The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir

Edited by Thomas Aird: With A Memoir of the Author

Moir, D. M. (1798-1851)

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II.

POEMS IN REFERENCE TO CHILDHOOD.

ECHOES OF ANTIQUITY.

THE MESSAGE OF SETH.

HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES.

THE LEGEND OF ST ROSALIE.

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ECHOES OF ANTIQUITY.

THE MESSAGE OF SETH.

AN ORIENTAL TRADITION.

I

Prostrate upon his couch of yellow leaves,
Slow-breathing lay the Father of Mankind;
And, as the rising sun through cloudland weaves
Its gold, the glowing past returned to mind,
Days of delight for ever left behind,
In purity's own garments garmented,
Under perennial branches intertwined—
Where fruits and flowers hung temptingly o'erhead,
Eden's blue streams he traced, by bliss ecstatic led.

II

Before him still, in the far distance seen,
Arose its rampart groves impassable;
Stem behind giant stem, a barrier screen,
Whence even at noonday midnight shadows fell:
Vainly his steps had sought to bid farewell
To scenes so tenderly beloved, although
Living in sight of Heaven made Earth a Hell;
For fitful lightnings, on the turf below,
Spake of the guardian sword aye flickering to and fro—

III

The fiery sword that, high above the trees,
Flashed awful threatenings from the angel's hand,
Who kept the gates and guarded: Nigh to these,
A hopeless exile, Adam loved to stand
Wistful, or roamed to catch a breeze that fanned
The ambrosial blooms, and wafted perfume thence,
As 'twere sweet tidings from a distant land
No more to be beheld; for Penitence,
However deep it be, brings back not Innocence.

IV

Thus had it been through weary years, wherein
The primal curse, working its deadly way,
Had reft his vigour, made his cheek grow thin,
Furrowed his brow, and bleached his locks to grey:
A stricken man, now Adam prostrate lay
With sunken eye, and palpitating breath,
Waning like sunlight from the west away;
While tearfully, beside that bed of death,
Propping his father's head, in tenderness hung Seth.

V

“Seth, dearest Seth,” 'twas thus the father said,
“Thou know'st—ah! better none, for thou hast been
A pillow to this else forsaken head,
And made, if love could make, life's desert green—

The dangers I have braved, the ills unseen,
Like nets around my feet; and how the wrath
Of an offended God strewed briars keen,
And thorns, instead of flowers, along my path—
Yet deem not that this Night no hope of Morning hath.

VI

“On darkness Dawn will break; and, as the gloom
Of something, all unfelt before, downweighs
My spirit, and forth-shadows coming doom,
Telling me this may be my last of days,—
I call to mind the promise sweet (let praise
Be ever His, who from Him hath not thrust
The erring utterly!) again to raise
The penitential prostrate from the dust,
And be the help of all who put in Him their trust.

VII

“Know then, that day, as sad from Eden's home
Of primal blessedness my steps were bent
Reluctant, through the weary world to roam,
And tears were with the morning's dewdrops blent,
That 'twas even then the Almighty did relent—
Saying, ‘Though labour, pain, and peril be
Thy portion, yet a balsam sweet of scent
For man hath been provided, which shall free
From death his doom—yea, gain lost Eden back to thee.

VIII

“‘Although thy disobedience hath brought down
The wrath of justice; and the penalty
Are pangs by sickness brought, and misery's frown,
And toil—and, finally, that thou shalt die;
Yet will I help in thine extremity.
In the mid Garden, as thou know'st, there grows
The Tree of Life, and thence shall preciously,
One day, an oil distil, of power to close
Sin's bleeding wounds, and soothe man's sorrows to repose.’

IX

“That promise hath been since a star of light,
When stumbled on the mountains dark my feet;
Hath cheered me in the visions of the night,
And made awaking even to labour sweet;
But now I feel the cycle is complete,
And horror weighs my spirit to the ground.
Haste to the guarded portals—now 'tis meet—
And learn if, even for me, may yet be found
That balsam for this else immedicable wound.

X

“Thine errand to the Angel tell, and he
(Fear not, he knows that edict from the Throne)
Will guide thy footsteps to the Sacred Tree,
Which crowns the Garden's midmost space alone:

Thy father's utmost need to him make known;
And, ere life's pulsing lamp be wasted quite,
Bring back this Oil of Mercy—haste, be gone;
Haste thee, oh haste! for my uncertain sight,
Fitful, now deems it day, and now is quenched in night.”

