Jehovah's dark asylum vast
Nearing sublime.—She drowns,—and all is dumb!
Come forth, ye storms! Tremendous thunders drum!
Sing to the Lord a dirge, ye tempests free!
Dry land lies buried in an ocean tomb—
Thy Power, Jehovah, walks the shoreless sea!

THE QUEEN OF BABYLON.

I

“Sound all your trumpets, the war banners wave,
“Come forth, ye virgins, with cymbals and songs,
“Ring the glad timbrels—shout, shout for the brave—
“Ninus of Babylon welcome in throngs!
“Gods but avenge, and to them he belongs;—
“Ninus, the victor,—the Lord of the great,
“Refulgent avenger!—has struck for our wrongs—
“Dread was his arm, and his presence was Fate!”

II

Such were the tumults of exulting joy
That hail'd King Ninus, conqueror from the war,
While, from her gates in numerous deploy,
The might of Babylon was pour'd afar.
Aloft, high-thron'd, on his triumphal car,
With swelling heart of gorgeous pride, he sees
The joyful myriads that his progress mar
Towards that dome where sits Semiramis,

III

The peerless slave, whose dazzling image shone
Still ever brighter to his heart of hearts;—
All the renown he had so glorious' won,
To aid his suit, but a fond hope imparts;
For more was she than aught of kingly arts
The charm of life to him. His crown and fame
He would have barter'd for those cares and smarts,
That only love bestows, or raptures claim.

IV

But she had still been cold, averse, and shy,
When he the throbbings of his bosom told;
And, though his slave, would ever weep and sigh,
Shrinking dejected from his ardent fold;
Nor aught esteem'd of garniture or gold
The King could give—the Babylonian King!—
Her thoughts were ever in those bowers of old,
Where she had sung the songs that maidens sing

V

To win the youths they love. A shepherd swain,
The blithest denizen, in gayest prime,
That bloom'd on mountain, or caress'd on plain,
Sought her fair hand. Oh, Destiny, sublime!
Can e'er in thy decrees be aught of crime?
Their day of bliss was come—the bridal day,
When festal hearts beat high.—'Twas in that time
The royal hunter bore the bride away!

VI

The young king Ninus had, on that fair morn,
With glitt'ring satraps and their slaves gone forth
To hunt the Lion, when a joyful horn,
And gleams of glee, and constant sunshine mirth
Gladden'd his ear, amidst the desert's dearth
Of cheerful sounds, and lur'd him from the chace,
To see what merriment had come to birth,
So jocund, free, in that gay silvan place.

VII

He saw Semiramis—he saw no more—
Sole as the noontide sun, he saw her shine;
And, as the stars its heavenly beams before,
The bridal-maids sank in her light divine.
Amaz'd, he paus'd, then with a sultan sign
He bade his nobles seize the frighten'd fair;
The guests fled scatt'ring,—pale but yet benign
The captive yielded, victim to despair.

VIII

With many a feast and regal banquet bright,
The halls of Babylon resound amain;
But she still dismal as the darkest night,
Sad as the east wind, can but moan and 'plain.
Yet all intent her willing love to gain,
He plans the war to play the hero's part,
And thence victorious, and exulting vain,
Deems her his conquest, his reward her heart.

IX

Pleas'd as his trains triumphant coming ride,
High on the loftiest of the palace towers
He sees her radiant stand in robes of pride—
Hope cheers desire, and strews the road with flowers.
“Oh speed,” he cries, “ye leaden-footed hours:
“Give me, O give her far diviner charms,—
“That conquering grace which reign'd in distant bowers,
“Guerdon of glory, beauteous meed of arms!”

X

Such glowing bliss, as the bright morning star
Sheds as it harbingers returning day,
Her smiles shine to him as he quits the car,
And from the portal wends his golden way.
But who shall tell what ecstacies obey
The ravish'd impulse of his beating breast,
When on his bosom, timid, sad, yet gay,
With trembling pressure, she her love confest.

XI

“All that I have be thine,” he raptur'd cried,
“This joy is as the joys of many years
“In one bless'd moment felt; let me be tried
“In my sincerity;” she but with tears
Answer'd his fondness, and yet more endears,
With playful blandishments, his truth to prove,
And then all smiles, with love's delicious jeers,
She gaily tests him for a proof of love.

XII

“Take all, take all, be Regent over all;”
But she, soft blushing, at the offer shy,
Said, “for this day, then, you may be my thrall,
“But for this day—nay, now, you can't deny,
“Let me enjoy the taste of Sovereignty.”
And round his neck her fond embrace she wreath'd—
Sigh'd as she smil'd, a soul subduing sigh,
And strong enchantments o'er his spirit breath'd.