XI

Seth heard; and like a swift fond bird he flew,
By filial love impelled; yea, lessened dread
Even of the guardian Fiery Angel knew,
And through the flowery plains untiring sped,
And upwards, onwards to the river-head,
Where, high to heaven, the verdant barriers towered
Of Eden; when he sank—o'ercanopied
With sudden lightning, which around him showered,
And in its vivid womb the mid-day sun devoured.

XII

And in his ear and on his heart was poured,
While there entranced he lay, an answer meet;
And gradually, as Thought came back restored,
Uprising, forth he hied with homeward feet.
Sweet to the world's grey Father, O how sweet,
His coming on the nearest hill-top shone!
For now all feebly of his heart the beat
Returned; and of his voice the faltering tone,
Meeting the listener's ear, scarce made its purpose known.

XIII

“Beloved father!” thus 'twas through his grief
Impassioned spake the son, “it may not be,
Alas! that, for thy misery's relief,
Wells now the promised balsam from Life's Tree.
And must I say farewell—yea, part with thee?—
Droop not thus all despairing: breath may fail,
And days and years and ages onward flee
Ere that day dawn; but thou its beams shalt hail,
And earth give up its dead, and Life o'er Death prevail.

XIV

“Astounding are the visions I have seen:
The clouds took shapes, and turned them into trees
And men and mountains; and the lands between
Seemed cities, dun with crowds; and on the seas
Dwelt men, in arks careering with the breeze;
And shepherds drove their flocks along the plain;
And generations, smitten with disease,
Passed to the dust, on which tears fell like rain;
Yet fathers, in their sons, seem'd age grown youth again

XV

“And the wide waters rose above the tops
Of the high hills, and all looked desolate—
Sea without shore! Anon appeared the slopes,
Glowing with blossoms, and a group elate

Eying an arch, bright with Earth's future fate,
In heaven; and there were wanderings to and fro;
And, while beneath the multitudes await,
Tables, by God's own finger written, show
The Law by which He wills the world should walk below.

XVI

“And ever passed before me clouds of change,
Whose figures rose, and brightened, and declined;
And what was now familiar straight grew strange,
And, melting into vapours, left behind
No trace; and, as to silence sank the wind,
Appeared in heaven a beautiful bright star,
Under whose beams an Infant lay reclined;
And all the wheels of nature ceased their jar,
And choiring angels hymned that Presence from afar.

XVII

“And then, methought, upon a mountain stood
The Tree, from which, as shown to thee, should flow
That Oil of Mercy—but it looked like blood!
And to all quarters of the earth below
It streamed, until the desert ceased to know
Its curse of barrenness; the clouds away
Passed in their darkness from the noon; and lo!
Even backwards flowed that brightness to this day,
And, Father, showed me thee, encircled by its ray:—

XVIII

“It showed me thee, from whom mankind had birth,
And myriads—countless as the sere leaves blown
From wintry woods—whose places on the earth,
Even from the burning to the icy zone,
Were to their sons' sons utterly unknown,
Awakening to a fresh eternal morn:
Methinks I list that glad Hosannah's tone,
From shore to shore on all the breezes borne!
Then, Father, droop not thus, as utterly forlorn;

XIX

“A long, long future, freaked with sin and strife,
The generations of the world must know;
But surely from that Tree—the Tree of Life—
A healing for the nations yet will flow,
As God foretold thee.”
“Freely then I go,
For steadfast is the Lord his word to keep,”
Said Adam, as his breathing, faint and slow,
Ceased; and, like zephyr dying on the deep,
In hope matured to faith, the First Man fell asleep.

HIPPOCRATES TO THE AMBASSADORS OF ARTAXERXES.

[_]

It is recorded that Hippocrates refused an invitation from Artaxerxes, King of Persia, with a promise of every reward and honour he might desire, provided he would repair to his dominions during a season of pestilence. Many doubts have been thrown out regarding the authenticity of the letters said to have passed on the occasion, and which are still extant. In one of these, Hippocrates replies, that “he has food, clothing, and a habitation in his own country; and that it would be unworthy of him to aspire to the wealth and grandeur of the Persians, or to cure barbarians—the enemies of Greece.” The consequence is said to have been the threatened vengeance of the enraged king against the inhabitants of Cos, unless they delivered him up; but the islanders, instead of complying, declared their resolution to defend his life and liberty at all hazards, and the affair was dropped.

I.

Return, and tell your Sire, the Persian King,
That dazzling proffers here you vainly bring:
What is the pomp of wealth, the pride of state,
Pages around, and slaves within the gate,
With all the vain magnificent parade
Which floats in Grandeur's showy cavalcade,

To him who daily bends the patient knee
Before the shrine of meek Philosophy,
And strives to fill up Life's contracted span
With kindliest offices to fellow-man?
Sabæan perfumes, robes of Tyrian dye,
And fountain jets that cool the glowing sky—
While music, mirth, and dancing, from the breast
Drive every dream of sorrow and unrest—
May to submission lull luxurious Ease,
And fashion thraldom to what mould you please;
But to the soul determined, yet serene,
Which treasures wisdom from each passing scene,
And scruples never from itself to steal
Soft slumber's hours, to serve the common-weal,
Shorn of their rainbow hues, State's honours fade,
And sink to insignificance and shade!

II.

Tell Artaxerxes that, from day to day,
Even to the rudest hut I bend my way,
Where, save my own, no friendly feet intrude—
Where Poverty keeps watch with Solitude,
And, stretched on pallet low, the sick man lies,
With fever-stricken frame and hollow eyes;
That, while wild phantoms whirl his throbbing brain,
I watch his slumbers, and allay his pain,
A balm to stanch the gushing wound apply,
And wipe Affection's tear from Sorrow's eye.
Up with the sun, to meadows I repair,
And cull each virtuous herb that blossoms there;

For me no hour is idly seen to shine,
Long days of toil, and slumbers brief are mine.

III.

Go—bid your monarch pause, from all apart,
And ask this question of his conscious heart,
At midnight lonely, when are swept aside
The court's bedazzling pageantry and pride—
At midnight when the clouds are dark and deep,
And all the stars sealed up, the world asleep—
If e'er, when mounted on his molten throne,
Beauty, and power, and wealth beneath him shone,
Gems, gold, and garments from a thousand coasts,
All that the earth presents, or ocean boasts—
If e'er when Flattery raised her voice aloud,
And echoing murmurs circled round the crowd,
Far from his spirit fled the fiend Distress,
To leave his heart unmingled happiness—
Ask him if these, the pageants of a king,
Can ever to his thoughts such rapture bring,
As that I feel, when, as I journey on,
The pale youth rises from the wayside stone,
With health-rekindling cheek, and palms outspread,
To call down bliss on my unworthy head,—
As that I feel, when some fond mother shows
Her cradled infant, lovely in repose,
And tells me, that the scion of her heart
Preserved to bless her by my timeous art,
Taught by parental precept, will repair
To lisp my name amid his earliest prayer—

What time for him Jove's temple-doors are thrown
Apart, and Heaven his worship deigns to own—
Grateful, through all life's after years to be,
To one, from lurking death who set him free!

IV.

If such my joys—with praise from every tongue,
Smiles from the old, and greetings from the young,
The warrior's reverence as he courses by,
And gratitude's warm beam from woman's eye—
What else is wanting? That which I enjoy—
The mental calm, which nothing can destroy,
The self-applause, whose strength sustains the soul,
When o'er the Sun of Life the clouds of Sorrow roll.

V.

What wish I more? A cheerful home is mine,
Around whose threshold hangs the clustering vine;
There Contemplation finds a welcome cell,
And dove-eyed Peace, and meek Contentment dwell;
Raiment my country offers, food, and fire,
What more doth Nature crave—should man desire?
And could I leave my country, fair and free,
Green Cos, the glory of the Ægean sea,
Desert the realm of Wisdom and of Worth,
Land of my sires, and region of my birth,
By such unworthy baubles lured to roam,
And make 'mid barbarous hordes my gilded home?
No! tell your sovereign that a freeman I
Was born, and 'mid the free resolve to die!

My skill to lull the tortured into ease,
To salve the wound, and medicate disease,
Were madly used, if, from the free and brave
I turned, and stooped to heal the despot and his slave!

VI.

Thy monarch's rage I nor despise nor dread;
Fall if it must on my devoted head,
Better an honoured, though untimely fate,
Than glory sold for unavailing state:
With sneering lip, O ne'er may scoffer say—
“Hippocrates to Persia slunk away,
For princely gauds his reputation sold,
Shamed his old age, and bartered fame for gold!”
No! rather be it said—“He scorn'd to roam
The world for wealth, and died beloved at home;
His goal of rest was honourably won,
And Greece regards him as a worthy son!”