XIII

Won by her spells, he bade the grave Vizier
Her duly rev'rence as the sceptred Queen,
And laugh'd, to see the pliant slaves revere
The haughty Sovereign of the regal scene;
But she, unmov'd, said with undaunted mein,
“Write, Vizier, write, the Captain of the guard
“Must yield his trust to him who bears this skreen,—
“As you obey, so shall be your reward.

XIV

She then proclaim'd a high triumphal feast
For her great thrall, their abdicated lord,
Return'd from battle, and each courtly guest
To come in robes of peace, without his sword.
Ninus laugh'd loud, to see with what accord
The obedient nobles to her will attend;—
None came so mirthful to that festal board,
As he, who deem'd himself the welcom'd friend.

XV

On high, above the gorgeous lamps, enspher'd,
Harmonious musicants and minstrels play'd;
The vaulted roofs were with their anthems cheer'd,
And echoing halls the flying notes delay'd.
Around, chain'd captives wond'ring homage paid,
Aw'd by the pompous Babylonian rite,
And serving slaves in cluster'd gems array'd,
Seem'd orbed lights of starry jewels bright.

XVI

With golden diadems on thrones sublime,
Stern vassals frown'd, a hundred conquer'd kings;
And near, as sullenly as seized in crime,
With clouded visages, their champions cringe;
High o'er the guests, as from resplendent wings,
The swinging censers, scatt'ring incense, gleam,
And all are garmented, as fancy brings
The ens of glory to the Poet's dream.

XVII

There beauty rays its smiles,—the beams of joy,
And there the jocund ply the sparkling jest;
While pale, but sovereign, there the Queen on high,
With glancing vision, searches every guest.—
A thoughtless truant, from her dread behest,
She saw a slave, entranc'd by habitude,
Before King Ninus placing unrepress'd,
Heedless of her as Queen, the trencher'd good.

XVIII

With low'ring aspect, she indignant rose,
And, pallid, bade the serving menials seize
The erring caitiff. Rising to oppose
Her stern intent, her doting lord she sees;
But, as a tower amidst the summer breeze,
Serene she stood, and bade the silent slaves
Bear the doomed traitor to her dignities
A headless body to the field of graves.

XIX

Aw'd by her frown, the King, soft whisp'ring, said—
“I wish this banquet of commands were o'er.”
“What!” she exclaim'd, “What, rebel thoughts invade!
“Do you then wish my Sovereignty no more?
“Hence, treach'rous, hence!—Be mantled with thy gore!
“Guards, seize the slave that would abridge our sway,
“And send him quick to him that died before!”
The guards rush in—her brother they obey.

XX

Then, with the voice of one in jeopardy,
While dumb appall'd the startled thousands gaz'd,
She calls Assar from his obscurity,
And forth a shepherd comes. The court, amaz'd,
Wist not his office; but still brighter blaz'd
Her kindled spirit, and, with accents dread,
She bade him go, where dies the King debas'd,
And in a charger bring the rebel's head.

XXI

The trembling throng beheld him slowly move,
Not with reluctance, but with stately stride.
In his star-eyes shone vengeance mixed with love,
And in his wrathful air exulting pride:—
Him soon the screens of mingling curtains hide;
And all is still, as when apart, unseen,
Some dreadful deed is done. The satraps ey'd
The wan majestic sternness of the Queen;

XXII

And, low inquiring, ask'd, with fear and doubt,
“Who was the stranger, that so stalwart strode?”—
When, all aghast, they heard a sound without,
As if the awful business of a God
Was acting there. The silent satraps nod
Towards each other, and the fearful Throng,
Of grim phantasmas, in their spirits bode,
As proud Assar return'd sublime along.

XXIII

A lordly dish, with damask linen spread,
He bears before him. Through the wond'ring halls,
On to the Queen he moves with sounding tread:—
Silence is startled, and the sound appals
The viewless echoes of the pictur'd walls.—
Yes! an avenger stalks triumphant there;
And now he reverent at her footstool falls—
She lifts the veil, and sees thy gift, Despair!

XXIV

“Thus may they perish!” she exclaim'd aloud,
“The ruthless guilty, in their dreams of bliss,
“And ever be the bridal sheet a shroud
“To those, remorseless, that drive Love to this!
“Rise Babylonians, share my happiness;—
“Behold your King!—my Lord, Assar, behold!
“Shout and rejoice!—the Gods, that give success,
“Have crown'd with victory the true and bold!”

THE END.