THE LEGEND OF ST ROSALIE.

I

Fair art thou, Sicily!—in all his round,
Shines not the sun on lovelier land than thine;
With gorgeous olive groves thy hills are crown'd,
And o'er thy vales the pomegranate and vine
Spread rich in beauty; halcyon seas around
Thy shores breathe freshness, making half divine
An earthly climate; eye hath nowhere seen
Heaven brighter in its blue, earth in its green!

II

But of these boasts I sing not now—my tale
Is of an ancient pestilence, when the power
Of death hung o'er thee, like a sable veil,
And desolation ruled each awful hour;
When man's heart sank, and woman's cheek grew pale,
And graves were dug in every garden-bower,
And proud Palermo bow'd her spiry head
In silent gloom—a city of the dead!

III

Hush'd was the voice of traffic on each street;
Within the market-place the grass sprang green;
Friends from each other shrank with hasty feet,
When on the porch the plague's red-cross was seen;
The clocks had long forgotten to repeat
Time's warning hours; and, where had revel been
On days of carnival, with wheels of dread
The dead-cart roll'd, and homes gave out their dead.

IV

A lurid vapour veil'd the sun from view,
And the winds were not; strangers fled the shore;
Lay in the ports the ship without a crew,
The heat-warp'd fisher-boat and rotting oar;
Wander'd the house-dog masterless, and grew
So fierce with famine, the gaunt looks he wore
Betoken'd madness; broken was each tie
That sweetens life, or links humanity.

V

Thus week on week crawl'd on, and day by day:
Down to the dreary caverns of the grave,
Pass'd in this harvest-home of death away,
Unmark'd, unmourn'd, the beauteous and the brave,
The white-hair'd sire, and infant of a day;
No funeral had a single follower, save
The hirelings who for wine or booty schemed,
And, while they trod the verge of Hell, blasphemed;

VI

Till one grey morn, when all was drear and dumb,
Arose, far off, the sound as of a sea,
Or wailing of the wild winds, when they come
To strip the frail leaves from October's tree:
Now nearer—'twas the multitudinous hum
Of human tongues. What could the meaning be?
The timid and the plague-struck left their beds,
And all the roofs were clad with gazing heads!

VII

And lo! a grey-hair'd abbot, in the van
Of a tumultuous, motley, rushing crowd,
Which throng'd around the venerable man,
And scarce a passage for his path allow'd.
Above his head, as if a talisman
Of peace, a long white silken banner flow'd;
Unsandal'd were his feet, his sackcloth vest
And sable cowl humility confess'd.

VIII

And in his calm blue eye a mystery shone,
And on his brow a bright intelligence,
As if his soul to happy worlds had flown,
To carry back some gracious message thence;
Straightway he mounted on a ledge of stone,
'Mid the hush'd crowd glad tidings to dispense,
And stretching forth his thin pale fingers, thus
He spake, in accents clear though tremulous:—

IX

“As in my solitary cell I lay,
On the dried rushes sprinkled for my bed,
A golden light, as if of sudden day,
Around my darken'd walls effulgence shed;
Upon my knees I sprang, in act to pray,
And, earthward as I shrank in solemn dread,
I heard a silver tongue, which thus began—
‘Put away fear, and look to me, O man!

X

“‘Look up to me—my home is Paradise,
Where all is fadeless, shadowless, and grand,
And groves of amaranth in glory rise,
And streams of silver lave a golden strand,
And angels with their white plumes veil their eyes,
As in the presence of the Throne they stand;
Put away fear—to lighten human woe,
Only on messages of love we go.

XI

“‘Yes! I am come the harbinger of good
From God to man; the tear, the suppliant sigh,
While happy hearths were doom'd to solitude
And silence, have ascended to the sky.
Now by His precious name who died on rood,
Health shall once more revisit Sicily—
Again Palermo take her titles old—
The wide world's granary

From time immemorial Sicily has been noted for its amazing fertility. It was hence styled Romani Imperii Horreum, at a time when the empire of the Cæsars scarcely knew limits. According to Pliny, its fields yielded a hundredfold; and Diodorus, surnamed Siculus, from the island being his birthplace, assumed patriotically that it produced wheat and other grain spontaneously. Brydone, in his spirited and classical Tour, gives it as his opinion, that any of its average harvests is sufficient to supply the whole inhabitants for seven years.

—the shell of gold.’

“From the singularity of situation, as well as from the richness of the soil, Palermo has had many flattering epithets bestowed upon it, particularly by the poets, who have denominated it Conca d' Oro, the Golden Shell, which is at once expressive both of its situation and richness. It has likewise been called Aurea Vallis, Hortus Siciliæ, &c.; and to include all these together, the lasting term of Felix has been added to its name, by which you will find it distinguished in the maps.”—Brydone's Tour through Sicily and Malta.

XII

“As music melts within the moonlight sea,
So ceased her voice upon the silent air;
And, looking up, from sudden fear set free,
Behold! a form, angelically fair,
In robes cerulean mantled to the knee,
Floating in light—a halo round her hair;
Within her hand she held a branch of palm,
And in her eye dwelt Heaven's eternal calm.

XIII

“Like honey dripping from the comb, so came
Once more her words—‘List to me, do not fear—
No vows of wrath I bring, no words of blame,
This world, where now we are, was once my sphere;
And all the feelings of the human frame,
And all man's hopes and joys to me were dear;
Yes! I was once a denizen of earth,
And in the home of princes had my birth.

XIV

“‘Each pleasure for my young heart was devised,
My wishes all were with fruition crown'd,
Yet, girt with earthly grandeur, I despised
The gaiety and the giddiness around,
The calm of holy meditation prized,
And seeking solace in religion, found;
Till wean'd from frality, in abstraction deep,
I held communion with the blest in sleep.

XV

“‘And day by day more spiritual I grew,
And night by night more ravishingly blest;
Scarcely it seem'd 'twas human breath I drew,
For angels stood before my sight confest,
And round my walks in circling glory flew,
And shadow'd with their plumes my couch of rest,
Till, by their high communion purified,
The face of man no more I could abide.

XVI

“‘'Twas now my fifteenth summer, and the sun
One morn was shining on the pearly dew,
When, blessing all, yet taking leave of none,
In silence from my palace home I flew—
Flew till my strength was spent, and day was done
Whither, and for what purpose, scarce I knew,
Nor was it ever guess'd; though, since the last
Hour of my life, five centuries have pass'd.

XVII

“‘Cherubs hung round, an angel was my guide,
And, mantled in Elysian reverie,
She bore me up the mount, and at her side,
I woke, o'ershadowed by an olive tree;

The authority for the olive is, I fear, only poetical, but it is high. Sir Walter Scott, in recounting the wanderings of his Palmer to the holy places of the earth, after mentioning Salem, and Rome, and Ararat, and Sinai, and Montserrat, makes mention of

“That grot where olives nod,
Where, darling of each heart and eye,
From all the youth of Sicily,
Saint Rosalie retired to God.”
Marmion, Canto I. st. xxiii.

John Dryden—the son of glorious John—in his voyage to Sicily, (p. 107,) and Brydone—for they each visited the spot—give a very different account of it. The former calls it “a frightful place, accessible by a very bad, steepy, and break-neck way.” Nor is the description by the latter more favourable. “The mountain is extremely high,” he says, “and so uncommonly steep, that the road up to it is very properly termed La Scala, or The Stair. Before the discovery of St Rosalia, it was looked upon as almost inaccessible; but they have now, at a vast expense, cut out a road over precipices that were almost perpendicular.”

There was I stationed thenceforth to abide,
Till time from earth should set my spirit free;
And so, amid the rocks, by foot untrod,
I learn'd to live with nature, and to God.

XVIII

“‘My home was Pelegrino's rocky cell;
The berries of the mountain were my food;
My drink was water from its bubbling well;
My only friends the wild birds of the wood;
Yet found I there a peace, which may not dwell
With man below, except in solitude,
When life's one purpose is to fast and pray;
And with my knees I wore the rock away.

XIX

“‘Celestial minds, believe me, for the woes
Of mortal life have sympathy, and I
To hush Palermo's wailings to repose,
Now bring thee down a message from on high;
Hearken to what I bid thee—and the rose
Of health again shall bloom, the plague shall fly:—
For it is granted me, by Heavenly grace,
To be the guardian of my native place.

XX

“‘Girt with that holy faith which falters not,
Go thou with morning, and, from out the stones,
Which strew the floors of Pelegrino's Grot,
Gather together my unburied bones—

Brydone scandalises the memory of the good old Abbot, by alluding to the proverb, that “those who hide are the readiest to find,” and that probably the bones of Rosalie were not her bones at all. We cannot countenance such shocking scepticism, more especially as the “tourist and traveller” gives us no other proof of imposition than his mere ipse dixit. He thinks that “the holy man probably could have given a very good account” of the relics found in the grot, and that likely they were as little entitled to honour as those of St Viar, which were found somewhere in Spain under a broken tombstone, when these were the only legible letters. They were discovered by some priests to have an excellent knack at working miracles, from which considerable revenues were drawn; till, unfortunately, these made application to Pope Leo the Tenth to grant some immunities. His Holiness not being entirely satisfied with the saintship, a list of the miracles was sent to him, together with the broken tombstone. The first were sustained as genuine, but the latter having been proved to be part of a monument erected over a Roman præfectus viarum, the name of poor St Viar was ordered to be struck out of the Calendar. As the best proof that this is no proof at all, St Rosalia still remains there.

For since my own, a human voice hath not
Broken its calm with penitential moans—
Bear them, with anthems to the Prince of Peace,
Thrice round the city, and the plague shall cease.

XXI

“‘And then shall pass away the brooding gloom,
Which hid the very face of heaven from view;
Nature once more her course shall reassume,
The fields their verdure, and the sky its blue;
And Faith shall sit upon the sealed-up tomb;
And Time o'er Sorrow shed her healing dew;
And Hope present, in better worlds restored,
The loved—the quickly lost—and long deplored.’

In the Sicilian language is an epic poem, of which St Rosalia is the heroine. The author at once sets her above all saints save the Virgin, whom he hardly excepts. From his work it appears that our heroine was niece to King William the Good—that she early displayed symptoms of sanctity, and, at fifteen, disclaimed all human society. Retiring to the mountains westward of Palermo, she was never more heard of for five hundred years. Her disappearance being in the year 1159, she was supposed to have been taken up to Heaven, till her bones were discovered in 1624, during a dreadful plague that devastated the island. These were found lying in a cave near the summit of the Monte Pelegrino, by a holy man who was led to them by a Heavenly vision, and told that, by carrying them thrice round the walls of Palermo, the pestilence would be stayed. So was it done—and St Rosalia became the greatest saint in the Calendar.

XXII

“With downcast earnestness my listening ear
Drank in the sounds celestial; as they ceased
I raised mine eyes, in reverential fear,
To gaze upon the Heavenly guest, well pleased;
But she had vanish'd, and the darkness drear
From her abstracted lustre had increased;
And on my couch, within my cell of stone,
Awe-struck I knelt, in darkness and alone!”

XXIII

Silently, breathlessly, around him stood,
Like men escaped from some tremendous doom
By miracle, the innumerous multitude;
Mid-day had broken upon midnight's gloom;
While, as Despair departed with her brood
Accursed, came Hope each pale face to illume;
And, as the abbot ceased, a long loud shout,
Like thunder, rang Palermo's bounds throughout.

XXIV

Again, and yet again, that sea of sound
Surged up to heaven, and then the joyous crowd,
With leap, and lock'd embrace, and sudden bound,
Each other hail'd, in gratulation proud;
While some in speechless ecstasy were drown'd,
Others, o'ercome by feeling, wept aloud;
But onward to the mountain, as behoved,
All in one wild delirious tumult moved.

XXV

Up Pelegrino's rocky sides they clomb,
The old man in the midst, and there, on high,
They found the fair Saint's dwelling-place and tomb—
A yawning cleft that faced the eastern sky;
Entering, 'twas mantled all in twilight gloom;
Which clearing up, 'twas rapture to descry
Upon its floor, amid the rugged stones,
The treasure which they sought for—mouldering bones—

XXVI

The mouldering bones of sainted Rosalie,
Which there, unnoticed and unknown, had lain,
While spring, through centuries five, had green'd the tree,
And autumn burden'd earth with golden grain;
As they were borne to light, each bent the knee,
Then downwards follow'd to the dim-seen plain
In reverential silence—for the time
Was solemn, and gave birth to thoughts sublime.

XXVII

Thus, from her trance of darkness, into day
Palermo broke; the bells from every tower
Peal'd joyously; and bands, with streamers gay,
Assembling, waited anxiously the hour
Which was to chase the pestilence away,
And from its dreaded and destructive power
Release a suffering city, and restore
To vacant homes the household gods once more.

XXVIII

Then, as the vision bade, with chanted hymn,
Thrice round the city march'd they on that morn,
With censers in the daylight burning dim,
And the loud sound of timbrel, harp, and horn;
All eyes were on the abbot, for by him
The relics in a silver urn were borne;

This urn was deposited in the Chapel of St Rosalia, the most magnificent of the many which compose the Madre Chiesa, or Cathedral of Palermo. It is curiously wrought, and enriched with precious stones. These relics perform many miracles, and are looked upon as the greatest treasure appertaining to the city.

Behind him paced the vestals, vow'd to God,
And freres with robes of white, and feet unshod.

XXIX

Meanwhile the vapours, dense and stern, away
From the blue concave of the sky withdrew;
Burst forth in radiant loveliness the day,
And stirring all the leaves the light winds blew;
Gamboll'd the flocks; the wild birds caroll'd gay;
Almost it seem'd that nature breathed anew,
And had thrown off the spell, which made her seem
As if bewitch'd by some night-mareish dream.

XXX

Again the tide of life went rolling on,
And mingling tongues were heard, and hurrying feet;
The clocks again gave out a cheerful tone;
Back to the empty harbours came the fleet;
With corn the long-deserted fields were sown;
And traffic swept the grass from off the street;
Joy re-illumin'd ocean, and its shore;
And man met man in brotherhood once more.

XXXI

In season due, by grateful hands uprear'd,
On Pelegrino's rugged cliffs a fane,

“This chapel is very richly adorned; and on the spot where the Saint's body was discovered, which is just beneath the hole in the rock, which is opened on purpose, as I said, there is a very fine statue of marble, representing her in a lying posture, railed in all about with fine iron and brass work; and the altar, on which they say mass, is built just over it.”— Dryden's Voyage.

Rich in its architectural grace, appear'd,
Over the grotto, where so long had lain
The bones of Rosalie—her name revered
May find in Sicily no like again,
For ever to shine forth the brightest star
In her peculiar Calendar by far.

XXXII

And yearly on that day, when from the powers
Of pestilence Palermo's walls were freed,
The people give to revelry the hours,
And kneel before her imaged form, and feed
The path of her triumphal car with flowers.
Such of a grateful nation is the meed,
Paid for the blasting of Plague's upas-tree,
And such its reverence for St Rosalie!

THE BURDEN OF SION.

[_]

This Ode, composed by Judas Hallevy bar Samuel, a Spanish Rabbi of the twelfth century, is said to be still recited every year, during the Fast observed in commemoration of the Destruction of Jerusalem. The versifier has been much indebted to a very literal translation, from the original necessarily obscure Spanish of the Rabbi, into excellent French, by Joseph Mainzer, Esq., a gentleman to whom the sacred music of this country is under great and manifold obligations.

Captive and sorrow-pale, the mournful lot
Say, hast thou, Sion, of thy sons forgot?
Hast thou forgot the innocent flocks, that lay
Prone on thy sunny banks, or frisk'd in play
Amid thy lilied meadows? Wilt thou turn
A deaf ear to thy supplicants, who mourn
Downcast in earth's far corners? Unto thee
Wildly they turn in their lone misery;
For wheresoe'er they rush in their despair,
The pitiless Destroyer still is there!

Eden of earth! despisest thou the sighs
From the slave's heart that rise
To thee, amid his fetters—who can dare
Still to hope on in his forlorn despair—

Whose morn and evening tears for thee fall down
Like dews on Hermon's thirsty crown—
And who would blessed be in all his ills,
Wander'd his feet once more even on thy desert hills!

But Hope's fair star is not extinguish'd quite
In rayless night;
And, Sion, as thy fortunes I bewail,
Harsh sounds my voice, as of the birds that sail
The stormy dark. Let but that star be mine,
And through the tempest tremulously shine;
So, when the brooding clouds have overpast,
Joy with the dawn of day may come at last;
Even as an instrument, whose lively sound
Makes the warm blood in every bosom bound,
And whose triumphant notes are given
Freely in songs of thanksgiving to Heaven!

Bethel!—and as thy name's name leaves my tongue,
The very life-drops from my heart are wrung!—
Thy sanctuary—where, veil'd in mystic light,
For ever burning, and for ever bright,
Jehovah's awful majesty reposed,
And shone for aye Heaven's azure gates unclosed—
Thy sanctuary!—where from the Eternal flow'd
The radiance of His glory, in whose power
Noonday itself like very darkness show'd,
And stars were none at midnight's darkest hour—
Thy sanctuary! O there! O there! that I
Might breathe my troubled soul out, sigh on sigh,

There, where thine effluence, Mighty God, was pour'd
On thine Elect, who, kneeling round, adored!

Stand off! the place is holy. Know ye not,
Of potter's clay the children, that this spot
Is sacred to the Everlasting One—
The Ruler over Heaven and over earth?
Stand off, degraded slaves, devoid of worth!
Nor dare profane again, as ye have done,
This spot—'tis holy ground—profane it not!

O, might I cleave, with raptured wing, the waste
Of the wide air, then, where in splendour lie
Thy ruins, would my sorrowing spirit haste
Forth to outpour its flood of misery!—
There where thy grandeur owns a dire eclipse,
Down to the dust as sank each trembling knee,
Unto thy dear soil should I lay my face,
Thy very stones in rapture to embrace,
And to thy smouldering ashes glue my lips!

And how, O Sion! how should I but weep,
As on our fathers' tombs I fondly gazed,
Or, wistfully, as turn'd mine eye
To thee, in all thy desolate majesty,
Hebron, where rests the mighty one in sleep,
And high his pillar of renown was raised!
There—in thine atmosphere—'twere blessedness
To breathe a purer ether. O! to me
Thy dust than perfumes dearer far should be,

And down thy rocks the torrent streams should roam
With honey in their foam!

O, sweet it were—unutterably sweet—
Even though with garments rent, and bleeding feet,
To wander over the deserted places
Where once thy princely palaces arose,
And 'mid the weeds and wild-flowers mark the traces
Where the ground, yawning in its earthquake throes,
The Ark of Covenant and the Cherubim
Received, lest stranger hands, that reek'd the while
With blood of thine own children, should defile
Its Heaven-resplendent glory, and bedim:
And my dishevell'd locks, in my despair,
All madly should I tear;
And as I cursed the day that dawn'd in heaven—
The day that saw thee to destruction given,
Even from my very frenzy should I wring
A rough rude comfort in my sorrowing.

What other comfort can I know? Behold,
Wild dogs and wolves with hungry snarl contend
Over thy prostrate mighty ones; and rend
Their quivering limbs, ere life hath lost its hold.
I sicken at the dawn of morn—the noon
Brings horror with its brightness; for the day
Shows but the desolate plain,
Where, feasting on the slain,
(Thy princes,) flap and scream the birds of prey!

Chalice from Marah's bitterest spring distill'd!
Goblet of woe, to overflowing fill'd!
Who, quaffing thee, can live? Give me but breath—
A single breath—that I once more may see
The dreary vision. I will think of thee,
Colla, once more—of Cliba will I think—
Then fearlessly and freely drink
The cup—the fatal cup—whose dregs are death.

Awake thee, Queen of Cities, from thy slumber—
Awake thee, Sion! Let the quenchless love
Of worshippers, a number beyond number,
A fountain of rejoicing prove.
Thy sorrows they bewail, thy wounds they see,
And feel them as their own, and mourn for thee!
Oh, what were life to them, did Hope not hold
Her mirror, to unfold
That glorious future to their raptured sight,
When a new morn shall chase away this night!
Even from the dungeon gloom,
Their yearning hearts, as from a tomb,
Are crying out—are crying out to thee;
And, as they bow the knee
Before the Eternal, every one awaits
The answer of his prayer, with face toward thy gates.

Earth's most celestial region! Babylon
The mighty, the magnificent, to thee,
With all the trappings of her bravery on,
Seems but a river to the engulfing sea.

What are its oracles but lies? 'Tis given
Thy prophets only to converse with Heaven—
The hidden to reveal, the dark to scan,
And be the interpreters of God to man.
The idols dumb that erring men invoke,
Themselves are vanities, their power is smoke:
But, while the heathen's pomp is insecure,
Is transient, thine, O Sion! shall endure;
For in thy temples, God, the only Lord,
Hath been, and still delights to be, adored.

Blessed are they who, by their love,
Themselves thy veritable children prove!
Yea! blessed they who cleave
To thee with faithful hearts, and scorn to leave!
Come shall the day—and come it may full soon—
When thou, more splendid than the moon,
Shalt rise; and, triumphing o'er night,
Turn ebon darkness into silver light:
The glory of thy brightness shall be shed
Around each faithful head:
Rising from thy long trance, earth shall behold
Thee loftier yet, and lovelier than of old;
And portion'd with the saints in bliss shall be
All who, thro' weal and woe, were ever true to thee!